Dilvish, the Damned

The Changing Land

"Passage to Dilfar"

(Fantastic Stories of Imagination, Feb. 1965)

"Thelinde's Song"

(Fantastic Stories of Imagination, June 1965)

"The Bells of Shoredan"

(Fantastic, Mar. 1966)

"A Knight for Merytha"

(Eternity SF v. 1, no. 3, 1974)

"The Places of Aache"

(Other Worlds 2, Jan. 1980)

"The White Beast"

(Whispers 13-14, Oct. 1979)

"Tower of Ice"

(Flashing Swords! #5, Dec. 1981)

"Garden of Blood"

(The Year's Best Fantasy Stories: 6, 1980)

"A City Divided"

"Devil and the Dancer"

"Dilvish, the Damned"

(first published in this collection, 1982)

ARTWORK

Del Rey/Ballantine SFBC edition, 1983

cover by Susan Shay Collins

Uncredited cover for Czech edition

Fantastic - cover and art by Gray Morrow

Map by L.Sprague de Camp - from

Warlocks and Warriors Putnam 1970

Dilvish, The Damned

by Roger Zelazny

Del Rey/Ballantine

November

1982

Contents

- Map of Portaroy

- Passage to Dilfar

- Thelinde's Song

- The Bells of Shoredan

- A Knight for Merytha

- The Places of Aache

- A City Divided

- The White Beast

- Tower of Ice

- Devil and the Dancer

- Garden of Blood

- Dilvish, the Damned

- Gray Morrow artwork

PASSAGE TO DILFAR

When Dilvish the Damned came down from Portaroy they tried to stop him at Qaran, and again at Tugado, then again at Maestar, Mycar, and Bildesh. Five horsemen had waited for him along the route to Dilfar; and when one flagged, a new rider with a fresh horse would replace him. But none could keep the pace of Black, the horse out of steel, for whom it was said the Colonel of the East had bartered a part of his soul.

A day and a night had he ridden, to outpace the advancing armies of Lylish, Colonel of the West, for his own men lay stiff and clotted on the rolling fields of Portaroy.

When Dilvish had seen that he was the last man standing in the place of slaughter, he had called Black to his side, hauled himself into the saddle that was a part of him, and cried for an escape. Black's gleaming hooves had borne him through a line of pikemen, their staffs turned aside like wheat, and ringing, as their metal tips touched against his midnight hide.

"To Dilfar!" he had cried, and Black turned at a right angle in his course and carried him up the face of a cliff where only goats can go.

When Dilvish came by Qaran, Black turned his head and said to him: "Great Colonel of the East, they have mined the air and the air beneath the air with the stars of death."

"Can you get by them?" asked Dilvish.

"If we go by way of the posting road," said Black, "I may be able to."

"Then let us make haste to try it."

The tiny silver eyes, which looked out from the space beneath space and contained the hellspecks of starstuff, blinked and shimmered ahead.

They turned off the road.

It was on the posting road that the first rider emerged from behind a boulder and called upon Dilvish to halt. His horse was a huge bay without trappings.

"Draw rein, Colonel of the East," he had said. "Thy men are slaughtered. The road ahead is seeded with death and flanked by the men of Lylish—"

But Dilvish had swept past him without making answer, and the man put his spurs to the bay and followed.

He paced him all that morning, up the road to Tugado, until the bay, who was all alather, stumbled and hurled the man to the rocks.

At Tugado Dilvish found his way blocked by the rider of the blood-red stallion, who fired at him a bolt from a crossbow.

Black reared high into the air, and the bolt glanced off his chest. His nostrils grew, with a sound like the cry of a great bird coming forth from them. The blood-red stallion leapt from the roadway then and into the field.

Black plunged ahead, and the other rider turned his horse and followed.

Till the sun reached the top of the sky did he give chase, and then the red horse collapsed in a heap of heavy breathing. Dilvish rode on.

At Maestar the way was blocked at the Pass of Reshth.

A wall of logs filled the narrow trail to twice the height of a man.

"Over," said Dilvish, and Black arced into the air like a dark rainbow, going up and across the fortification.

Just ahead, at the ending of the pass, the rider of the white mare waited.

Black cried out once more, but the mare stood steady.

The light reflected from the mirrors of his steel hooves, and his hairless hide was near blue in the bright light of noonday. He did not slow his pace, and the rider of the mare, seeing that he was all of metal, backed from out the pass and drew his sword.

Dilvish pulled his own blade from beneath his cloak and parried a head cut as he passed the other rider. Then the man was following after him and crying out:

"Though you have passed the stars of death and leapt the barrier here, you shall never make it to Dilfar! Draw rein! You ride a nether spirit who has taken the form of a horse, but you will be stopped at Mycar or Bildesh—or before!"

But the Colonel of the East did not reply, and Black carried him on with long, effortless strides.

"You ride a mount which never tires," called out the man, "but he is not proof against other sorceries! Give me your sword!"

Dilvish laughed, and his cloak was a wing in the wind.

Before the day lapsed into evening, the mare, too, had fallen, and Dilvish was near Mycar.

Black halted suddenly as they approached the stream called Kethe. Dilvish clung to his neck to keep from being thrown off.

"The bridge is out," said Black, "and I cannot swim."

"Can you clear it?"

"I do not know, my colonel. It is wide. If I cannot clear it, we will never surface again. Kethe cuts deeply into the earth."

And the ambushers came suddenly forth from the trees then, some on horseback and others on foot, the foot soldiers bearing pikes; and Dilvish said: "Try."

Black was immediately at full gallop, going faster than horses can run, and the world spun and tumbled about Dilvish as he clung to Black with his knees and his great scarred hands. He cried out as they rose into the air.

When they struck the other bank, Black's hooves sank a full span into the rock and Dilvish reeled in the saddle. He kept his mount, however, and Black freed his hooves.

Looking back at the other bank, Dilvish saw the ambushers standing still, staring at him, then looking down into Kethe, then back up again at him and Black.

As they moved ahead once more, the rider of the piebald stallion fell in beside him and said: "Though you have ridden three horses into the ground, we will stop you between here and Bildesh. Surrender!"

Then Dilvish and Black were far ahead of him, and away.

"They think you are a demon, my mount," he said to Black.

The horse chuckled.

"Perhaps 'twere beter an' I were."

And they rode the sun out of the sky and finally the piebald fell, and the rider cursed Dilvish and Black, and they rode on.

The trees began to fall at Bildesh.

"Deadfalls!" cried Dilvish, but Black was already doing his dance of avoidance and passage. He halted, rearing; and he sprang forward from off his hind legs and passed over a falling log. He halted again and did it once more. Then two fell at once, from opposite sides of the trail, and he leapt backward and then forward again, passing over both.

Two deep pits did he leap across then, and a volley of arrows chattered against his sides, one of them wounding Dilvish in the thigh.

The fifth horseman bore down upon them. The color of fresh-minted gold was this horse, and named Sunset, and his rider was but a youth and light in the saddle, chosen so as to carry the pursuit as far as necessary. He bore a deathlance that shattered against Black's shoulder without causing him to turn. He raced after Dilvish and called out:

"Long have I admired Dilvish, Colonel of the East, so that I do not desire to see him dead. Pray surrender unto me! You will be treated with all courtesies due your station!"

Dilvish did laugh then and made reply, saying:

"Nay, my lad. Better to die than fall to Lylish. On, Black!'"

And Black doubled his pace and the boy leaned far forward over Sunset's neck and gave chase. He wore a sword at his side, but he never had chance to use it. Though Sunset ran the entire night, longer and farther than any of the other pursuers, he, too, finally fell as the east began to grow pale.

As he lay there, trying to rise, the youth cried out:

"Though you have escaped me, you shall fall to the Lance!"

Then was Dilvish, called the Damned, riding alone in the hills above Dilfar, bearing his message to that city. And though he rode the horse of steel, called Black, still did he fear an encounter with Lance of the Invincible Armor before he delivered his message.

As he started on the last downward trail his way was blocked a final time, by an armored man on an armored horse. The man held the way completely, and though he was visored, Dilvish knew from his devices that he was Lance, the Right Hand of the Colonel of the West.

"Halt and draw rein, Dilvish!" he called out. "You cannot pass me!"

Lance sat like a statue.

Dilvish halted Black and waited.

"I call upon you to surrender now."

"No," said Dilvish.

"Then must I slay you."

Dilvish drew his sword.

The other man laughed.

"Know you not that my armor is unbreachable?"

"No," said Dilvish.

"Very well, then," he said, with something like a chuckle. "We are alone here, you have my word. Dismount. I'll do so at the same time. When you see it is futile, you may have your life. You are my prisoner."

They dismounted.

"You are wounded," said Lance.

Dilvish cut for his neck without replying, hoping to burst the joint. It held, however, and the metal bore not even a scratch to tell of the mighty blow that might have beheaded another.

"You must see now that my armor cannot be breached. It was forged by the Salamanders themselves and bathed in the blood of ten virgins…"

Dilvish cut at his head and as he had cut at him, Dilvish had circled slowly to his left, so that now Lance stood with his back to the horse of steel, called Black.

"Now, Black!" cried Dilvish.

Then did Black rear high up on his bind legs and fall forward, bringing his front hooves down toward Lance.

The man called Lance turned rapidly around and they struck him on the chest. He fell.

Two shining hoof marks had been imprinted upon his breastplate.

"You were right," said Dilvish. "It is still unbreached."

Lance moaned again.

"… And I could slay thee now, with a blade through the eyeslit of thy visor. But I will not, as I did not down thee fairly. When you recover, tell Lylish that Dilfar will be ready for his coming. Twere better he withdraw."

"I'll have a sack for thy head when we take the city," said Lance.

"I'll kill thee on the plain before the city," said Dilvish, and he remounted Black and descended the trail, leaving him there on the ground.

And as they rode away, Black said to him: "When you meet, strike at the marks of my hooves. The armor will yield there."

When he came into the city, Dilvish proceeded through the streets to the palace without speaking to those who clustered about him.

He entered the palace and announced himself:

"I am Dilvish, Colonel of the East," he said, "and I am here to report that Portaroy has fallen and is in the hands of Lylish. The armies of the Colonel of the West move in this direction and should be here two days hence. Make haste to arm. Dilfar must not fall."

"Blow then the trumpets," ordered the king, starting from his throne, "and muster the warriors. We must prepare for battle."

And as the trumpets sounded, Dilvish drank him a glass of the good red wine of Dilfar; and as meats and loaves were brought to him, he wondered once again at the strength of Lance's armor and he knew that he must try its invincibility once more.

THELINDE'S SONG

Across the evening, on the other side of the hill, beneath a moon that was huge and golden, Thelinde was singing.

In the high were-hall of Caer Devash, rung all around with pine trees and mirrored far below its cliffs in that silver river called Denesh, Mildin could hear her daughter's voice and the words of her song:

"The men of Westrim are hardy,

The men of Westrim bold,

But Dilvish who was damned came back

And made their blood run cold.

When they hounded him from Portaroy

To Dilfar in the East,

He rode a thing he'd brought from Hell—

A black and steel beast.

They could not cut nor turn his mount—

The horse that men call Black—

For the colonel gained much wisdom

With the curse of Jelerak—"

Mildin shuddered and fetched her shimmering were-cloak—for she was Mistress of the Coven—and throwing it about her shoulders and clasping it at her neck with the smoky Stone of the Moon, she became as a silver-gray bird and passed out through the window and high about the Denesh.

She crossed over the hill to where Thelinde stood, staring south. Coming to rest upon the lower limb of a nearby tree, she said, through her bird throat: "My child, stop your singing."

"Mother! What is the matter?" asked Thelinde. "Why are you come in swift-form?" And her eyes were full, for they followed the changing of the moon, and in her hair was the silver fire of the witches of the North. She was seventeen and supple, and she loved singing.

"You have sung a name which must not be uttered, even here in the fastness of our keep," said Mildin. "Where did you learn that song?"

"From a thing in the cave," she answered, "where the river called Midnight makes a pool as it passes on its way underground."

"What was the thing in the cave?"

"He is gone by now." Thelinde replied. "He was a dark-traveler, one of the frog kind, I think, who rested there on his way to the Council of Beasts."

"Did he tell you the meaning of that song?" she asked.

"No, he said that it has come but recent, and it is of the wars in the South and the East."

"That is true," said Mildin, "and the frog has no fear of croaking it, for he is of the dark kind and is of no consequence to the mighty. But you, Thelinde, you must be more wary. All of those with power upon them, unless they be rash indeed, fear to mention that name which begins with 'J.'"

"Why is that?"

The silver-gray form fluttered to the ground. Then her mother was standing beside her, tall and pale under the moon; her hair was braided and twisted high upon her head into a crown of the coven, as it is called.

"Come with me now within my cloak, and we will go to the Pool of the Goddess, while the fingers of the moon still touch upon its surface," said Mildin, "and you shall see something of which you have sung."

They descended the hill to the place where the rivulet, which begins high upon the hill at the spring, passes down with barely a ripple into their pool. Mildin knelt beside it in silence, and leaning forward, she breathed upon the surface of the water. Then she summoned Thelinde to her side and they stared downward.

"Look now into the image of the moon reflected in the water," she told her. "Look deeply. Listen…

"Long ago," she began, "even as we reckon time, there was a House which was stricken from the peerage of the East, because several generations had intermarried with the Elf-kind. Elfmen are tall and fair to look upon, quick in thought and action, and though their race is much older, Men do not generally recognize the Elf peerage. Pity… The last man of this particular House, bereft of his lands and his titles, turned his hand to many occupations, from the sea to the mountains, and finally he came into soldiery, in those first wars with the West, some several centuries ago. Then did he distinguish himself in the great Battle of Portaroy, delivering that city out of the hands of its enemies, so that he came to be called Dilvish the Deliverer. See! The picture comes now clear! It is the entry of Dilvish into Portaroy…"

And Thelinde stared into the pool where a picture had formed.

Tall he was, and darker than the Elf-kind, with eyes that laughed and glowed with the pride of triumph. He was mounted on a brown stallion, and his armor, though dented and scratched, still glowed in the morning sun. He rode at the head of his troops, and the people of Portaroy stood at the sides of the roadway and cheered, and the women threw down flowers before him. When he came at last to the fountain in the square, he dismounted and drank the wine of victory. Then the Elders gave speeches of thanks and a great open banquet was laid out for their deliverers.

"He looks to be a good man," said Thelinde. "But what a great sword he wears!—It reaches down to the tops of his boots!"

"Yes, a two-handed engine named that day Deliverer. And his boots, you will note, are of the green Elvish leather, which Men cannot buy—but which are sometimes given as a gift, in sign of favor by the High Ones—and it is said that they leave no footprints. It is a pity that within a sennight of that feast which you see spread, Deliverer should be smashed and Dilvish no longer among the living."

"But he still lives!"

"Yes—again."

There was a turbulence within the pool, and another picture emerged.

A dark hillside… A man, cloaked and hooded, within a faintly glowing circle… A girl bound upon a stone altar… A blade in the man's right hand and a staff in his left…

Mildin felt her daughter's fingers seize upon her shoulder.

"Mother! What is it?"

"It is the One you must never name."

"What is he about?"

"A dark thing, requiring the lifeblood of a virgin. He has waited since beyond time for the stars to reform themselves into the proper positions for this rite. He has journeyed far, to come to that ancient altar in the hills above Portaroy, to the place where the thing must be accomplished.

"See how the dark things dance about the circle— bats and wraiths and wandering wisps—craving but a drop! They will not touch the circle, though."

"Of course not…"

"Now, as the flames of that single brazier reach higher and the stars come into the correct position, he prepares to take her life…"

"I cannot watch!"

"Watch!"

"It is the Deliverer, Dilvish, coming that way."

"Yes. After the manner of the High Ones, he seldom sleeps. He goes to take his air in the hills above Portaroy, wearing his full battle trappings as people expect of deliverers."

"He sees Jel— He sees the circle! He advances!"

"Yes, and he breaks the circle. Being of the High Blood, he knows he has ten times the immunity of a man to sorcery. But he does not know whose circle he has broken. Still, it does not kill him. Yet he is weakened—see how he staggers! —so great is the power of that One."

"He strikes the wizard with his hand, knocking him to the ground, and he upsets the brazier. Then he turns to free the girl…"

Within the pool, the shadow that was the sorcerer rose from off the ground. His face was invisible within the hood, but he lifted his staff on high. Suddenly he seemed to grow to an enormous height, and his staff lengthened and twisted like a serpent. He reached out and touched the girl, lightly, with its tip.

Thelinde screamed.

Before her eyes the girl was aging. Wrinkles appeared on her face and her hair grew white. Her skin yellowed and her every bone grew prominent beneath it.

Finally she stopped breathing, but the spell did not cease. The thing on the altar shriveled and a fine powder, like smoke, arose from it.

Then a skeleton lay upon the stone.

Dilvish turned upon the sorcerer, raising Deliverer above his shoulder.

But as he brought the blade down, the Dark One touched it with his staff and it shattered and fell at his feet. Then Dilvish advanced one step upon the sorcerer.

Again the staff licked forward, and a nimbus of pale fire played about the form of the Deliverer. After a time it subsided. Still, though, did he stand there, unmoving.

The picture vanished.

"What has happened?"

"The Dark One," said Mildin "wrought him a terrible curse, against which even the High Blood was not proof. Look now."

Day lay upon the hillside. The skeleton lay upon the altar. The sorcerer was gone. Dilvish stood alone, all marble in the sunfall, with the dew of morning upon him, and his right hand was still raised as if to smite an enemy.

Later a group of boys came by and stared for a long while. Then they ran back to the town to tell of it. The Elders of Portaroy came up into the hills, and taking the statue as a gift of the many strange ones who were accounted friends of their Deliverer, they had it carted back to Portaroy and set up in the square beside the fountain.

"He turned him to stone!"

"Yes, and he stood there in the square for over two centuries, his own monument, fist raised against the enemies of the town he had delivered. None ever knew what had become of him, but his human friends grew old and died, and still his statute stood."

"… And he slept in stone."

"No, the Dark One does not curse that kindly. While his body stood rigid, in full battle trappings, his spirit was banished to one of the deepest pits of Hell the Dark One could manage."

"Oh…"

"… And whether the spell was meant only to be so, or whether the High Blood prevailed in a time of need, or whether some powerful ally of Dilvish's learned the truth and finally worked his release, no one knows. But one day recent, as Lylish, Colonel of the West, swept across the land, all the men of Portaroy were assembled in the square preparing defense of the town."

The moon had now crept to the edge of the pool. Beneath it there came another picture:

The men of Portaroy were arming themselves and drilling in the square. They were too few, but they seemed intent upon selling their lives as dearly as possible. Many looked upon the statue of the Deliverer that morning, as though recalling a legend. Then, as the sun wrapped it in color, it moved…

For a quarter of an hour, slowly, and with apparent great effort, the limbs changed position. The entire crowd in the square stood and watched, itself unmoving now. Finally Dilvish climbed down from his pedestal and drank from the fountain.

The people were all around him then, and he turned toward them.

"His eyes, mother! They have changed!"

"After what he has seen with the eyes of his spirit, is it a wonder that the outer ones reflect it?"

The picture vanished. The moon swam farther away.

"… And from somewhere he got him a horse that was not a horse, but a beast of steel in the likeness of a horse."

For a moment a dark and running form appeared within the pool.

"That is Black, his mount. Dilvish rode him into the battle, and though he fought long on foot, too, he rode him out again, much later—the only survivor. In the weeks before the battle he had trained his men well, but they were too few. He was named Colonel of the East by them, in opposition to the title Lord Lylish wears. All fell, however, save he, though the lords and elders of the other cities of the East have now risen in arms and they, too, recognize his rank. This very day, I have been told, he stood before the walls of Dilfar and slew Lance of the Invincible Armor in single combat. But the moon falls now and the water darkens…"

"But the name? Why must I not mention the name of Jelerak?"

As she spoke it, there came a rustling sound, as of great dry wings beating at the air overhead, and the moon was obscured by a cloud, and a dark shape was reflected deep within the pool.

Mildin drew her daughter within the were-cloak.

The rustling grew louder and a faint mist sprang up about them.

Mildin made the Sign of the Moon, and she began to speak softly:

"Back with thee—in the Name of the Coven, of which I am Mistress, I charge thee return. Go back where thou earnest. We desire not thy dark wings above Caer Devash."

There was a downdraft of air, and a flat expressionless face hovered just above them, couched between wide bat wings. Its talons were faintly glowing, red, as of metal just heated at the forge.

It circled them, and Mildin drew the cloak tighter and raised her hand.

"By the Moon, our Mother, in all her guises, I charge thee depart. Now! This instant! Get away from Caer Devash!"

It landed upon the ground beside them, but Mildin's cloak began to glow and the Stone of the Moon blazed like a milky flame. It drew back from the light, back within the mists.

Then an opening appeared in the cloud and a shaft of moonlight passed through it. A single moonbeam touched upon the creature.

It screamed once, like a man in great pain, then mounted into the air heading southwest.

Thelinde looked up into her mother's face, which suddenly appeared very tried, older…

"What was it?" she asked her.

"It was a servant of the Dark One. I tried to warn you, in the most graphic way possible, of his power. For so long has his name been used in the conjuring and compelling of fell spirits and dark wights that his has become a Name of Power. They rush to find the speaker, whenever they hear it uttered, lest it should be he and he should grow angry at their tardiness. If it is not he, they often seek vengeance upon the presumptuous speaker. It is also said, though, that if his name be pronounced too often by one person, then he himself becomes aware of this and sends a doom upon that person. Either way, it is not wise to go about singing such songs."

"I will not, ever. How can a sorcerer be that strong?"

"He is as old as the hills. He was once a white wizard and he fell into dark ways, which makes him particularly malicious—you know, they seldom ever change for the better—and he is now accounted to be one of the three most powerful, possibly the most powerful, of all the wizards in all the kingdoms of all the Earths. He is still alive and very strong, though the story which you saw took place centuries ago. But even he is not without his problems…"

"Why is that?" asked the witch's daughter.

"Because Dilvish is come alive once more, and I believe he is somewhat angry."

The moon emerged from behind the cloud, and huge it was, and it had turned to fallow gold during its absence.

Mildin and her daughter headed back up the hill then, toward Caer Devash rung round with pines, high above Denesh, the silver river.

THE BELLS OF SHOREDAN

No living thing dwelled in the land of Rahoringhast.

Since an age before this age had the dead realm been empty of sound, save for the crashing of thunders and the spit-spit of raindrops ricocheting from off its stonework and the stones. The towers of the Citadel of Rahoring still stood; the great archway from which the gates had been stricken continued to gape, like a mouth frozen in a howl of pain and surprise, of death; the countryside about the place resembled the sterile landscape of the moon.

The rider followed the Way of the Armies, which led at last to the archway, and on through into the Citadel. Behind him lay a twisted trail leading downward, downward, and back, toward the south and the west. It ran through chill patterns of morning mist that clung, swollen, to dark and pitted ground, like squadrons of gigantic leeches. It looped about the ancient towers, still standing only by virtue of enchantments placed upon them in foregone days. Black and awesome, high rearing, and limned in nightmare's clarity, the towers and the citadel were the final visible extensions of the character of their dead maker: Hohorga, King of the World.

The rider, the green-booted rider who left no footprints when he walked, must have felt something of the dark power that still remained within the place, for he halted and sat silent, staring for a long while at the broken gates and the high battlements. Then he spoke a word to the black, horselike thing he rode upon, and they pressed ahead.

As he drew near, he saw that something was moving in the shadows of the archway.

He knew that no living thing dwelled in the land of Rahoringhast…

* * *

The battle had gone well, considering the number of the defenders.

On the first day, the emissaries of Lylish had approached the walls of Dilfar, sought parley, requested surrender of the city, and been refused. There followed a brief truce to permit single combat between Lance, the Hand of Lylish, and Dilvish called the Damned, Colonel of the East, Deliverer of Portaroy, scion of the Elvish House of Selar and the human House that hath been stricken.

The trial lasted but a quarter of an hour, until Dilvish, whose wounded leg had caused his collapse, did strike upward from behind his buckler with the point of his blade. The armor of Lance, which had been deemed invincible, gave way then, when the blade of Dilvish smote at one of the two devices upon the breastplate—those that were cast in the form of cloven hoof marks. Men muttered that these devices had not been present previously and an attempt was made to take the colonel prisoner. His horse, however, which had stood on the sidelines like a steel statue, did again come to his aid, bearing him to safety within the city.

The assault was then begun, but the defenders were prepared and held well their walls. Well fortified and well provided was Dilfar. Fighting from a position of strength, the defenders cast down much destruction upon the men of the West.

After four days the army of Lylish had withdrawn with the great rams that it had been unable to use. The men of the West commenced the construction of helepoles, while they awaited the arrival of catapults from Bildesh.

Above the walls of Dilfar, high in the Keep of Eagles, there were two who watched.

"It will not go well, Lord Dilvish," said the king, whose name was Malacar the Mighty, though he was short of stature and long of year. "If they complete the towers-that-walk and bring catapults, they will strike us from afar. We will not be able to defend against this. Then the towers will walk when we are weakened from the bombardment."

"It is true," said Dilvish.

"Dilfar must not fall."

"No."

"Reinforcements have been sent for, but they are many leagues distant. None were prepared for the assault of Lord Lylish, and it will be long before sufficient troops will be mustered and be come here to the battle."

"That is also true, and by then may it be too late."

"You are said by some to be the same Lord Dilvish who liberated Portaroy in days long gone by."

"I am that Dilvish."

"If so, that Dilvish was of the House of Selar of the Invisible Blade."

"Yes."

"Is it true also, then—what is told of the House of Selar and the bells of Shoredan in Rahoringhast?"

Malacar looked away as he said it.

"This thing I do not know," said Dilvish. "I have never attempted to raise the cursed legions of Shoredan. My grandmother told me that only twice in all the ages of Time has this been done. I have also read of it in the Green Books of Time at the keep of Mirata. I do not know, however."

"Only to one of the House of Selar will the bells respond. Else they swing noiseless, it is said."

"So is it said."

"Rahoringhast lies far to the north and east, and distressful is the way. One with a mount such as yours might make the journey, might ring there the bells, might call forth the doomed legions, though. It is said they will follow such a one of Selar to battle."

"Aye, this thought has come to me, also."

"Willst essay this thing?"

"Aye, sir. Tonight. I am already prepared."

"Kneel then and receive thou my blessing, Dilvish of Selar. I knew thou wert he when I saw thee on the field before these walls."

And Dilvish did kneel and receive the blessing of Malacar, called the Mighty, Liege of the Eastern Reach, whose realm held Dilfar, Bildesh, Maestar, Mycar, Portaroy, Princeaton, and Poind.

* * *

The way was difficult, but the passage of leagues and hours was as the movement of clouds. The western portal to Dilfar had within it a smaller passing-place, a man-sized door studded with spikes and slitted for the discharge of bolts.

Like a shutter in the wind, this door opened and closed. Crouched low, mounted on a piece of the night, the colonel passed out through the opening and raced across the plain, entering for a moment the outskirts of the enemy camp.

A cry went up as he rode, and weapons rattled in the darkness.

Sparks flew from unshod steel hooves.

"All the speed at thy command now, Black, my mount!"

He was through the campsite and away before arrow could be set to bow.

High on the hill to the east, a small fire throbbed in the wind. Pennons, mounted on tall poles, flopped against the night, and it was too dark for Dilvish to read the devices thereon, but he knew that they stood before the tents of Lylish, Colonel of the West.

Dilvish spoke the words in the language of the damned, and as he spoke them the eyes of his mount glowed like embers in the night. The small fire on the hilltop leapt, one great leaf of flame, to the height of four men. It did not reach the tent, however. Then there was no fire at all, only the embers of all the fuels consumed in a single moment.

Dilvish rode on, and the hooves of Black made lightning on the hillside.

They pursued him a small while only. Then he was away and alone.

All that night did he ride through places of rock. Shapes reared high above him and fell again, like staggering giants surprised in their drunkenness. He felt himself launched, countless times, through empty air, and when he looked down on these occasions, there was only empty air beneath him.

With the morning, there came a leveling of his path, and the far edge of the Eastern Plain lay before him, then under him. His leg began to throb beneath its dressing, but he had lived in the Houses of Pain for more than the lifetimes of Men, and he put the feeling far from his thoughts.

After the sun had raised itself over the jagged horizon at his back, he stopped to eat and to drink, to stretch his limbs.

In the sky then he saw the shapes of the nine black doves that must circle the world forever, never to land, seeing all things on the earth and on the sea, and passing all things by.

"An omen," he said. "Be it a good one?"

"I know not," replied the creature of steel.

"Then let us make haste to learn."

He remounted.

For four days did he pass over the plain, until the yellow and green waving grasses gave way and the land lay sandy before him.

The winds of the desert cut at his eyes. He fixed his scarf as a muffle, but it could not stop the entire assault. When he would cough and spit, he needed to lower it, and the sand entered again. He would blink and his face would burn, and he would curse, but no spell he knew could lay the entire desert like yellow tapestry, smooth and unruffled below him. Black was an opposing wind, and the airs of the land rushed to contest his passage.

On the third day in the desert, a mad wight flew invisible and gibbering at his back. Even Black could not outrun it, and it ignored the foulest imprecations of Mabrahoring, language of the demons and the damned.

The following day, more joined with it. They would not pass the protective circle in which Dilvish slept, but they screamed across his dreams— meaningless fragments of a dozen tongues—troubling his sleep.

He left them when he left the desert. He left them as he entered the land of stone and marshes and gravel and dark pools and evil openings in the ground from which the fumes of the underworld came forth.

He had come to the border of Rahoringhast.

It was damp and gray, everywhere.

It was misty in places, and the water oozed forth from the rocks, came up from out of the ground.

There were no trees, shrubs, flowers, grasses. No birds sang, no insects hummed… No living thing dwelled in the land of Rahoringhast.

* * *

Dilvish rode on and entered through the broken jaws of the city.

All within was shadow and ruin.

He passed up the Way of the Armies.

Silent was Rahoringhast, a city of the dead.

He could feel this, not as the silence of nothingness now, but as the silence of a still presence.

Only the steel cloven hooves sounded within the city.

There came no echoes.

Sound… Nothing. Sound… Nothing. Sound…

It was as though something unseen moved to absorb every evidence of life as soon as it noised itself.

Red was the palace, like bricks hot from the kiln and flushed with the tempers of their making. But of one piece were the walls. No seams, no divisions were there in the sheet of red. It was solid, was imponderable, broad of base, and reached with its thirteen towers higher than any building Dilvish had ever seen, though he had dwelled in the high keep of Mirata itself, where the Lords of Illusion hold sway, bending space to their will.

Dilvish dismounted and regarded the enormous stairway that lay before him. "That which we seek lies within."

Black nodded and touched the first stair with his hoof. Fire rose from the stone. He drew back his hoof and smoke curled about it. There was no mark upon the stair to indicate where he had touched.

"I fear I cannot enter this place and preserve my form," he stated. "At the least, my form."

"What compels thee?"

"An ancient enchantment to preserve this place against the assault of any such as I."

"Can it be undone?"

"Not by any creature which walks this world or flies above it or writhes beneath it or I'm a horse. Though the seas some day rise and cover the land, this place will exist at their bottom. This was torn from Chaos by Order in the days when those principles stalked the land, naked, just beyond the hills. Whoever compelled them was one of the First, and powerful even in terms of the Mighty."

"Then I must go alone."

"Perhaps not. One is approaching even now with whom you had best wait and parley."

Dilvish waited, and a single horseman emerged from a distant street and advanced upon them. "Greetings," called the rider, raising his right hand, open.

"Greetings." Dilvish returned the gesture.

The man dismounted. His costume was deep violet in color, the hood thrown back, the cloak all engulfing. He bore no visible arms.

"Why stand you here before the Citadel of Rahoring?" he asked.

"Why stand you here to ask me, priest of Babrigore?" said Dilvish, and not ungently.

"I am spending the time of a moon in this place of death, to dwell upon the ways of evil. It is to prepare myself as head of my temple."

"You are young to be head of a temple."

The priest shrugged and smiled.

"Few come to Rahoringhast," he observed.

"Small wonder," did Dilvish reply. "I trust I shall not remain here long."

"Were you planning on entering this—place?" He gestured.

"I was, and am."

The man was half a head shorter than Dilvish, and it was impossible to guess at his form beneath the robes he wore. His eyes were blue and he was swarthy of complexion. A mole on his left eyelid danced when he blinked.

"Let me beg you reconsider this action," he stated. "It would be unwise to enter this building."

"Why is that?"

"It is said that it is still guarded within by the ancient warders of its lord."

"Have you ever been inside?"

"Yes."

"Were you troubled by any ancient wardens?"

"No, but as a priest of Babrigore I am under the protection of—of—Jelerak."

Dilvish spat.

"May his flesh be flayed from his bones and his life yet remain."

The priest dropped his eyes.

"Though he fought the creature which dwelled within this place," said Dilvish, "he became as foul himself afterward."

"Many of his deeds do lie like stains upon the land," said the priest, "but he was not always such a one. He was a white wizard who matched his powers against the Dark One, in days when the world was young. He was not sufficient. He fell. He was taken as servant by the Maleficient. For centuries he endured this bondage, until it changed him, as such must. He, too, came to glory in the ways of darkness. But then, when Selar of the Unseen Blade bought the life of Hohorga with his own, Jel—he fell as if dead and lay as such for the space of a week. Near delirious, when he awakened, he worked with counterspell at one last act of undoing: to free the cursed legions of Shoredan. He essayed that thing. He did. He stood upon this very stairway for two days and two nights, until the blood mingled with perspiration on his brow, but he could not break the hold of Hohorga. Even dead, the dark strength was too great for him. Then he wandered mad about the countryside, until he was taken in and cared for by the priests of Babrigore. Afterward he lapsed back into the ways he had learned, but he has always been kindly disposed toward the Order which cared for him. He has never asked anything more of us. He has sent us food in times of famine. Speak no evil of him in my presence."

Dilvish spat again.

"May he thrash in the darkness of the darknesses for the ages of ages, and may his name be cursed forever."

The priest looked away from the sudden blaze in his eyes.

"What want you in Rahoring?" he asked finally.

"To go within—and do a thing."

"If you must, then I shall accompany you. Perhaps my protection shall also extend to yourself."

"I do not solicit your protection, priest."

"The asking is not necessary."

"Very well. Come with me then."

He started up the stairway.

"What is that thing you ride?" asked the priest, gesturing back. "—Like a horse in form, but now it is a statue."

Dilvish laughed.

"I, too, know something of the ways of darkness, but my terms with it are my own."

"No man may have special terms with darkness."

"Tell it to a dweller in the Houses of Pain, priest. Tell it to a statue. Tell it to one who is all of the race of Men! Tell it not to me."

"What is your name?"

