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A Hero at the Gates
Tanith Lee
Heroic fantasy hasn't entirely been the domain of male writers. Back in the 1930s Catherine L.
Moore produced a wonderfully innovative series featuring the warrior woman, Jirel of Joiry, and
later Leigh Brackett and Marion Zimmer Bradley virtually cornered the market in planetary
romances. Tanith Lee (b. 1947) writes material in the entire range of fantasy fiction, and she is
almost impossible to define. She began with books for children, such as
The Dragon Hoard
(1971)
and
Animal Castle
(1972). Her first adult book
, The Birthgrave (
1975), about a woman searching
for her true name, blended the fields of sword-and-sorcery and planetary romance. The Flat Earth
series, which began with
Night's Master
(1978), mixes the oriental and the exotic in almost
Dunsanian tradition. The collection
Red as Blood
(1983) reworks well-known fairy tales in darker
mode while
Sung in Shadow
(1983) takes us back to a Shakespearean Renaissance Italy. And
there's a lot more. The following comes from Lee's collection
Cyrion
(1982) about a wandering
hero who is not quite as traditional as he might at first seem
.
The city lay in the midst of the desert.
At the onset it could resemble a mirage; next, one of the giant mesas that were the teeth of the desert,
filmy blue with distance and heat. But Cyrion had found the road which led to the city, and taking the
road, presently the outline of the place came clear. High walls and higher towers within, high gates of
hammered bronze. And above, the high and naked desert sky, that reflected back from its
sounding-bowl no sound at all from the city, and no smoke.
Cyrion stood and regarded the city. He was tempted to believe it a desert too, one of those hulks of
men's making, abandoned centuries ago as the sands of the waste crept to their threshold. Certainly, the
city was old. Yet it had no aspect of neglect, none of the indefinable melancholy of the unlived-in house.
Intuitively, Cyrion knew that as he stood regarding the city from without, so others stood noiselessly
within, regarding Cyrion.
What did they perceive? This: a young man, tall and deceptively slim, deceptively elegant, which elegance
itself was something of a surprise, for he had been months travelling in the desert, on the caravan routes
and the rare and sand-blown roads. He wore the loose dark clothing of a nomad, but with the generous
hood thrust back to show he did not have a nomad's pigmentation. At his side a sword was sheathed in
red leather. The sunlight struck a silver-gold burnish on the pommel of the sword that was also the colour
of his hair. His left hand was mailed in rings which apparently no bandit had been able to relieve him of. If
the watchers in the city had remarked that Cyrion was as handsome as the Arch-Demon himself, they
would not have been the first to do so.
Then there came the booming scraping thunder of two bronze gates unbarred and dragged inward on
their runners. The way into the city was exposed - yet blocked now by a crowd. Silent they were, and
clad in black, the men and the women; even the children. And their faces were all the same, and gazed at
Cyrion in the same way. They gazed at him as if he were the last bright day of their lives, the last bright
coin in the otherwise empty coffer.
The sense of his dynamic importance to them was so strong that Cyrion swept the crowd a low,
half-mocking bow. As he swept the bow, from his keen eyes' corner, Cyrion saw a man walk through
the crowd and come out of the gate.
 The man was as tall as Cyrion. He had a hard face, tanned but sallow, wings of black hair beneath a
shaved crown, and a collar of swarthy gold set with gems. But his gaze also clung on Cyrion. It was like
a lover's look. Or the starving lion's as it beholds the deer.
"Sir," said the black-haired man, "what brings you to this, our city?"
Cyrion gestured lazily with the ringed left hand. "The nomads have a saying: 'After a month in the desert,
even a dead tree is an object of wonder.'"
"Only curiosity, then," said the man.
"Curiosity; hunger; thirst; loneliness; exhaustion," enlarged Cyrion. By looking at Cyrion, few would think
him affected by any of these things.
"Food we will give you, drink and rest. Our story we may not give. To satisfy the curious is not our fate.
Our fate is darker and more savage. We await a saviour. We await him in bondage."
"When is he due?" Cyrion enquired.
"You, perhaps, are he."
"Am I? You flatter me. I have been called many things, never saviour."
"Sir," said the black-haired man, "do not jest at the wretched trouble of this city, nor at its solitary hope."
"No jest," said Cyrion, "but I hazard you wish some service of me. Saviours are required to labour, I
believe, in behalf of their people. What do you want? Let us get it straight."
"Sir," said the man, "I am Memled, prince of this city."
"Prince, but not saviour?" interjected Cyrion, his eyes widening with the most insulting astonishment.
Memled lowered his gaze. "If you seek to shame me with that, it is your right. But you should know, I am
prevented by circumstance."
