Stephen King – The Dark Tower

(Walter had seen that change, and what had happened to the little beast’s mother), the

newcomer dropped to one knee.

“Hile, Mordred Deschain, son of Roland of Gilead that was and of the Crimson King

whose name was once spoken from End-World to Out-World; hile you son of two fathers,

both of them descended from Arthur Eld, first king to rise after thePrim receded, and

Guardian of the Dark Tower.”

For a moment nothing happened. In the Control Center there was only silence and the

lingering smell of Nigel’s fried circuits.

Then the baby lifted its chubby fists, opened them, and raised his hands:Rise, bondsman,

and come to me.

Two

“It’s best you not ‘think strong,’ in any case,” the newcomer said, stepping closer. “They

knew you were here, and Roland is almighty Christing clever; trig-delah is he. He caught

up with me once, you know, and I thought I was done. I truly did.” From his gunna the man

who sometimes called himself Flagg (on another level of the Tower, he had brought an

entire world to ruin under that name) had taken peanut butter and crackers. He’d asked

permission of his new dinh, and the baby (although bitterly hungry himself) had nodded

regally. Now Walter sat cross-legged on the floor, eating rapidly, secure in his thinking-cap, unaware there was an intruder inside and all that he knew was being ransacked. He was

safe until that ransacking was done, but afterward—

Mordred raised one chubby baby-hand in the air and swooped it gracefully down in the

shape of a question mark.

“How did I escape?” Walter asked. “Why, I did what any true cozener would do in such

circumstances—told him the truth! Showed him the Tower, at least several levels of it. It

stunned him, right and proper, and while he was open in such fashion, I took a leaf from his

own book and hypnotized him. We were in one of the fistulas of time which sometimes

swirl out from the Tower, and the world moved on all around us as we had our palaver in

that bony place, aye! I brought more bones—human ones—and while he slept I dressed em

in what was left of my own clothes. I could have killed him then, but what of the Tower if

I had, eh? What ofyou, for that matter? You never would have come to be. It’s fair to say,

Mordred, that by allowing Roland to live and draw his three, I saved your life before your

life was even kindled, so I did. I stole away to the seashore—felt in need of a little vacation, hee! When Roland got there, he went one way, toward the three doors. I’d gone the other,

Mordred my dear, and here I am!”

He laughed through a mouthful of crackers and sprayed crumbs on his chin and shirt.

Mordred smiled, but he was revolted. This was what he was supposed to work with,this? A

cracker-gobbling, crumb-spewing fool who was too full of his own past exploits to sense

his present danger, or to know his defenses had been breached? By all the gods, hedeserved

to die! But before that could happen, there were two more things he needed. One was to

know where Roland and his friends had gone. The other was to be fed. This fool would

serve both purposes. And what made it easy? Why, that Walter had also grown old—old

and lethally sure of himself—and too vain to realize it.

“You may wonder why I’m here, and not about your father’s business,” Walter said. “Do

you?”

Mordred didn’t, but he nodded, just the same. His stomach rumbled.

“In truth, Iam about his business,” Walter said, and gave his most charming smile (spoiled

somewhat by the peanut butter on his teeth). He had once probably known that any

statement beginning with the wordsIn truth is almost always a lie. No more. Too old to

know. Too vain to know. Too stupid to remember. But he was wary, all the same. He could

feel the child’s force. In his head? Rummaging around in his head? Surely not. The thing

trapped in the baby’s body was powerful, but surely notthat powerful.

Walter leaned forward earnestly, clasping his knees.

“Your Red Father is…indisposed. As a result of having lived so close to the Tower for so

long, and having thought upon it so deeply, I have no doubt. It’s down to you to finish what

he began. I’ve come to help you in that work.”

Mordred nodded, as if pleased. Hewas pleased. But ah, he was also so hungry.

“You may have wondered how I reached you in this supposedly secure chamber,” Walter

said. “In truth I helped build this place, in what Roland would call the long-ago.”

That phrase again, as obvious as a wink.

He had put the gun in the left pocket of his parka. Now, from the right, he withdrew a

gadget the size of a cigarette-pack, pulled out a silver antenna, and pushed a button. A

section of the gray tiles withdrew silently, revealing a flight of stairs. Mordred nodded.

Walter—or Randall Flagg, if that was what he was currently calling himself—had indeed

come out of the floor. A neat trick, but of course he had once served Roland’s father Steven

as Gilead’s court magician, hadn’t he? Under the name of Marten. A man of many faces

and many neat tricks was Walter o’ Dim, but never as clever as he seemed to think. Not by

half. For Mordred now had the final thing he had been looking for, which was the way

Roland and his friends had gotten out of here. There was no need to pluck it from its hiding place in Walter’s mind, after all. He only needed to follow the fool’s backtrail.

First, however…

Walter’s smile had faded a little. “Did’ee say something, sire? For I thought I heard the

sound of your voice, far back in my mind.”

The baby shook his head. And who is more believable than a baby? Are their faces not the

very definition of guilelessness and innocence?

“I’d take you with me and go after them, if you’d come,” Walter said. “What a team we’d

make! They’ve gone to the devar-toi in Thunderclap, to release the Breakers. I’ve already

promised to meet your father—yourWhite Father—and his ka-tet should they dare go on,

and that’s a promise I intend to keep. For, hear me well, Mordred, the gunslinger Roland

Deschain has stood against me at every turn, and I’ll bear it no more.No more! Do you

hear?” His voice was rising in fury.

Mordred nodded innocently, widening his pretty baby’s eyes in what might have been

taken for fear, fascination, or both. Certainly Walter o’ Dim seemed to preen beneath his

regard, and really, the only question now was when to take him—immediately or later?

Mordred was very hungry, but thought he would hold off at least a bit longer. There was

something oddly compelling about watching this fool stitching the last few inches of his

fate with such earnestness.

Once again Mordred drew the shape of a question mark in the air.

Any last vestige of a smile faded from Walter’s face. “What do I truly want? Is that what

you’re asking for?”

Mordred nodded yes.

“ ’Tisn’t the Dark Tower at all, if you want the truth; it’s Roland who stays on my mind

and in my heart. I want him dead.” Walter spoke with flat and unsmiling finality. “For the

long and dusty leagues he’s chased me; for all the trouble he’s caused me; and for the Red

King, as well—thetrue King, ye do ken; for his presumption in refusing to give over his

quest no matter what obstacles were placed in his path; most of all for the death of his

mother, whom I once loved.” And, in an undertone: “Or at least coveted. In either case, it

was he who killed her. No matter what part I or Rhea of the Cöos may have played in that

matter, it was the boy himself who stopped her breath with his damned guns, slow head,

and quick hands.

“As for the end of the universe…I say let it come as it will, in ice, fire, or darkness. What did the universe ever do for me that I should mind its welfare? All I know is that Roland of

Gilead has lived too long andI want that son of a bitch in the ground . And those he’s drawn, too.”

For the third and last time, Mordred drew the shape of a question in the air.

“There’s only a single working door from here to the devar-toi, young master. It’s the one

the Wolves use…or used; I think they’ve made their last run, so I do. Roland and his

friends have gone through it, but that’s all right, there’s plenty to occupy em right where

they come out—they might find the reception a bit hot! Mayhap we can take care of em