"Dilvish. What is yours?"

"Korel. I shall speak to you no more of darkness then, Dilvish, but I will still go with you into Rahoring."

"Then stand not talking." Dilvish turned and continued upward.

Korel followed him.

When they had gone halfway, the daylight began to grow dim about them. Dilvish looked back. All he could see was the stairway leading down and down, back. There was nothing else in the world but the stairs. With each step upward, the darkness grew.

"Did it happen thus when last you entered this place?" he asked.

"No," said Korel.

They reached the top of the stairs and stood before the dim portal. By then it was as though night lay upon the land.

They entered.

A sound, as of music, came far ahead and there was a flickering light within. Dilvish laid his hand upon the hilt of his sword. The priest whispered to him: "It will do you no good."

They moved up the passageway and came at length into a vacant hall. Braziers spewed flame from high sockets in the walls. The ceiling was lost in shadow and smoke.

They crossed that hall to where a wide stair led up into a blaze of light and sound.

Korel looked back.

"It begins with the light," said he, "all this newness" —gesturing. "The outer passage bore only rubble and… dust…"

"What else is the matter?" Dilvish looked back.

Only one set of footprints led into the hall through the dust. Dilvish then laughed, saving: "I tread lightly."

Korel studied him. Then he blinked and his mole jerked across his eye.

"When I entered here before," he said, "there were no sounds, no torches. Everything lay empty and still, ruined. Do you know what is happening?"

"Yes," said Dilvish, "for I read of it in the Green Books of Time at the keep of Mirata. Know, O priest of Babrigore, that within the hall above the ghosts do play at being ghosts. Know, too, that Hohorga dies again and again so long as I stand within this place."

As he spoke the name Hohorga a great cry was heard within the high hall. Dilvish raced up the stairs, the priest rushing after him.

Now within the halls of Rahoring there came up a mighty wailing.

They stood at the top of the stairs, Dilvish like a statue, blade half drawn from its sheath; Korel, hands within his sleeves, praying after the manner of his order.

The remains of a great feast were strewn about the hall; the light came down out of the air from colored globes that circled like planets through the great heaven-design within the vaulted ceiling; the throne on the high dais beside the far wall was empty. That throne was too large for any of this age to occupy. The walls were covered all over with ancient devices, strange, on alternate slabs of white and orange marble. In the pillars of the wall were set gems the size of doubled fists, burning yellow and emerald, infraruby and ultrablue, casting a fire radiance, transparent and illuminating, as far as the steps to the throne. The canopy of the throne was wide and all of white gold, worked in the manner of mermaids and harpies, dolphins and goat-headed snakes; it was supported by wyvern, hippogriff, firedrake, chimera, unicorn, cockatrice, griffin, and pegasus, sejant erect. It belonged to the one who lay dying upon the floor.

In the form of a man, but half again as large, Hohorga lay upon the tiles of his palace and his intestines filled his lap. He was supported by three of his guard, while the rest attended to his slayer. It had been said in the Books of Time that Hohorga the Maleficent was indescribable. Dilvish saw that this was both true and untrue.

He was fair to look upon and noble of feature; but so blindingly fair was he that all eyes were averted from that countenance now lined with pain. A faint bluish halo was diminishing about his shoulders. Even in the death pain he was as cold and perfect as a carved gem-stone, set upon the red-green cushion of his blood; his was the hypnotic perfection of a snake of many colors. It is said that eyes have no expression of their own, and that one could not reach into a barrel of eyes and separate out those of an angry man or those of one's beloved. Hohorga's eyes were the eyes of a ruined god: infinitely sad, as proud as an ocean of lions.

One look and Dilvish knew this thing, though he could not tell their color.

Hohorga was of the blood of the First.

The guards had cornered the slayer. He fought them, apparently empty-handed, but parrying and thrusting as though he gripped a blade. Wherever his hand moved, there were wounds.

He wielded the only weapon that might have slain the King of the World, who permitted none to go armed in his presence save his own guard.

He bore the Invisible Blade.

He was Selar, first of the Elvish house of that name, great-gone-sire of Dilvish, who at that moment cried out his name.

Dilvish drew his blade and rushed across the hall. He cut at the attackers, but his blade passed through them as through smoke.

They beat down Solar's guard. A mighty blow sent something unseen ringing across the hall. Then they dismembered him, slowly, Selar of Shoredan, as Dilvish wept, watching.

And then Hohorga spoke, in a voice held firm though soft, without inflection, like the steady beating of surf or the hooves of horses:

"I have outlived the one who presumed to lay hands upon me, which is as it must be. Know that it was written that eyes would never see the blade that could slay me. Thus do the powers have their jokes. Much of what I have done shall never be undone, O children of Men and Elves and Salamanders. Much more than you know do I take with me from this world into the silence. You have slain that which was greater than yourselves, but do not be proud. It matters no longer to me. Nothing does. Have my curses."

Those eyes closed and there was a clap of thunder. Dilvish and Korel stood alone in the darkened ruins of a great hall.

"Why did this thing appear today?" asked the priest.

"When one of the blood of Selar enters here," said Dilvish, "it is reenacted."

"Why have you come here, Dilvish, son of Selar?"

"To ring the bells of Shoredan."

"It cannot be."

"If I am to save Dilfar and redeliver Portaroy it must be.

"I go now to seek the bells," he said.

He crossed through the near blackness of night without stars, for neither were his eyes the eyes of Men, and he was accustomed to much dark.

He heard the priest following after him.

They circled behind the broken bulk of the Earth Lord's throne. Had there been sufficient light as they passed, they would have seen darkened spots upon the floor turning to stain, then crisp sand-brown, and then to red-green blood, as Dilvish moved near them, and vanishing once again as he moved away.

Behind the dais was the door to the central tower. Fevera Mirata, Queen of Illusion, had once shown Dilvish this hall in a mirror the size of six horsemen riding abreast, and broidered about with a frame of golden daffodils that hid their heads till it cleared of all save their reflections.

Dilvish opened the door and halted. Smoke billowed forth, engulfing him. He was seized with coughing but he kept his guard before him.

"It is the Warden of the Bells!" cried Korel. "Jelerak deliver us!"

"Damn Jelerak!" said Dilvish. "I'll deliver myself."

But as he spoke, the cloud swirled away and spun itself into a glowing tower that held the doorway, illuminating the throne and the places about the throne. Two red eyes glowed within the smoke.

Dilvish passed his blade through and through the cloud, meeting with no resistance.

"If you remain incorporeal, I shall pass through you," he called out. "If you take a shape, I shall dismember it. Make your choice," and he said it in Mabrahoring, the language spoken in Hell.

"Deliverer, Deliverer, Deliverer," hissed the cloud, "my pet Dilvish, little creature of hooks and chains. Do you not know your master? Is your memory so short?" And the cloud collapsed upon itself and coalesced into a bird-headed creature with the hindquarters of a lion and two serpents growing up from its shoulders, curling and engendering about its high crest of flaming quills.

"Cal-den!"

"Aye, your old tormenter, Elf man. I have missed you, for few depart my care. It is time you returned."

"This time," said Dilvish, "I am not chained and unarmed, and we meet in my world," and he cut forward with his blade, striking the serpent head from Cal-den's left shoulder.

A piercing bird cry filled the hall and Cal-den sprang forward.

Dilvish struck at his breast but the blade was turned aside, leaving only a smallish gash from which a pale liquor flowed.

Cal-den struck him then backward against the dais, catching his blade in a black claw, shattering it, and he raised his other arm to smite him. Dilvish did then stab upward with what remained of the sword, nine inches of jagged length.

It caught Cal-den beneath the jaw, entering there and remaining, the hilt torn from Dilvish's hand as the tormentor shook his head, roaring.

Then was Dilvish seized about the waist so that his bones did sigh and creak within him. He felt himself raised into the air, the serpent tearing at his ear, claws piercing his sides. Cal-den's face was turned up toward him, wearing the hilt of his blade like a beard of steel.

Then did he hurl Dilvish across the dais, so as to smash him against the tiles of the floor.

But the wearer of the green boots of Elfland may not fall or be thrown to land other than on his feet.

Dilvish did recover him then, but the shock of his landing caused pain in the thigh wound he bore. His leg collapsed beneath him, so that he put out his hand to the side.

Cal-den did then spring upon him, smiting him sorely about the head and shoulders. From somewhere Korel hurled a stone that struck upon the demon's crest.

Dilvish came scrambling backward, until his hand came upon a thing in the rubble that drew the blood from it.

A blade.

He snatched at the hilt and brought it up off the floor with a side-armed cut that struck Cal-den across the back, stiffening him into a bellow that near burst the ears to hear. Smoke rose from the wound.

Dilvish stood, and saw that he held nothing.

Then did he know that the blade of his ancestor, which no eyes may look upon, had come to him from the ruins, where it had lain across the ages, to serve him, scion of the House of Selar, in this moment of his need.

He directed it toward the breast of Cal-den.

"My rabbit, you are unarmed, yet you have cut me," said the creature. "Now shall we return to the Houses of Pain."

They both lunged forward.

"I always knew," said Cal-den, "that my little Dilvish was something special," and he fell to the floor with an enormous crash and the smokes arose from his body.

Dilvish placed his heel upon the carcass and wrenched free the blade outlined in steaming ichor.

"To you, Selar, do I owe this victory," he said, and raised a length of smouldering nothingness in salute. Then he sheathed the sword.

Korel was at his side. He watched as the creature at their feet vanished like embers and ice, leaving behind a stench that was most foul to smell.

Dilvish turned him again to the door of the tower and entered there, Korel at his side.

The broken bellpull lay at his feet. It fell to dust when he touched it with his toe.

"It is said," he told Korel, "that the bellpull did break in the hands of the last to ring it, half an age ago."

He raised his eye, and there was only darkness above him.

"The legions of Shoredan did set forth to assault the Citadel of Rahoring," said the priest, as though reading it from some old parchment, "and word of their movement came soon to the King of the World. Then did he lay upon three bells cast in Shoredan a weird. When these bells were rung, a great fog came over the land and engulfed the columns of marchers and those on horseback. The fog did disperse upon the second ringing of the bells, and the land was found to be empty of the troop. It was later written by Merde, Red Wizard of the South, that somewhere still do these marchers and horsemen move, through regions of eternal fog. 'If these bells be rung again by a hand of that House which dispatched the layer of the weird, then will these legions come forth from a mist to serve that one for a time in battle. But when they have served, they will vanish again into the places of gloom, where they will continue their march upon a Rahoringhast which no longer exists. How they may be freed to rest, this thing is not known. One mightier than I has tried and failed.'"

Dilvish bowed his head a moment, then he felt the walls. They were not like the outer walls. They were cast of blocks of that same material, and between those blocks were scant crevices wherein his fingers found purchase.

He raised himself above the floor and commenced to climb, the soft green boots somehow finding toeholds wherever they struck.

The air was hot and stale, and showers of dust descended upon him each time he raised an arm above his head.

He pulled himself upward, until he counted a hundred such movements and the nails of his hands were broken. Then he clung to the wall like a lizard, resting, and felt the pains of his last encounter burning like suns within him.

He breathed the fetid air and his head swam. He thought of the Portaroy he had once delivered, long ago, the city of friends, the place where he had once been feted, the land whose need for him had been strong enough to free him from the Houses of Pain and break the grip of stone upon his body; and he thought of that Portaroy in the hands of the Colonel of the West, and he thought of Dilfar now resisting that Lylish who might sweep the bastions of the East before him.

He climbed once again.

His head touched the metal lip of a bell.

He climbed around it, bracing himself on the crossbars that now occurred.

There were three bells suspended from a single axle.

He set his back against the wall and clung to the crossbars, placing his feet upon the middle bell.

He pushed, straightening his legs.

The axle protested, creaking and grinding within its sockets.

But the bell moved, slowly. It did not return, however, but stayed in the position into which it had been pushed.

Cursing, he worked his way through the crossbars and over to the opposite side of the belfry.

He pushed it back and it stuck on the other side. All the bells moved with the axle, though.

Nine times more did he cross over in darkness to push at the bells.

Then they moved more easily.

Slowly they fell back as he released the pressure of his legs. He pushed them out again and they returned again. He pushed them again, and again.

A click came from one of the bells as the clapper struck. Then another. Finally one of them rang.

He kicked out harder and harder, and then did the bells swing free and fill the tower about him with a pealing that vibrated the roots of his teeth and filled his ears with pain. A storm of dust came down over him and his eyes were full of tears. He coughed and closed them. He let the bells grow still.

Across some mighty distance he thought he heard the faint winding of a horn.

He began the downward climb.

"Lord Dilvish," said Korel, when he had reached the floor, "I have heard the blowing of horns."

"Yes," said Dilvish.

"I have a flask of wine with me. Drink."

Dilvish rinsed his mouth and spat, then drank three mighty swallows.

"Thank you, priest. Let us be gone from here now."

They crossed through the hall once more and descended the inner stairs. The smaller hall was now unlighted and lay in ruin. They made their way out, Dilvish leaving no tracks to show where he had gone; and halfway down the stairs the darkness departed from them.

Through the bleak day that now clung to the land, Dilvish looked back along the Way of the Armies. A mighty fog filled the air far beyond the broken gates, and from within that fog there came again the notes of the horn and the sounds of the movements of troops. Almost, Dilvish could see the outlines of the columns of marchers and riders, moving, moving, but not advancing.

"My troops await me," said Dilvish upon the stair. "Thank you, Korel, for accompanying me."

"Thank you, Lord Dilvish. I came to this place to dwell upon the ways of evil. You have shown me much that I may meditate upon."

They descended the final stairs. Dilvish brushed dust from his garments and mounted Black.

"One thing more, Korel, priest of Babrigore," he said. "If you ever meet with your patron, who should provide you much more evil to meditate upon than you have seen here, tell him that, when all the battles have been fought, his statue will come to kill him."

The mole danced as Korel blinked up at him.

"Remember," he replied, "that once he wore a mantle of light."

Dilvish laughed, and the eyes of his mount glowed red through the gloom.

"There!" he said, gesturing. "There is your sign of his goodness and light!"

Nine black doves circled in the heavens.

Korel bowed his head and did not answer.

"I go now to lead my legions."

Black reared on steel hooves and laughed along with his rider.

Then they were gone, up the Way of the Armies, leaving the Citadel of Rahoring and the priest of Babrigore behind them in the gloom.

A KNIGHT FOR MERYTHA

As he rode through the pass, he heard a woman scream.

The scream echoed about him and died. Then there was only the sound of the steel hooves of his mount upon the trail.

He stopped and stared through the gathering dusk.

"Black, whence came that cry?" he asked.

"I know not the direction," replied the steel horse on whose back he rode. "In these mountains sounds seem to come from everywhere."

Dilvish turned on his saddle and stared back along the trail he had followed.

Far below him on the plain, the doomed army had made its camp. Dilvish, who slept but little, had ridden ahead to scout out the way into the mountains. When last he had passed here, on the way to Rahoringhast, it had been at night and he had seen little of the trail.

Black's eyes glowed faintly.

"The darkness increases," he said, "and 'tis profitless to proceed. You cannot see much of the way beyond this point. Perhaps 'twere better you returned now to the camp, to hear your ancient kinsmen's tales of younger days in the earth."

"Very well…" said Dilvish, and as he spoke these words the cry came once more.

"That way!" he said, gesturing to his left. "The cry came from up ahead, off the trail!"

"Yes," said Black, "we are near enough to the borders of Rahoringhast so that a situation such as this is even more suspect than it normally would be. I counsel you not to heed that cry."

"A woman screaming in the wilderness and night— and I not responding? Come now, Black! It violates the law of my kind. Onward!"

Black made a sound like the hunting cry of a great bird and leapt forward. Beyond the pass he turned off the trail and ascended a steep slope.

High above there was a flicker of light.

"It is a castle," said Black, "and a woman stands within the battlement, all in white."

Dilvish stared ahead.

The clouds parted and the moon dropped light upon the edifice.

Big, and in places lapsing into ruin, it seemed almost a part of the mountainside. Dark, save for a faint illumination coming through the opened gate from the courtyard within. Old…

They came to the walls of the castle and Dilvish called out:

"Lady! Was it you who screamed?"

She looked downward.

"Yes!" she said. "Oh yes, good traveler! Twas I."

"What troubles you, madam?"

"I called out because I heard you passing. There is a dragon in the courtyard—and I fear for my life."

"Did you say 'dragon'?"

"Yes, good sir. He came down out of the sky four days ago and has been making his new home here. I am a prisoner because of this. I cannot pass that way…"

"I will see what can be done about it," he said.

Dilvish drew his invisible blade.

"Oh, good sir…"

"Through the gate, Black!"

"I like it not," muttered Black as they clattered into the courtyard.

Dilvish looked about him.

A torch blazed at one end of the yard. Shadows danced everywhere. Otherwise there was nothing.

"I see no dragon," said Black.

"And I smell no reptilian musk."

"Here, dragon!" said Black. "Here, dragon! Come on, dragon!"

They circled the courtyard, peering through the archways.

"No dragon," Black observed.

"No."

"Pity. You must forgo the pleasure."

As they passed a final archway, the woman called out from within.

"It appears to have departed, good sir."

He sheathed the blade of Selar and dismounted. Black became a steel statue at his back as he strode through the archway. The woman stood before him and he smiled and bowed to her.

"Your dragon appears to have flown," he observed.

Then he stared at her.

Her hair was black and unbraided, failing far below her shoulders. She was tall, and her eyes were the color of wood smoke. Rubies danced upon the lobes of her ears, and her chin was tiny and she held it high. Her neck was the color of cream, and Dilvish ran his eyes along it, down to the slopes where her breasts fitted into the tight bodice of her dress.

"So it would seem," she said. "My name is Merytha."

"… And mine is Dilvish."

"You are a brave man, Dilvish—to rush empty-handed after a dragon."

"Perhaps," he said. "Since the dragon is now departed…"

"It will be back for me, I fear," she said, "for I am the last one within these walls."

"Alone here? What is your situation?"

"My kinsmen will return tomorrow. They have been on a far journey. Pray, tend your horse and come dine with me, for I am lonesome and afraid." She licked her lips into a smile, and Dilvish said, "Very well," and he returned to the courtyard.

He placed his hand on Black's neck and felt it move.

"Black, all is not right in this place," he stated, "and I would learn more of it. I go to dine with the lady."

"Take care," whispered Black, "of what you eat and drink. I do not like this place."

"Good Black," said Dilvish, and he returned to Merytha within the archway.

She had obtained a lighted torch from somewhere, which she handed to him.

"My chambers are at the head of the stairs," she said.

He followed her upward through the gloom. Cobwebs hung in the corners and there was dust upon a wide tapestry that depicted a vast battle. He thought he heard the scurry of rats within the rushes, and a faint odor of dry rot came to his nostrils.

They reached a landing and she pushed wide the door that was before them.

The room was lighted by many tapers. It was clean and warm, and an aroma of sandlewood hung in the air. There were dark animal pelts upon the floor, and a bright tapestry hung on the far wall. Two windowslits let in the night breeze and glimpses of the stars, and there was a narrow doorway that led out to the battlement from which she had hailed him.

Dilvish moved into the room, and as he did so he saw that beyond the corner to his left there was a recessed fireplace, two logs smouldering within it. Laid out on the table before the hearth was a meal. Vegetables still steamed beside the the beef, and the bread looked soft and fresh. There was a clear decanter of red wine. In the corner of the room, he saw a massive, canopied bed, great ropes of golden braid about its posts, orange silk stretched tight upon it where the coverlet was turned back, and a row of orange pillows at its head.

"Sit down and refresh yourself, Dilvish," said Merytha.

"Will you not eat with me?"

"I have already dined."

Dilvish tasted a small piece of beef. There was no taint to it. He sipped the wine. It was strong and dry.

"Very good," he said. "How did this meal come to be prepared, and still warm?"

She smiled. "I did it, perhaps in anticipation. Will you not remove your sword belt at my table?"

"Yes," he replied. "Excuse me."

And he unbuckled it and placed it beside him.

"You carry no blade in your scabbard. Why is that?"

"Mine was broken in battle."

"You still must have won the engagement, else you would not be here."

"I won," said Dilvish.

"I take you for a doughty warrior, sir."

He smiled.

"The lady will turn my head with such talk."

She laughed.

"May I play music for you?"

"That would be pleasant."

She fetched then a stringed instrument unlike any he had ever seen. She began to play it and to sing:

"The wind doth blow this night, my love,

And a few small drops of rain;

I prayed that thou wouldst come to me,

To ease me of my pain.

Now I wish the wind may never cease,

Nor the flashes in the flood,

That thou has come across the eve

In earthly flesh and blood.

I prithee stay, of goodly night,

Green boots upon thy feet,

O knight who does not wear a sword,

To close my eyes with kisses sweet.

I'll wish the wind may never cease,

Nor flashes in the flood,

That thou mightst stay across the eve,

In earthly flesh and blood.

I prayed that thou wouldst come to me

As the light of day did wane,

To hold me as the night wind blew,

And a few small drops of rain."

Dilvish ate and drank his wine, watching her as she played. Her fingers barely touched upon the strings and her voice was soft and clear.

"Lovely," he said.

"Thank you, Dilvish," and she sang him another tune.

He finished his meal and sipped his wine until there was no more waiting within the decanter.

She stopped singing and put aside the instrument.

"I am afraid to stay here alone," she said, "until my kinsmen return. Will you remain with me this night?"

"There is only one answer that I am capable of giving."

She stood then and crossed to his side, touching his cheek with her fingertips. He smiled and touched her chin.

"You are partly of the Elvish kind," she said.

"Yes, I am."

"Dilvish, Dilvish, Dilvish…" she said. "The name sounds familiar… I know! You are named after the hero of The Ballad of Portaroy."

"Yes."

"A goodly tune. Perhaps I'll sing it for you," she said. "Later."

"No," said Dilvish, "it is not one of my favorites."

Then he drew her face to his and kissed her lips.

"The fire burns low."

"Yes," he said.

"The room will grow cold."

"'Tis true."

"Then remove thy green boots, for they are pleasing to the eye but would be awkward in bed."

Dilvish removed his boots, stood, and took her in his arms.

"How came you by these cuts on your cheek?"

"My enemy smote me about the head."

"It would appear he had claws."

"He did."

"An animal?"

"No."

"I will kiss them," she said, "to draw the sting."

Her lips lingered upon his cheek. He crushed her to him then, and she sighed.

"You are strong…" she said, and the fire burned low. After a time, it went out.

How long he had slept, he did not know.

There was a sound of splintering wood, and a voice cried out in the night.

He shook his head and stared into her opened eyes.

A strange warmth lay upon his throat. He touched it and his hand became moist.

He shook his head again.

"Please do not be angry," she said. "Remember that I fed you, that I have given you pleasure…"

"Vampire…" he whispered.

"I would not take your life's blood, Dilvish. Just a drink, just a drink was all I wanted."

There came another blow on the door, as of a battering ram.

He sat up slowly and held his head in his hands.

"Quite a sip," he said. "I think someone's at the door…"

"It is my husband," she replied, "Lord Morin."

"Oh? I don't believe we've been introduced…"

"I thought he would sleep this night, as he has these many nights past. He fed well a week ago and was sated. But he is like the tiger of the seas. Your blood summoned him."

"I find my position somewhat awkward, Merytha," Dilvish observed, "being guest to a vampire lord I've cuckolded. I don't quite know what one says on these occasions."

"There is nothing to say," she replied. "I hate him. He made me what I am. The only thing I regret is that he was awakened. He means to kill you."

Dilvish rubbed his eyes and reached for his boots.

"What will you do, Dilvish?"

"Apologize, and defend myself."

Three more blows loosened the door upon its hinges.

"Let me in, Merytha!" came a deep voice from without.

"I would that you could kill him and remain with me."

"Vampire," he said.

"I would that you were my lord," she said. "I would be good to you. I am sorry that he was awakened… I do not want you to die. Oh, kill him for me! Remain here and love me! You could have slain him, had he not awakened… I am not like those in the stories who want your blood. It is good, so good, your blood! And warm! I taste… Oh, kill him! Love me!"

The door collapsed, and through the half light Dilvish saw a form round the corner.

Two yellow eyes flickered high above a spade beard, and all the rest of the face was darkness. Morin was as tall as Dilvish and enormously broad of shoulder. He bore a short axe in his right hand.

Dilvish hurled the wine decanter and threw a chair at him.

The decanter missed, and the axe shattered the chair.

Dilvish drew the blade of Selar and guarded himself.

Morin rushed forward and screamed as the point of the invisible blade entered his shoulder.

"What sorcery?" he cried, taking the axe into his left hand.

"I apologize, good sir," said Dilvish, "for abusing custom within your halls. I did not know the lady was wed."

Morin snarled and swung the axe. Dilvish backed away and slashed at his left arm.

"My blood you may not have," he stated. "But I repeat my apology."

"Fool!" cried Morin.

Dilvish parried another axe stroke. In the east, the sky began to lighten. Merytha was crying softly.

Morin crashed into him and locked his arm to his side. Dilvish seized his wrist and they wrestled.

Morin dropped his axe and struck Dilvish in the face. He fell backward, striking his head on the wall.

As the other lunged toward him, Dilvish raised the point of his blade.

Morin uttered a shriek and collapsed, clutching his stomach.

Dilvish wrenched free his blade and stared down at the man, panting.

"You know not what you have done," said Morin.

Merytha rushed toward him where he lay, and he pushed her away.

"Keep her from me!" he said. "Let her not have my blood!"

"What mean you?" said Dilvish.

"I knew not what she was when I wedded her," said Morin, "and when I learned, I loved her still. It was not in me to harm her. My servants left me and my castle fell into disrepair, but I could not do what should have been done. Instead I have been her jailer. I forgive you, Elfboot, for she has deceived you. I was drugged… You look to be a strong man, you've proven you are… I hope you are strong enough to do it."

Dilvish turned his head away from the sight and looked at Merytha, where she stood with her back against the bedpost.

"You lied to me," he said. "Vampire!"

"You've done it," she said. "You slew him! My jailer is dead!"

"Yes."

"Will you stay with me now?"

"No," said Dilvish.

"You must," she said. "I want you."

"That," said Dilvish. "I do believe."

"No, not that way. No, I want you to be my lord. All my life I have wanted one with your strength and your strange eyes," she said, "'in earthly flesh and blood.' Have I not been good to you?"

"I killed this man because of you. I would that I had not."

She shielded her eyes.

"Please stay!" she said. "My life would be empty if you did not… I must retire soon, to a dark, quiet place. Please!" She began to draw heavy breaths. "Please say that you will be here when I awaken tomorrow night."

Dilvish shook his head, slowly.

The room grew lighter.

Her pale eyes widened beneath her sheltering hand.

"You," she said, "you do not mean to harm me, do you?"

Again he shook his head.

"I have done enough harm this night. I must go, Merytha. There is but one cure for your condition and I cannot administer it. Good-bye."

"Do not go," she said. "I will sing to you. I will prepare fine meals. I will love you. I only want a little taste, sometimes, when…"

"Vampire," he said.

He heard her footsteps behind him on the stair.

A gray day was dawning about him when he entered the courtyard and placed his hand upon Black's neck.

He heard her gasping as he mounted.

"Do not go…" she said. "I love you."

The sun rose as he moved toward the opened gate.

He heard her shriek behind him.

He did not look back.

THE PLACES OF AACHE

As Dilvish the Damned traveled through the North Countries, he passed one day along a twisting road through a low pine-filled valley. His great black mount seemed tireless, but there came a time when Dilvish halted to unpack rations and make a meal. His green boots soundless upon the needles, he spread his cloak and placed his fare upon it.

"There is someone coming."

"Thanks."

He loosened his blade and began to eat standing. Shortly, a large, bearded man on a roan stallion rounded a bend and slowed.

"Ho! Traveler!" the man hailed. "May I join you?"

"You may."

The man halted and dismounted. As he approached, he smiled.

"Rogis is the name," he stated. "And yours?"

"Dilvish."

"You've traveled far?"

"Yes, from the southeast."

"Do you also make a pilgrimage to the shrine?"

"What shrine?"

"That of the goddess Aache, up yonder hill." He gestured up the trail.

"No, I was not even aware of its existence. What is its virtue?"

"The goddess may absolve a man of murder."

"Oh? And you are making pilgrimage for this reason?"

"Yes. I have done it often."

"Do you come from afar?"

"No, I live just up the road. It makes life a lot easier."

"I think I begin to get the picture."

"Good. If you will be so kind as to pass me your purse, you will save the goddess the work involved in an extra absolution."

"Come and take it," Dilvish said, and he smiled.

Rogis's eyes narrowed.

"Not many men have said that to me."

"And I may well be the last."

"Hmm. I'm bigger than you are."

"I've noticed."

"You are making things difficult. Would you be willing to show me whether you're carrying enough coin to make it worth either of our efforts?"

"I think not."

"How about this, then? We split your money, and neither of us takes a bloody chance?"

"No."

Rogis sighed.

"Now the situation has grown awkward. Let me see, are you an archer? No. No bow. No throwing spears either. It would seem that I could ride away without being shot down."

"To ambush me later? I'm afraid I can't permit it. It has become a matter of future self-defense."

"Pity," Rogis said, "but I'll chance it anyway."

He turned back toward his mount, then whirled, his blade in his hand. But Dilvish's own weapon was already drawn, and he parried it and swung a return blow. Rogis cursed, parried, and swung. This went on for six passes, and then Dilvish's blade pierced his abdomen.

A look of surprise crossed his face and he dropped his own weapon to clutch at the one that held him. Dilvish wrenched it free and watched him fall.

"An unlucky day for both of us," Rogis muttered.

"More so for yourself, I'd say."

"You'll not escape this so easily, you know—I'm favored of the goddess—"

"She has peculiar tastes in favorites then."

"I've served her. You'll see…" and then his eyes clouded over and he slumped, moaning.

"Black, have you ever heard of this goddess?"

"No," replied the metal statue of a horse, "but then there are many things in this realm of which I have heard nothing."

"Then let us be gone from this place."

"What of Rogis?"

"We will leave him at the crossroads as an advertisement that the world is a safer place. I'll untether his horse and let it find its own way home."

That night, many miles farther north, Dilvish's sleep was troubled. He dreamed that the shade of Rogis came and stood beside him in his camp and knelt, smiling, to place his hands upon his throat. He awoke choking, and a ghostly light seemed to fade away at his side.

"Black! Black! Did you see anything?"

There was silence, then: "I was far away" came the reply from the unmoving statue, "but I see red marks upon your throat. What happened?"

"I dreamed that Rogis was here, that he tried to throttle me." He coughed and spat.

"It was more than a dream," he decided.

"We'll leave this country soon."

"The sooner the better."

After a time he drifted off to sleep again. At some point Rogis was with him once more. This time the attack was very sudden and even more violent. Dilvish awoke swinging, but his blows fell upon empty air. Now he was certain of the light, Rogis's ghostly outline within it.

"Black, awaken," he said. "We must retrace our path, visit that shrine, lay this ghost. A man has to sleep."

"I am ready. We will be there a little after daybreak."

Dilvish broke camp and mounted.

The shrine was a low, sprawling wooden building backed against the rust-streaked rock of the hill, near to its top. The morning sunlight fell upon its face, where a rudely carved double door of dark wood stood closed. Dilvish dismounted and tried it. Finding it bolted, he hammered upon it.

After a long delay, the left side of the door opened and a small man with close-set pale eyes looked out. He wore a coarse brown robe.

"Who are you to trouble us at this hour?" the man inquired.

"One who has been wronged by someone who claimed a special status with your goddess. I wish to be released from whatever doom or spell is involved."

"Oh. You are the one. You're early. Come in."

He swung the door wide and Dilvish stepped through. The room was simply furnished with a few benches and a small altar. There was another door to the rear. A vacant sleeping pallet lay disarrayed near one wall beneath a narrow window.

"My name is Task. Have a seat." The man gestured toward the benches.

"I'll stand."

The small man shrugged.

"All right." He walked back to the pallet and began folding the blankets. "You want the curse lifted, to prevent Rogis's ghost from strangling you."

"You do know!"

"Of course. The goddess does not like to have her servants slaughtered."

Dilvish noticed how, with a deft movement, Task secreted a bottle of a rare southern wine within the rolled pallet. He also noted that each time the man hid his hands within his robe another costly ring vanished from his fingers.

"The servants' victims do not much relish being slaughtered either."

"Tsk. Did you come here to blaspheme or to get absolved?"

"I came here to get this damned curse lifted."

"To do that, you must make an offering."

"Of what must it consist?"

"First, all of your money and any precious stones or metals you have with you."

"The goddess is as much of a highway robber as her servants!"

Task smiled.

"All religions have their secular side. The goddess's following is not large in this sparsely populated area, and the donations of the faithful are not always sufficient to meet operating expenses."

"You said 'first'—first you want all my valuables. What's second?"

"Well, it is only fair that the life you have destroyed be replaced by yourself. A year's service on your part will be ample."

"Doing what?"

"Why, collecting tribute from travelers, as Rogis did."

"I refuse," said Dilvish. "Ask something else."

"Nothing else will do. That is your penance."

Dilvish turned on his heel. He began to pace. He halted.

"What's beyond that door?" he asked suddenly, gesturing to the rear of the room.

"That is a sacred precinct, reserved for the elect—"

Dilvish headed toward it.

"You can't go in there!"

He thrust the door open.

"—especially with a sword!"

He stepped inside. Small oil lamps burned. There was straw on the floor, a feeling of dampness and a peculiar odor that he did not recognize; otherwise, the room was empty. A large, heavy door stood slightly ajar to the rear, however, and from behind it he seemed to hear scratching sounds, retreating.

Task was at his side as he moved to the door. He grasped at his arm but could not hold it back. Dilvish pushed it open and looked through.

Nothing. Darkness and a sense of distance. Rock to the side. A cave.

"That is a storage area."

Dilvish took up an oil lamp and entered. As he proceeded, the smell grew stronger, the dampness heavier. Task followed him.

"It is dangerous back here. There are crevasses, chasms. You might slip—"

"Silence! Or I'll throw you down the first one I see!"

Task dropped back several paces.

Dilvish moved cautiously, holding the lamp high. Rounding a rocky shoulder, he beheld a myriad of sparkles. A pool, recently disturbed.

"This is where it came," he said, "whatever it is," and he advanced upon the pool. "I am going to wait for it. Here. I've a feeling it must emerge, sooner or later. What is it?"

"The goddess…" Task said softly. "You should really depart. I have just had a message. Your year's sentence has been remitted. Just leave the money."

Dilvish laughed.

"Do goddesses bargain?" he asked.

Sometimes, came a voice in his mind. Leave it at that.

A chill passed over his limbs.

"Why do you hide yourself?" he said.

It is not given to many mortals to look upon my kind.

"I don't like blackmail, human or supernatural. Supposing I were to roll this boulder into your pool?"