"Oh, indeed. Naturally."
"I bear your gibe without complaint. I ask again if you will act for the city."
"And I ask you again what I must do."
Memled raised his lids and directed his glance at Cyrion once more. "We are in the thrall of a monster, a
demon-beast. It dwells in the caverns beneath the city, but at night it roves at will. It demands the flesh of
our men to eat; it drinks the blood of our women and our children. It is protected through ancient magic,
by a pact made a hundred years before between the princes of the city (cursed be they!) and the hordes
of the Fiend. None born of the city has power to slay the beast. Yet there is a prophecy. A stranger, a
hero who ventures to our gates, will have the power."
"And how many heroes," said Cyrion gently, "have you persuaded to an early death with this enterprise,
you and your demon-beast?"
"I will not lie to you. Upward of a score. If you turn aside, no one here will speak ill of you. Your
prospects of success would be slight, should you set your wits and sword against the beast. And our
misery is nothing to you."
 Cyrion ran his eyes over the black-clad crowd. The arid faces were all still fixed towards his. The
children, like miniature adults, just as arid, immobile, noiseless. If the tale were true, they had learned the
lessons of fear and sorrow early, nor would they live long to enjoy their lessoning.
"Other than its dietary habits," Cyrion said, "what can you tell me of your beast?"
Memled shivered. His sallowness increased. "I can reveal no more. It is a part of the foul sorcery that
binds us. We may say nothing to aid you, do nothing to aid you. Only pray for you, if you should decide
to pit your skill against the devil."
Cyrion smiled. "You have a cool effrontery, my friend, that is altogether delightful. Inform me then merely
of this. If I conquer your beast, what reward is there - other, of course, than the blessing of your
people?"
"We have our gold, our silver, our jewels. You may take them all away with you, or whatever you desire.
We crave safety, not wealth. Our wealth has not protected us from horror and death."
"I think we have a bargain," said Cyrion. He looked at the children again. "Providing the treasury tallies
with your description."
* * *
It was noon, and the desert sun poured its merciless light upon the city. Cyrion walked in the company of
Prince Memled and his guard - similarly black-clad men, but with weighty blades and daggers at their
belts, none, presumably, ever stained by beast-blood. The crowd moved circumspectly in the wake of
their prince. Only the rustle of feet shuffling the dust was audible, and no speech. Below the bars of
overhanging windows, here and there, a bird cage had been set out in the violet shade. The birds in the
cages did not sing.
They reached a market-place, sun-bleached, unpeopled and without merchandise of any sort. A well at
the market's centre proclaimed the water which would, in the first instance, have caused the building of a
city here. Further evidence of water lay across from the market, where a broad stairway, flanked by
stone columns, led to a massive battlemented wall and doors of bronze this time plated by pure flashing
gold. Over the wall-top, the royal house showed its peaks and pinnacles, and the heads of palm trees.
There was a green perfume in the air, heady as incense in the desert.
The crowd faltered in the market-place. Memled, and his guard conducted Cyrion up the stairway. The
gold-plated doors were opened. They entered a cool palace, blue as an under-sea cave, buzzing with
slender fountains, sweet with the scent of sun-scorched flowers.
Black-garmented servants brought chilled wine. The food was poor and did not match the wine. Had the
flocks and herds gone to appease the demon-beast? Cyrion had spied not a goat nor a sheep in the city.
For that matter, not a dog, nor even the sleek lemon cats and striped marmosets rich women liked to
nurse instead of babies.
After the food and drink, Memled, near wordless yet courteous, led Cyrion to a treasury where wealth
lay as thick as dust, and spilling on the ground.
"I would have thought," said Cyrion, fastidiously investigating ropes of pearls and chains of rubies, "such
stuff might have bought you a hero, had you sent for one."
"This, too, is our limitation. We may not send. He must come to us, by accident."
"As the nomads say," said Cyrion. charmingly, innocently, " 'No man knows the wall better than he who
 built it.'"
At that instant, something thundered in the guts of the world.
It was a fearful bellowing cacophony. It sounded hot with violence and the lust for carnage. It was like a
bull, or a pen of bulls, with throats of brass and sinews of molten iron, roaring in concert underground.
The floor shook a little. A sapphire tumbled from its heap and fell upon another heap below.
Cyrion seemed interested rather than disturbed.
Certainly, there was nothing more than interest in his voice as he asked Prince Memled: "Can that be
your beast, contemplating tonight's dinner?"
Memled's face took on an expression of the most absolute anguish and despair. His mouth writhed. He
uttered a sudden sharp cry, as if a dreaded, well-remembered pain had seized him. He shut his eyes.