Abruptly, the water stirred. The face of a woman emerged and regarded him. Her eyes were green and very large, her skin extremely pale. Tight ringlets of black hair covered her head like a helmet. Her chin was pointed, and there was something unnatural to the shape of her tongue when she spoke aloud.

"Very well, you see me," she stated. "I've a mind to show you more."

She continued to rise—neck, shoulders, breasts, all pale—and abruptly all human semblance vanished, for below her waist were more long slender limbs than Dilvish could count.

He cried out and his blade came into his hand. He nearly dropped the lamp.

"I mean you no harm," came her faintly lisping voice. "Recall that it was you who sought this audience."

"Aache—what are you?" he asked.

"My kind is old. Let it go at that. You have caused me difficulties."

"Your man tried to kill me."

"I know. Obviously he chose the wrong victim. Pity. I must go hungry."

The blade twitched in Dilvish's hand.

"What do you mean by that?"

"I eat honey."

"Honey?"

"A sweet liquid made by small flying insects in the far south."

"I know what it is, but I do not understand."

"It is my main dietary requirement. I must have it. There are no flowers, no bees this far north. I must send for it. It is expensive to bring it this distance."

"And that is why you rob travelers?"

"I must have the money, to buy it. My servants get it for me."

"Why do they serve you thus?"

"I might say devotion, but let us be honest. With some men, I can control them over a distance."

"As you sent that phantom to me?"

"I cannot control you directly, as I could Rogis. But I can make your slumber bad."

Dilvish shook his head.

"I've a feeling that the farther I get from here, the less this power would affect me."

"Nor are you incorrect. So go. You would never make me a good servant. Keep your money. Leave me."

"Wait. Have you many servants?"

"That is none of your affair."

"No, it isn't. But I'd a thought. There is mineral wealth in this valley, you know."

"I do not know. I do not understand what you refer to."

"I was involved in several mining operations years ago. When I rode through your valley yesterday, I noticed signs of certain mineral deposits. I believe they are sufficiently rich in the dark metal for which metalworkers to the south would pay well. If you have sufficient servants to set up a digging and smelting operation, you may make out a lot better than you have been by robbing passersby."

"You really think so?"

"It should be easy enough to discover, especially if you will lend me some men."

"Why would you do this for me?"

"Perhaps to make this corner of the world a little safer."

"A strange reason. Go back to the shrine. I am summoning servants now and binding them to you. See whether this thing can be done, then come back to see me—alone."

"I will—Aache."

Suddenly she was gone and the pool sparkled. Dilvish turned and met Task's stare. He walked by him without speaking.

In the days that followed, ore was mined, a smelter constructed, and operations begun. Dilvish smiled as he watched the dark metal pour into its bar molds. Aache smiled when he told her of it.

"And there is much there?" she asked.

"A mountain of it. We can have enough for a good wagonload by next week. Then we can step up the process."

He knelt beside the pool. Her fingers emerged, tentatively touched his hand. When he did not flinch, she reached up and stroked his cheek.

"I could almost wish you were one of my kind," she said, and then she was gone again.

"It has been long since this area was warm and could have had flowers and bees," Black said. "She must be very old."

"It is impossible to tell," Dilvish answered, as they paced the hilltop and looked down into the valley to where the smoke rose. "But if honey is all it takes to make her an honest creature, it's worth this small delay."

"She wants you to take a load south next week?"

"Yes."

"And after that?"

"Her servants should be able to run things from then on."

"As slaves?"

"No, she'll be able to afford to pay them once this gets going."

"I see. One thing…"

"Yes?"

"Do not trust that priest Task."

"I don't. He has expensive tastes. I believe he has been pocketing part of the… income."

"Of this I know nothing. I spoke, seeing him as one who fears that he may be replaced."

"I will ease his mind on that count soon with my retirement."

The morning of his departure was bright, with only a few snow flurries melting as they descended. The men had sung as they had loaded the wagon the evening before. Now they stood about, baring grins from which their breath puffed cheerily as they clapped him on the shoulder and back, loaded him down with provisions, and saw him on his creaking way.

"I do not appreciate draft duty," Black commented, as soon as they were out of earshot of the camp.

"I'll make it up to you one day."

"I doubt it, but I'll remember it."

No brigands accosted them, for now these forests were clean of them. They made better time when they emerged from the chain of valleys, and by afternoon they had traveled several leagues. Dilvish ate as he rode and Black moved on at a steady pace.

Along toward evening, they heard the sounds of a rider approaching from the rear. They came to a halt when they recognized Task mounted upon Rogis's roan. The horse was in a lather and blowing heavily. It reeled as Task reined in beside the wagon.

"What is the matter?" Dilvish inquired.

"Gone. Dead. Cinders," he said.

"Talk sense!"

"The shrine is burned to the ground. One of the lamps—the straw—"

"What of Aache?"

"She was trapped in the back room—couldn't open the door…"

"Dead?"

"Dead."

"Why do you come fleeing?"

"I had to catch you, to discuss my share of the operation."

"I see."

Dilvish saw that he was wearing all of his rings. "We'd best camp now. Your horse can't go any farther."

"Very well. That field?"

"It will do."

That night Dilvish dreamed a strange dream in which he held a woman tightly, caressing her almost brutally, fearing to look down. He was awakened by a cry of terror.

Sitting up, he beheld a ghostly glow above the form of the man Task. It was already fading, but he would never forget its outline.

"Aache… ?"

Sleep, my only friend, my dear friend, came the words from somewhere. I have but come for that which is mine. It is not so sweet as honey, but it will have to do…

He covered over the remains of the priest without looking at him. He departed the following morning. He rode the entire day in silence.

A CITY DIVIDED

Spring was twisting its way slowly into the North Country, advancing and retreating by turns, retaining each day something of its gains. Snow still lay heavy upon all the higher peaks, but during the day it melted in the lower regions and the fields lay damp, the streams swelled and raced. Some new green was already evident in the valleys, and on cloudless days such as this the sun dried the trails and the air was warmed to the point of comfort by midday. The traveler on the strange dark horse, but lately up from redelivered Portaroy after the laying of his ghost legions, halted on a rocky rise and gestured to the north.

"Black," he said. "That hill—about half a league off. Did you see something peculiar atop it a moment ago?"

His mount turned its metallic head and stared.

"No. Nor do I now. What did it seem?"

"The outline of some buildings. They're gone now."

"Perhaps it was the sun glinting on the ice."

"Perhaps."

They moved ahead, descending the slope and continuing on their way. On the next hill they mounted, minutes later, they paused again and looked in that direction.

"There!" said the rider who seldom smiled, smiling.

Black shook his head.

"I see it now. It looks like the wall of a city…"

"A fresh meal may perhaps be had there—and a bath. And a real bed tonight. Come, let us hurry."

"Check your maps, will you? I am curious what the place is called."

"We will learn that soon enough. Come!"

"Humor me, for old times' sake."

The rider paused, then dipped into his travel bag. He fumbled about, then withdrew a small scroll that he uncased, unrolled, and held before him.

"Hmm," he said after a time. Then he unrolled the map and restored it to its container.

"Well? What is the name of the place?"

"Can't tell. It's not shown."

"Aha!"

"You know this will not be the first error we've found in this map. The mapmaker either forgot the place or did not know about it. Or the town is new."

"Dilvish… ?"

"Yes?"

"Do I offer you advice often?"

"Frequently."

"Am I often wrong?"

"I could cite instances."

"I don't fancy the notion of spending the night in a place that is here one moment and gone the next."

"Nonsense! It was just the angle, or some trick of the distance."

"I am suspicious—"

"—by nature. I know. And I am hungry. Fresh fish from one of these streams, broiled with herbs…"

Black snorted a tiny wisp of smoke and began walking.

"Your stomach is suddenly a big problem."

"There may be girls, too."

"Hmph!"

The trail leading up the hill to the city gate was not wide, and the gate stood open. Dilvish halted before it but was not challenged. He studied the towers and the walls, but he saw no one. He listened. The only sounds were the wind and the birds at his back.

"Go ahead," he said, and Black bore him through the gate.

Streets ran off to the right and the left, turning with the angles of the wall. The way on which he stood ran straight ahead, ending against buildings at what might be a small plaza. All of these streets were cobbled and well-kept. The buildings were mainly of stone and brick—clean, sharp angled. As they continued along the way leading directly ahead, he noted that no refuse stood or flowed in the ditch at his side.

"Quiet place," said Black.

"Yes."

After perhaps a hundred paces, Dilvish drew upon the reins and dismounted. He entered a shop to his left. A moment later he stepped back outside.

"What is it?"

"Nothing. Empty. No merchandise. Not a stick of furniture."

He crossed over the street and entered another building. He emerged shaking his head.

"The same," he said, remounting.

"Shall we go? You know my feelings."

"Let us have a look at that plaza first. There are no signs of violence thus far. It may be a festival day of some sort."

Black's hooves clicked on the cobbles.

"Pretty dead festival, then."

They rode on, glancing up alleyways, along galleries, into courtyards. There was no activity to be seen, there were no people about. At length they entered the plaza. There were vacant stalls on two sides, a small fountain in the middle that was not operating, and a large statue of two fish near one end. Dilvish paused and regarded the ancient sign. The top fish headed to his left, the bottom one to his right. He shrugged.

"You were right about that," he said. "Let us—"

The air shook from the single note of a bell, swinging within a high tower off to his left.

"Strange…"

A youth—blond haired and rosy cheeked, wearing a ruffled white shirt and green hose, a short sword, and a large codpiece—stepped out from behind the statue, smiled, and postured with one hand on his hip.

"Strange?" he said. "Yes, it is. But stranger still, the sight you are about to behold, traveler. Regard!"

He gestured, sweepingly, just as the bell tolled again.

Dilvish turned his head and drew a sudden breath. As silently as cats, the buildings had begun moving about the plaza. They circled, they advanced, they retreated. They rearranged themselves, changing positions with one another as if moving in a ludicrous, cyclopean dance. The bell rang again, and again, as Dilvish watched.

Finally: "What sorcery is this?" he inquired of the youth.

"Just so," was the reply. "Sorcery indeed—and it is in the process of rearranging the city into the form of a maze about you."

Dilvish shook his head to the accompaniment of another bell note.

"I am impressed by the display," he said. "But what is its purpose?"

"You might call it a game," said the youth. "When the bell completes its song, several strokes hence, the maze will be laid. You will then have an hour until it strikes again. If you have not found your way out of town and away from here by that time, you will be crushed by the buildings' rearranging themselves once more."

"And why the game?" Dilvish asked, waiting out another tolling before he heard the reply.

"That you will never know, Elfboot, whether you win or lose, for you are only an element of the game. I am also charged to warn you, however, that you may find yourself under attack at various points along whatever route you may choose."

The buildings continued their dance to the sound of the bell.

"I do not care for this game," said Dilvish, drawing his blade, "and I've a mind to play a different one. I have just elected you to guide me out of here. Refuse, and you'll part company with your head."

The youth grinned, and reaching upward with his left hand, he seized a fistful of his own hair while drawing his blade with his right. Brandishing the weapon on high, he brought it down in a fast, hard stroke against the side of his neck. It passed through.

His left hand rose, holding his severed head—still grinning—high above his shoulders. The bell tolled again. The lips moved.

"Did you believe you dealt with mortals, stranger?"

Dilvish frowned.

"I see," he said. "Very well. Deal with him, Black."

"Gladly," Black replied, and flames danced within his mouth and filled his eye sockets as he reared in time with another bell stroke.

The face on the severed head showed a look of sudden surprise as an electrical quality came into the air between them. Black's hooves lashed out, crossing in an unhorselike movement as he fell forward, striking the figure to the accompaniment of a sulfurous thunderclap that drowned out the next note of the bell. A scream escaped from the being before them as it vanished in a rush of fire.

The bell tolled twice again as Black recovered his footing and they stood regarding the charred cobbles. Then there was silence. The buildings had ceased their movements.

"All right," Dilvish said at last. "You told me so. Thanks for your action."

Black moved in a circle then, and they regarded the new arrangement of streets that led from the plaza.

"Any preferences?" Black inquired.

"Let's try that one," said Dilvish, gesturing up a sideway to the left.

"All right," said Black. "By the way, I've seen that trick done better."

"Really?"

"I'll tell you about it another time."

They headed up the cobbled way. Nothing moved about them.

The street was narrow and short. Buildings crowded them at either hand. There was an abrupt turn to the right, then to the left again.

"Sst! Over here!" came a voice from their left.

"The first ambush," muttered Dilvish, turning his head and drawing his blade.

A small, dark-eyed man with a pleasant smile, his long gray hair tied into a topknot, his hands raised to shoulder level, empty palms facing outward, watched them from within a doorway. He had on well-worn gray garments.

"It's all right," he whispered sharply. "No trick. I want to help you."

Dilvish did not lower his blade.

"Who are you?" he asked.

"The other side," came the reply.

"What do you mean?"

"This is a game, whether you like it or not," the small man said. "It is between two players. The other side wants you to die in here. Mine only wins if you escape. The other side is responsible for the city. I am responsible for outwitting it."

"How do I know whether you are telling the truth? How can I tell which side is which?"

The man glanced down at his shirtfront and frowned.

"May I lower one hand?"

"Go ahead."

He dropped his right hand and smoothed the baggy garment over his breast. This exposed the emblem of a fish, swimming toward his right. He pointed to it.

"He of the fish that swims to the right," he said, "is the one who wants you out of here safe. Now test my words. Two more turnings, and you had better look for an attack from above."

At this the man leaned backward against the door and it gave way. He closed it behind him, and Dilvish heard the bar drop.

"Let's go," he said to Black.

There were no sounds other than those of Black's hooves as they made the first turn. Dilvish rode with drawn blade, eyes searching every opening.

The second turning led through an archway. He slowed and studied it before continuing on. They passed beneath it and started up the narrow street. They passed a latticed door letting upon a small courtyard. Dilvish looked low as well as high but saw nothing. Then he heard the sound of metal grating upon stone somewhere overhead. As he glanced upward, he cried, "Back! Back!"

His mount reversed motion without turning, moving quickly, as a cataract of steaming oil descended and struck the stones before them. Dilvish only glimpsed the figures on the rooftop to his right.

There came a terrific crash that echoed and reverberated about them. Looking back, Dilvish saw that a massive barred gate had been dropped from within the archway. The pool of bubbling oil continued to flow, spreading toward them.

"I won't be able to keep my footing on that," Black said.

"That door, to the right! Break through!"

Black wheeled and crashed against the latticed door. It fell apart, and they were through it and into a small flagged courtyard, a tiny dry fountain at its center, another wooden door at its farther end.

"You cheated!" came a voice from above and to his left. "Were you warned?"

Dilvish looked up.

There, on a small third-floor balcony, stood a man very similar in appearance to their informant, save that his hair was bound back with a blue head strap and on his shirtfront was the emblem of a fish swimming to his left. In his hands he bore a crossbow, which he raised then and sighted.

Dilvish slid down from Black to his right and crouched. He heard the quarrel strike upon Black's metallic hide.

"Through the other gate before he can set it again! I'll follow you!"

Black rushed ahead, not even slowing as he hit the gate. Dilvish sprinted after.

"Cheating! Cheating!" came the cry from behind him.

The street beyond ran in both directions.

"To the right," said Dilvish, mounting.

Black hurried off in that direction. They came to a fork. They took the left-hand way, which ran slightly uphill.

"It might be worth risking a climb to the top of a high building," said Dilvish. "I may be able to see the way out."

"Not necessary," came a familiar voice from his right. "I can save you the time and the effort. You've already found one shortcut—back there. It is not very far now."

Dilvish looked into the eyes of that first topknotted man, fish emblem facing to his right. He stood behind a low window, only an arm's distance away.

"But you must hurry. He is already rushing his forces to the gate. If he gets there first, it's all over."

"He could simply have guarded it from the beginning and waited."

"Not permitted. He can't start there. Take the next right, the next left, and two rights. You will come through an alleyway into a wide courtyard. The gate will be on your left and open. Hurry!"

Dilvish nodded and Black raced off, swinging to the right at the next corner.

"Do you believe him?" Black asked.

Dilvish shrugged.

"I must either try it or take a terrible chance."

"What do you mean?"

"Use of the strongest magic I know."

"One of the Awful Sayings you learned in Hell, against the day you meet your enemy?"

"Aye. There's one of the twelve to level a city."

Black turned left, cautiously, then proceeded on.

"How do you think it would fare against a sorcerous construct such as this?"

"For raw power, it is unequaled by earthly magics—"

"But there are no warnings. You never get a second chance if you make a mistake."

"I need not be told."

Black halted at the next corner, peered about it, continued.

"If he was telling the truth, we're almost there," he whispered. "Let us hope we have beaten the other player. And the next time, put more trust in your maps!"

"Aye. Here's the turn. Carefully now…"

They rounded the next corner. There was a long alleyway with light at its far end.

"So far it looks as if he spoke true," Black whispered, slowing to soften the sound of his hooves.

He halted as they neared the alley's end, and they looked out upon a courtyard.

The man they had left on the balcony stood in the middle of the yard, smiling in their direction. In his right hand he held a pikestaff.

"You pressed me hard," he said. "But my way was shorter—as you can see."

He looked to his right.

"There is the gate."

He raised his staff and struck it three times upon the ground. Immediately the flagstones about him were raised like trapdoors and figures rose up from out of the ground beneath them. There were perhaps two-score men there. Each bore a pikestaff. Each reached across with his left hand, grasped his hair, and raised his head from his shoulders. All of them laughed then, as they replaced their heads, gripped their pikes with both hands, and started forward across the yard.

"Back!" said Dilvish. "We'd never make it!"

They fled up the alley and turned to the left. They heard the pikemen enter it behind them.

"Other streets opened upon that yard," said Dilvish. "Perhaps we can circle."

"Another street…"

"Go left!"

They turned.

"Another."

"Right!"

The way opened upon a square at a crossroads, a fountain at its center. Pikemen suddenly entered from the left and from directly ahead. From behind there still came the sounds of pursuit.

They bore to the right, took another right after a short distance. Farther up the street, a gate fell into place before them. They turned left into a long, arcaded area skirting a garden.

"Cut across the garden!" came a voice from behind a row of shrubs. "There's a gate over there!" The other small man stood, pointing. "Then remember, two lefts and a right, two lefts and a right—all the way around!"

Black's hooves tore through the garden as they headed for the gate. Then he reared and came to a standstill, as the note of a single bell stroke vibrated through the air.

"Oh, oh," said the small man with the topknot. A building on the left rotated ninety degrees, backed up, and slid off down the street. A stone railing shot away. A tower edged forward. The second small man entered the area and stood beside the other. He was smiling. The first was not.

"Is this it?" Black asked, as an outhouse shot by, passing beneath an arch that was striding toward them.

"I'm afraid so," said Dilvish, straightening and raising both arms over his head. "Mabra, brahoring Mabra…"

A great wind came down, and within it was a wailing. It spun about without touching them with anything but a chill, and a smoky haze sprang forth from each building.

As Dilvish continued to speak, sounds of cracking and splintering began, followed shortly by the crashes of falling masonry. Somewhere a bell tower tottered and plunged, a final raucous booming emerging from its bell as it descended to shatter upon a rushing shop or residence.

The ground shook as the wailing rose to an ear-splitting howl. The buildings faded within their cloaks of mist. Then came a crack like a hundred lightning-riven trees, and the wind died as suddenly as it had risen.

Dilvish and Black stood upon a sun-swept hilltop. No trace of the city remained about them.

"Congratulations," said Black. "That was very well done."

"To which I must add my own" came a familiar voice from behind them.

Turning, Dilvish saw the small man with the topknot, whose fish swam to his right.

"My deepest apologies," he went on. "I'd no idea we had trapped a brother sorcerer here. That was an Awful Saying, wasn't it? I've never seen one done before."

"Yes, it was."

"Good thing I got close to the protected area in a hurry. My brother, of course, had to go with his city. I want to thank you for that—very much."

"I'd like an explanation now," said Dilvish, "as to what was going on. Had you no better ways to amuse yourselves?"

"Ah, good sir" said the small man, wringing his hands. "Had you not guessed from the resemblance? We were twins—a most unfortunate situation when both are practitioners of the subtler arts. The power is divided. Each is only half as strong as he might be, if—"

"I begin to see," said Dilvish, "somewhat."

"Yes. We'd tried duels, but we were too evenly matched. So, rather than share a weakness, we had an arrangement. One of us would spend ten years exiled to an astral limbo while the other enjoyed full potency here. At the end of that time, we would play the game to see who would enjoy the next ten years on earth. One of us would erect the city, the other would back the champion to try its maze. I was rather depressed when I drew the champion this time, for the city usually won. But you have been my good fortune, sir. We should have suspected something when we beheld your mount. But who could have guessed an Awful Saying! It must have been hell to learn."

"It was."

"I am of course in your debt, and at full power— almost—now. Is there any way in which I might serve you?"

"Yes," said Dilvish.

"Name it."

"I am seeking a man—no, a sorcerer. If you have knowledge of his whereabouts, I want it. To name him here is risky, for his attention might have been drawn to these recent workings of power. His strengths are of the highest, and the darkest. Do you know of whom I speak?"

"I—I am not certain."

Dilvish sighed.

"Very well."

He dismounted, and with the tip of his blade he scratched the name Jelerak in the dirt.

The small sorcerer blanched and wrung his hands again.

"Oh, good sir! You seek your death!"

"No. His," Dilvish said, rubbing out the name with his toe. "Can you help me?"

The other swallowed.

"He has seven castles that I know of in different parts of the world. All are defended differently. He employs servants both human and unnatural. It is said that he has ways of transporting himself quickly among these keeps. How is it that you do not know these things?"

"I have been away for a long while. Bear with me. Where are they located?"

"I believe I may know who you are," said the sorcerer, kneeling and drawing in the earth with his finger.

Dilvish crouched beside him and watched the map take shape.

"… Here is the one at the edge of the world, which I have seen only in visions. Here is the Red Keep… Another lies to the far south…"

Dilvish inscribed them in his mind as they appeared before him.

"… Then the nearest seems to be this one you call the Tower of Ice," Dilvish said, "over a hundred leagues to the north and west of here. I had heard rumor of such a place. I had been seeking it."

"Take counsel of me, Deliverer," he said, rising, "Do not—"

The city stood all around them again, but changed, beginning lower and sweeping down the hillside for as far as the eye could see.

"You didn't—uh—summon it back for a small joke, did you?" the sorcerer asked.

"No."

"I was afraid you'd say that. Came up awfully quiet, didn't it?"

"Yes."

"A lot bigger than Stradd and I could ever make them, too. What now? Do you think he wants to run us through it?"

A dark mass occurred in the sky overhead.

"I'd do it gladly, if he would await me within."

"Don't say that, friend! Look!"

Like slow lightning, sheets of fire descended from the heavens, silently, falling upon the new city about them. In moments it began to blaze. They smelled the smoke. Ashes drifted by. Soon they were ringed by a giant wall of flame, and waves of heat fell upon them.

"That is very nicely done," observed the sorcerer, mopping his brow with his sleeve. "I am going to give you my name—Strodd—as an act of extreme generosity on my part, since we may be under sentence of death, anyway—and I believe I've already guessed yours. Right?"

"I'd say."

The fires began to subside. There was no city beneath them.

"Yes, that is nicely done," Strodd remarked. "I believe the demonstration is about over, but I wonder why he didn't simply divert it upon us?"

Black laughed—a harsh, metallic thing.

"There are reasons," he said.

The fire flickered and vanished, leaving the sunny hilltop exactly as it had been but a while before.

"Well, there you are," Strodd said. "I am suddenly anxious to undertake a long journey, for my health. One grows somewhat attenuated wandering about in astral limbos. I still owe you something, but I am afraid of the company you might be keeping. I would rather you called on me for several small matters rather than the big one I fear you might be headed for—if you know what I mean?"

"I'll remember," said Dilvish, smiling, and he mounted Black and turned his head toward the northwest.

Strodd winced.

"I was afraid you'd be going that way," he said. "Well, good luck to you anyhow."

"And yourself."

Dilvish tossed the man a small salute before he rode off.

"The Tower of Ice?" said Black.

"The Tower of Ice."

When Dilvish looked back, the hilltop was empty.

THE WHITE BEAST

All that day, as he crossed the ice field, the rider of the burnished black beast had known that he was pursued. He had glimpsed the great loping white form far back among the drifts. Now, with moonlight sparkling upon the sleek and snowy forms and an icy wind sweeping down from the mountains and across the nighted plain, he heard the first howl of his pursuer.

But the mountains themselves lay very near now. Somewhere at their base, perhaps, a hollow, a cave, a fortified shelter—a place where he might rest with rock at his back and beside him, a fire before him, his blade across his knees.

The howling came again. His great black mount moved more quickly. Large boulders lay strewn ahead of them, beside them now… He moved among them, his eyes searching the ice-coated talus for signs of an opening—anywhere.

"There, up ahead," came the low voice from below and before him, as the beast spoke.

"Yes, I see it. Can we fit?"

"If not, I'll enlarge it. It is dangerous to seek further. There may be no other."

"True."

They halted before the opening. The man dismounted, his green boots soundless on the snow. His black, horselike mount entered first.

"It is larger than it looks, empty and dry. Come in."

The man entered the cave, dipping his head below its outer rim. He dropped to his knees and felt for tinder.

"A few sticks, a branch, leaves…"

He heaped them and seated himself. The beast remained standing at his back. He unclasped his blade and placed it near to hand.

There came another howl, much nearer.

"I wish that damned white wolf would get up his courage to attack. I won't be able to sleep till we've settled our differences," said the man, locating his flint. "All day it's circled and trailed, watching, waiting…"

"I believe it is me that it fears most," said the dark form. "It senses that I am unnatural, and that I will protect you."

"I would fear you, too," said the man, laughing.

"But yours is a human intelligence. What of its?"

"What do you imply?"

"Nothing. Really. I don't know. Eat. Rest. I will guard you."

The leaves took fire beneath showers of sparks, smouldered.

"If it were to brave the flame, spring quickly, and seize me, it might drag me out there—to some snowy crust where one of your bulk would flounder. That is how I would do it."

"Now you are crediting it with too much wisdom."

The man fed the fire, unwrapped his rations.

"I see it moving, among the rocks. It is hungry, but it thinks to wait—for the right moment."

He unsheathed his blade.

"Is there any special way to tell a were-beast?" he asked.

"Not unless you see it changing, or hear it speaking."

"Hello out there!" the man called suddenly. "Make a deal? I'll share my rations with you, then wave good-bye. All right?"

Only the wind made answer.

He took up a piece of meat, skewered it, and warmed it. He cut it in half then and set a piece of it to one side.

"You are being more than a little ridiculous," said his companion.

The man shrugged and began eating. He melted snow for water, mixed some wine with it, drank.

An hour passed. He sat wrapped in his cloak and a folded blanket, feeding the remaining sticks to the fire. Outside the snowy shape moved nearer. He caught the glint of his firelight on its eyes for the first tune, from off to the left and at a point not visible to his dark companion. He said nothing. He watched. The eyes drifted nearer—large, yellow.

Finally they settled, low, just around the corner of the cave mouth.

"The meat!" came a panted whisper.

He placed a hand upon the foreleg of his companion, signaling it to stillness. With his other hand, he picked up the piece of meat and tossed it outside. It vanished immediately, and he heard the sounds of chewing.

"That is all?" came the voice, after a time.

"Half of my own ration, as I promised," he whispered.

"I am very hungry. I fear I must eat you also. I am sorry."

"I know that. And I, too, am sorry, but what I have left must feed me until I reach the Tower of Ice. Also, I must destroy you if you attempt to take me."

"The Tower of Ice? You will die there and the food be wasted, your own body-meat be wasted. The master of that place will kill you. Did you not know?"

"Not if I kill him first."

The white beast panted for a time. Then: "I am so hungry," it said again. "Soon I must try to take you. Some things are worse than death."

"I know that."

"Would you tell me your name?"

"Dilvish."

"It seems I heard that name once, long ago…"

"Perhaps."

"If he does not kill you— Look at me! I, too, once tried to kill him. I, too, was once a man."

"I do not know the spell which might unbind you."

"Too late. I care no more for that. Only for food."

There came a slobbering sound, followed by a sharp intake of breath. The man took his blade into his hand and waited.

Then: "I remember hearing of a Dilvish long ago, called the Deliverer" came the slow words. "He was strong."

Silence.

"I am he."

Silence.

"Let me move a little nearer… And your boots are green!"

The white form withdrew again. The yellow eyes met his own and stared.

"I am hungry, always hungry."

"I know."

"I know of only one thing that is stronger. You know that, too. Good-bye."

"Good-bye."

The eyes turned away. The shadow form was gone from beside the cave. Later Dilvish heard a howling in the distance. Then silence.

TOWER OF ICE

The dark, horse-shaped beast paused on the icy trail. Head turned to the left and upward, it regarded the castle atop the glistening mountain, as did its rider.

"No," the man finally stated.

The black beast continued on, ice cracking beneath its cloven metal hooves, snow blowing about it.

"I'm beginning to suspect that there is no trail," the beast announced after a time. "We've come more than halfway around."

"I know," replied the muffled, green-booted rider. "I might be able to scale the thing, but that would mean leaving you behind."

"Risky," his mount replied. "You know my value in certain situations— especially the one you court."

"True. But if it should prove the only way…"

They moved on for some time, pausing periodically to study the prominence.

"Dilvish, there was a gentler part of the slope— some distance back," the beast announced. "If I'd a good start, I could bear you quite a distance up it. Not all of the way to the top, but near."

"If that should prove the only way, Black, we'll go that route," the rider replied, breath steaming before him to be whipped away by the wind. "We might as well check further first, though. Hello! What is—"

A dark form came hurtling down the side of the mountain. When it seemed that it was about to strike the ice before them, it spread pale-green, batlike wings and pulled itself aloft. It circled quickly, gaming altitude, then dove toward them.

Immediately his blade was in his hand, held vertically before him. Dilvish leaned back, eyes on the approaching creature. At the sight of his weapon, it veered off, to return immediately. He swung at it and missed. It darted away again.

"Obviously our presence is no longer a secret," Black commented, turning so as to face the flying thing.

The creature dove once more and Dilvish swung again. It turned at the last moment, to be struck by the side of his blade. It fell then, fluttered, rose into the air again, circled several times, climbed higher, turned away. It began to fly back up along the side of the Tower of Ice.

"Yes, it would seem we have lost the advantage of surprise," Dilvish observed. "Actually, I'd thought he would have noted us sooner."

He sheathed his blade.

"Let's go find that trail—if there is one."

They continued on their way about the base of the mountain.

Corpselike, the green and white face stared out of the mirror. No one stood before it to cast such an image. The high stone hall was reflected behind it, threadbare tapestries on its walls, several narrow windows, the long, heavy dining table, a candelabrum flickering at its farther end. The wind made moaning noises down a nearby chimney, alternately flattening and drawing the flames in the wide fireplace.

The face seemed to be regarding the diners: a thin, dark-haired, dark-eyed young man in a black doublet lined with green, who toyed with his food and whose nervous gestures carried his fingers time and again to the heavy, black metal ring with the pale pink stone that depended from a chain about his neck; and a girl, whose hair and eyes matched the man's, whose generous mouth quirked into occasional odd, quick smiles as she ate with better appetite. She had a brown and red cloak thrown about her shoulders, its ends folded across her lap. Her eyes were not so deep-set as the man's and they did not dart as his did. The thing in the mirror moved its pale lips.

"The time is coming," it announced, in a deep, expressionless voice.

The man leaned forward and cut a piece of meat. The girl raised her wineglass. Something seemed to flutter against one of the windows for a moment.

From somewhere far up the long corridor to the girl's right, an agonized voice rang out:

"Release me! Oh, please don't do this! Please! It hurts so much!"

The girl sipped her wine.

"The time is coming," the thing in the mirror repeated.

"Ridley, would you pass the bread?" the girl asked.

"Here."

"Thank you."

She broke off a piece and dipped it into the gravy. The man watched her eat, as if fascinated by the act.

"The time is coming," the thing said again.

Suddenly Ridley slapped the table. His cutlery rattled. Beads of wine fell across his plate.

"Reena, can't you shut that damned thing off?" he asked.

"Why, you summoned it," she said sweetly. "Can't you just wave your wand or snap your fingers and give it the proper words?"

He slapped the table again, half rising from his seat.

"I will not be mocked!" he said. "Shut it off!"

She shook her head slowly.

"Not my sort of magic," she replied, less sweetly. "I don't fool with things like that."

From up the hall came more cries:

"It hurts! Oh, please! It hurts so…"

"… Or that," she said more sternly. "Besides, you told me at the time that it was serving a useful purpose."

Ridley lowered himself into his seat.

"I was not—myself," he said softly, taking up his wineglass and draining it.

A mummy-faced individual in dark livery immediately rushed forward from the shadowy corner beside the fireplace to refill his glass.

Faintly, and from a great distance, there came a rattling, as of chains. A shadowy form fluttered against a different window. Ridley fingered his neck chain and drank again.

"The time is coming," announced the corpse-colored face under glass.

Ridley hurled his wineglass at it. It shattered, but the mirror remained intact. Perhaps the faintest of smiles touched the corners of that ghastly mouth. The servant hurried to bring him another glass.

There came more cries from up the hall.

"It's no good," Dilvish stated. "We've more than circled it. I don't see any easy way up."

"You know how sorcerers can be. Especially this one."

"True."

"You should have asked that werewolf you met a while back about it."

"Too late now. If we just keep going, we should come to that slope you mentioned pretty soon, shouldn't we?"

"Eventually," Black replied, trudging on. "I could use a bucket of demon juice. I'd even settle for wine."

"I wish I had some wine here myself. I haven't sighted that flying thing again." He looked up into the darkening sky, to where the snow- and ice-decked castle stood with a high window illuminated. "Unless I've glimpsed it darting about up there," he said. "Hard to tell, with the snow and shadows."

"Strange that he didn't send something a lot more deadly."

"I've thought of that."

They continued on for a long while. The lines of the slope softened as they advanced, the icy wall dipping toward a slightly gentler inclination. Dilvish recognized the area as one they had passed before, though Black's earlier hoof prints had been completely obliterated.

"You're pretty low on supplies, aren't you?" Black asked.

"Yes."

"Then I guess we'd better do something—soon."

Dilvish studied the slope as they moved along its foot.

"It gets a little better, farther ahead," Black remarked. Then: "That sorcerer we met—Strodd—had the right idea."

"What do you mean?"

"He headed south. I hate this cold."

"I didn't realize it bothered you, too."

"It's a lot hotter where I come from."

"Would you rather be back there?"

"Now that you mention it, no."

Several minutes later they rounded an icy mass. Black halted and turned his head.

"That's the route I'd choose—over there. You can judge it best from here."

Dilvish followed the slope upward with his eyes. It reached about three quarters of the way up to the castle. Above it the wall rose sheer and sharp.

"How far up do you think you can get me?" he asked.

"I'll have to stop when it goes vertical. Can you scale the rest?"

Dilvish shaded his eyes and squinted.

"I don't know. It looks bad. But then, so does the grade. Are you sure you can make it that far?"

Black was silent for a time, then: "No, I'm not," he said. "But we've been all the way around, and this is the only place where I think we've got a chance." Dilvish lowered his eyes.

"What do you say?"

"Let's do it."

"I don't see how you can sit there eating like that!" Ridley declared, throwing down his knife. "It's disgusting!"

"One must keep up one's strength in the face of calamities," Reena replied, taking another mouthful. "Besides, the food is exceptionally good tonight. Which one prepared it?"

"I don't know. I can't tell the staff apart. I just give them orders."

"The time is coming," stated the mirror.

Something fluttered against the window again and stopped, hanging there, a dark outline. Reena sighed, lowered her utensils, rose. She rounded the table and crossed to the window.

"I am not going to open the window in weather like this!" she shouted. "I told you that before! If you want to come in, you can fly down one of the chimneys! Or not, as you please!"

She listened a moment to a rapid chittering noise from beyond the pane.

"No, not just this once!" she said then. "I told you that before you went out in it!"

She turned and stalked back to her seat, her shadow dancing on a tapestry as the candles flickered.

"Oh, don't… Please, don't… Oh!" came a cry from up the hall.

She settled into her chair once more, ate a final mouthful, took another sip of wine.

"We've got to do something," Ridley said, stroking the ring on the chain. "We can't just sit here."

"I'm quite comfortable," she answered.

"You're in this as much as I am."

"Hardly."

"He's not going to look at it that way."

"I wouldn't be too sure."

Ridley snorted.

"Your charms won't save you from the reckoning."

She protruded her lower lip in a mock pout.

"On top of everything else, you insult my femininity."

"You're pushing me, Reena!"

"You know what to do about it, don't you?"

"No!" He slammed his fist against the table. "I won't!"

"The time is coming," said the mirror.

He covered his face with his hands and lowered his head.

"I—I'm afraid…" he said softly.

Now out of his sight, a look of concern tightened her brow, narrowed her eyes.

"I'm afraid of—the other," he said.

"Can you think of any other course?"

"You do something! You've got powers!"

"Not on that level," she said. "The other is the only one I can think of who would have a chance."

"But he's untrustworthy! I can't anticipate him anymore!"

"But he gets stronger all the time. Soon he may be strong enough."

"I—I don't know____"

"Who got us into this mess?"

"That's not fair!"

He lowered his hands and raised his head just as a rattling began within the chimney. Particles of soot and mortar fell upon the flames.

"Oh, really!" she said.

"That crazy old bat—" he began, turning his head.

"Now, that isn't nice either," Reena stated. "After all—"

Ashes were scattered as a small body crashed into the flaming logs, bounced away, hopped about the floor flapping long, green, membranous wings, beating sparks from its body fur. It was the size of a small ape, with a shriveled, nearly human face. It squeaked as it hopped, some of its noises sounding strangely like human curses. Finally it came to a stooped standstill, raised its head, turned burning eyes upon them.

"Try to set fire to me!" it chirped shrilly.

"Come on now! Nobody tried to set fire to you." Reena said.

"… Said 'chimney'!" it cried.

"There are plenty of chimneys up there," Reena stated. "It's pretty stupid to choose a smoking one."

"… Not stupid!"

"What else can you call it?"

The creature sniffed several times.

"I'm sorry," Reena said. "But you could have been more careful."

"The time is coming," said the mirror.

The creature turned its small head, stuck out its tongue.

"… Lot you know," it said. "He… he beat me!"

"Who? Who beat you?" Ridley asked.

"… The avenger." It made a sweeping, downward gesture with its right wing. "He's down there."

"Oh, my!" Ridley paled. "You're quite certain?"

"… He beat me," the creature repeated. Then it began to bounce along the floor, beat at the air with its wings, and flew to the center of the table.

Somewhere, faintly, a chain was rattled.

"How—how do you know he is the avenger?" Ridley asked.

The creature hopped along the table, tore at the bread with its talons, stuffed a piece into its mouth, chewed noisily.

"… My little ones, my pretty ones," it chanted after a time, glancing about the hall.

"Stop that!" Reena said. "Answer his question! How do you know who it is?"

It raised its wings to its ears.

"Don't shout! Don't shout!" it cried. "… I saw! I know! He beat me—poor side!—with a sword!" It paused to hug itself with its wings. "… I only went to look up close. My eyes are not so good… He rides a demon beast! Circling, circling—the mountain! Coming, coming —here!"

Ridley shot a look at Reena. She compressed her lips, then shook her head.

"Unless it is airborne it will never make it up the tower," she said. "It wasn't a winged beast, was it?"

"… No. A horse," the creature replied, tearing at the bread again.

"There was a slide near the south face," Ridley said. "But no. Even so. Not with a horse…"

"… A demon horse."

"Even with a demon horse!"

"The pain! The pain! I can't stand it!" came a shrill cry.

Reena raised her wineglass, saw that it was empty, lowered it again. The mummy-faced man rushed from the shadows to fill it.

For several moments they watched the winged creature eat. Then: "I don't like this," Reena said. "You know how devious he can be."

"I know."

"… And green boots," chirped the creature. "… Elfboots. Always to land on his feet. You burned me, he beat me… Poor Meg! Poor Meg! He'll get you, too…"

It hopped down and skittered across the floor.

"… My little ones, my pretty ones!" it called.

"Not here! Get out of here!" Ridley cried. "Change or go away! Keep them out of here!"

"… Little ones! Pretties!" came the fading voice as Meg ran up the corridor in the direction of the screams.

Reena swirled the wine in her glass, took a drink, licked her lips.

"The time has come," the mirror suddenly announced.

"Now what are you going to do?" Reena asked.

"I don't feel well," Ridley said.

When they came to the foot of the slope, Black halted and stood like a statue for a long while, studying it. The snow continued to fall. The wind drove the flakes past them.

After several minutes, Black advanced and tested the grade, climbing several paces, standing with his full weight upon it, stamping and digging with his hooves, head lowered.

Finally he backed down the slope and turned away.

"What is the verdict?" Dilvish inquired.

"I am still willing to try. My estimate of our chances is unchanged. Have you given any thought to what you are going to do if—rather, when—you make it to the top?"

"Look for trouble," Dilvish said. "Defend myself at all times. Strike instantly if I see the enemy."

Black began to walk slowly away from the mountain.

"Almost all of your spells are of the offensive variety," Black stated, "and most are too terrible to be used, except in final extremes. You should really take the time to learn some lesser and intermediate ones, you know."

"I know. This is a fine time for a lecture on the state of the art."

"What I am trying to say is that if you get trapped up there, you know how to level the whole damned place and yourself with it. But you don't know how to charm the lock on a door—"

"That is not a simple spell!"

"No one said that it was. I am merely pointing out your deficiencies."

"It is a little late for that, isn't it?"

"I am afraid so," Black replied. "So, there are three good general spells of protection against magical attack. You know as well as I do that your enemy can break through any of them. The stronger ones, though, might slow him long enough for you to do something. I can't let you go up there without one of them holding you."

"Then lay the strongest upon me."

"It takes a full day to do it."

Dilvish shook his head.

"In this cold? Too long. What about the others?"

"The first one we may dismiss as insufficient against any decent operator in the arts. The second takes the better part of an hour to call into being. It will give you good protection for about half a day."

Dilvish was silent for a moment. Then: "Let's be about it," he said.

"All right. But even so, there must be servants, to keep the place running. You are probably going to find yourself outnumbered."

Dilvish shrugged.

"It may not be much of a staff," he said, "and there'd be no need to maintain a great guard in an inaccessible spot like this. I'll take my chances."

Black came to the place he deemed sufficiently distant from the slope. He turned and faced the tower.

"Get your rest now," he stated, "while I work your protection. It will probably be the last you have for a while."

Dilvish sighed and leaned forward. Black began speaking in a strange voice. His words seemed to crackle in the icy air.

The latest scream ceased on a weakened note. Ridley got to his feet and moved across the hall to a window. He rubbed at the frosted pane with the palm of his hand, a quick, circular motion. He placed his face near the area he had cleared, holding his breath.

Finally: "What do you see?" Reena asked him.

"Snow," he muttered, "ice…"

"Anything else?"

"My reflection," he answered angrily, turning away.

He began to pace. When he passed the face in the mirror, its lips moved.

"The time is come," it said.

He replied with an obscenity. He continued pacing, hands clasped behind his back.

"You think Meg really saw something down there?" he asked.

"Yes. Even the mirror has changed its tune."

"What do you think it is?"

"A man on a strange mount."

"Perhaps he's not actually coming here. Maybe he's on his way someplace else."

She laughed softly.

"Just on his way to the neighborhood tavern for a few drinks," she said.

"All right! All right! I'm not thinking clearly! I'm upset! Supposing—just supposing—he does make it up here. He's only one man."

"With a sword. When was the last time you had one in your hands?"

Ridley licked his lips.

"… And he must be fairly sturdy," she said, "to have come so far across these wastes."

"There are the servants. They obey me. Since they are already dead he'd have a hard time killing them."

"That would tend to follow. On the other hand, they're a bit slower and clumsier than ordinary folk— and they can be dismembered."

"You don't do much to cheer a man up, you know?"

"I am trying to be realistic. If there is a man out there wearing Elfboots, he has chance of making it up here. If he is of the hardy sort and a decent swordsman, then he has a chance of doing what he was sent to do."

"… And you'll still be mocking and bitching while he lops off my head? Just remember that yours will roll, too!"

She smiled.

"I am in no way responsible for what happened."

"Do you really think he'll see it that way? Or care?"

She looked away.

"You had a chance," she said slowly, "to be one of the truly great ones. But you wouldn't follow the normal courses of development. You were greedy for power. You rushed things. You took risks. You created a doubly dangerous situation. You could have explained the sealing as an experiment that went bad. You could have apologized. He would have been irritated, but he would have accepted it. Now, though, when you can't undo what you did—or do much of anything else, for that matter—he is going to know what happened. He is going to know that you were trying to multiply your power to the point where you could even challenge him. You know what his response has to be under the circumstances. I can almost sympathize with him. If it were me, I would have to do the same thing— destroy you before you get control of the other. You've become an extremely dangerous man."

"But I am powerless! There isn't a damned thing I can do! Not even shut off that simple mirror!" he cried, gesturing toward the face that had just spoken again. "In this state I'm no threat to anybody!"

"Outside of his being inconvenienced by your having cut off his access to one of his strongholds," she said, "he would have to consider the possibility that you keep drawing back from—namely, that if you gain control of the other, you will be one of the most powerful sorcerers in the world. As his apprentice— pardon me, ex-apprentice—who has just apparently usurped a part of his domain, only one thing can follow—a sorcerous duel in which you will actually have a chance of destroying him. Since such a duel has not yet commenced, he must have guessed that you are not ready—or that you are playing some sort of waiting game. So he has sent a human avenger, rather than run the risk that you've turned this place into some sort of magical trap."

"The whole thing could simply have been an accident. He'd have to consider that possibility, too____"

"Under the circumstances, would you take the risk of assuming that and waiting? You know the answer. You'd dispatch an assassin."

"I've been a good servant. I've taken care of this place for him…"

"Be sure to petition him for mercy on that count the next time that you see him."

Ridley halted and wrung his hands.

"Perhaps you could seduce him. You're comely enough…"

Reena smiled again.

"I'd lay him on an iceberg and not complain," she said. "If it would get us off the hook, I'd give him the high ride of his long life. But a sorcerer like that—"

"Not him. The avenger."

"Oh."

She blushed suddenly. Then she shook her head.

"I can't believe that anyone who has come all this way could be dissuaded from his purposes by a bit of dalliance, even with someone of my admitted charms. Not to mention the thought of the penalty for his failure. No. You are skirting the real issue again. There is only one way out for you, and you know what that is."

He dropped his eyes, fingered the ring on the chain.

"The other…" he said. "If I had control of the other, all of our problems would be over…"

He stared at the ring as if hypnotized by it.

"That's right," she said. "It's the only real chance."

"But you know what I fear…"

"Yes. I fear it, too."

"… That it may not work—that the other may gain control of me!"

"So, either way you are doomed. Just remember, one way it is certain. The other… That way there is still a chance."

"Yes," he said, still not looking at her. "But you don't know the horror of it!"

"I can guess."

"But you don't have to go through it!"

"I didn't create the situation either."

He glared at her.

"I'm sick of hearing you protest your innocence just because the other is not your creation! I went to you first and told you everything I proposed to do! Did you try to talk me out of it? No! You saw the gains in store for us! You went along with my doing it!"

She covered her mouth with her fingertips and yawned delicately.

"Brother," she said, "I suppose that you are right. It doesn't change anything, though, does it? Anything that has to be done… ?"

He gnashed his teeth and turned away.

"I won't do it. I can't!"

"You may feel differently about it when he comes knocking at your door."

"We have plenty of ways to deal with a single man —even a skilled swordsman!"

"But don't you see? Even if you succeed you are only postponing the decision, not solving the problem."

"I want the time. Maybe I can think of some way to gain an edge over the other."

Reena's features softened.

"Do you really believe that?"

"Anything is possible, I suppose…"

She sighed and stood. She moved toward him.

"Ridley, you are deceiving yourself," she said. "You will never be any stronger than you are now."

"Not true!" he cried, beginning to pace again. "Not true!"

Another scream came from up the hall. The mirror repeated its message.

"Stop him! We have to stop him! Then I'll worry about the other!"

He turned and tore out of the room. Reena lowered the hand she had raised toward him and returned to the table to finish her wine. The fireplace continued to sigh.

Black completed the spell. They remained motionless for a brief while after that.

Then: "That's it?" Dilvish asked.

"It is. You are now protected through the second level."

"I don't feel any different."

"That's how you should feel."

"Is there anything special that I should do to invoke its defense, should the need arise?"

"No, it is entirely automatic. But do not let that dissuade you from exercising normal caution about things magical. Any system has its weak points. But that was the best I could do in the time that we had."

Dilvish nodded and looked toward the tower of ice. Black raised his head and faced it, also.

"Then I guess that all of the preliminaries are out of the way," Dilvish said.

"So it would seem. Are you ready?"

"Yes."

Black began to move forward. Glancing down, Dilvish noted that his hooves seemed larger now, flatter. He wanted to ask about it, but the wind came faster as they gained speed and he decided to save his breath. The snow stung his cheeks, his hands. He squinted and leaned farther forward.

Still running on a level surface, Black's pace increased steadily, one hoof giving an almost bell-like tone as it struck some pebble. Soon they were moving faster than any horse could run. Everything to both sides became a snowy blur. Dilvish tried not to look ahead, to protect his eyes, his face. He clung tightly and thought about the course he had come.

He had escaped from Hell itself, after two centuries' torment. Most of the humans he had known were long dead and the world somewhat changed. Yet the one who had banished him, damning him as he did, remained—the ancient sorcerer Jelerak. In the months since his return, he had sought that one, once the call of an ancient duty had been discharged before the walls of Portaroy. Now, he told himself, he lived but for vengeance. And this, this tower of ice, one of the seven strongholds of Jelerak, was the closest he had yet come to his enemy. From Hell he had brought a collection of Awful Sayings—spells of such deadly potency as to place the speaker in as great a jeopardy as the victim should their rendering be even slightly less than flawless. He had only used one since his return and had been successful in leveling an entire small city with it. His shudder was for the memory of that day on that hilltop, rather than for the icy blasts that now assailed him.

A shift in equilibrium told him that Black had reached the slope and commenced the ascent. The wind was making a roaring sound. His head was bowed and turned against the icy pelting. He could feel the rapid crunching of Black's hooves beneath him, steady, all of the movements extraordinarily powerful. If Black should slip, he knew that it would be all over for him… Good-bye again, world—and Jelerak still unpunished…

As the gleaming surface fled by beneath him, he tried to push all thoughts of Jelerak and death and vengeance from his mind. As he listened to the wind and cracking ice, his thoughts came free of the moment, drifting back over the unhappy years, past the days of his campaigns, his wanderings, coming to rest on a misty morning in the glades of far Elfland as he rode to the hunt near the Castle Mirata. The sun was big and golden, the breezes cool, and everywhere— green. He could almost smell the earth, feel the texture of tree bark… Would he ever know that again, the way he once had?

An inarticulate cry escaped him, hurled against the wind and destiny and the task he had set himself. He cursed then and squeezed harder with his legs as his equilibrium shifted again and he knew that the course had steepened.

Black's hooves pounded perhaps a trifle more slowly. Dilvish's hands and feet and face were growing numb. He wondered how far up they were. He risked a glance forward but saw only rushing snow. We've come a long way, he decided. Where will it end?

He called back his memory of the slope as seen from below, tried to judge their position. Surely they were near the halfway point. Perhaps they had even passed it…

He counted his heartbeats, counted Black's hoof falls. Yes, it did seem that the great beast was slowing…

He chanced another look ahead.

This time he caught the barest glimpse of the towering rise above and before him, sparkling through the evening, sheer, glassy. It obliterated most of the sky now, so he knew that they must be close.

Black continued to slow. The roaring wind lowered its voice. The snow came against him with slightly diminished force.

He looked back over his shoulder. He could see the great slope spread out behind them, glistening like the mosaic tiles in the baths at Ankyra. Down, down and back… They had come a great distance.

Black slowed even more. Now Dilvish could hear as well as feel the crunching of crusted snow and ice beneath them. He eased his grip slightly, leaned back a little, raised his head. There was the last stage of the tower, glistening darkly, much nearer now.

Abruptly, the winds ceased. The monolith must be blocking them, he decided. The snow drifted far more gently here. Black's pace had become a canter, though he was laboring no less diligently than before. The journey up the white-smeared tunnel was nearing its end.

Dilvish adjusted his position again, to better study the high escarpment. At this quarter, its surface had resolved itself into a thing of textures. From the play of shadow, he could make out prominences, crevices. Bare rock jutted in numerous places. Quickly he began tracing possible routes to the top.

Black slowed further, almost to a walk, but they now were near to the place where the greatest steepness began. Dilvish cast about for a stopping point.

"What do you think of that ledge off to the right, Black?" he asked.

"Not much" came the reply. "But that's where we're headed. The trickiest part will be making it up onto the shelf. Don't let go yet."

Dilvish clung tightly as Black negotiated a hundred paces, a hundred more.

"It looks wider from here than it did from back there," he observed.

"Yes. Higher, too. Hang on. If we slip here, it's a long way back down."

Black's pace increased slightly as he approached the ledge that stood at nearly the height of a man above the slope. It was indented several span into the cliff face.

Black leapt.

His hind hooves struck a waist-high prominence, a bare wrinkle of icy rock running horizontally below the ledge. His momentum bore him up past it. It cracked and fell away, but by then his forelegs were on the shelf and his rear ones had straightened with a tiny spring. He scrambled up over the ledge and found his footing.

"You all right?" he asked.

"Yes," said Dilvish.

Simultaneously they turned their heads, slowly, and looked back down to where the winds whipped billows of white, like clouds of smoke across the sparkling way. Dilvish reached out and patted Black's shoulder.

"Well done," he said. "Here and there, I was a little worried."

"Did you think you were the only one?"

"No. Can we make it back down again?"

Black nodded.

"We'll have to move a lot more slowly than we did coming up, though. You may even have to walk beside me, holding on. We'll see. This ledge seems to go back a little way. I'll explore it while you are about your business. There may be a slightly better route down. It should be easier to tell from up here."

"All right," Dilvish said, dismounting on the side nearest the cliff face.

He removed his gloves and massaged his hands, blew on them, tucked them into his armpits for a time.

"Have you decided upon the place for your ascent?"

"Off to the left." Dilvish gestured with his head. "That crevice runs most of the way up, and it is somewhat irregular on both sides."

"Looks to be a good choice. How will you get to it?"

"I'll begin climbing here. These handholds look good enough. I'll meet it at that first big break."

Dilvish unfastened his sword belt and slung it over his back. He chafed his hands again, then drew on his gloves.

"I might as well get started," he said. "Thanks, Black. I'll be seeing you."

"Good thing you're wearing those Elfboots," Black said. "If you slip you know that you'll land on your feet— eventually."

Dilvish snorted and reached for the first handhold.

Wearing a dark dress, wrapped in a green shawl, the crone sat upon a small stool in the corner of the long underground chamber. Torches flamed and smoked in two wall sockets, melting—above and behind them— portions of the ice glaze that covered the walls and the ceiling. An oil lamp burned near her feet on the straw-strewn stone of the floor. She hummed to herself, fondling one of the loaves she bore in her shawl.

Across from her were three heavy wooden doors, bound with straps of rusted metal, small, barred windows set high within them. A few faint sounds of movement emerged from the one in the middle, but she was oblivious to this. The water that dripped from the irregular stone ceiling above the torches had formed small pools that spread into the straw and lost their boundaries. The dripping sounds kept syncopated accompaniment to her crooning.

"… My little ones, my pretty ones," she sang. "… Come to Meg. Come to Mommy Meg."

There was a scurrying noise in the straw, in the dim corner near to the left-hand door. Hastily she broke off a piece of bread and tossed it in that direction. There followed a fresh rustling and a small movement. She nodded, rocked back on her seat, and smiled.

From across the way—possibly from behind the middle door—there came a low moan. She cocked her head for a moment, but it was followed by silence.

She cast another piece of bread into the same corner. The sounds that followed were more rapid, more pronounced. The straw rose and fell. She threw another piece, puckered her lips, and made a small chirping noise.

She threw more.

"… My little ones," she sang again, as over a dozen rats moved nearer, springing upon the bread, tearing at it, swallowing it. More emerged from dark places to join them, to contest for the food. Isolated squeaks occurred, increased in frequency, gradually merged into a chorus.

She chuckled. She threw more bread, nearer. Thirty or forty rats now fought over it.

From behind the middle door came a clinking of chain links, followed by another moan. Her attention, though, was on her little ones.

She leaned forward and moved the lamp to a position near the wall to her right. She broke another loaf and scattered its pieces on the floor before her feet. Small bodies rustled over the straw, approaching. The squeaking grew louder.

There came a heavy rattling of chains, a much louder moan, something moved within the cell and crashed against the door. It rattled, and another moan rose above the noises of the rats.

She turned her head in that direction, frowning slightly.

The next blow upon the door made a booming sound. For a moment, something like a massive eye seemed to peer out past the bars.

The moaning sound came again, almost seeming to shape itself into words.

"… Meg! Meg…"

She half rose from her seat, staring at the cell door. The next crash—the loudest thus far—rattled it heavily. By then the rats were brushing against her legs, standing upon their hind paws, dancing. She reached out to stroke one, another… She fed them from her hands.

From within the cell the moaning rose again, this time working itself into strange patterns.

"… Mmmmegg… Mmeg…" came the sound.

She raised her head once more and looked in that direction. She moved as if about to rise.

Just then, however, a rat jumped into her lap. Another ran up her back and perched upon her right shoulder.

"Pretty ones…" she said, rubbing her cheek against the one and stroking the other. "Pretty…"

There came a sound as of the snapping of a chain, followed by a terrific crash against the door across from her. She ignored it, however, for her pretty ones were dancing and playing for her…

Reena drew garment after garment from her wardrobe. Her room was full of dresses and cloaks, muffles and hats, coats and boots, underthings and gloves. They lay across the bed and all of the chairs and two wall benches.

Shaking her head, she turned in a slow circle, surveying the lot. The second time around, she withdrew a dress from one of the heaps and draped it over her left arm. Then she took a heavy fur wrap down from a hook. She handed both to the tall, sallow, silent man who stood beside the door. His heavily wrinkled face resembled that of the man who had served her dinner—expressionless, vacant eyed.

He received the garments from her and began folding them. She passed him a second dress, a hat, hose, and underthings. Gloves… He accepted two heavy blankets she took down from a shelf. More hose… He placed everything within a duffellike sack.

"Bring it along—and one empty one," she said, and she moved toward the door.

She passed through and crossed the hallway to a stair, which she began to descend. The servant followed her, holding the sack by its neck with one hand, before him. He bore another one, folded, beneath his other arm, which hung stiffly at his side.

Reena made her way through corridors to a large, deserted kitchen, where a fire still smouldered beneath a grate. The wind made a whistling noise down the chimney.

She passed the large chopping block and turned left into the pantry. She checked shelves, bins, and cabinets, pausing only to munch a cookie as she looked.

"Give me the bag," she said. "No, not that one. The empty one."

She shook out the bag and began filling it—with dried meats, heads of cheese, wine bottles, loaves of bread. Pausing, she looked about again, then added a sack of tea and a sack of sugar. She also put in a small pot and some utensils.

"Bring this one, too," she said finally, turning and departing the pantry.

She moved more cautiously now, the servant treading silently at her heels, a bag in either hand. She paused and listened at corners and stairwells before moving on. The only things she heard, though, were the screams from far above.

At length she came to a long, narrow stair leading down, vanishing into the darkness.

"Wait," she said softly, and she raised her hands, cupping them before her face, blowing gently upon them, staring at them.

A faint spark occurred between her palms, faded, grew again as she whispered soft words over it.

She drew her hands apart, her lips still moving. The tiny light hung in the air before her, growing in size, increasing in brilliance. It was blue white, and it reached the intensity of several candles.

She uttered a final word and it began to move, drifting before her down the stairwell. She followed it. The servant followed her.

They descended for a long while. The stair spiraled down with no terminus in sight. The light seemed to lead them. The walls grew damp, cold, colder, coming to be covered with a fine patina of frost figures. She drew her cloak farther forward over her shoulders. The minutes passed.

Finally they reached a landing. Distant walls were barely visible in the blackness beyond her light. She turned to her left and the light moved to precede her.

They passed through a long corridor that sloped gently downward, coming after a time to another stair at a place where the walls widened on either hand and the rocky ceiling maintained its level, to vanish from sight as they descended.

The full dimensions of the chamber into which they came were not discernible. It seemed more a cavern than a room. The floor was less regular than any over which they had so far passed, and it was by far the coldest spot they had yet come to.

Holding her cloak fully closed before her now, hands beneath it, Reena proceeded into the chamber, moving diagonally to her right.

Finally a large, boxlike sled came into view, a waxy rag hanging from the point of its left runner. It stood near the wall at the mouth of a tunnel through which an icy wind roared. The light came to hover above it.

Reena halted and turned to the servant.

"Put them in there," she said, gesturing, "toward the front."

She sighed as this was done, then leaned forward and covered them over with a pelt of white fur that had lain folded upon the vehicle's seat.

"All right," she said, turning away, "we'd better be getting back now."

She pointed in the direction from which they had come and the floating light moved to follow her finger.

In the circular room at the top of the highest tower, Ridley turned the pages in one of the great books. The wind howled like a banshee above the pitched roof, which sometimes vibrated with the force of its passage. The entire tower even had a barely perceptible sway to it.

Ridley muttered softly to himself as he fingered the leather binding, casting his eyes down the creamy sheets. He no longer wore the chain with the ring on it. These now rested atop a small chest of drawers by the wall near the door, a high, narrow mirrow above it catching their image, the stone glowing palely within it.

Still muttering, he turned a page, then another, and paused. He closed his eyes for a moment, then turned away, leaving the book on the reading stand. He moved to the exact center of the room and stood there for a long while, at the middle of a red diagram drawn upon the floor. He continued to mutter.

He turned abruptly and walked to the chest of drawers. He picked up the ring and chain. He unfastened the chain and removed it.

Holding the ring between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand, he extended his left forefinger and quickly slipped the ring over it. He withdrew it almost immediately and took a deep breath. He regarded his reflection in the mirror. Quickly he slipped the ring on again, paused several moments, withdrew it more slowly.

He turned the ring and studied it. Its stone seemed to shine a little more brightly now. He fitted it over his finger once more, withdrew it, paused, refitted it, withdrew it, refitted it, paused, withdrew it, replaced it, paused longer, slowly slid it partway off, then back again…

Had he been looking ahead into the mirror, he might have noticed that each manipulation of the ring caused a change in expression to flit across his face. He cycled between bafflement and pleasure, fear and satisfaction as the ring came on and off.

He slipped it off again and placed it atop the chest. He massaged his finger. He glanced at himself in the mirror, looked back down, staring deep into the depths of the stone. He licked his lips.

He turned away, walked several paces across the pattern, halted. He turned and looked back at the ring. He returned and picked it up, weighing it in the palm of his right hand.

He placed it upon his finger again and stood there wearing it, still gripping it tightly with the fingers of his other hand. This time his teeth were clenched and his brow furrowed.

As he stood there, the mirror clouded and a new image began to take shape within it. Rock and snow… Some sort of movement across it… A man… The man was crawling through the snow… No.

The man's hands grasped at holds. He drew himself upward, not forward! He was climbing, not crawling!

The picture came clearer.

As the man drew himself up and located a fresh foothold, Ridley saw that he had on green boots. Then…

He snapped an order. There was a distancing effect. The man grew smaller, the cliff face wider and higher. There, above the climbing man, stood the castle, this castle, his own light gleaming through this tower window!

With a curse, he tore the ring from his finger. The picture immediately faded, to be replaced by his own angry expression.

"No!" he cried, striding to the door and unfastening it. "No!"

He flung the door open and tore off down the winding stair.

Dilvish rested for a time, back and legs braced against the sides of the rock chimney, gloves in his lap, blowing on his hands, rubbing them. The chimney ended a small distance above his head. There would be no more resting after this until he reached the top, and then—who could tell?

A few flakes of snow drifted past him. He searched the dark sky, as he had been doing regularly, for a return of the flying creature, but saw nothing. The thought of it catching him in a vulnerable position had caused him considerable concern.

He continued to rub his hands until they tingled, until he felt some warmth returning. Then he donned his gloves again to preserve it. He leaned his head as far back as it would go and looked upward.

He had come over two thirds of the way up the vertical face. He sought and located his next handholds. He listened to his heartbeat, now returned to normal. Slowly, cautiously, he extended himself again, reaching.

He pushed himself upward. Leaving the chimney, he caught hold of a ledge and drew himself higher. His feet found purchase below him, and he reached again with one hand. He wondered whether Black had located a good way down. He thought of his last meal, cold and dry, almost freezing to his tongue. He recalled better fare from earlier days and felt his mouth begin to water.

He came to a slippery place, worked his way about it. He wondered at the strange feeling he had earlier, as if someone had been watching him. He had sought in the sky hurriedly, but the flying creature had been nowhere about.

Drawing himself over a thick, rocky projection, he smiled, seeing that the wall began to slant inward above it. He found his footing and leaned into the climb.

He advanced more rapidly now, and before very long a sharp edge that could be the top came into view. He scrambled toward it as the slope increased, giving thought now to his movements immediately upon reaching it.

He drew himself up faster and faster, finally rising into a low crouch as the grade grew more gentle. Nearing what he took to be the top, he slowed again, finally casting himself flat a little more than a body length below the rim. For a time, he listened, but there were no sounds other than those of the wind.

Carefully, gloves in his teeth, he drew his sword belt over an arm and shoulder, up over his head. He unfastened it and lowered it. He adjusted his garments, then fitted it in place about his waist once again.

He moved very slowly, approaching the rim. When he finally raised his head above it his eyes were filled with the gleaming white of the castle, standing like a sugary confection not too far in the distance.

Several minutes passed as he studied the scene. Nothing moved but the snow. He looked for a side door, a low window, any indirect entrance…

When he thought that he had found what he was seeking, he drew himself up over the edge and began his advance.

Meg sang to the dancing rats. The torches flickered. The walls ran wet. She teased the creatures with bits of bread. She stroked them and scratched them and chuckled over them.

There came another heavy crash against the central door. This time the wood splintered somewhat about the hinges.

"Mmeg… Mmeg… !" came from beyond it, and again the large eye appeared behind the bars.

She looked up, meeting the moist blue gaze. A troubled expression came over her face.

"Yes… ?" she said softly.

"Meg!"

There followed another crash. The door shuddered. Cracks appeared along its edge.

"Meg!"

Another crash. The door creaked and protruded beyond its frame, the cracks widened.

She shook her head.

"Yes?" she said more loudly, a touch of excitement coming into her voice.

The rats jumped down from her lap, her shoulders, her knees, racing back and forth across the straw.

The next crash tore the door free of its hinges, pushing it a full foot outward. A large, clawed, dead-white hand appeared about its edge, chain dangling from a metal cuff about its wrist, rattling against the wall, the door…

"Meg?"

She rose to her feet, dropping the remainder of the bread from within her shawl. A black whirlwind of furry bodies moved about it, the squeaking smothering her reply. She moved forward through it.

The door was thrust farther outward. A gigantic, hairless white head with a drooping carrot of a nose looked out around it. Its neck was so thick that it seemed to reach out to the points of its wide shoulders. Its arms were as big around as a man's thighs, its skin a grease-splotched albino. It shouldered the door aside and emerged, back bent at an unnatural angle, head thrust forward, moving on legs like pillars. It wore the tatters of a shirt and the rent remains of a pair of breeches that, like their owner, had lost all color. Its blue eyes, blinking and watering against the torchlight, fixed upon Meg.

"Mack… ?" she said.

"Meg… ?"

"Mack!"

"Meg!"

She rushed to embrace the quarter ton of snowy muscle, her own eyes growing moist as he managed to hold her gently. They mumbled softly at one another.

Finally she took hold of his huge arm with her small hand.

"Come. Come, Mack," she said. "Food for you. Warm. Be free. Come."

She led him toward the chamber's exit, her pretty ones forgotten.

Ignored, the parchment-skinned servant moved about Reena's chambers on silent feet, gathering up strewn garments, restoring them to drawers and wardrobe. Reena sat at her dressing table, brushing her hair. When the servant had finished putting the room in order, he came and stood beside her. She glanced up, looked about.

"Very good," she said. "I have no further need of you. You may return to your coffin."

The dark-liveried figure turned and departed.

Reena rose and removed a basin from beneath the bed. Taking it to her nightstand, she added some water from a blue pitcher that stood there. Moving back to her dresser, she took up one of the candles from near the mirror and transferred it to a position to the left of the basin. Then she leaned forward and stared down at the moist surface.

Images darted there… As she watched, they flowed together, fell apart, recombined…

The man was nearing the top. She shuddered slightly as she watched him pause to unsling his blade and fasten it about his waist. She saw him rise further, to the very edge. She saw him survey the castle for a long while. Then he drew himself up, to move across the snow… Where? Where would he seek entry?