Intrigued, Cyrion observed: "It is fact then, you cannot speak of it? Calm yourself, my friend. It speaks
very ably for itself."
Memled covered his face with his hands, and turned away.
Cyrion walked out through the door. Presently, pallid, but sufficiently composed, Memled followed his
hero-guest. Black guards closed the treasury.
"Now," said Cyrion, "since I cannot confront your beast until it emerges from its caverns by night, I
propose to sleep. My journey through the desert has been arduous, and, I am sure you agree, freshness
in combat is essential."
"Sir," said Memled, "the palace is at your disposal. But, while you sleep, I and some others shall remain
at your side."
Smiling, Cyrion assured him, "Indeed, my friend, you and they will not."
"Sir, it is best you are not left alone. Forgive my insistence."
"What danger is there? The beast is no threat till the sun goes down. There are some hours yet."
Memled seemed troubled. He spread his hand, indicating the city beyond the palace walls. "You are a
hero, sir. Certain of the people may bribe the guard. They may enter the palace and disrupt your rest with
questions and clamour."
"It seemed to me," said Cyrion, "your people are uncommonly quiet. But if not, they are welcome. I sleep
deeply. I doubt if anything would wake me till sunset, when I trust you. Prince, or another, will do so."
Memled's face, such an index of moods, momentarily softened with relief. "That deeply do you sleep?
Then I will agree to let you sleep alone. Unless, perhaps a girl might be sent to you?"
"You are too kind. However, I decline the girl. I prefer to select my own ladies, after a fight rather than
before."
Memled smiled his own stiff and rusty smile. Behind his eyes, sluggish currents of self-dislike, guilt and
shame stirred cloudily.
The doors were shut on the sumptuous chamber intended for Cyrion's repose. Aromatics burned in silver
bowls. The piercing afternoon sun was excluded behind shutters of painted wood and embroidered
 draperies. Beyond the shut doors, musicians made sensuous low music on pipes, drums and ghirzas. All
was conducive to slumber. Though not to Cyrian's.
In contrast to his words, he was a light sleeper. In the city of the beast, he had no inclination to sleep at
all. Privacy was another case. Having secured the chamber doors on the inside, he prowled soundlessly,
measuring the room for its possibilities. He prised open a shutter, and scanned across the blistering roofs
of the palace into the dry green palm shade of the gardens.
All about, the city kept its tongueless vigil. Cyrion thoughtfully felt of its tension. It was like a great single
heart, poised between one beat and the next. A single heart, or two jaws about to snap together—
"Cyrion," said a voice urgently.
To see him spin about was to discover something of the nature of Cyrion. A nonchalant idler at the
window one second, a coiled spring let fly the split second after. The sword was ready in his bare right
hand. He had drawn too fast almost for a man's eye to register. Yet he was not even breathing quickly.
And, finding the vacant chamber before him, as he had left it, no atom altered in his stance.
"Cyrion.," cried the voice again, out of nothing and nowhere. "I pray heaven you had the cunning to lie to
them, Cyrion."
Cyrion appeared to relax his exquisite vigilance. He had not.
"Heaven, no doubt, enjoys your prayers," he said. "And am I to enjoy the sight of you?"
The voice was female, expressive and very beautiful.
"I am in a prison," said the voice. There was the smallest catch in it, swiftly mastered. "I speak to warn
you. Do not credit them, Cyrion."
Cyrion began to move about the room. Casually and delicately he lifted aside the draperies with his
sword.
"They offered me a girl," he said reflectively.
"But they did not offer you certain death."
Cyrion had completed his circuit of the room. He looked amused and entertained.
He knelt swiftly, then stretched himself flat. A circular piece was missing in the mosaic pattern of the
floor. He set one acute eye there and looked through into a dim area, lit by one murky source of light
beyond his view. Directly below, a girl lay prone on the darkness which must itself be a floor, staring up
at him from luminous wild eyes. In the half-glow she was more like a bloom of light herself than a reality;
a trembling crystalline whiteness on the air, hair like the gold chains in the treasury, a face like that of a
carved goddess, the body of a beautiful harlot before she gets in the trade - still virgin - and at her waist,
her wrists, her ankles, drawn taut to pegs in the ground, iron chains.
"So there you are."
"It is a device of the stonework that enabled you to hear me and I you. In former days, princes would sit
in your room above, drinking and making love, listening to the cries of those being tortured in this
dungeon, and sometimes they would peer through to increase their pleasure. But either Memled has
forgotten, or he thought me past crying out. I glimpsed your shadow pass over the aperture. Earlier, the
jailor spoke your name to me. Oh, Cyrion, I am to die, and you with me."
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