… Toward the north and coming in closer, up toward the windows of that darkened storage room in back. Of course! The snow was banked highest there, and heavily crusted. He could reach the sill, draw himself up to climb upon it. It would only be the work of a few moments to knock a hole near the latch with the hilt of his weapon, reach through, and unfasten it. Then several long minutes with the blade to chip away all the ice that crusted the frame. More time to open it. Additional moments to locate the juncture of the shutters within, to slide the blade between them, lift upward, raise their latch… Then he would be disoriented in a dark room filled with clutter. It would take minutes more for him to negotiate that…

She blew gently upon the surface of the water and the picture was gone among ripples. Taking up the candle, she bore it back to her dressing table, set it where it had been. She restored the basin to its former locale.

Seating herself before the mirror, she took up a tiny brush and a small metal box, to add a touch of color to her lips.

Ridley roused one of the servants and took him upstairs, to move along the corridor toward the room from which the screams still came. Halting before that door, he located the proper key upon a ring at his belt and unlocked it.

"At last!" came the voice from within. "Please! Now—"

"Shut up!" he said and turned away, taking the servant by the arm and turning him toward the open doorway immediately across the corridor.

He pushed the servant into the darkened room.

"Off to the side," he directed. "Stand there." He guided him further. "There —where you will be out of sight of anyone coming this way but can still keep an eye on him. Now take this key and listen carefully. Should anyone come along to investigate those screams, you must be ready. As soon as he begins to open that door, you are to emerge behind him quickly, strike him, and push him in through it—hard! Then close the door again quickly and lock it. After that you may return to your coffin."

Ridley left him, stepping out into the corridor where he hesitated a moment, then stalked off in the direction of the dining hall.

"The time is come," the face in the mirror announced, just as he entered.

He walked up to it, stared back at the grim visage. He took the ring into his hand and slipped it on.

"Silence!" he said. "You have served your purpose. Be gone now!"

The face vanished, just as its lips were beginning to form the familiar words anew, leaving Ridley to regard his own shadowy reflection surrounded by the ornate frame.

He smirked for an instant, then his face grew serious. His eyes narrowed, his image wavered. The mirror clouded and cleared again. He beheld the green-booted man standing upon a window ledge, chipping away at ice…

He began to twist the ring. Slowly he turned it around and around, biting his lip the while. Then, with a jerk, he tore it from his finger and sighed deeply. The smirk returned to his reflected face.

He turned on his heel and crossed the room, where he passed through a sliding panel, a trapdoor, and down a ladder. Moving rapidly, down every shortcut he knew, he took his way once more to the servants' room.

Pushing the shutters aside, Dilvish stepped down into the room. A little light from the window at his back showed him something of the litter that resided there. He paused for several moments to memorize its disposition as best he could, then turned and drew the window shut, not closing it entirely. The heavily frosted panes blocked much of the light, but he did not want to risk betrayal by a telltale draft.

He moved silently along the map in his mind. He had sheathed his long blade and now held only a dagger in his hand. He stumbled once before he reached the door—against a jutting chair leg—but was moving so slowly that no noise ensued.

He inched the door open, looked to his right. A corridor, dark…

He stepped out into it and looked to the left. There was some light from that direction. He headed toward it. As he advanced, he saw that it came from the right—either a side corridor or an open room.

The air grew warmer as he approached—the most welcome sensation he had experienced in weeks. He halted, both to listen for telltale sounds and to relish the feeling. After several moments there came the tiniest clinking from around the corner. He edged nearer and waited again. It was not repeated.

Knife held low, he stepped forward, saw that it was the entrance to a room, saw a woman seated within it, reading a book, a glass of some beverage on the small table to her right. He looked to both the right and the left inside the doorway, saw that she was alone, stepped inside.

"You'd beter not scream," he said.

She lowered her book and stared at him.

"I won't," she replied. "Who are you?"

He hesitated, then: "Call me Dilvish," he said.

"My name is Reena. What do you want?"

He lowered the blade slightly.

"I have come here to kill. Stay out of my way and you won't be harmed. Get in it and you will. What is your place in this household?"

She paled. She studied his face.

"I am—a prisoner," she said.

"Why?"

"Our means of departure has been blocked, as has the normal means of entrance here."

"How?"

"It was an accident—of sorts. But I don't suppose you'd believe that."

"Why not? Accidents happen."

She looked at him strangely.

"That is what brought you, is it not?"

He shook his head slowly.

"I am afraid that I do not understand you."

"When he discovered that the mirror would no longer transport him to this place, he sent you to slay the person responsible, did he not?"

"I was not sent," Dilvish said. "I have come here of my own will and desire."

"Now it is I who do not understand you," said Reena. "You say that you have come here to kill, and Ridley has been expecting someone to come to kill him. Naturally—"

"Who is Ridley?"

"My brother, the apprentice sorcerer who holds this place for his master."

"Your brother is apprentice to Jelerak?"

"Please! That name!"

"I am tired of whispering it! Jelerak! Jelerak! Jelerak! If you can hear me, Jelerak, come around for a closer look! I'm ready! Let's have this out!" he called. They were both silent for several moments, as if expecting a reply or some manifestation. Nothing happened.

Finally Reena cleared her throat. "Your quarrel, then, is entirely with the master? Not with his servant?"

"That is correct. Your brother's doings are nothing to me, so long as they do not cross my own purposes. Inadvertently, perhaps, they have—if he has barred my enemy's way to this place. But I can't see that as a cause for vengeance. What is this transport mirror you spoke of? Has he broken it?"

"No," she replied, "it is physically intact. Though he might as well have broken it. He has somehow placed its transport spell in abeyance. It is a gateway used by the master. He employed it to bring himself here—and from here he could also use it to travel to any of his other strongholds, and probably to some other places as well. Ridley turned it off when he was —not himself."

"Perhaps he can be persuaded to turn it back on again. Then when Jelerak comes through to learn the cause of the trouble, I will be waiting for him." She shook her head.

"It is not that simple," she said. Then: "You must be uncomfortable, standing there in a knife-fighter's crouch. I know that it makes me uncomfortable, just looking at you. Won't you sit down? Would you care for a glass of wine?"

Dilvish glanced over his shoulder.

"Nothing personal," he said, "but I prefer to remain on my feet."

He sheathed his dagger, however, and moved toward the sideboard, where an open wine bottle and several glasses stood.

"Is this what you are drinking?"

She smiled and rose to her feet. She crossed the room to stand beside him, where she took up the bottle and filled two glasses from it.

"Serve me one, sir."

He took up a glass and passed it to her, with a courtly nod. Her eyes met his as she accepted it, raised it, and drank.

He held the other glass, sniffed it, tasted it.

"Very good."

"My brother's stock," she said. "He likes the best."

"Tell me about your brother."

She turned partly and leaned back against the sideboard.

"He was chosen as apprentice from among many candidates," she said, "because he possessed great natural aptitudes for the work. Are you aware that in its higher workings, sorcery requires the assumption of an artificially constructed personality—carefully trained, disciplined, worn like a glove when doing the work?"

"Yes," Dilvish replied.

She gave him a sidelong look and continued:

"But Ridley was always different from most other people, in that he already possessed two personalities. Most of the time he is amiable, witty, interesting. Occasionally his other nature would come over him, though, and it was just the opposite—cruel, violent, cunning. After he began his work with the higher magics, this other side of himself somehow merged with his magical personality. When he would assume the necessary mental and emotional stances for his workings, it would somehow be present. He was well on his way to becoming a fine sorcerer, but whenever he worked at it he changed into something—quite unlikable. Still, this would be no great handicap, if he could put it off again as easily as he took it on— with the ring he had made for this purpose. But after a time, this—other —began to resist such a restoration. Ridley came to believe that it was attempting to control him."

"I have heard of people like that, with more than one nature and character," Dilvish said. "What finally happened? Which side of him came to dominate?"

"The struggle goes on. He is his better self now. But he fears to face the other—which has become a personal demon to him."

Dilvish nodded and finished his wine. She gestured toward the bottle. He refilled his glass.

"So the other was in control," Dilvish said, "when he nullified the spell on the mirror."

"Yes. The other likes to leave him with bits of unfinished work, so that he will have to call him back—"

"But when he was—this other—did he say why he had done what he did to the mirror? This would seem more than part of a mental struggle. He must have realized that he would be inviting trouble of the most dangerous sort—from elsewhere."

"He knew what he was doing," she said. "The other is an extraordinary egotist. He feels that he is ready to meet the master himself in a struggle for power. The denatured mirror was meant to be a challenge. Actually he told me at the time that it was meant to resolve two situations at once."

"I believe that I can guess at the second one," Dilvish said.

"Yes," she replied. "The other feels that in winning such a contest, he will also emerge as the dominant personality."

"What do you think?"

She paced slowly across the room and turned back toward him.

"Perhaps so," she said, "but I do not believe that he would win."

Dilvish drained his glass and set it aside. He folded his arms across his breast.

"Is there a possibility," he asked, "that Ridley may gain control of the other before any such conflict comes to pass?"

"I don't know. He has been trying —but he fears the other so."

"And if he should succeed? Do you feel that this might increase his chances?"

"Who can say? Not I, certainly. I'm sick of this whole business and I hate this place! I wish that I were someplace warm, like Tooma or Ankyra!"

"What would you do there?"

"I would like to be the highest-paid courtesan in town, and when I grew tired of that perhaps marry some nobleman. I'd like a life of indolence and luxury and warmth, far from the battles of adepts!"

She stared at Dilvish.

"You've some Elvish blood, haven't you?"

"Yes."

"… And you seem to know something of these matters. So you must have come with more than a sword to face the master."

Dilvish smiled.

"I bring him a gift from Hell."

"Are you a sorcerer?"

"My knowledge of these matters is highly specialized. Why?"

"I was thinking that if you were sufficiently skilled to repair the mirror, I could use it to depart and get out of everyone's way."

Dilvish shook his head.

"Magic mirrors are not my specialty. Would that they were. It is somewhat distressing to have come all this distance in search of an enemy and then to discover that his way here is barred."

Reena laughed.

"Surely you do not believe that something like that will stop him?"

Dilvish looked up, dropped his arms, looked about him.

"What do you mean?"

"The one you seek will be inconvenienced by this state of affairs, true. But it would hardly represent an insuperable barrier. He will simply leave his body behind."

Dilvish began to pace.

"Then what's keeping him?" he asked.

"It will first be necessary for him to build his power. If he is to come here in a disembodied state, he would be at a slight disadvantage in whatever conflict ensues. It becomes necessary that he accumulate power to compensate for this."

Dilvish turned on his heel and faced her, his back to the wall.

"This is not at all to my liking," he said. "Ultimately I want something that I can cut. Not some disembodied wraith! How long will this power-building go on, do you think? When might he arrive here?"

"I cannot hear the vibrations on that plane. I do not know."

"Is there some way that we could get your brother to—"

A panel behind Dilvish slid open and a mummy-faced servant with a club struck him across the back of the head. Staggered, Dilvish began to turn. The club rose and fell again. He sank to his knees, then slumped forward onto the floor.

Ridley pushed his way past the servant and entered the room. The club wielder and a second servant came in behind him.

"Very good, sister. Very good," Ridley observed, "to detain him here until he could be dealt with."

Ridley knelt and drew the long blade from the sheath at Dilvish's side. He threw it across the room. Turning Dilvish over, he drew the dagger from the smaller sheath and raised it.

"Might as well finish things," he said.

"You're a fool!" she stated, moving to his side and taking hold of his wrist. "That man could have been an ally! He's not after you! It is the master he wants to slay! He has some personal grudge against him."

Ridley lowered the blade. She did not release his wrist.

"And you believed that?" he said. "You've been up here too long. The first man who comes along gets you to believe—"

She slapped him.

"You've no call to talk to me like that! He didn't even know who you were! He might have helped! Now he won't trust us!"

Ridley regarded Dilvish's face. Then he rose to his feet, his arm falling. He let go the dagger and kicked it across the floor. She released her grip on his wrist.

"You want his life?" he said. "All right. But if he can't trust us, we can't trust him either now." He turned to the servants, who stood motionless at his back. "Take him away," he told them, "and throw him down the hole to join Mack."

"You are compounding your mistakes," she said.

He met her gaze with a glare.

"And I am tired of your mocking," he said. "I have given you his life. Leave it at that, before I change my mind."

The servants bent and raised Dilvish's limp form between them. They bore him toward the door.

"Whether I was wrong or right about him," Ridley said, gesturing after them, "an attack will come. You know it. In one form or another. Probably soon. I have preparations to make, and I do not wish to be disturbed."

He turned as if to go.

Reena bit her lip, then said, "How close are you, to some sort of— accommodation?"

He halted, not looking back.

"Farther than I'd thought I might be," he replied, "at this point. I feel now that I do have a chance at dominating. This is why I can afford to take no risks here, and why I cannot brook any further interruptions or delays. I am returning to the tower now."

He moved toward the door, out of which Dilvish's form had just passed.

Reena lowered her head. "Good luck," she said softly. Ridley stalked out of the room.

The silent servants bore Dilvish along a dimly lit corridor. When they reached an indentation in the wall, they halted and lowered him to the floor. One of them entered the niche and raised a trapdoor. Returning to the still form, he helped to lift it then, and they lowered Dilvish, feet first, into the dark opening that had been revealed. They released him and he vanished from sight. One of them closed the trapdoor. They turned away and moved back along the corridor.

Dilvish was aware that he was sliding down an inclined surface. For a moment he had visions of Black's having slipped on the way up the mountain. Now he was sliding down the Tower of Ice, and when he hit the bottom…

He opened his eyes. He was seized by instant claustrophobia. He moved through darkness. He had felt the wall close beside him when he had taken a turn. If he reached out with his hands, he felt that the flesh would be rubbed away.

His gloves! He had tucked them behind his belt…

He reached, drew them forth, began pulling them on. He leaned forward as he did so. There seemed to be a feeble patch of light ahead.

He reached out to his sides with both hands, spreading his legs as he did so.

His right heel touched the passing wall just as the palms of his hands did. Then his left…

Head throbbing, he increased the pressure at all four points. The palms of his hands grew warm from the friction, but he slowed slightly. He pushed harder, he dug with his heels. He continued to slow.

He exerted his full strength now. The gloves were wearing through. The left one tore. His palm began to burn.

Ahead, the pale square grew larger. He realized that he was not going to be able to stop himself before he reached it. He pushed one more time. He smelled rotten straw, and then he was upon it.

He landed on his feet and immediately collapsed.

The stinging in his left hand kept him from passing out. He breathed deeply of the fetid air. He was still dazed. The back of his head was one big ache. He could not recall what had happened.

He lay there panting as his heartbeat slowed. The floor was cold beneath him. Piece by piece, the memories began to return…

He recalled his climb to the castle, his entry… The woman Reena… They had been talking…

Anger flared within his breast. She had tricked him. Delayed him until help arrived for dealing with him—

But her story had been so elaborately constructed, full of unnecessary detail… He wondered. Was there more to this than a simple betrayal?

He sighed.

He was not ready to think yet. Where was he?

Soft sounds came to him across the straw. Some sort of cell perhaps… Was there another inmate?

Something ran across his back.

He jerked partway upright, felt himself collapsing, turned to his side as he did. He saw the small, dark forms in the dim light. Rats. That was what it had been. He looked about the half of the cell that he faced. Nothing else…

Rolling over onto his other side, he saw the broken door.

He sat up, more carefully than before. He rubbed his head and blinked at the light. A rat drew back at the movement.

He climbed to his feet, brushed himself off. He felt after his weapons, was not surprised to find them missing.

A wave of dizziness came and went. He advanced upon the broken door, touched it.

Leaning against the frame, he peered out into the large room with frosty walls. Torches flickered in brackets at either end of it. There was an open doorway diagonally across from him, darkness beyond it.

He passed between the door and its frame, continuing to look about. There were no sounds other than the soft rat-noises behind him and the dripping of water.

He regarded the torches. The one to his left was slightly larger. He crossed to it and removed it from its bracket. Then he headed for the dark doorway.

A cold draft stirred the flames as he passed through. He was in another chamber, smaller than the one he had just quitted. Ahead he saw a stair. He advanced upon it and began to climb.

The stair took a single turn as he mounted it. At its top, he found a blank wall to his right, a wide, low-ceilinged corridor to his left. He followed the corridor.

After perhaps half a minute, he beheld what appeared to be a landing, a handrail jutting out of the wall above it. As he neared, he saw that there was an opening from which the railing emerged. Cautiously, he mounted the landing, listened for a time, peered around the corner.

Nothing. No one. Only a long, dark stair leading upward.

He transferred the torch, which was burning low, to his other hand and began to climb, quickly. This stair was much higher than the previous one, spiraling upward for a long while. He came to its ending suddenly, dropped the torch, and stepped upon its flame for a moment.

After listening at the top stair, he emerged into a hallway. This one had a long rug and wall decorations. Large tapers burned in standing holders along it. Off to his right, there was a wide stairway leading up. He moved to its foot, certain that he had come into a more frequented area of the castle.

He brushed his garments again, removed his gloves, and restored them to his belt. He ran his hand through his hair, while looking about for anything that might serve as a weapon. Seeing nothing suitable, he commenced climbing.

As he reached a landing, he heard a blood-chilling shriek from above.

"Please! Oh, please! The pain!"

He froze, one hand on the railing, the other reaching for a blade that was not there.

A full minute passed. Another began. The cry was not repeated. There were no further sounds of any sort from that direction.

Alert, he began to move again, staying close to the wall, testing each step before placing his full weight upon it.

When he reached the head of the stair, he checked the corridor in both directions. It appeared to be empty. The cry had seemed to come from somewhere off to the right. He went that way.

As he advanced, a sudden soft sobbing began from some point to his left and ahead. He approached the slightly ajar door from behind which it seemed to be occurring. Stooping, he applied his eye to the large keyhole. There was illumination within, but nothing to view save for an undecorated section of wall and the edge of a small window.

Straightening, he turned to search again for some weapon.

The large servant's approach had been totally soundless, and he towered above him now, club already descending.

Dilvish blocked the blow with his left forearm. The other's rush carried him forward to collide with Dilvish, however, bearing him backward against the door, which flew wide, and through it into the room beyond.

Dilvish heard a cry from behind him as he strove to rise. At the same time the door was drawn shut, and he heard a key slipped into the lock.

"A victim! He sends me a victim when what I want is release!" There followed a sigh. "Very well…"

Dilvish turned as soon as he heard the voice, his memory instantly drawing him back to another place.

Bright red body, long, thin limbs, a claw upon each digit, it had pointed ears, backward-curving horns, and slitted yellow eyes. It crouched at the center of a pentacle, constantly shuffling its feet this way and that, reaching for him…

"Stupid wight!" he snapped, lapsing into another tongue. "Would you destroy your deliverer?"

The demon drew back its arms, and the pupils of its eyes expanded.

"Brother! I did not know you in human form!" it answered in Mabrahoring, the language of demons. "Forgive me!"

Dilvish climbed slowly to his feet.

"I've a mind to let you rot there, for such a reception!" he replied, looking around the chamber.

The room was done up for such work, Dilvish now saw, everything still in its place. Upon the far wall there was a large mirror within an intricately worked metal frame…

"Forgive!" the demon cried, bowing low. "See how I abase myself! Can you really free me? Will you?"

"First tell me how you came into this unhappy state," Dilvish said.

"Ah! It was the young sorcerer in this place. He is mad! Even now I see him in his tower, toying with his madness! He is two people in one! One day one must win over the other. But until then, he begins works and leaves them undone—such as summoning my poor self to this accursed place, forcing me upon this doubly accursed pentacle, and taking his thrice accursed self away without dismissing me! Oh! were I free to rend him! Please! The pain! Release me!"

"I, too, have known something of pain," said Dilvish, "and you will endure this for more questioning."

He gestured.

"Is that the mirror used for travel?"

"Yes! Yes, it is!"

"Could you repair the damage it has endured?"

"Not without the aid of the human operator who laid the counterspell. It is too strong."

"Very well. Rehearse your oaths of dismissal now and I will do the things necessary to release you."

"Oaths? Between us? Ah! I see! You fear I envy you that body you wear! Perhaps you are wise… As you would. My oaths…"

"… To include everyone in this household," Dilvish said.

"Ah!" it howled. "You would deprive me of my vengeance on the crazy sorcerer!"

"They are all mine now," Dilvish said. "Do not try to bargain with me!"

A crafty look came over the demon's face.

"Oh… ?" it said. "Oh! I see! Yours… Well, at least there will be vengeance —with much good rending and shrieking, I trust. That will be sufficient. Knowing that makes it much easier to renounce all claims. My oaths…"

It began the grisly litany, and Dilvish listened carefully for deviations from the necessary format. There were none.

Dilvish commenced speaking the words of dismissal. The demon hugged itself and bowed its head.

When he had finished, Dilvish looked back at the pentacle. The demon was gone from that place, but it was still present in the room. It stood in a corner, smiling an ingratiating smile.

Dilvish cocked his head.

"You are free," he said. "Go!"

"A moment, great lord!" it said, cowering. "It is good to be free and I thank you. I know, too, that only one of the greater ones of Below could have worked this release in the absence of a human sorcerer. So I would grovel and curry your favor a moment longer in the way of warning you. The flesh may have dulled your normal senses, and I bid you know that I feel the vibrations on another plane now. Something terrible is coming this way—and unless you are a part of its workings, or it of yours—I felt that you must be warned, great one!"

"I knew of it," Dilvish said, "but I am pleased that you have told me. Blast the door's lock if you would do me a final service. Then you may go."

"Thank you! Remember Quennel in the days of your wrath—and that he served you here!"

The demon turned and seemed to blow apart like fog in a wind, to the accompaniment of a dull, roaring sound. A moment later there came a sharp, snapping noise from the direction of the door.

Dilvish crossed the room. The lock had been shattered.

He opened the door and looked out. The corridor was empty. He hesitated as he considered both directions. Then, with a slight shrugging movement, he turned to the right and headed that way.

He came, after a time, to a great, empty dining hall, a fire still smouldering upon its hearth, wind whistling down the chimney. He circled the entire room, moving along the walls, past the windows, the mirror, returing to the spot from which he had begun, none of the wall niches proving doorways to anywhere else.

He turned and headed back up the corridor. As he did, he heard his name spoken in a whisper. He halted. The door to his left was partly ajar. He turned his head in that direction. It had been a woman' voice.

"It's me, Reena."

The door opened farther. He saw her standing there holding a long blade. She extended her arm.

"Your sword. Take it!" she said.

He took the weapon into his hands, inspected it, sheathed it.

"… And your dagger."

He repeated the process.

"I am sorry," she said, "about what happened. I was as surprised as you. It was my brother's doing, not mine."

"I think I am willing to believe you," he said. "How did you locate me?"

"I waited until I was certain that Ridley was back in his tower. Then I sought you in the cells below, but you had already gone. How did you get out?"

"Walked out."

"You mean you found the door that way?"

"Yes."

He heard her sharp intake of breath, almost a gasp.

"That is not at all good," she said. "It means that Mack is certainly abroad."

"Who is Mack?"

"Ridley's predecessor as apprentice here. I am not certain what happened to him—whether he tried some experiment that simply did not work out, or whether his transformation was a punishment of the master's for some indiscretion. Whichever, he was changed into a dull-witted beast and had to be imprisoned down there, because of his great strength and occasional recollection of some noxious spell. His woman went barmy after that. She's still about. A minor adept herself, at one time. We've got to get out of here."

"You may be right," he said, "but finish the story."

"Oh. I've been looking all over for you since then. As I was about it, I noticed that the demon had stopped screaming. I came and investigated. I saw that he had been freed. I was fairly certain that Ridley was still in the tower. It was you, wasn't it?"

"Yes, I released it."

"I thought then that you might still be near, and I heard someone moving in the dining hall. So I hid in here and waited to see who it was. I brought you your weapons to show that I meant you no ill."

"I appreciate it. I am only now deciding what to do. I am sure you have some suggestions."

"Yes. I've a feeling that the master will come here soon and slay every living thing under these roofs. I do not want to be around when that occurs."

"As a matter of fact, he should be here very soon. The demon told me."

"It is hard to tell what you know and what you do not know," she said, "what you can do and what you cannot do. Obviously you know something of the arts. Do you intend to stay and face him?"

"That was my purpose in traveling all this distance." he replied. "But I meant to face him in the flesh, and if I did not find him here I meant to use whatever means of magical transportation might be present to seek him in others of his strongholds. I do not know how my special presents will affect him in a disembodied state. I know that my blade will not."

"You would be wise," she said, taking his arm, "very wise, to live to fight another day."

"Especially if you need my help in getting away from here?" he asked.

She nodded.

"I do not know what your quarrel with him may be," she said, leaning against him, "and you are a strange man, but I do not think you can hope to win against him here. He will have amassed great power, fearing the worst. He will come in cautiously—so cautiously! I know a possible way away, if you will help. But we must hurry. He could even be here right now. He—"

"How very astute of you, dear girl" came a dry, throaty voice from back up the hall, whence Dilvish had come.

Recognizing it, he turned. A dark-cowled figure stood just beyond the entrance within the dining hall.

"And you," he stated, "Dilvish! You are a most difficult person to be rid of, bloodling of Selar, though it has been a long while between encounters."

Dilvish drew his blade. An Awful Saying rose to his lips but he refrained from speaking it, not certain that what he saw represented an actual physical presence.

"What new torment might I devise for you?" the other asked. "A transformation? A degeneration? A—"

Dilvish began to move toward him, ignoring his words. From behind him he heard Reena whisper, "Come back…"

He continued on toward the form of his enemy.

"I was nothing to you…" Dilvish began.

"You disturbed an important rite."

"… and you took my life and threw it away. You visited a terrible vengeance upon me as casually as another man might brush away a mosquito."

"I was annoyed, as another man might be at a mosquito."

"You treated me as if I were a thing, not a person. That I cannot forgive."

A soft chuckle emerged from within the cowl.

"And it would seem that in my own defense now I must treat you that way again."

The figure raised its hand, pointing two fingers at him.

Dilvish broke into a run, raising his blade, recalling Black's spell of protection and still loathe to commence his own.

The extended fingers seemed to glow for a moment and Dilvish felt something like a passing wind. That was all.

"Are you but an illusion of this place?" the other asked, beginning to back away, a tiny quavering note apparent in his voice for the first time.

Dilvish swung his blade but encountered nothing. The figure was no longer before him. Now it stood among shadows at the far end of the dining hall.

"Is this thing yours, Ridley?" he heard him ask suddenly. "If so, you are to be commended for dredging up something I'd no desire whatever to recall. It shan't distract me, though, from the business at hand. Show yourself, if you dare!"

Dilvish heard a sliding sound from off to his left, and a panel opened there. He saw the slim figure of a younger man emerge, a shining ring upon the left forefinger.

"Very well. We shall dispense with these theatrics," came Ridley's voice. He seemed slightly out of breath and striving to control it. "I am master of myself and this place," he continued. He turned toward Dilvish. "You, wight! You have served me well. There is absolutely nothing more for you to do here, for it is between the two of us now. I give you leave to depart and assume your natural form. You may take the girl back with you as payment."

Dilvish hesitated.

"Go, I say! Now!"

Dilvish backed from the room.

"I see that you have cast aside all remorse," he heard Jelerak say, "and learned the necessary hardness. This should prove interesting."

Dilvish saw a low wall of fire spring up between the two of them. He heard laughter from the hall— whose, he was not certain. Then came a crackling sound and a wave of peculiar odors. Suddenly the room was a blaze of light. Just as suddenly it was plunged into darkness again. The laughter continued. He heard pieces of tile falling from the walls.

He turned away. Reena was still standing where he had left her.

"He did it," she said softly. "He has control of the other. He really did it…"

"We can do no good here," Dilvish stated. "It is, as he said, between them now."

"But his new strength may still not be sufficient!"

"I'd imagine he knows that, and that that is why he wants me to take you away."

The floor shook beneath them. A picture dropped from a nearby wall.

"I don't know that I can leave him like that, Dilvish."

"He may be giving his life for you, Reena. He might have used his new powers to repair the mirror, or to escape this place by some other means. You heard how he put things. Would you throw away his gift?"

Her eyes filled with tears.

"He may never know," she said, "how much I really wanted him to succeed."

"I've a feeling he might," Dilvish said. "Now, how are we to save you?"

"Come this way," she said, taking his arm, as a hideous scream came from the hall, followed by a thunderclap that seemed to shake the entire castle.

Colored lights glowed behind them as she led him along the corridor.

"I've a sled," she said, "in a cavern deep below here. It is filled with supplies."

"How—" Dilvish began, and he halted, raising the blade that he bore.

An old woman stood before them at the head of the stair, glaring at him. But his eyes had slid beyond her, to behold the great pale bulk that slowly mounted the last few stairs, head turned in their direction.

"There, Mack!" she screamed suddenly. "The man who hit me! Hurt my side! Crush him!"

Dilvish directed the point of his blade at the advancing creature's throat.

"If he attacks me, I will kill him," he said. "I do not want to, but the choice is not mine. It is yours. He may be big and strong, but he is not fast. I have seen him move. I will make a very big hole, and a lot of blood will come out of it. I heard that you once loved him, lady. What are you going to do?"

Forgotten emotions flickered across Meg's features.

"Mack! Stop!" she cried. "He's not the one. I was wrong!"

Mack halted.

"Not—the—one?" he said.

"No. I was—mistaken."

She turned her gaze up the hallway to where fountains of fires flashed and vanished and where multitudes of cries, as of two opposing armies, rang out.

"What," she said, gesturing, "is it?"

"The young master and the old master," Reena said, "are fighting."

"Why are you still afraid to say his name?" Dilvish asked. "He's just up the corridor. It's Jelerak."

"Jelerak?" A new light came into Mack's eyes as he gestured toward the awful room. "Jelerak?"

"Yes," Dilvish replied, and the pale one turned away from him and began shuffling in that direction.

Dilvish looked about for Meg, but she was gone. Then he heard a cry of "Jelerak! Kill!" from overhead.

He looked up and saw the green-winged creature that had attacked him—how long ago?—flapping off in the same direction.

"They are probably going to their deaths," Reena said.

"How long do you think they have waited for such an opportunity?" he said. "I am sure that they know that they lost a long time ago. But just to have the chance now is winning, for them."

"Better in there than on your blade."

Dilvish turned away.

"I am not at all sure that he wouldn't have killed me," he said. "Where are we going?"

"This way."

She took him down the stair and up another corridor, heading toward the north end of the building. The entire place began shaking about them as they went. Furniture toppled, windows shattered, a beam fell. Then it was still again for a time. They hurried.

As they were nearing the kitchen, the place shook again with such violence that they were thrown to the floor. A fine dust was drifting everywhere now, and cracks had appeared in the walls. In the kitchen they saw that hot ashes had been thrown from the grate, to lay strewn about the floor, smoking.

"It sounds as if Ridley is still holding his own."

"Yes, it does," she said, smiling.

Pots and pans were rattling and banging together as they departed the kitchen, heading in the direction of the stairwell. The cutlery danced in its drawers.

They paused at the stair's entrance, just as a great, inhuman moan swept through the entire castle. An icy draft followed moments later. A rat flashed past them from the direction of the kitchen.

Reena signaled Dilvish to halt and, leaning against the wall, cupped her hands before her face. She seemed to whisper within them, and a moment after the small fire was born, to hover, growing, before her. She moved her hands outward and it drifted toward the stairwell.

"Come," she said to Dilvish, and she led the way downward.

He moved behind her, and from time to time the walls creaked ominously about them. When this happened, the light danced for a moment, and occasionally it faded briefly. As they descended, the sounds from above grew more muffled. Dilvish paused once, to place his hand upon the wall.

"Is it far?" he asked.

"Yes. Why?"

"I can still feel the vibrations strongly," he said. "We must be well below the level of the castle itself —down into the mountain by now."

"True," she replied, taking another turn.

"At first I feared that they might bring the castle down upon our heads…"

"They probably will destroy the place if this goes on much longer," she said. "I'm very proud of Ridley —despite the inconvenience."

"That wasn't exactly what I meant," Dilvish said, as they continued their downward flight. "There! It's getting worse!" He put out a hand to steady himself as the stair shuddered from a passing Shockwave. "Doesn't it seem to you that the entire mountain is shaking?"

"Yes, it does," she replied. "Then it must be true."

"What?"

"I'd heard it said that ages ago, at the height of his power, the ma— Jelerak—actually raised this mountain by his conjuring."

"So?"

"If he is sufficiently taxed in this place, I suppose that he might have to draw upon those ancient spells of his for more power. In which case—"

"The mountain might collapse as well as the castle?"

"There is that possibility. Oh, Ridley! Good show!"

"It won't be so good if we're under it!"

"True," she said, suddenly moving even faster. "As he's not your brother, I can see your point. Still, it must please you to see Jelerak so hard pressed."

"It does that," Dilvish admitted, "but you should really prepare yourself for any eventuality."

She was silent for a time.

Then: "Ridley's death?" she asked. "Yes. I've realized for some time now that there was a strong possibility of this, whatever the nature of their encounter. Still, to go out with such flare… That's something, too, you know."

"Yes," Dilvish replied. "I've thought of it many times myself."

Abruptly, they reached the landing. She turned immediately and led him toward a tunnel. The rocky floor trembled beneath them. The light danced again. From somewhere there came a slow, grinding sound, lasting for perhaps ten seconds. They rushed into the tunnel.

"And you?" she said, as they hurried along it. "If Jelerak survives, will you still seek him?"

"Yes," he said. "I know for certain that he has at least six other citadels. I know the approximate locations of several of them. I would seek them as I did this place."

"I have been in three of the others," she said. "If we survive this, I can tell you something about them. They would not be easy to storm either."

"It does not matter," Dilvish said. "I never thought that it would be easy. If he lives, I will go to them. If I cannot locate him, I will destroy them, one by one, until he must need come to me."

The grinding sound came again. Fragments of rocks fell about them. As this occurred, the floating light vanished before them.

"Remain still," she said. "I'll do another."

Several moments later another light glowed between her hands.

They continued on, the sounds within the rock ceasing for a time.

"What will you do if Jelerak is dead?" she asked him.

Dilvish was silent awhile. Then: "Visit my home-land," he said. "It has been a long while since I have been back. What will you do if we make it away from here?"

"Tooma, Ankyra, Blostra," she replied, "as I'd said, if I could find some willing gentleman to escort me to one of them."

"I believe that could be arranged," Dilvish said.

As they neared the end of the tunnel, an enormous shudder ran through the entire mountain. Reena stumbled; Dilvish caught her and was thrown back against the wall. With his shoulders, he felt the heavy vibrations within the stone. From behind them a steady crashing of falling rocks began.

"Hurry!" he said, propelling her forward.

The light darted drunkenly before them. They came into a cold cavern.

"This is the place," Reena said, pointing. "The sled is over there."

Dilvish saw the vehicle, took hold of her arm, and headed toward it.

"How high up the mountain are we?" he asked her.

"Two thirds of the way, perhaps," she said. "We are somewhat below the point where the rise steepens severely."

"That is still no gentle slope out there," he said, coming to a halt beside the vehicle and placing his hand upon its side. "How do you propose getting it down to ground level?"

"That will be the difficult part," she said, reaching within her bodice and withdrawing a folded piece of parchment. "I've removed this page from one of the books in the tower. When I had the servants build me this sled, I knew that I would need something strong to draw it. This is a fairly elaborate spell, but it will summon a demon beast to do our bidding."

"May I see it?"

She passed him the page. He unfolded it and held it near to the hovering light.

"This spell requires fairly lengthy preparations," he said a little later. "I don't believe we have that kind of time remaining, the way things are shaking and crumbling here."

"But it is the only chance we have," she said. "We'll need these supplies. I had no way of knowing that the whole damned mountain was going to start coming apart. We are simply going to have to risk the delay."

Dilvish shook his head and returned the page.

"Wait here," he said, "and don't start that spell yet!"

He turned and made his way along the tunnel down which icy blasts blew. Snow crystals lay upon the floor. After a single, brief turn, he saw the wide cave mouth, pale light beyond it. The floor there had a heavy coating of snow over ice.

He walked to the entrance and looked out, looked down. The sled could be edged over the lip of the ridge at his feet at a low place off to his left. But then it would simply take off, achieving a killing speed long before it reached the foot of the mountain.

He moved forward to the very edge, looked up. An overhang prevented his seeing anything above. He moved half a dozen paces to his left then, looked out, looked up, looked around. Then he crossed to the right-hand extremity of the ledge and looked up, shading his eyes against a blast of ice crystals.

There… ?

"Black!" he called, to a darker patch of shadow above and to the side. "Black!"

It seemed to stir. He cupped his hands and shouted again.

"Diiil. . .viiish!" rolled down the slope toward him, after his own cry had died away.

"Down here!"

He waved both arms above his head.

"I… see… you!"

"Can you come to me?"

There was no answer, but the shadow moved. It came down from its ledge and began a slow, stiff-legged journey in his direction.

He remained in sight. He continued waving.

Soon Black's silhouette became clear through the swirling snow. He advanced steadily. He passed the halfway point, continued on.

As he came up beside him, Black pulsed heat for several moments and the snow melted upon him, trickling off down his sides.

"There are some amazing sorceries going on above," he stated, "well worth observing."

"Far better we do it from a distance," Dilvish said. "This whole mountain may be coming down."

"Yes, it will," Black said. "Something up there is drawing upon some very elemental, ancient spells woven all through here. It is most instructive. Get on my back and I'll take you down."

"It is not that simple."

"Oh?"

"There is a girl—and a sled—in the cave behind me."

Black placed his forefeet upon the ledge and heaved himself up to stand beside Dilvish.

"Then I had better have a look," he stated. "How did you fare up on top?"

Dilvish shrugged.

"All of that would most likely have happened without me," he said, "but at least I've the pleasure of seeing someone giving Jelerak a hard time."

"That's him up there?"

They started back into the cave.

"His body is elsewhere, but the part that bites has paid a visit."

"Who is he fighting?"

"The brother of the lady you are about to meet. This way."

They took the turn and headed back in the larger cave. Reena still stood beside the sled. She had wrapped herself in a fur. Black's metal hooves clicked upon the rock.

"You wanted a demon beast?" Dilvish said to her. "Black, this is Reena. Reena, meet Black."

Black bowed his head.

"I am pleased," he said. "Your brother has been providing me with considerable amusement while I waited without."

Reena smiled and reached out to touch his neck.

"Thank you," she said. "I am delighted to know you. Can you help us?"

Black turned and regarded the sled.

"Backward," he said after a time. Then: "If I were hitched facing it, I could draw back slightly and let it precede me down the mountain. You would both have to walk, though—beside me, holding on. I don't believe I could do it with you in the thing. Even this way it will be difficult, but I see it to be the only way."

"Then we'd better push it out and get started," Dilvish said, as the mountain shook again.

Reena and Dilvish each took hold of a side of the vehicle. Black leaned against its rear. It began to move.

Once they reached the snow on the cave floor, it proceeded more easily. Finally they turned it about at the cave mouth and hitched Black between its traces.

Carefully, gently then, they edged its rear end over the ledge at the low place to the left as Black advanced slowly, maintaining tension on the traces.

Its runners struck the snow of the slope, and Black eased it down until it rested full length upon it. Gingerly he followed it then, jerking stiffly upright to anchor it after he had jumped the last few feet.

"All right," he said. "Come down now and take hold of me on either side."

They followed him and took up their positions. Slowly he began to advance.

"Tricky," he said as they moved. "One day they will invent names for the properties of objects, such as the tendency of a thing to move once it is placed in motion."

"Of what use would that be?" Reena asked. "Everybody already knows that that's what happens."

"Ah! But one might put numbers to the amount of material involved and the amount of pushing required, and come up with wondrous and useful calculations."

"Sounds like a lot of trouble for a small return," she said. "Magic's a lot easier to figure."

"Perhaps you're right."

Steadily they descended, Black's hooves crunching through the icy crust. Later, when they finally reached a place from which they could view the castle, they saw that the highest tower and several low ones had fallen. Even as they watched, a section of wall collapsed. Fragments of it fell over the edge, fortunately descending the slope far to their right.

Beneath the snow the mountain itself was shaking steadily now, and had been for some time. Rocks and chunks of ice occasionally bounded past them.

They continued for what seemed an interminable time, Black edging the sled lower and lower with each step, Reena and Dilvish plodding numb-footed beside him.

As they neared the foot of the slope, a terrific crash echoed about them. Looking up, they saw the remains of the castle crumbling, shrinking, falling in upon itself.

Black increased his pace dangerously as small bits of debris began to rain about them.

"When we reach bottom," he said, "unhitch me immediately, but stay on the far side of the sled while you're doing it. I would be able to turn its side to the slope as we get there. Then, if you can hitch me properly in a hurry, do it. If the falling stuff becomes too severe, though, just crouch down on the far side and I will stand on the near one to help shield you. But if you can rehitch me, get in quickly and stay low."

They slid most of the final distance, and for a moment it seemed that the sled would turn over as Black maneuvered it. Picking himself up, Dilvish immediately set to work upon the harness.

Reena got behind the sled and looked upward.

"Dilvish! Look!" she cried.

Dilvish glanced upward as he finished the unfastening and Black backed out from between the traces.

The castle had completely vanished and large fissures had appeared in the slope. Above the summit of the mountain, two columns of smoke now stood—a dark one and a light one— motionless despite the winds that must be lashing at them.

Black turned and backed in between the traces. Dilvish began harnessing him again. More debris was now descending the slope, off to their right.

"What is it?" Dilvish said.

"The dark column is Jelerak," Black replied.

Dilvish looked back periodically as he worked, seeing that the two columns had begun to move, slowly, toward one another. Soon they were intertwined., though not merging, twisting and knotting about one another like a pair of struggling serpents.

Dilvish completed the harnessing.

"Get in!" he cried to Reena, as another part of the mountain fell away.

"You, too!" said Black, and Dilvish climbed in with her.

Soon they were moving, gathering speed. The top of the ice mass came apart as they watched, and still the billowing combatants rolled above it.

"Oh, no! Ridley seems to be weakening!" she said, as they raced away.

Dilvish watched as the dark column seemed to bear the lighter one downward into the heart of the falling mountain.

Black's pace increased, though chunks of rubble still skidded and raced about them. Soon both smoky combatants were gone from sight, high above them. Black moved faster yet, heading south.

Perhaps a quarter of an hour passed with no change in the prospect behind them, save for its dwindling. But crouched beneath the furs, Dilvish and Reena still watched. An air of anticipation seemed to grow over the entire landscape.

When it came, it rocked the ground, bouncing the sled from side to side, and its tremors continued for a long while after.

The top of the mountain blew off, peppering the sky with an expanding, dark cloud. Then the dusky smear was streaked, spread by the winds, sections of it reaching like slowly extending fingers to the west. After a time a mighty shock wave rolled over them.

Much later, a single, attenuated, rough-edged cloud —the dark one— separated itself from the haze. Trailing ragged plumes, jounced by the winds, it moved like an old man stumbling, fleeing southward. It passed far to the right of them and did not pause.

"That's Jelerak," Black said. "He's hurt."

They watched the rough column until it jerked out of sight far to the south. Then they turned again toward the ruin in the north. They watched until it faded from view, but the white column did not rise again.

Finally Reena lowered her head. Dilvish put his arm about her shoulders. The runners of the sled sang softly on their way across the snow.

DEVIL AND THE DANCER

The moon hung round and the cold winds blew when Oele danced for Devil, her footmarks traced in fire before the empty stone-faced altar. In the lands below it was already spring, but here in the mountains the night spoke of winter. Still, she danced barefooted, wearing but a flimsy gray garment belted with silver, more revealing than concealing her lithe figure as she raised the fires in ancient patterns, her long blond hair streaming about her.

The ground became a flickering tapestry, yet she was not burned. Far below on the northern slope, a ghostly palace quivered in the moonlight, towers fading to the point of transparency and regaining partial solidity moments later, walls moving to join with shadow and fleeing from it, lights waxing and waning behind high windows. The voice of the wind was a raw, shrieking thing, but neither did Oele feel the cold.

The darkness grew more dense above the altar until finally it blotted out stars. As this occurred, the wind died down and ceased. The flames sprang higher then, but the great blot above the stone was not illuminated thereby. It was a massive, rough-winged outline, great-headed and rippling. It seemed almost a hole in space itself, and she received the impression of enormous depths within it whenever her eyes passed that way.

She had danced thus, at certain seasons, down the years, beyond the memories of any who dwelled in the vicinity. All of these called her witch, and she, too, thought of herself in this fashion. The only one who knew more called her by a different title, though the distinction had become considerably frayed in the years since a dancing girl had slain her lover upon this spot to gain the powers he alone of all men had possessed. A priest he had been, the last surviving worshipper of an old god who, as a result, had valued him highly. Now Oele was the last worshipper, and she did not even know the god's name. She called him Devil and he granted her wishes in response to her choreographed acts of devotion, which she considered spells. A witch invoking a devil, a god responding to a worshipper, then—it was partly a matter of perspective, but only partly. For the things she asked of him were more in keeping with her own notions, and their relations were far removed from what his had been with his original worshippers long ago.

Yet between them the bond was strong. He drew strength from her dancing, from this final contact with the earth. And she also gained, many things.

At last her movements ceased and she stood amidst her design, facing the dark shape above the altar stone. For long moments a heavy stillness hung between them, until finally she spoke:

"Devil, I bring you my dance."

The figure seemed to nod, then to grow slightly. Finally, in a voice deep and slow, it replied:

"It is pleasing to me."

She waited, a ritualistically prolonged silence, then spoke again:

"My palace fades."

Again the pause, then the words "I know," followed by the gesture of a jagged, winglike member from the bottomless shadow, toward the place down the slope occupied by the wavering structure.

"Behold, priestess, it is firm once again."

She looked and saw that this was true. Now, in the moonlight, the palace stood still and substantial, its lights gleaming steadily, its ramparts thrusting prow-like against the night and the stars.

"I see," she finally replied. "But for how long will it remain thus? One by one my servants vanish, returning to the earth from which they sprang."

"They are with you once more."

"But for how long?" she repeated. "This is the third time I have had to call upon you to restore order— in less than a year."

The figure was silent much longer than the customary period.

"Tell me, Devil!"

"I cannot say for certain, priestess," it answered at last. "I have been growing weaker. Considerable energy is required to support yourself and your establishment for long periods—more than I can transform from your dance."

"What then is to be done?"

"You could choose a simpler way of life."

"I must have magnificence!"

"Soon I will lack the force to sustain it."

"Then you shall again have something stronger than my dancing!"

"I do not ask this."

"Yet you accept it when it becomes necessary."

"I accept it."

"Then you shall have sufficient man's blood to restore your powers, and to enhance my own."

There was silence.

"I begin now the closing dance," she stated, and as she commenced moving once again the flames died with each step that she retraced, the wind grew up about her, and the figure above the altar thinned and faded, giving back a fistful of stars.

When she had finished, she turned away and walked toward the palace without looking back. It was time to prepare for a journey, through the land below, to a seacoast town where it was said that anything one wanted could always be found.

The lady on the black-maned gray mare wore tan leather breeches and jacket and a brown and red cloak. Her hair and long-lashed eyes were dark and her wide mouth appeared to be faintly, perhaps unconsciously, working its way toward a smile. She wore a jade ring upon the middle finger of her left hand, an onyx one upon her right. A short sword hung from her belt.

Her companion wore black breeches and green jacket and boots. His cloak was black, lined with green, and he wore a sword and dagger at his waist. He sat astride a black, horse-shaped creature whose body appeared to be of metal.

The two of them led three pack horses up the mountain trails through the brisk, clear afternoon air. The sound of running water came to their ears from somewhere ahead.

"The weather improves daily," the lady remarked. "After the regions we've traveled through, this seems almost summerish."

"Once we've quitted these heights," the man replied, "things should be even more comfortable. And when we reach the coast it could almost be balmy. We'll get you to Tooma at a good time of year."

The lady looked away.

"I am no longer so eager to reach the place…"

Bearing to the right, they rounded a rocky promontory. The man's mount made a strange noise. Turning his head, the rider scanned the trail.

"We are not alone," he observed.

She followed his gaze to where a man was seated upon a rock ahead and to the right. His hair and beard were pure white and he was dressed in animal skins. As they watched him, he stood, leaning upon a staff that was taller than himself.

"Hello," he hailed.

"Greetings," said the green-booted rider, coming to a halt before him. "How fare you?"

"Well enough," the man replied. "Do you travel far?"

"Yes. Down to Tooma, at least."

The man nodded.

"You'll not be out of these hills tonight."

"I know. I glimpsed a castle far ahead. Perhaps they'll let us sleep within its walls."

"Mayhap they will. For its mistress, Oele, has always been kindly disposed toward travelers, with a liking for whatever tales they bring. I am, as a fact, headed that way myself, to partake of the place's hospitality—though I've heard the lady is traveling at the moment. That beast you ride has a most unusual appearance, sir."

"He has indeed."

"… And you've a somewhat familiar look, if I may say it. May I ask your name?"

"I am Dilvish, and this is Reena."

The lady nodded and smiled.

"Not a common name, yours. There was a Dilvish, long ago…"

"I do not believe that castle stood in those days."

"To be sure, it did not. This was then the home of a hill tribe, reasonably content with its flocks and its god— whose name has since been forgotten. But the cities grew up below and—"

"Taksh'mael," Dilvish said.

"What?"

"Taksh'mael was their god," Dilvish answered, "keeper of the flocks. A friend and I once laid an offering on his altar when we passed this way—long ago. I wonder whether the altar still stands."

"Oh, it does, where it has always stood… You are definitely a member of a minority to have it in mind at all. Perhaps 'twere better you did not stop at the castle… Seeing the area come upon such bad times could not but depress one such as yourself. On second thinking, I'd say ride on and clear this poor place from your mind. Remember it as once it was."

"Thank you, but we have traveled a great distance," Dilvish replied. "It does not seem worth the extra effort merely to preserve a few sensibilities. We will go to the castle."

The man's large, pale eyes fixed him, then jerked away. With one hand he groped beneath his shaggy garments, then he limped forward, extending that hand toward Dilvish.

"Take this," he muttered. "You should have it."

"What is it?" Dilvish asked, automatically reaching down.

"A trifle," said the other. "An old thing I've had a long while, a mark of the god's favor and protection. One who remembers Taksh'mael ought to have such hereabouts."

Dilvish examined it, a fragment of gray stone veined with pink, into which the image of a ram had been scratched. It was pierced on one end and a worn woolen strand passed through this aperture.

"Thank you," he said, reaching for his bag. "I'd like to give you something in return."

"No," said the old man, turning away. '"Tis a freely given gift, and I've no use for citified geegaws. And 'tis not much for all that. The newer gods can afford much fancier, I'm certain."

"Well, may he guard your footsteps."

"At my age, I doubt it matters. Fare thee well."

He hiked off among the rocks and was soon gone from sight.

"Black, what do you make of it?" Dilvish asked, leaning forward to dangle the charm before his mount.

"There is some power in it," Black replied, "but it is of a tainted magic. I am not at all sure that I would trust anyone who bestows such a thing."

"First he told us to stop at the castle, then he told us to pass it by. On which piece of advice shall we mistrust him?"

"Let me see it, Dilvish," Reena said.

He dropped it into her hands and she studied it for a long while.

"True, it is as Black says…" she finally began.

"Should I keep it or throw it away?"

"Oh, keep it," she replied, passing it back. "Magic is like money. Who cares where it comes from? It's what you spend it on that counts."

"That is only true if you can control the expenditure," he said. "Do you want to stop at the castle? Or shall we travel as far as we can tonight?"

"The animals are getting tired."

"True."

"I believe he was a bit dotty."

"Most likely."

"A real bed would be very nice."

"Then we shall visit the castle."

Black was silent as they moved ahead.

Oil lamps, candles, and a large fireplace lit the tavern where Oele danced. Sailors, tradesmen, soldiers, and assorted rogues and citizens drank and dined at the heavy wooden tables. Tonight she wore her blue and green costume, and two musicians accompanied her energetic movements in the cleared area at the rear of the main room. Business had improved considerably since she had come to town two weeks earlier, and though she had received three proposals of marriage and many other sorts of offers, yet did she remain unattached. Nor did her lack of a hardy male companion result in many difficulties. A steady gaze and a single, imperious gesture terminated the un-desired attentions of the most importunate, causing a man to drop senseless to the ground. It was obvious that she did not desire the beery embraces of most patrons of the place, though her eyes searched every face during the course of an evening. And now there were some new ones. A caravan had come in from the west that afternoon, and a ship had arrived from southern waters. Tonight's crowd was even noisier than usual.

One tall son of the desert drew her eyes—slow-moving, dark, and hawkish. His flowing garments did not conceal his sturdy, well-proportioned frame. He took his ease near the doorway, sipping wine and smoking from a complicated contraption he had set upon the table before him. A number of similarly garbed men were seated at the same table, conversing in their sibilant tongue. The tall man's eyes never left her, and she began to feel that he might be the one. There were signs of great vitality in even the smallest of his movements.

A group of sailors arrived as the evening wore on, but she ignored them. By then she was dancing only for the one she had chosen. And it became apparent from the light in his eyes, his smile, and the words he had spoken as she passed near that he was captivated. He would be a fine one. Another hour and she would take him away…

"Move it this way, lady. I like it."

She glanced to her right toward the man who had spoken and saw blue eyes beneath a wild thatch of coppery hair, a gold earring, very white teeth, a red neckerchief—one of the sailors who had just come in.

It was difficult to judge his size, leaned forward the way he was.

She did move nearer, studying him. Interesting scar on his chin… Big, capable hands on the table before him…

She moved her lips through a faint smile. He was more animated than the other, and certainly as filled with life. She wondered…

She heard a noise at her back and turned without missing a step. The trader was standing, glaring at the sailor. His men were also rising. She continued to smile and turned away again. The music died abruptly. She heard an oath, loud in the sudden stillness.

"You're a live one," the sailor said, getting to his feet. "I hope you're worth it."

All at once the entire room seemed to be in motion as tables and seats were upset. The sailors and traders moved toward one another, blades appearing almost magically in their hands. The other patrons scurried to sheltered vantages or quit the establishment entirely via the nearest exits. Showing no fear, Oele removed herself several paces, to make room for the combat.

The sailor she watched was moving forward in a low crouch, a stiletto in his right hand. The tall trader brandished a longer, curved blade. As their men struggled with one another about them, they pushed their way toward a cleared area nearer the center of the room as if by mutual consent. From somewhere a flagon sped toward the back of the trader's head. Oele gestured sharply and it veered off to shatter against the wall.

The sailor rolled away from the first slash of the other's blade and riposted instantly with a high overhand thrust that nicked the man's biceps. He could not dodge the countercut, however, but managed to parry it with his own weapon. He danced away then, unable to counterthrust beyond the other's greater length of blade. He began to circle him widdershins, his feet shuffling and stamping. As his back was for a moment exposed to the general melee, a small trader rushed toward him. Oele gestured again and it was as if the shorter man had been seized by a giant hand and cast sideways across the room. She smiled and licked her lips.

In circling, the sailor's foot encountered a small stool. He kicked it toward the other. Despite his lengthy garments, however, the trader avoided it with a quick movement and cut again toward his opponent's head. But the sailor had drawn a belaying pin from his sash, and he blocked the blow with it, moved in rapidly, and thrust toward the other's belly.

The trader managed to recover and parry in time, but it left him in an awkward position at very close quarters. The belaying pin struck him on the side of the head. He fell back, obviously dazed, swinging a wide parry, and the club took him again, high upon the left cheekbone. He stumbled and the club rose and fell twice more in rapid succession. He sprawled upon the floor and lay unmoving, garments disarrayed. The sailor advanced and kicked the blade from his extended hand. Still he did not stir. Breathing heavily, the seaman wiped his brow and smiled up at Oele, thrusting the pin back into his sash.

"Well done," she said. "Almost."

He glanced at his blade, then shook his head.

"It's done," he said. "I'll not be sticking him just for your amusement."

He placed his blade back into a sheath on the side of his right boot. The fighting between the sailors and the traders still continued behind him but already showed some signs of slowing, losing force. After one quick glance in that direction, the seaman bowed to Oele.

"Captain Reynar," he said, "at your service. Master of my own vessel, Tiger's Foot." He extended his arm. "Come now and I'll show her to you. I think you might enjoy cruising the southern waterways."

She took his arm and they turned.

"I think not," she said. "For I, too, rule in my own place, which I am not about to forsake. Shall we save these poor fellows from further injury?"

She made a sweeping gesture toward the remaining combatants, and they all fell unconscious to the floor.

"Now that's a fine trick," he said, "and one which I wouldn't mind knowing."

She gestured again as they advanced and the door swung open before them.

"Perhaps I'll teach you," she answered, as they passed outside. "But my rooms are nearer than your ship and doubtless less cramped—though we'll be leaving them in the morning on a journey to the heights."

He grinned at her.

"It would take a lot to persuade a captain to desert his vessel—with no disrespect to your obvious charms."

"Cup your hands."

He released her arm and did so. She covered his hands with her own and a clinking sound began. Moments later he strained at an unexpected weight. She raised her hands and his were filled with gleaming coins. More continued to drop into them, spilling over and falling to the ground.

"Stop! Stop! They're getting away!" he cried.

She laughed, a sound not unlike the rattle of the gold, but the deluge of money ceased. He began stowing the coins in various places about his person. He knelt and recovered the fallen ones. He examined them. He bit one.

"Real! They're real!" he said.

"What were you saying about a captain and his ship?"

"You've no idea how wretched a thing the seafaring life can be. I've always wanted to live in the mountains." He touched his brow and offered his arm again. "Which direction?" he asked.

The sun had passed behind the mountain, casting long shadows, though day still lay upon the land below when Dilvish and Reena approached the castle they had seen hours earlier.

They halted and stared at it. Pennants were flapping upon battle -ments and tower tops and there seemed to be a light behind every window. The portcullis was raised and a faint sound of music came from within.

"What do you think?" Dilvish said.

"I was comparing it to the castle that was my home," Reena replied. "It looks fine to me."

They peered in through the gate. A woman who had been waiting near it stepped through and hailed them:

"Travelers! You are welcome here if you are seeking shelter."

Dilvish gestured toward the trappings upon the walls, toward the long carpet that he now saw stretched beyond the gate.

"What is the occasion," he asked, "for the display?"

"Our mistress has been away," the woman replied. "She will return tonight with her new consort."

"She must be a remarkable woman, to keep such an establishment in this place."

"She is indeed, sir."

Dilvish stared a moment longer.

"I've a mind to stay here," he finally said.

"… And I've a body that would welcome some ease," Reena told him.

"Let's go."

They advanced until they reached the squat, dark-haired woman who had called to them. Her hands were large, her movements deliberate; her face was peppered with moles. She smiled a large-toothed smile and conducted them within.

Dilvish counted five other servants —two women and three men— laboring at various chores in the courtyard. Among these, several were hanging additional decorations. The woman who had welcomed them called to one of the men.

"He will take care of your horses," she stated. Then she turned and eyed Black. "Except for this one. What do you wish done with him?"

Dilvish glanced toward a small corner area off to his left.

"If I might, I would leave him over there," he said. "He will not move."

"You are certain?"

"I am certain."

"Very well. Do it. Set aside the things you would have taken in and I will help you bear them to your chamber. You will dine at the mistress's table later."

"In that case, I'll want that larger one," Reena said, indicating a pack, while Dilvish and Black moved off toward the chosen corner.

"I am vaguely troubled," Black said, "by our meeting with that old man. So I will not wander off from this body while it stands here. Should you need me, summon me and I will come."

"All right," Dilvish said, "though I doubt I will need to."

Black snorted and grew still, becoming a statue of a horse. Dilvish dismounted, hefted his gear, and followed the others inside.

The woman who had met them, whose name they had learned was Andra, conducted them to a third-floor chamber overlooking the courtyard.

"When the mistress and her man arrive, we will summon you to dinner and an entertainment," she said. "In the meantime, is there anything you might need?"

Dilvish shook his head.

"Thank you, no. I am curious, though, how you know exactly when she will arrive. You seem fairly far removed from most other places."

Andra looked puzzled.

"She is the mistress," she replied. "We know."

After she had departed, Dilvish nodded toward the door.

"Strange…" he said.

"Perhaps not," Reena replied. "There is a peculiar feeling to this place. I should recognize it if anyone should, though it is not as strong as it was in my former home. I believe this Mistress Oele might be a minor adept of some sort. Even her servants all seem to have the dull responsiveness of someone under control."

"You have never heard of her, though—or of anyone in this vicinity—as a sister in the Art?"

"No. But there are so many lesser practitioners about that one cannot keep track of them all. Only the doings of the big ones provide general subjects for gossip."

"Such as those of your former employer?"

She turned toward him, eyes narrowed.

"Must you turn every conversation back to your enemy and your revenge?" she said. "I hate him, too, and I know he put you through a lot. He also killed my brother! But I'm sick of hearing about him!"

"I—I am sorry," he replied. "I suppose that I have become somewhat single-minded…"

She laughed.

" 'Somewhat'?" she said. "Do you live for anything else? Do you ever listen to yourself? The way he controls your every thought, your every action, you might as well be under his spell! If you succeed in destroying him, what then? Is there anything else left of your life? You—"

She broke off and turned away.

"I am sorry," she said. "I shouldn't have said any of that."

"No," he replied, not looking at her. "You're right. I never noticed. But you are right. Would you believe that I was raised to be a courtier—that I played music and sang, wrote poetry… ? I did other things later because of circumstances, but my birth was gentle. It was only by accident that I developed certain military aptitudes, and necessity that furthered such a career. I had always intended —something else. Now… How long ago all that seems! You have said something true. I wonder…"

"What?"

"What I would do if it were all over. Return to my homeland perhaps, try to resolve some ancient wrongs against our house—"

"Another vendetta?"

He laughed, a thing she had seldom heard.

"More likely a matter of dull legalities. I am going to think about it, and a lot of other things, now. Even the big—gap—in my life has shifted a bit, from nightmare to dream. Yes, I should occasionally concern myself with other matters."

"Such as?"

"What to do until dinner time, for one."

"I'll help you think of something," she told him, coming across the room.

The torches blazed and crackled and the sounds of music were all about them as Reynar and Oele entered her courtyard, riding across the long carpet, garlanded with flowers her servants had cast upon them as they passed through the gate. Oele nodded and smiled and the shadows danced and slithered. Then her expression froze as her gaze fell upon a dark shape in a distant corner, metallic highlights upon its surface. She drew rein and pointed.

"What," she asked in a loud voice, "is that?"

Andra rushed to her side.

"It belongs to a guest, mistress," she stated, "a man named Dilvish, who came by earlier. I offered hospitality, as you have always wished."

Oele dismounted, handing Andra the reins. She crossed the courtyard and stood before Black. Then she circled him, still staring. Finally she put out a jeweled hand and slapped his shoulder. A ringing sound followed. She backed away, then returned to Andra.

"How," she said, "did he transport a statue of a horse through the mountains? And why?"

"Well, it is a statue now, ma'am," Andra replied, "but he rode in on it. Said it wouldn't move when he left it there. It hasn't."

Oele looked back at Black. In the meantime, Reynar had dismounted and moved to her side.

"What is the matter?" he asked.

She took his hand and led him across the yard toward the main doorway.

"That—thing," she said, with a jerk of her head, "bore its master here earlier."

"How can that be?" Reynar asked. "It looks pretty stiff to me."

"Obviously our guest is a sorcerer," she replied. "I find this more than a little awkward."

"How so?"

"We hurried to get home today because it is tonight when the moon stands full in high heaven that I must do the things to insure the power of which I spoke."

"To grant me powers like your own?"

She smiled.

"Of course."

They mounted a stair and passed into a large entrance hall. There was more music, from somewhere off to the left. Reynar sniffed exotic perfumes.

"And this sorcerer… ?" he inquired.

"I don't care for the idea of having one of his sort about just now. His arrival is strangely timed."

Reynar smiled as she led him toward a stair.

"It may be that I can arrange the time of his departure to suit your taste," he said.

She patted his arm.

"Let us not be too hasty. We will dine with the man and take his measure shortly."

She led him up the stairway and into her chambers, where she rang for a servant. A woman resembling Andra, though taller and heavier, answered the summons.

"When," Oele asked her, "will dinner be ready?"

"As soon as you wish, ma'am. They are all dishes of a sooner or later sort. The meat has been turning slowly on a low flame for some time."

"We shall dine an hour hence. Ask the man to join us."

"Only the man, ma'am? Not his woman?"

"I did not realize that there were two of them. Say me their names."

"He is called Dilvish, and his lady is Reena."

"I've heard that name before," Reynar said. "Dilvish… It seemed familiar when the other one mentioned it out in the yard. A military man, perhaps?"

"I do not know," the woman answered.

"Of course you are to tell Reena also," Oele said. "Go and do it now."

The woman departed and Oele laid out her clothing for the evening—a surprisingly simple gray garment and a silver belt. She stepped behind a screen where water and towels awaited her, and shortly after that Reynar heard splashing sounds.

"What do you know of this man?" she finally called out.

Reynar, who had crossed to the window and was staring out over the yard, turned.

"I believe he is said to have distinguished himself at a place called Portaroy," he answered, "in those interminable East-West border wars. Something about his riding a metal horse and having raised an army of the dead. But I don't recall the details. I know nothing of the woman."

"He's a long way from Portaroy," she said. "I wonder what he is doing here?"

He moved to her dressing table where he combed his hair and cleaned his fingernails. He located a nondescript piece of cloth and began wiping his boots with it.

"Uh—if he is here for something which might be at cross-purposes with your own plans for tonight," he said, "can you deal with—something like that?"

"Do not worry yourself," she replied. "I am not without certain resources. I'll take care of you."

"I never doubted it," he said, smiling and polishing his belt buckle.

Reena had changed into a long, decollete green dress with black trim and puffed sleeves, Dilvish into a brown blouse and soft green leather vest, his black trousers belted with matching green. They heard the music from the dining hall as they descended the stair —strings and a flute, slow. Soon the cooking odors reached them.

"I'm anxious to meet our hostess," Dilvish stated.

"I must confess I am more anxious to make the acquaintance of a warm meal," Reena said. "How long since that last inn? Over a week…"

Smiling, Oele rose when her guests entered. Reynar hastened to imitate her. The introductions were brief, and she bade Dilvish and Reena be seated. Servants moved to bring in the first course and to pour wine. A fire crackled on the hearth, across from Dilvish, behind Reena. The musicians were stationed at the far end of the room.

They had been eating for several minutes before Dilvish realized that there was another diner, not in their company. At a small table at the far side of the fireplace sat an old man clad in skins, his staff leaning against the wall. It appeared to be the same man who had met them on the trail earlier. When their eyes met, he smiled and nodded. The man gestured toward his throat and Dilvish touched the charm inside his shirt and nodded back.

"I hadn't noticed the old man," Dilvish remarked.

"Oh, he's been by before," Oele said. "Keeps flocks. Passes this way occasionally. Reynar tells me that he believes he recalls your name in connection with a place called Portaroy. Did he get it right?"

Dilvish nodded.

"I fought there."

"I've begun remembering stories I've heard," Reynar said. "Is it true that the metal beast you ride is really a demon who helped you to escape from Hell and that one day he will carry you off?"

"He carries me off almost every day," said Dilvish, smiling, "and he has helped me in many ways—and I, him."

"… And there was some business about a statue. Is it true that you once were one—as the beast is now?"

Dilvish looked down at his hands.

"Yes," he said softly.

"Extraordinary," Oele remarked. "Might I ask what brings a man of your—background—so far from the scene of your triumphs?"

"Revenge," he said, beginning to eat again. "I am on my way to find someone who has caused me and a great number of other people a good deal of trouble."

"Who might that be?" Reynar asked.

"I do not wish to bring a curse upon this place by mentioning his name in it. He is a sorcerer."

"You seem to find yourself bad enemies," Reynar said. "We've that in common. I slew a sorcerer once, in the Eastern Isles. Damn near suffocated me before I could reach him. He'd stopped my breathing. Fortunately, I'd had some experience at pearl diving…"

Dilvish turned his attention back to his meal. A fresh question every now and then kept the sailor talking about his voyages. From the corner of his eye, Dilvish noted signs of growing exasperation on Oele's part, but she seemed to restrain herself each time he had thought her ready to silence the man. Then Dilvish realized from the direction of his smiles that Reena seemed to be listening to him with a growing fascination, even to the neglect of her food; nor were his smiles unreturned. Dilvish glanced at Oele and she quirked an eyebrow at him. He shrugged.

Suddenly everything about her was extremely beautiful and desirable. Far more so than moments before. He recognized the feeling, though the knowledge in no way detracted from the impression. Glamourie. He had felt it years before in his homeland. She was magically enhancing her natural appeal. Yet it lasted for but a moment, faded, and left her as she had been. What had been its purpose; he wondered. A promise? An invitation?

When they had finished eating, Oele rose, fixed him with her eyes, and said, "Come dance with me."

He got to his feet and moved alongside the table toward the vacant area at the end of the room near the musicians. As he did, he saw that Reena and Reynar were also rising.

He took Oele's hand and began to move to the music—stately, slow. It was a variation of something he had learned long ago, and he quickly met the rhythms. Oele moved with considerable grace, and whenever she faced him she was smiling. She seemed to be moving nearer on each such occasion.

"Your wife is very lovely," she said.

"She is not my wife," he replied. "I am escorting her to a city in the south."

"… And after that?"

"I will be about the business I mentioned earlier. I've no desire to expose another to the danger."

"Interesting," she said, turning away again. When next she faced him, she continued, "I gather you do not care to speak much about such things, but are you a binder of demons? Can you control them?"

Dilvish studied her face, learned nothing from it.

"Yes," he finally said. "I've some experience in the area."

After several more beats of the music, he asked, "Why?"

"If you were to succeed in binding a truly strong one to your will," she said, "might it not serve you well in this struggle with your sorcerer?"

"Possibly," he replied, raising her hand and lowering it again.

She brushed against him.

"It would be better," she said, "to control such a one than to have it control you, to order it about without having to pay it first—wouldn't you say?"

He nodded.

"That applies to most servants and services, doesn't it?" he said.

"Of course," she agreed. Then: "I have such a one about…"

"Here? In the castle?" Dilvish almost halted.

She shook her head.

"Nearby."

"And you want me to subdue it?"

"Yes."

"Do you know its name?"

"No. Is that important?"

"It is essential. I had assumed you knew something of these matters."

"Why?"

"There is that about you which bespeaks some involvement with such forces."

"I pay for my powers, but I do not understand them. I am tired of paying. If I get you the name will you take control of the devil and remain here with me?"

"… And Reena?"

"You said that she is not important, that you will be disposing of her shortly…"

"I did not say that she is not important. What of Reynar… ?"

"He is not important."

Dilvish was silent for several measures. Then: "If you merely wish to be rid of your demon, I might be able to manage it without the name," he said.

"I do not wish to be rid of it. I want to establish complete control over it."

"I am not at all sure your demon would be that beneficial to me, but if you had the name I might be persuaded to stay a little longer and see what I can do for you."

She was against him for a moment.

"I will enjoy persuading you," she said. "Perhaps even tomorrow."

Their hands rose and fell again. Dilvish glanced toward Reena and Reynar. They seemed to be talking, but he could not overhear what was being said.

As Reena rose from a curtsey in time to the music, she noted the direction of her partner's gaze and smiled.

"Ah, lady! You're about to pop out of that gown," he said. " 'Tis pity we're not alone somewhere, where the matter might be pursued to its proper conclusion."

"For how long have you known Oele?" Reena asked, still smiling.

"A few weeks."

"Men are hardly models of loyalty," she said. "But even so, it seems brief even for an infatuation."

"Well, now…" His face grew serious. He looked away from her breasts and glanced at Oele. "I've no reason to lie to a stranger. She's lovely and lively— but I'm just a bit afraid of her. You see, she's a sorceress."

"Nonsense," said Reena. "She did not respond to any of the recognition signs common in the profession when I made them to her."

"You?" he said, his eyes widening. "I don't believe it!"

She gestured and the room vanished. They danced through phosphorescent caverns, towering stalagmites standing like pillars all about. Moments later they swirled across pale sands on a green sea bottom, bright corals and brighter fish at every hand. This, too, passed in an instant, to be replaced by the star-strewn darkness of outer space, far from any habitation of men. Giantlike, godlike, they trod the constellations, silently, to the omnipresent measures of the dance. Her hand passed like a slow, flickering comet before his eyes. They were back in the firelit, candlelit hall again, continuing the dance, and not a step missed.

"I say that your lady is not a sorceress," Reena stated. "I really ought to know."

"Then what is she?" he asked. "I know she's certain powers to command. She's knocked men unconscious with a gesture. She's filled my fists with gold when there was no gold."

"That gold will turn to pebbles and dust," Reena said.

" 'Tis a good thing then that I spent it quickly," he replied. "I'd best avoid certain people next I pass that way. But if that isn't sorcery, what is?"

"Sorcery," she replied, "is an art. It requires considerable study and discipline. One must generally apply oneself for a fairly long period even to obtain the relatively modest status I have achieved. But there are some other routes to magical power. One might be born with a natural aptitude and be able to produce many of the effects without the training. This is mere wizardry, however, and sooner or later—unless one is very lucky or careful—such a one gets into trouble from lack of knowledge concerning the laws involved in the phenomena. I do not believe that this is the case with your lady, though. A wizard usually bears some identifying mark visible to others in the trade."

"What then is her secret?"

"She may draw her power directly from a magical being she either serves or controls."

Reynar's eyes widened and he looked toward Oele again. He licked his lips and nodded.

"I believe that's it," he said. Then: "Tell me, is such power transferable? Can it be shared?"

"Why, yes," she answered. "It could be done. The other would serve, also—or share control, as the case may be."

"Is there any danger in such a thing?"

"Well… possibly. There are too many things about the situation that I do not understand. But why would she want to share her power? I wouldn't."

He looked away.

"Perhaps I have too high an opinion of myself," he finally said. "How long will you be about?"

"We should be leaving in the morning."

"Where are you headed?"

"Southward."

"On your mission of vengeance?"

She shook her head.

"Not mine. His. I'll be starting a new life, perhaps in Tooma. He will be continuing on. I don't believe I can talk him out of it—or should if I could."

"In other words, you'll be going your own ways before very long?"

The right corner of her mouth tightened.

"It looks that way."

"Supposing," he said, "supposing we both just chucked everything and ran away together? I've my own ship, and it's south I'd be going if I were to be leaving suddenly. There are a lot of strange and interesting ports. There would be some excitement, new foods, dancing—and of course the good company of myself."

Reena was surprised to find herself blushing.

"But we've just met," she said. "I hardly know you at all. I—"

"It does work both ways, and I'll admit I'm an impulsive devil. But I've always been good to my women, for so long as we're together."

She laughed.

"It's a little too sudden, but thank you anyway. Besides," she said, "I'm more than a little afraid of the sea."

He shook his head.

"I had to try, as you're the loveliest thing I've ever seen. If you should change your mind while you're still in a position to do something about it, remember that I'm wavering here myself because of my fear. Your decision would make mine."

"I'm flattered," she said, "and it might be fun for a time, but no. You will have to make your own decision, for yourself."

"Then I've a mind to go along with things," he said, "and see what happens. The gain might still be great."

"I might guess at the things," said she, "and I wish you luck. When?"

He looked to the window, where a pale glow was now visible.

"The moon is rising," he replied.

"I'd suspected as much."

"How?"

"From your actions, your feelings."

"Well, is there any advice you might give me, seeing as you're familiar with these matters?"

She stared into his eyes.

"Run away," she said. "Go back to your ship, to the sea. Forget it."

"I've come this far," he answered.

She reached out and brushed her fingertips across his forehead as the music moved them nearer.

"Already the mark of death is beginning to appear upon your brow. Do as I say."

He smiled crookedly.

"You're a lovely lady, and mayhap a bit jealous of your skills—or fearful of what may happen should I gain a few myself. As I say, I've come this far, and I've a fair wind at my back. It's more to the setting of the sails I'd be concerned."

"In that case," she replied, "I can only give you a general caution: Be wary of what you may be presented to eat or drink."

"That's all?"

"Yes."

He smiled again.

"After a meal like this, that should be no problem. I'll be remembering you, and we may get together yet."

She blushed again and looked away.

Later, as the music drew to a close, he took her hand and led her back to the table for a sweet and a final round of wine.

When they had finished and were retiring, Dilvish felt a tugging at his sleeve as he followed the others from the hall. Turning, he saw that it was the old man who had sat by the fire.

"Good evening to you," Dilvish said.

"Good evening, sir. Tell me, are you going to be leaving now?"

Dilvish shook his head.

"We will be staying the night, leaving in the morning. Did you wish to travel with us?"

"No, merely to repeat my caution."

"What do you know that I don't?" Dilvish asked.

"I am not a philosopher, to answer such a thing," the man stated, taking hold of his staff, turning and limping off toward the kitchen.

… There was Jelerak, leaning above the sacrifice. Dilvish advanced upon him, blade in hand, kicking aside magical paraphernalia, cursing, rushing to the aid of the victim. Only… only now he was not rushing. He felt his limbs grow heavy, his movements slow. When he looked into the hate-filled eyes of the shadowy figure hovering before him, he looked past his own clenched fist, unnaturally whitened, grown stonelike in response to the clipped words that had summoned the forces that fell upon him like a torrent, constricting his insides, slowing his heartbeat… He swayed, he halted and grew numb—except for his spinal column, which seemed to be afire. Something was wrenching at his consciousness and a fault, gibbering voice reached him through a sound like a roaring wind. It felt as if he were being torn out of his body…

He was being shaken. He raised his hands and lowered them again. The panic began to recede as he realized that he was in bed.

"It's all right," Reena was saying. "A dream, a bad dream… It's all right."

"Yes," Dilvish finally said, rubbing his eyes. "Yes…"

He dropped his hands, patted her thigh.

"Thanks," he said. "Sorry to wake you."

"Go back to sleep," she answered.

"What is that?"

"What?"

"To the right," he said softly. "Look at the door."

There was a long pause, then: "I don't see it…"

"Neither do I."

He swung his feet to the floor, rose, and crossed the room. He halted near the place where the doorway should have been. He reached out and touched the wall, pressed upon it. He ran his fingertips along the stone. He moved from one corner to the other.

"It's not just a trick of the darkness," he said. "There is no door."

"Magic?" she said. "Or masonry?"

"I can't tell, and it doesn't matter," he replied. "Either way, we're prisoners. Get up and get dressed. Get your things together."

"Why?"

"Why? I'm going to try to get us out of here."

He moved across the room toward the narrow window.

"Wait! Are you certain it would be wise, even if you can find a way?"

"Yes," he replied. "When someone makes me a prisoner, I am certain that it is better not to remain one."

"But no attempt has been made to harm us—"

"Yet," he said. "I don't understand what you're getting at."

"It might be more dangerous outside than it is in here."

"Why do you say that?"

"Something is going on out there tonight. Something dangerous, I believe, from—hints—I got when I was talking with Reynar. I feel safe here. Why don't we just wait—until morning?"

"I will not be controlled," Dilvish stated, "if there is something I can do about it."

He leaned his head into the narrow window and shouted:

"Black! I need you! We're walled into this room! Come to me!"

There was movement within the well of shadow below and to his right. Moonlight touching its eyes to fire, the dark horse shape advanced several paces and halted. Abruptly it threw back its head and emitted a wailing note that caused Dilvish to draw away from the aperture.

"Black! What is it! What's the matter?" he cried.

"Just burned myself" came the reply. "Someone's encircled me. Can you break it from there?"

"I don't think so. Wait a minute."

He turned toward the bed.

"Someone's bound Black—" he began.

"I heard," she said. "I can't loosen it from here."

"All right."

He located his clothing and began dressing.

"What are you going to do?"

"It'll be a bit of a squeeze, but I believe I can get through that window."

"Those are flagstones down there."

He picked up a blanket and knotted it about the nearest bedpost.

"We've enough linen to get me far enough down to drop. Get the basin and soak it all. It's stronger that way. I don't think the bed can be moved, though… No, it won't budge."

He finished knotting the bedclothes together and slung his blade over his back. He raised the damp line and cast it out the window.

"All right. I'm going now," he said, kicking over a stool and mounting it. "Get ready. I'll be back for you shortly."

"But how—"

"Just do it."

He was already edging his way through the window. He had to pause to unsling his blade, holding it in one hand and the line in the other. He stopped, exhaled heavily, and resumed pushing himself to the left, slowly, feeling the stone grate across his backbone. Expelling more breath, he continued to slip sideways, his sternum also scraping slowly past the narrowest portion of the window. A cold night wind fell upon his face as he came free and reslung the blade over his back. Taking the line into both hands, he began his descent.

His Elfboots found purchase where others might have slipped. Leaning heavily, straining his arms, he backed down the wall. He paused to wipe his hands one by one as he descended, his weight wringing moisture from the taut cloth. He looked up once, looked down several times. The moon, climbing toward midheaven, cast a milky film upon the still courtyard beneath him and the grainy wall upon which he trod.

His intention when he reached the end of the line was to hang suspended at arm's length before dropping the remaining distance. However, his hands slipped free before he could achieve this position. As he tumbled backward, he felt his body jerked about, repositioned with respect to the ground, his charmed boots calling upon the forces necessary to assure his landing upon his feet.

He bent his knees. He threw himself forward into a roll as soon as he struck, his ankles still taking a heavy jolt upon the unyielding surface.

He rose quickly and buckled on his sword belt in a more traditional fashion, looking about, listening the while for any indications of approaching danger. Save for the wind and his own heavy breathing, however, he heard nothing. Nor did he see anything out of the ordinary.

He moved across the courtyard quickly and stood before Black.

"Who did it?" he asked.

"I don't know. I wasn't even aware that I was bound until I attempted to depart. Had I known what was going on, I certainly wouldn't have waited here for them to finish it. I can refresh you on the loosening procedure if you do not recall—"

"It takes too long," said Dilvish. "Since I can do a few things you can't, I'm simply going to break the circle and bring you out."

"It will be painful. It's a strong one."

Dilvish chuckled softly.

"Whatever, I've felt worse."

He moved forward, feeling first a tingling, then a fiery pain as he neared his mount. He paused for a moment in its midst and it rose to an agonizing peak, as if his entire body were burning inside and out, his head swimming. Then it began to subside. He reached out and touched Black with both hands.

"I've drained off the worst of it," he said, and he mounted. "Let's go!"

Black began to move. There was a tingling sensation, and then they were crossing the courtyard, heading toward the main entrance. Moments later they were through it.

"Up that stairway!" Dilvish said, and Black sprang forward, hooves clattering. "To the right and around when you reach the top. Then up the next stair."

Large standing candles flickered as they passed, tapestries flapped, hanging weapons chattered against stone walls.

"Turn right here"—at the top of the second stair. "Turn again—right. Slow now… Near the middle of the corridor. Hold it!"

Dilvish slid down and approached the wall, placing his hands flat upon it.

"It was here," he said. "Right about here—the door. Reena!"

"Yes"—faintly—from beyond the wall.

"I don't know what they did with it," Dilvish said. "But we need another one."

"I've a feeling," Black said slowly, "that the original one is still there, somewhere—that you were trapped by an illusion. But it is only a feeling, and I can't detect it either now. So we will start from scratch, so to speak."

Black reared, casting a giant shadow. As he did, there followed the first silence since they had entered the building. Through it, beyond it, Dilvish thought that he heard voices and footsteps, coming from the vicinity of the stair. No one was in sight, however, and moments later the nearer silence was shattered as Black's forelegs descended to strike against the wall.

Dilvish drew back as chips of stone flew about the hallway. Already Black was rearing again. His second blow struck sparks from the stone. The third time that he lunged a crack appeared within the wall.

A group of servants entered the corridor, clubs in their hands. They halted as Black rose up and struck again.

The woman, Andra, moved forward, calling to him.

"You said that the metal beast would not move!" she cried.

"… And I meant it—until I was made a prisoner," he answered.

Black crashed against the wall once again. Stone shattered and fell away. A head-sized hole appeared.

After several moments' hesitation, the servants— four men and two women—began to advance. Dilvish drew his blade. Black's next assault upon the wall tripled the size of the opening.

Dilvish moved toward the approaching servants. He lowered the point of his blade and drew it across the floor.

"I'll dismember the first person who crosses that line," he stated.

From behind him there came another crash and the sound of more falling masonry.

The advancing figures hesitated, halted. Black's next blow seemed to cause the entire castle to shudder.

"I'm through," he said simply, backing away from the opening.

"Reena?" Dilvish inquired, not moving his eyes from his muttering adversaries.

"Yes." Her voice was clear and near.

"Mount," he said. "We're getting out of here."

"Yes."

Dilvish heard the movements behind him. Then Black's shadow slid forward. He glanced up, mounted quickly behind Reena.

"Better get out of the way!" he announced. "We're coming through!"

He brandished his blade.

"Take us away," he said to Black, and they began to move forward.

The six figures pressed back against the wall to let them pass. They held their weapons at ready but made no attempt to use them as Black went by. They stared without expression and glanced back along the dust-filled hallway. Dilvish looked back, also, as Black made the first turn toward the stair. The doorway had reappeared, about two feet beyond the new opening in the wall.

Moments later they were moving down the stair. Nothing barred their way. They left the keep to find the courtyard still deserted. Crossing it, they saw that the portcullis was raised.

"Strange…" Dilvish remarked, gesturing.

"Perhaps," Reena said, as Black increased his pace and they rushed through. "I have your cloak here…"

"Hang onto it till we're farther away. Black, when you hit yesterday's trail, go left."

"The horses…" Reena said. "The other things…"

"I'm not about to go back for them."

Black began to climb, beneath a high moon. The cold winds caught at them as they passed, and at a great distance some creature barked, howled, and grew still. Reena looked back once at the castle, shuddered, then rested in the circle of Dilvish's arms.

"You are going to die, you know," she said. "He is going to kill you. You haven't a chance."

"Who?" he said.

"Jelerak. There is no way you will ever be able to destroy someone like that."

"Quite possible," Dilvish said, "but I have to try."

"Why?"

"He has done a lot of harm and he will do more unless someone stops him."

They reached the trail and Black bore them to the left, still mounting.

"There has always been evil in the world and there always will be. Why should you take it upon yourself to purge it?"

"Because I have seen his at closer range than most who live."

"And I am another who has. But I know that there is nothing I can do about it."

"We differ," he replied.

"I do not believe that it is a desire to do the world a good turn that drives you. It is hate and revenge."

"There is that, too."

"Only that, I think."

Dilvish was silent for a time. Then: "You could be right," he said. "I like to think that there is more to it than that. But I suppose that you could be right."

"It will warp you and ruin you, even if he does not destroy you. Perhaps it already has."

"I need it for now. It serves me. It gives me an edge. When its object has been removed, it will go, too."

"In the meantime, it leaves small room for anything else—like love."

Dilvish straightened slightly.

"I've room for many other feelings, only they must be subordinated for now."

"If I asked you to stay with me, would you?"

"For a time, I think."

"But only for a time?"

"That is all anyone can really promise."

"Supposing I asked you to take me with you?"

"I'd say no."

"Why? I could be of some help."

"I would not risk you. As I said, I've room for other feelings."

She rested her head upon his biceps for a moment.

"Here's your cloak," she finally said. "It's cold. We must be far enough away…"

"Hold it, Black. Stay a minute."

They began to slow.

He had watched Oele dance for Devil with a growing feeling of panic, there before the dark heap of stones with the silver dagger atop it, cup clutched in his hand, seeing the bright design occur on the ground about her, feeling the cold wind.

"Drink it all," she had told him. "It is a part of the ritual."

Reena's words came back to him as he looked down into the steaming cup. He had raised it and pretended to sip as Oele spun away into her dance. He had sniffed. It looked like mulled wine, but there was a peculiar odor to it. He had touched the moist rim with his tongue and known a bitter taste. When Oele was faced in his direction, he threw back his head and raised the cup as if he were draining it. When Oele faced away, he dashed it over his shoulder into the darkness.

Scheming bitch! he thought. She's not about to give you anything. My lovely Reena was right. I'd wager you're the sacrifice for something she wants. Let's just play at getting sleepy and see what happens next. Bitch!

He placed the cup on the ground and leaned upon the altar, watching the bright design become more elaborate. It was almost hypnotic, the way that she moved. Another man might have bolted and run, having reached the same conclusion as Reynar, but he had been sufficient to every occasion that brought him danger in the course of a very active life. He smiled as he watched Oele's form flowing beneath her light gray garment, remembering to yawn whenever she turned in his direction. Sad… He'd liked her more than most.

Then the panic had begun. A chill, out of all proportion with the wind and the night, crept across his neck, his shoulders. It was as if someone were standing right behind him, regarding him intently. He judged that he might be able to snatch up the dagger as he turned and defend himself adequately, keeping the altar between himself and his abrupt companion. Yet… He had never before felt himself an object of scrutiny with such intense accompaniments. The mere regard of a stranger had never caused a tingling in the hands, a tightening of the stomach, an absolute certainty of presence. Weakness invaded his limbs as he tried to tear his gaze from Oele's concluding movements to turn and consider the visitor.

You seek to defraud the priestess, came words like drops of blood into his mind, and by so doing, you would cheat me.

Who are you? he asked within himself, toward the other.

That you shall never know.

He leaned heavily upon the altar, using all of his strength to turn partway toward the presence, the edge of something absolutely black coming into his field of vision. A force seeming to emanate from it clamped down upon him with even greater firmness then, keeping him from turning any farther. He knew that he could never reach the dagger on the stone— and even if he could, that it would be of small avail against the thing that held him.

He slumped, as if totally drained, his left hand catching at the edge of the stone, his right falling loosely along his side. As he leaned farther forward, he saw that Oele was slowing, that what might be the final steps of the figures were bringing her closer to him. The moon, he had noted, was now almost directly overhead. He still felt the presence beyond the altar, but now its attention seemed nowhere near as intense as it had been moments before. He wondered whether it was communicating with Oele.

As he leaned just a little more, he kept his eyes focused upon her approaching form. Finally she halted, only a few paces away. The dance was finished. He had let his eyelids droop, his breathing deepen. But she was paying him no heed. Her attention appeared to be devoted to something beyond him.

He waited, wondering just how subdued he might really be, afraid to test it. The earlier panic had passed, to be replaced by the controlled tension, the heightened alertness that always came upon him at times of crisis.

Oele seemed to be speaking, though he could not hear the words, and then pausing as if listening, though he could not hear any replies. Finally she moved, passing before him with barely a glance, reaching out, taking up the dagger from the stony surface.

Then she turned toward him, her left hand moving as if to catch hold of his hair.

"Bitch!" he hissed, his right hand drawing the knife from his boot sheath and thrusting it forward and upward as he straightened, even as he felt the chilling power from behind the altar striving to control him once again.

The expression upon Oele's face was one of surprise. Her cry was brief and she slumped almost instantly, the sacrificial dagger slipping from her fingers.

He caught her as she fell, turned and cast her body back atop the altar.

"Here's your blood!" he snarled. "Take it and be damned with you!"

He held the knife before him and took a step backward, expecting a supernatural retaliation at any moment It did not follow. The dark presence remained beyond the form of his bleeding lover and he felt its scrutiny, but it made no effort to control him or to strike at him.

Finding that his strength was with him once more, he took another step backward and began glancing about him, seeking the safest avenue of flight.

"Sailor, sailor" came that voice which now seemed audible across the windy night. "Where are you going?"

"Away from this damned place!" he answered.

"Why did you come?"

He gestured with his blade.

"She'd promised me powers like her own."

"Then why do you flee?"

"She lied."

"But I do not. You can still have them."

"How? Why? What do you mean?"

"Two routes lie before me, and I am more loathe to give up this world than I had realized. I am not entirely pleased by this, but that is the case. Look back upon the castle from which you have come. It is yours if you want it, and everything in it. Or, if you bid me, it will vanish in the next instant, and I will raise you another place of your own desire—or not, as you would. You may have what she had— anything you want that I can give you—for I find myself in need of you."

"In what way?"

"She was my link to this plane of existence. I require a worshipper here in order to focus my energies in this world. She was the last. Now my presence will weaken here until I must retire to the places of the Old Ones. Unless I find a new worshipper."

"Me?"

"Yes. Serve me and I will serve you."

"… And if I say 'no'?"

There was a pause. Then: "I will not try to stop you. Perhaps I was actually finished with this place a long while ago and cling now only because of certain perceptions it affords me. I will not try to stop you."

Reynar laughed.

"Now, with so many things I'm wanting, I'd be a fool to turn down your offer, wouldn't I? You've just acquired an acolyte, a priest, a devotee—or whatever it takes. What say you grant me whatever powers the homicidal lady possessed and give me some quick instruction in the articles of the faith. There's a little filly I'd be riding before the night is through."

"Then put aside your weapon, sailor, and approach the altar…"

Dismounted, Dilvish and Reena were donning warmer clothing when Dilvish saw a figure approaching down the slope of a low hill ahead and to his right.

"Someone coming," he said to Reena, who immediately looked back in the direction of the castle.

"No. From over there," he said, gesturing. "We'd best be moving along."

He finished tying the parcel of their belongings and moved to help Reena to mount.

"Ho! Dilvish!" came a cry from the advancing figure. "Reena!"

They hesitated, staring through the night. Then the moonlight touched the approaching form.

"Wait up a bit! We've something to discuss!"

Black turned his head.

"I don't like this," he said. "Let's go."

Dilvish moved around him.

"I'm not afraid of Reynar," he answered.

For a moment he watched the man striding down the slope.

"What is it?" he called then. "What do you want?"

Reynar halted, perhaps twenty paces away.

"Want? Just the girl. Just Reena," he answered. "Unless you want to try being a statue again. We have an understanding."

Dilvish looked back.

"Is that true?" he asked.

"No—yes—no…" she answered.

"We seem to have a little confusion on this end," Dilvish called to Reynar. "I don't understand the situation."

"Ask her to tell you what happened to the door," the other said.

Dilvish looked again. Reena looked away.

"Well… ?" he said. "I'd like to know."

"It was my doing," she finally stated. "One of my better spells. To everyone else, the door had vanished. I could have walked out through it."

"Why? And how did he know about it?"

"Well… I told him that that was what I was going to do. In fact, I had just finished laying the spell when you awoke. That kept me from doing the second one."

"Second one? Of what sort?"

"A sleep spell. To keep you there while I did whatever I decided to do."

"I'm afraid I'm still lost. What were you deciding?"

"To run away with me," Reynar shouted down. "To teach me to use my new powers properly."

"Then I'm in the way," Dilvish said. "Why didn't you just tell me? I have no claim on you. I—"

"I said that I was deciding!" she almost snarled. "It would have been so easy if you had just stayed asleep!"

"Next time I'll know better."

"But I did decide! None of this should even have come up. I don't want to go with him. I want to continue as we were."

Dilvish smiled.

"Then there is no problem. Sorry, Reynar. The lady has made her choice. Let's go, Reena."

"Wait," Reynar said softly. "The decision, you see, is mine."

Dilvish looked to see a bright spark appear in the air high above the hilltop. It raced toward Reynar's extended right hand, growing as it approached. When it arrived, he held a cold blue ball of light that he drew back beyond his shoulder.

"You," he said to Dilvish, "have became extra baggage."

The globe flew from his hand. Dilvish attempted to dodge it, but it curved to follow him. It struck him full upon the breast, rebounded, and hit the ground some eight feet before him and to the left, where it exploded into a brilliant fountain of sparks, leaving a smoking hole in the earth.

Dilvish rushed forward. Reynar raised both hands and began gesturing with them.

Dilvish felt as if he were barely missing being buffeted. It was as if a series of gusts of gale force wind were breaking all about him, passing… He continued on up the slope, now able to make out the puzzled expression on the sailor's face.

"Devil lied to me," he said. "You should have been dead by now."

Dilvish's eyes went past him, to the low outline of the altar, Oele's body atop it, small and pale in the moonlight.

"Black!" he cried, as he began to understand. "Destroy that altar up ahead!"

Moments later he heard the sound of metal hooves. Reynar spun, pointing, and a line of flame raced from his extended finger, striking Black upon the left shoulder as he passed them by. The area reddened. But Black continued on his course without slowing, nothing in his movements even indicating an awareness of the effect.

Reynar spun to face Dilvish, stooping to rise with his blade in his hand.

"If the magic won't take you," he said, "here's something better."

Dilvish's own blade, four times the length of the other's, sighed into his hand. He moved forward to engage the other.

Reynar's fingers twitched, and his left hand described a sweeping gesture.

The blade was torn free of Dilvish's grip, spinning high into the air where it passed from sight.

"So it's only your person that is proof against the power," Reynar announced as he lunged.

Dilvish raised his cloak before him, twisting his left arm within it as he did so. The blade tore through the fabric a foot below his forearm. He pushed forward and downward as this occurred, at the same time drawing his own knife with his right hand and thrusting across with it.

Reynar recovered quickly, disengaging his own weapon, as Dilvish's blade struck his shoulder and ground on bone before it withdrew again. Crouching low then, they moved to circle one another. Reynar's left hand made a quick sweeping movement, and again Dilvish felt as if a mighty wind had passed him, though only the trailing corner of his cloak was taken by it. He felt a warmth upon his breast, and something caught at the bottom of his vision.

For an instant he glanced downward. There, where it had come free of his shirt, the charm the old man had given him was glowing faintly. He shook the cloak as Reynar thrust again, baffling the blade and riposting immediately, though he slashed only air, for the sailor had retreated nimbly. In the distance he heard the first crashing blow as Black struck at the altar.

Reynar's eyes had widened the moment they had rested upon the glowing amulet, as if some suspicion had at that instant been born. They were narrowed now, however, as he moved rapidly, almost too rapidly, to Dilvish's left. Dilvish half anticipated the stumble and quick recovery that followed. When that left hand moved again, it was not magic but a handful of dirt that was cast toward his face.

Loathe to lower the cloak, Dilvish shielded his eyes with his right forearm and twisted to the side, knowing that an attack would follow immediately. Reynar's knife grazed across his ribs on the left side. Hand still high, unable to gain a thrusting position in time, he brought the pommel of his weapon down upon the shoulder he had cut earlier. He heard a sharp intake of breath from the other and attempted to grapple with him. But Reynar pushed him away and danced back, tossing the blade from his right hand to his left, springing forward and slashing with it.

Dilvish felt the cut across the back of his hand as he heard Black strike at the altar stones again. He riposted, but Reynar was already out of range. Both their glances were momentarily drawn by a faint reddish light upon the hilltop, haloing Black and the altar.

Reynar raised his right hand, pointing at Dilvish as he had at Black earlier. The flame leaped toward his breast, struck in the vicinity of the glowing amulet, and veered away as if reflected from a mirror. Reynar immediately followed this with another attack with his blade.

He rushed and came in low. Dilvish struck the blade down. Reynar straightened suddenly then and his right hand shot forward, seizing the charm and jerking hard upon it.

The strand parted and Reynar retreated, bearing it away with him.

Above them the red glow brightened as Black reared once more, very slowly, as if struggling against some opposing force.

"Now let's see how you fare!" Reynar cried, and the fires danced at his fingertips, spread, and coalesced into a sword of flame.

As he stepped forward, the light flickered and died on the hilltop to the accompaniment of a shattering sound. Rocks bounced past them as Dilvish retreated, flapping his cloak, his own blade held low.

Reynar's attack cut a large rent in the material. Dilvish continued to retreat, and as the other brandished the blazing weapon it began to fade, flickering once—twice—and was gone.

'The story of my life," Reynar remarked, shaking his head, "The good things always seem to melt away."

"Let's just call the damned thing off," Dilvish said. "Your power is broken."

"Perhaps you're right," Reynar answered, lowering his remaining blade and taking a step forward.

He was standing uphill of Dilvish, and suddenly he dropped, sliding downward, his left foot hooking behind the heel of Dilvish's extended right leg, his right foot striking Dilvish below the kneecap, straightening, pushing.

As Dilvish toppled backward, Reynar was already recovering. He sprang forward as soon as he had, blade upraised, casting himself down toward the other's supine form.

Dilvish shook his head clear as Reynar launched himself, rolled once, and twisted. He blocked with his right arm as he moved his left into position. He felt Reynar stiffen as he struck the ground beside him, impaling himself upon the blade Dilvish had transferred. He held off Reynar's knife hand until the strength went out of it. Then he rose to one knee and turned the man over onto his back.

The sailor's face twisted in the moonlight.

"Leaping and not looking again…" he muttered. "It's finally caught up with me… Ow! that smarts! Don't be pulling it out—till after I'm gone, will you?"

Dilvish shook his head.

"—sorry I ever met her!"

Dilvish did not ask to whom he referred.

"I don't know—why he should have given me the power—you the protection…"

"I met a man not too long ago," Dilvish replied, "who was possessed of two very different minds in the one body. And I've heard of others. If it can be so with a man, then why not a god?"

"Devil," Reynar stated.

"Perhaps the distinction between the two is not so sharp as men would think—especially when times grow hard. I knew this place long ago. It was different."

"The devil with them all, Dilvish the damned! The devil with them all!"

Something went out of him and Reynar slumped, his face finally loosening.

Dilvish withdrew his blade and cleaned it. Only then did he look up at Black, who had approached noiselessly and stood watching. Reena stood farther away, weeping.

"Your sword fell over there," Black said, turning his head back and to his right. "I passed it on the way down."

"Thanks," said Dilvish, rising.

"… And the castle is gone. I noticed that on the way down, too."

Dilvish turned and stared.

"I wonder what became of our horses?"

"They are wandering below. I can fetch them."

"Do it, then."

Black turned and moved off.

Dilvish walked over to Reena.

"Can't dig here," he said. "I'll have to use rocks."

Reena nodded. He reached out and squeezed her shoulder.

"You couldn't have foreseen all this."

"I saw more than I realized," she said. "I wish now I'd realized more—or seen less."

She turned away and his hand slipped from her shoulder. He went to fetch the other blade.

They had traveled this night until they came to a rocky bay free of the winds, near to the edge of the snowline, just above the point where the trail began its downward twisting toward the plains and springtime. There they sheltered and slept, the horses roped in at the rear of the windbreak behind them, Black as still as a piece of the landscape farther ahead.

Dilvish stirred from his sleep as the sky grew pink in the east. His wounds throbbing dully, he sat up and drew on his boots. Neither Reena nor Black stirred as he passed, heading toward the skin-clad figure with the staff at the right of the trail.

"Good morning," he said softly.

The old man nodded.

"I want to thank you for the charm. It saved my life."

"I know."

"Why did you do it?"

"You once made an offering to Taksh'mael."

"That is so important?"

"You are the last to remember his name."

"Don't you count?"

"I cannot qualify as a worshipper, save in the most narcissistic sense."

Dilvish looked at him once again. The figure seemed taller, nobler, and there was that in his eyes which caused him to look instantly away—a sense of unearthly depth, a power.

"I am going now," he continued. "It was not easy to free myself from this place. Come, walk with me a way."

He turned and moved upward without looking back. Dilvish followed him toward the fringes of the snow, his breath steaming before him.

"Is it a good place to which you go?"

"I like to think so. I heard you earlier. It is true that anyone can be of—two minds. Now I am of but one, and I owe you thanks for that."

Dilvish blew upon his hands and rubbed them together as the landscape grew white about them.

"At the moment, I am possessed of more power than I need. Is there anything I can give you?"

"Could you give me the life of a sorcerer named Jelerak?"

Ahead, he saw the other's stride falter for a moment.

Then: "No" came the reply. "I do know of this one, but what you ask would be no easy thing. It would take more than I have to give. He is not easily dealt with."

"I know. It is said that he is the best."

"Yet there exists at least one who might destroy him on his own terms."

"And who might that be?"

"The one of whom you spoke earlier. Ridley is his name."

"Ridley is dead."

"No. Jelerak defeated him but had not the strength to destroy him. So he imprisoned him beneath the fallen Tower of Ice, whence he planned to return when he regained his strength, there to finish the work."

"That doesn't sound too promising."

"But he cannot do it."

"Why not?"

"Their conflict drew the attention of the greatest sorcerers in the world. For ages have they sought a weapon against Jelerak. When he departed without succeeding in destroying his enemy, they combined their forces to lay a magical barrier about the broken tower, a barrier not even Jelerak can penetrate. Now they have their surety. If he ever presses them too hard, they can threaten to lift it, to release Ridley."

"And Ridley would destroy him the next time?"

"I do not know. But he would have more of a chance than most."

"Could I release Ridley, unaided?"

"I doubt it."

"Could you do it?"

"I fear that I must be going now. Sorry."

He gestured toward the east where the sun was beginning its ascent. Dilvish looked in that direction, to where it parted the clouds like scarlet curtains. When he looked back, the other was far above him, climbing with an amazing speed and agility across the sparkling snowface. Even as Dilvish watched, he rounded a rocky shoulder and passed out of sight.

"Wait!" he cried. "I've more things to ask you!"

Ignoring his assorted pains, Dilvish began to climb, following the other's trail. Before long he noticed that the rough prints grew farther and farther apart, yet paradoxically were shallower and shallower, until, rounding the shoulder, he found only one, very faint. The following afternoon, they rode out of the mountains. He did not tell Reena about Ridley.

In the high place, when the moon is full, the witch-fires rise and the ghost of the girl Oele dances before the shattered altar, though no Devil comes, but sometimes there is the form of another watching from the shadows. When the final stone is fallen, he would bear her off to the sea.

GARDEN OF BLOOD

Earning his passage and pay as a scout, Dilvish rode on ahead of the caravan that day, checking the pass- worthiness of mountain trails and investigating side ways for possible hazards. The sun had reached midday when he descended the far side of the low Kalgani range and moved through the foothills into the widening valley opening into the wood beyond which lay the plains.

"A singularly uneventful passage," Black commented, as they paused upon a hilltop to regard the twisting of the trail toward the distant trees.

"In my day," said Dilvish, "things would probably have been different. This area was full of robber bands.They followed the sun. They preyed upon travelers. Occasionally they would even join together to raid one of the small towns hereabout."

"Towns?" said his great, dark mount whose skin shimmered like metal. "I have seen no towns."

Dilvish shook his head.

"Who knows what might have happened in two hundred years?" He gestured downward. "I believe there was one right below us. Not large. It was called Tregli. I stayed at its inn on several occasions."

Black looked in that direction.

"Are we going down there?"

Dilvish glanced at the sun.

"It is lunchtime," he observed, "and the winds are strong here. Let's go a little farther. I'll eat down below."

Black leaned forward and began descending the slope, picking up speed as the land leveled, making his way back onto the trail. Dilvish looked about him as they went, as if seeking landmarks.

"What are those flashes of color?" Black asked him. "Some distance ahead."

Dilvish regarded a small area of blue, yellow, white —with an occasional flash of red—that had just come into view around a far-off bend.

"I don't know," he said. "We might take a look."

Several minutes later, they passed the vine-covered remains of a low stone wall. Ahead lay strewn stones in patterns vaguely reminiscent of the outline of a building's foundation. Here and there, as they advanced, they noted depressions at either hand, disposed in such fashion as to indicate that here might have been cellars, now rubble-filled and overgrown.

"Hold," Dilvish said, pointing ahead and to his left to a place where a section of wall still stood. "That is the front of the inn I mentioned. I'm sure of it. I think we are on the main street."

"Really?"

Black began to dig at the turf with one sharp, cloven foot. Moments later a spark flashed as he struck a cobblestone. He widened the hole, to reveal more cobbles adjoining it.

"This does appear to have been a street," he said.

Dilvish dismounted and walked to the crumbling section of wall, passed it, moved about in the area behind it.

After several minutes he returned.

"The old well is still in sight out back," he said. "But its canopy's collapsed and rotted, and it's covered over with vines now."

"Might I suggest you save your thirst for that stream we passed in the hills?"

Dilvish held up a spoon.

"… And I found this part-buried where the kitchen used to be. I might have eaten with it myself, years ago. Yes, this is the inn."

"Was," Black suggested.

Dilvish's smile vanished and he nodded.

"True."

He tossed the spoon back over his shoulder and mounted.

"So much has changed…"

"You liked it here?" Black asked as they moved forward again.

"It was a pleasant stopping place. The people were friendly. I had some good meals."

"What do you think might have happened? Those robbers you mentioned?"

"Seems a good guess," Dilvish replied. "Unless it was some disease."

They moved along the overgrown trail, a rabbit starting before them as they passed toward the far end of the town.

"Where did you want to take your meal?" Black inquired.

"Away from this dead place," Dilvish said. "Perhaps in that field ahead." He drew a deep breath. "It seems to have a pleasant smell to it."

"It's the flowers," Black said. "Full of them. It was their colors we saw from above. Weren't they there— in the old days?"

Dilvish shook his head.

"No. There was something… I don't quite recall what. Sort of a parklike little area out this way."

They passed through a grove of trees, came into the clearing. Large, poppylike blossoms, blue, white, yellow —the occasional red—moved almost as high as Black's shoulder, swaying on hairy, finger-thick stalks. They faced the sun. Their heavy perfumes hung in the air.

"There is a clear, shaded area at the foot of that large tree—to the left," Black observed. "There even seems to be a table you could use."

Dilvish looked in that direction.

"Aha!" he said. "Now I remember. That stone slab isn't a table. Well… In a way, it is. It's an altar. The people of Tregli worshipped out here in the open— Manata, goddess of growing things. They left her cakes and honey and such on the altar. Danced here. Sang here, of an evening. I even came to one of the services. They had a priestess… I forget her name."

They came up beneath the tree, where Dilvish dismounted.

"The tree has grown and the altar's sunk," he remarked, brushing debris from the stone.

He began to hum as he rummaged in a saddlebag after a meal—a simple, repetitive tune.

"I've never before heard you sing, whistle, or hum," Black commented.

Dilvish yawned.

"I was just trying to recall the tune I heard that evening I was here. I believe that's how it went."

He seated himself with his back against the bole of the tree and began to eat.

"Dilvish, there is something strange about this place…"

"It seems strange to me just by virtue of its having changed so," he replied, breaking off a piece of bread.

The wind shifted. The odors of the flowers came to them more strongly.

"That is not what I mean."

Dilvish swallowed and smothered another yawn.

"I don't understand."

"Neither do I."

Black lowered his head and ceased all movement.

Dilvish looked about him and listened for a long while. The only sounds, however, were the rustling of the grasses, the flowers, the leaves in the tree above him, stirred by a passing wind.

"There does not seem to be anything unusual about," he said softly.

Black did not reply.

Dilvish regarded his mount.

"Black?"

Carefully he loosened his blade and gathered his feet beneath him. He moved the balance of his lunch over to the slab.

"Black!"

The creature stood unmoving, unspeaking, like a great, dark statue.

Dilvish rose to his feet, stumbled, leaned back against the tree. His breathing came heavy.

"Is it you, my enemy?" he asked. "Why don't you show yourself?"

There came no reply. He looked out across the field again, breathing the heady perfume of the flowers. His vision began to waver as he stared, smearing the colors, distorting the outlines.

"What is happening?"

He took a step forward, and another, staggering in Black's direction. When he reached him, he threw an arm about his neck and leaned heavily. Suddenly he drew his shirt upward with his left hand and pressed his face into it.

"Is it a narcotic… ?" he said, and then he sagged, slipping partway to the ground.

Black still did not move.

There were cries in the darkness and loud voices shouting orders. Dilvish stood in the shadow of the trees; a giant, heavily built man with a curly beard stood motionless nearby. The two of them peered in the direction of the flickering lights.

"The whole town seems to be burning," came the deep voice of the larger man.

"Yes, and it sounds as if those who follow the sun are butchering the inhabitants."

"We can do no good here. There are too many of them. We would only get ourselves hacked to bits, also."

"True, and I had looked forward to a quiet evening. Let us skirt the place and be on our way."

They drew back farther into the shadows and made their way past the scene of carnage. The screams were fewer now, as the number of dead increased. Many of the men were stacking loot and drinking from bottles taken from the flaming inn. A few still stood in line where the remaining women lay disheveled, eyes wide, garments rent. Across the way, a roof suddenly collapsed, sending a fountain of sparks into the night air.

"If a few should stagger our way, though," the curly haired man remarked as they passed, "let's hang them by their heels and gut them, to square accounts somewhat with the gods."

"Keep your eyes open. You may get lucky."

The other chuckled.

"I never know when you're joking," he said after a time. "Maybe you never are. That can be funny, too— for others."

They moved along a rocky, brush -strewn declivity paralleling the town. At their left, the cries grew fainter. An occasional burst of flame still sent shadows dancing about them.

"I wasn't joking," Dilvish said a little later. "Maybe I've forgotten how."

The other touched his shoulder.

"Up ahead. The clearing…" he said.

They halted.

"Yes, I remember…"

"There is something there."

They began to move again, more slowly. A regular flickering of light, as from a number of torches, came from the farther end of the field in the vicinity of a large, heavy-limbed tree.

Drawing nearer, they saw a knot of men at the small stone altar. One of them sat upon it, drinking from a wine bottle. Two others were bringing a blondhaired girl in a green garment across the field, her hands bound behind her back. She spoke, but her words were indistinguishable. She struggled, and they pushed her. She fell, and they drew her to her feet again.

"I recognize that girl," Dilvish said. "It's Sanya, their priestess. But—"

He raised his hands to his head, pressed them to his temples.

"But—what happened? How did I come to be here? It seems that I saw Sanya long, long ago…"

He turned and stared into his companion's face, taking hold of his arm.

"You," he said, "my friend… It seems I have known you for ages, yet—Forgive me… I cannot recall your name."

The other's brow tightened as his eyes narrowed.

"I—You call me Black," he said suddenly. "Yes— and this is not my customary form! I begin to remember… It was daytime, and this field was full of flowers. I believe that we slept… And the village! It was but a bare remnant—"

He shook his head.

"I do not know what happened— what spell, what power brought us to this place."

"Yet you have powers of your own," Dilvish said. "Can they help us? Can you still use them?"

"I—I don't know. I seem to have forgotten—some things."

"If we die here—in this dream, or whatever it is— do we truly die? Can you divine that?"

"We—It is coming clearer now… The flowers of the field sought our lives. The red ones are those that have slain travelers. They drug you with their perfumes, then twine about you and draw out your life. Yet something has interfered with their attempt on us. This is not a dream. We are witnessing what actually occurred. I do not know whether we can change what has already happened. Yet we must be here for a reason."

"And can we die here?" Dilvish repeated.

"I am sure of it. Even I, if I fall in this place— though I can foresee all sorts of intriguing theological problems."

"Bugger them!" Dilvish said, and he began to move forward, making his way through the shadows around the edge of the clearing, heading toward the far end. "I believe they mean to sacrifice the priestess on the altar of her own goddess."

"Yes," Black said, moving silently behind him. "I don't like them, and we are both armed. What do you say? There's quite a number at the stone and two with the girl… But we should be able to get very close without being seen."

"I agree. Can you use that blade —this being an unfamiliar form and all?"

Black chuckled.

"It is not totally unfamiliar," he replied. "The two on the right will never know how they got to Hell. I suggest that you deal with the one on the end while I'm sending them on their way. Then dispatch that one to the left." He drew a long, double-handed blade soundlessly, holding it with one hand. "They may all be a bit drunk, too," he added. "That should help."

Dilvish drew his blade. They moved nearer.

"Say when," he whispered.

Black raised his weapon.

"Now!"

Black was little more than a blur in the flickering light. Even as Dilvish fell upon his man to slay him, a gory head bounced near his foot, and Black's second victim was already falling.

A great cry went up from the others as Dilvish tore his blade free from the body of the man he had slain and turned to face another. Black's blade descended again, hacking off a man's swordarm at the elbow, and his left foot flew forward, catching the man on the slab in the small of the back. Dilvish thought that he heard his spine snap as the man was hurled to the ground.

But now there were blades in the hands of the remaining men, and from across the field in the direction of the burning town there came a series of cries. From the side of his eye, Dilvish saw a number of figures rushing toward them, weapons in their hands.

He drove his second man several paces backward, beat his guard aside, kicked him in the kneecap, and cut halfway through his neck with a heavy blow.

He turned to cut at another who was coming fast upon him, noting that Black had brained one man against the side of the altar and skewered another with his long blade, raising him up off the ground with the force of his thrust. By now there were cries all around them.

He got inside his opponent's reach and used the guard of his weapon as a knuckle-duster against the man's jaw. He kicked him as he fell and ran the point of his blade into another's guard, severing fingers as he drew it back. The man screamed and dropped his weapon. Ducking a head cut, Dilvish swung low and cut another behind the knee, hamstringing him. He backed away from two more then and circled quickly, getting one into the other's way, beating and thrusting, being parried, parrying himself, thrusting again, slipping around a parry and slashing a wrist. From somewhere he heard Black bellow—a half-human, half-animal sound— followed moments later by a series of different voices screaming.

Dilvish tripped the injured man and stamped on him, caught the other in the stomach with his blade, felt a stinging in his shoulder, saw his own blood, turned to face a new attacker…

He dispatched this man in an almost dreamlike series of movements. Another, who was rushing toward him, slipped on a patch of freshly spilled blood and Dilvish finished him before he could rise again.

A club struck him on the side. He doubled for a moment and backed away, swinging wide parries. He saw Black nearby, still felling his attackers with almost reckless swordplay. He was about to call out to him, that they might get back to back for a more complete defense—

A sharp cry rang out and the attackers hesitated. Heads turned in the direction of the altar, and motion was frozen for a moment.

The priestess Sanya lay across the stone, bleeding. A tall, fair-haired man had just withdrawn a blade from her breast. Her lips were still moving, either in curse or prayer, but the words were inaudible. The man's lips were moving, too. Across the field a fresh group of men was advancing from the direction of the town. A red trickle began at the left corner of Sanya's mouth and her head suddenly slumped to the side, eyes still open, unseeing. The blond man raised his head.

"Now bring me those two!" he cried, raising his blade once more and pointing it toward Dilvish and Black.

As he did this, the man's sleeve fell back revealing a series of bluish tattoos along his right forearm. Dilvish had seen such markings before. Various hill-tribe shamans scored themselves in this fashion, each marking representing a victory over some neighbor and adding to the wearer's power. What was such a man doing with this band of ragged cutthroats—obviously their leader? Had his tribe been destroyed? Or—?

Dilvish drew a deep breath.

"Don't bother!" he shouted. "I'm coming!"

He sprang forward.

His blade engaged the other's across the altar, was beaten back. He began to circle. So did the shaman.

"Did your own people drive you away?" Dilvish asked. "For what crimes?"

The man glared for but a moment, then smiled and with a sweeping gesture halted the men who were now rushing to his aid.

"This one is mine," he stated. "You deal with the other."

He moved his left forearm, which was also covered with tattoos, across his body and touched it to his blade.

"You recognize what I am," he said, "and still you challenge me. That is rash."

Flames sprang up along the length of the blade that he held. Dilvish narrowed his eyes against the sudden glare.

The weapon traced confusing lines of fire as the other moved it. Still, Dilvish parried its first thrust, feeling a momentary warmth upon his hand as he did so. From over his shoulder he heard Black's battle cry and a resumed clashing of arms. A man screamed.

Dilvish swung into an attack that was parried by the blazing blade, feeling the increasing heat of that weapon across his wrist as he parried in turn and sought an opening.

They drew away from the altar and the tree, testing one another's defenses upon the open field. From the sounds, somewhere behind him now, Dilvish knew that Black was still holding his own. How long could that continue, though? he wondered. Despite his great strength and speed, there were so many moving against him…

His sleeve began to smoulder as they swaggered blades. The shaman, he realized, was a good swordsman. Unlike his men, he was also cold sober—and he was not as winded as Dilvish.

What was the meaning of all this? he wondered, throwing a head cut that he knew would not get through the other's guard, backing away, and parrying the riposting chest cut that arrived with great force, pretending to stumble and recovering, hopefully to make the other overconfident. Why were they here?

Why had Black been transformed, and the two of them set upon the scene of this ancient massacre?

He continued to back away, giving only half-feigned indications of fatigue, studying the other's style, blinking against the glare of that blade, his right hand now feeling as if it had been in a furnace. Why had he rushed to the aid of an already doomed girl, and against such odds?

A vision suddenly crossed his mind, of another night, long ago, of another girl about to be sacrificed by another magician, of the consequences of his act… He smiled as he realized that he had done it again and knew that he would do it yet again if the situation recurred—for this was something he had often wondered over through long days of pain. In that fleeting instant, he saw something of himself—the fear that his trials had broken a thing within him, a thing that he now saw to have remained unchanged.

He tried another head cut. There had been something about the shaman's return on the last one…

Had some kindly disposed deity anticipated his action, seen some incomprehensible use for it in this battle, granted him this small insight into his own character as a death boon? Or—?

Yes! The riposte came too strong again! If he were to back away and flash his blade beneath and around…

He began to plan the maneuver as he gave ground and pretended once again to stumble.

He heard Black shout an oath, from somewhere off to his right, and another man screamed. Even if he slew the shaman, Dilvish wondered, how long would the two of them last against the men remaining on the field and the men still on their way from the burning town?

But then—and Dilvish could not be certain that it might not be an effect of the blazing blade upon his watering eyes—the entire prospect before him seemed to ripple and waver for a moment. Everything appeared frozen in that instant—his own parry, the grimace on the shaman's sweat-stained face… In that splinter of timelessness, he saw his opportunity.

He threw a head cut.

The other parried, and the flaming arc of the riposte came flashing toward his chest.

He moved back, whipping his blade clockwise and around and up. The point of the flaming blade tore through the sleeve of his jacket above his right biceps as it passed.

Twisting, he caught hold of his burnt right wrist with his left hand, blade straight ahead and pointing at the other's breast. Already off-balance from the movement, he threw himself forward and saw his weapon pierce the shaman as they both fell, feeling for a moment the other's hot blade upon his right thigh.

Then again the wavering, the timeless pulse, prolonged…

He pulled himself back, withdrawing his blade. Colors—flame, brown, green, bright red—began to smear about him. The burning blade flickered, dimmed, went out, where it lay upon the ground. Then it, too, was but a dark smudge upon a changing canvas. The sounds of conflict grew still in Black's quarter.

Dilvish got to his feet, his blade at guard, his arm tensed to swing it. But nothing more approached.

From the end of the field, in the direction of the altar where the dead priestess lay, a voice seemed to be speaking—feminine, and a trifle strident. Dilvish looked in that direction and immediately averted his still-watering eyes, for there was only light, brightening from heartbeat to heartbeat.

"I heard my hymn, Deliverer" came the words, "and when I looked, I saw that within you which I might trust. An old wrong cannot be undone, but long have I awaited this cleansing, of those who follow the sun!"

About him, as through a frosted glass, Dilvish saw the standing forms of many of the men who had come to attack them. They wavered and their outlines blurred even as he looked. Yet one of them seemed to have come up, soundlessly, upon his left…

The voice softened:

"… And to you, who cared for this place—if but for a brief while—my blessing!"

The man seemed so near now, blade upraised, swaying from side to side in slow motion. The other men had all become smears of color in a brightening light—and this one, too, seemed to be changing even as Dilvish swung his blade—

The flower fell.

Dilvish put forth his hand for something to lean upon, found nothing, used his blade as a cane.

He heard a single stamping sound, then silence. About him, the place was filled with the sunlight of an afternoon. Amid the long grasses there were cut and trampled flowers, near and far. Those that yet stood still faced the sun, swaying.

"Black?"

"Yes?"

Dilvish turned his head. Black was shaking his.

"Strange visions…" he began.

"But no dream," Black finished, and Dilvish knew by the throbbing of his reddened hand and the blood that still came from numerous cuts that this was true.

"Manata," he said, "I will finish the work, for that which you have shown me."

As they mounted into the foothills, Black remarked, "It was good to fight beside you that way. I wonder whether I might learn that spell."

"It was good to have you there," Dilvish replied, as they headed into their lengthening shadows. "Very good."

"Now you can tell the caravan chiefs that their way is clear."

"Yes. Did you hear it, too?"

Black was silent for a time. Then: "Flowers do not scream," he said.

Below and behind them, the smoke still rose and drifted across the shortening day.

DILVISH, THE DAMNED

Dilvish was three days out of Golgrinn, where he had worked for two weeks on a crew repairing the city's walls, which had been damaged during an unsuccessful siege by an outlaw band. It had been hard, dusty labor, but the workers had been fed well, and he had earned enough coin to fill his purse after nearly doubling the amount of his wages by gaming in the tavern. Now, supplies in his bags, he was headed south on a sunny, late afternoon, moving through hilly, forested country toward the Kannai range. Always toward the Kannais now. He had set his course in that direction over a month before, when the blind poet and seer, Olgric, had told him that he would find there the thing that he sought. At an old castle that some called Timeless…

Riding, thinking of this thing, he rounded a bend to see his way barred by a man with a drawn blade.

"Traveler, draw rein!" the man shouted. "I'll have your purse!"

Dilvish glanced quickly to both sides of the trail. The man appeared to be without companions.

"Up yours!" he said then, and he drew his own weapon.

His great dark mount did not slow his pace but bore directly toward the man. When the stranger's gaze fell upon Black's burnished hide, he leaped out of the way, swinging a cut at Dilvish as he passed.

Dilvish parried the stroke but did not return it.

"An amateur. Keep going," he said to Black. "Let him spend his blood on another."

Behind him, the man hurled his weapon to the ground.

"Shit!" he cried. "Why didn't you strike?"

"Hold on, Black," Dilvish said.

Black halted, and Dilvish turned and looked back.

"I beg your pardon. But you've aroused my curiosity," he said. "You wanted me to take a swing at you?"

"Any decent traveler would have cut me down!"

Dilvish shook his head.

"I believe you require additional instruction in the principles of armed robbery," he said. "The idea is to enrich yourself at the other's expense without suffering personal injury. If injury is to be incurred, it should be to the other party."

"Up yours," the man said, a crafty gleam coming into his eye. He stooped quickly then and snatched up his blade. He rushed toward Dilvish, waving it on high.

Not yet having sheathed his own weapon, Dilvish merely waited. When the other swung, he beat the blade heavily aside. It flew from the man's hand, landing several paces back along the trail.

Dilvish dismounted quickly and strode to the rear. He set his foot upon the weapon before the other could reach it.

"You did it again! Damn! You did it again!" The man's eyes had grown moist. "Why didn't you hit back?"

Suddenly he rushed forward and tried to impale himself upon Dilvish's blade.

Dilvish moved the point aside and caught hold of the stranger by the shoulder. He held a small man with a dark fringe-beard and dark eyes, a silver ring in his left ear. At closer range he appeared older than he had at first, with a fine meshwork of wrinkles about his eyes.

"If you need a few coins or some bread," Dilvish stated, "I'll give them to you. I don't like to see such desperation—stupid desperation, at that."

"I'm not interested!" the other cried.

Dilvish tightened his grip as the man began to struggle.

"Well, what the hell are you after, then?"

"I wanted you to kill me!"

Dilvish sighed.

"Sorry, but I won't oblige. I'm particular about the people I kill. I don't like to have these things forced upon me."

"Let me go then!"

"I'm not going to keep playing this game. If you're so anxious to die, why don't you do it yourself?"

"I'm a coward when it comes to that. I got ready to several times, but my nerve always failed."

"I've a feeling I should have kept riding," Dilvish said.

Black, who had drawn nearer and was studying the man intently, nodded.

"Yes," he hissed. "Render him unconscious and let us be on our way. There is something strange here. A sense I'd forgotten I have is beginning to operate."

"It talks…" the man said softly.

Dilvish raised his fist, then paused.

"It can't hurt to hear his story," he said.

"It was curiosity made you halt," Black told him. "Triumph over it this time. Hit him and leave him to whatever fate he has earned."

But Dilvish hesitated before the morass of moral victory. He shook his head.

"I want to know," he stated.

"Damned primate curiosity," Black said. "What good could the knowledge possibly do you?"

"For that matter, what harm could it do?"

"I could speculate for hours, but I won't."

"It talks," the man repeated.

"Why don't you do the same?" Dilvish said. "Tell me why you are so anxious to die."

"I'm in such bad trouble that it's the only way out."

"I've a feeling it's a long story, too," Black stated.

"Moderately so," the man said.

"In that case, it's dinnertime," Dilvish said, reaching for a saddlebag. He relaxed his grip on the man's shoulder. "Join me?" he asked him.

"I'm not hungry."

"It's better to die on a full stomach, I'd say."

"Perhaps you're right. Call me Fly," he said.

"Odd name."

"I scale walls." He massaged his shoulder. "I get into the damnedest places."

Dilvish sheathed his blade, removed some meat and bread and a wine flask from the bag. Black moved to stand above Fly's fallen weapon.

"Dilvish," Black began, "there is something not right about this place."

Dilvish moved toward a small clearing beside the trail, bearing the food. He glanced at Fly.

"Can you enlighten us on that subject?" he asked.

Fly nodded.

"It's right," he said. "They've drawn back. They're puzzled by you and that—" He gestured toward Black. "But I can't avoid them forever."

"What are they?"

Fly shook his head and seated himself on the ground.

"It will make more sense if you let me tell it the way that it happened."

Dilvish cut the food with his dagger, dividing it. He opened the wine.

"Go ahead."

"I steal things," Fly began. "Oh, not like I tried with you. Never at sword's point. I go to a place and find out where valuable things are kept. I figure how to get to them. I leave fast afterward and dispose of the items at a good distance from the places I acquired them. Sometimes I'm commissioned to obtain a particular thing. On other occasions I'm strictly on my own."

"A risky sort of life," Black commented, moving nearer. "I'm surprised it's lasted as long as it has."

Fly shrugged.

"It's a living," he said.

There came a rustling noise in the woods, as of a large body passing through the undergrowth. Fly leaped to his feet and faced in that direction. He stood staring for some time, but the sound was not repeated. He moved off several paces then, reached into a hollow at the end of a fallen tree and withdrew a small brown backpack. "Still here," he said as he pulled it forth. "How I wish it weren't."

He regarded the forest once again, then moved back toward Dilvish and Black, carrying the pack.

"You stole something, and this time they're on your trail," Dilvish suggested.

Fly took a long swallow of the wine.

"That's a part of it," he said.

"And we may be in danger as we sit here," Dilvish said.

"Possibly. But not in any fashion you're likely to guess."

"Come on, Dilvish," Black said. "Let's not be foolish about this. He's not talking about human beings. Are you, Fly?"

Fly took a moment to answer, having stuffed his mouth with meat and bread.

"Well, yes and no," he finally said.

A cloud diminished the sunlight and a wave of chill air passed through the glade.

"They're drawing nearer again," Fly said, "gathering their strength. But I don't think they'll hurt you. It's me that they're after. It's only the others that might give you trouble."

"We have to hear it now," Dilvish said. "What the hell did you steal?"

Fly unfastened his bag and reached into it. Something flashed within his grasp, and then he withdrew and unrolled a long, wide strip of soft brown leather studded with a dazzling array of gemstones. He moved forward, holding it stretched between both hands, displaying it.

"The shadow belt of Cabolus," he said.

Dilvish reached forward and took up one end of it. The glade continued to darken and the stones seemed even brighter by contrast.

"Quite a collection," he said, rubbing the leather between thumb and forefinger and touching the thongs at the ends. There was no buckle. "An old piece. Who is Cabolus and why do you call it a shadow belt?"

"Cabolus is one of those minor gods with a small following which had once been larger," Fly replied. "The center of the faith is a town called Kallusan, to the west of here."

"I've seen it on the map, maybe half a day away."

"More or less. He's sort of an errand boy and intermediary for other gods. Makes sure of good harvests for his worshippers, gives them a hand in battle. That sort of thing. Has a brother he doesn't get along with —Salbacus, who is worshipped in Sulvar, a day's ride to the northeast. Salbacus is a god of the forge. The Sulvarans are miners and metalworkers. They are both descended—"

"I admire your research. But how much of this is necessary?"

"Excuse me. I got carried away. I had to learn of such matters in order to become a convert."

"To Cabolus's way?"

"Yes. It was the easiest way to learn the layout of the main temple in Kallusan."

"And the belt… ?"

"On the god's statue in the temple, tied about the waist."

"When did you take it?"

"Yesterday."

"What happened then?"

"Nothing at first. I got out of town fast. You never know with these obscure gods whether it's all a fake to keep the priests in business, or whether there's something to it."

"I take it there's something to this one?"

Fly nodded and took another drink. Dilvish ate another piece of meat. The glade seemed several degrees cooler. Branches rattled as a wind rose.

Then: "Nothing happened for the first few hours," Fly continued. "Possibly the theft wasn't even noticed at first. Or perhaps it was thought some old priest was cleaning the thing. Anyway, I had a bit of a headstart. But it was finally noticed and one of the sleepers came looking and found me—"

"Sleepers?"

"Yes. One of the priests is always in a trance, keeping an eye on the shadow land. They take turns. They do it with drugs at first, but after a time they're supposed to get so that they can enter the place without them. Originally I thought it was just a way of passing their time more pleasantly. But now I know there's more to it than that."

"The shadow land?" Dilvish asked, as a strange depression occurred in the ground across the glade, triangular, with small holes forward along the base. "What do you mean by the shadow land?"

Fly ate faster, chewing and swallowing, stuffing himself.

"Another plane of existence," he managed to say around a mouthful of bread, "adjacent to this, they say. Interpenetrates ours in places. Moves around a bit. It's Cabolus's realm, in a way. Travels through it when he's running errands for the others. Full of nasty presences, though they leave his priests alone—take orders from them even, with some persuasion, they say. The sleepers travel about in it and learn a lot of things; and they can look back on our world from there. Must have found me that way…"

Dilvish watched another print form, in advance of the first one.

"Can things from that plane manifest on this one?" he asked.

Fly nodded.

"The old priest Imrigen did it himself. Appeared to me on the trail and told me to bring the belt back."

"And… ?"

"I knew they'd kill me if I did, and he said they'd send the shadow beasts after me if I didn't. Either way I'd lose."

"So you decided you'd rather go quickly?"

"Not at first. I thought I might still be able to escape. You see, it was the priests of Salbacus who hired me to get the belt, to give his brother ascendancy. If I could have reached them with it they would have been able to protect me. Once they had it, they would go to war with Kallusan. They have parties headed this way to meet me and then to continue to Kallusan once Salbacus wears the belt. But they're not here yet and the beasts have caught up with me. I know I can't make it now, and they will slay me in some horrible fashion."

"How'd you know they'd found you if they're immaterial things?"

"The possessor of the belt can see onto that plane."

"Then I would suggest you look over there," Dilvish said, pointing to where two more of the peculiar markings had just appeared on the ground, "and tell me whether you see anything special."

Fly spun about. Almost immediately he raised the belt as if it were a shield.

"Back!" he cried. "In the name of Cabolus! I command you!"

Another track formed, approaching.

"What if you just abandoned the belt?" Dilvish asked, taking his blade into his hand. "Threw it away?"

"No good," Fly answered. "It is the possessor of the belt that they've been ordered after as well."

Another track appeared, nearer.

Fly turned back suddenly and stared at Dilvish. He licked his lips, glanced once more in the direction of the tracks.

Suddenly he cried out, "Look! I give the belt to this man! I surrender it to him! It's his now!"

He threw the belt at Dilvish and it fell across his shoulder. Immediately it seemed as if he were regarding the world through a twilight haze. And then, in the middle of the glade—

With a clatter, Black's form was interposed between Dilvish and the vision. He heard Fly scream horribly, amid a grinding, crunching noise and the sounds of movement.

Rising, he cast the belt to the ground and peered over Black's shoulder. The man Fly lay upon the ground, his left arm missing. Even as Dilvish watched, the right arm, shoulder, and a portion of the upper chest vanished with another crunching sound; blood darkened the ground to the accompaniment of chewing noises.

"Let's get the hell out of here!" Black said. "That thing is big!"

"You can see it?"

"Dimly, now that I'm functioning at the proper level. Mount!"

Dilvish mounted. As he did, Fly's head, neck, and the rest of his upper chest vanished.

Black wheeled, just as four mounted men with drawn weapons entered the glade to bar their departure.

"For Salbacus!" the foremost shouted, charging toward Dilvish with his blade upraised.

"The belt!" another cried, following him.

The other two riders moved to take flanking positions. Black charged the first rider and Dilvish feinted and cut as they came together, taking the man across the belly. The following rider he caught in the throat with the point of his blade.

Then Black was rearing, metal hooves striking out at the nearest flanker. Dilvish heard both horse and man go down as he turned to parry a blow from the remaining rider. His own attack was parried, and he cut again to be parried again.

"Give me the belt and you may have your life," the man said.

"Don't have it. It's on the ground. Back there," Dilvish answered.

The man turned his head and Dilvish removed it from his shoulders. Black wheeled and reared, blowing fire from his mouth and nostrils. An enormous blossom of flame unfolded before him. There followed a hissing noise that rose to a whistle and broke into a series of pipings that receded then, as if something were retreating into the wood.

When the flames and their afterimages had faded, Dilvish saw that only Fly's right foot remained on the blood-wet ground where he had fallen, that a great number of the triangular tracks were imprinted about it, and that a trail of these tracks now led away among the trees.

Dilvish heard a laugh from below. The man whose belly he had opened sat doubled, grasping his guts. But his eyes were raised and he wore a tight grin.

"Oh, fancy, fancy!" he said. "Breathing fire to drive them off. Slaying the lot of us." He moved his leg then and lowered one hand, groping with it. Something flashed, and he raised the hand. Dilvish saw that he had been sitting upon the belt, that he now gripped it tightly, holding it up before him, face soaked with sweat. "But more of us will come for it! The priests of Salbacus are watching! Run! The beasts will return, will follow you as the day wanes! Take the belt from a dead man's hand if you dare—and gain my curse! We'll still have it! My fellows will feast in Kallusan before long, and put the place to the torch before they've done with it! Run, damn you! Salbacus curse you and take me now!"

The man slumped forward, his arm extended before him.

"Not a bad final speech," Black observed. "It had all of the classical elements—the threat, the curse, the proper bravado, the invocation of the deity—"

"Great," Dilvish acknowledged. "But if you'll save the literary criticism for later, I'd like some practical advice: Did you just drive off an invisible creature of sufficient solidity to devour Fly?"

"Most of him."

"Will it be back?"

"Probably."

"For me or for the belt?"

"For you, yes. I do not believe that its nature would permit it to handle the belt. The belt seems to coexist here and on the shadow plane, and I believe that its touch would be painful, if not fatal, to the inhabitants of that place. It is a nexus of peculiar energies."

"Then I would be somewhat better off to take the thing with me than to leave it behind. It might afford a bit of protection."

"Yes, there is that. It would also make you the object of a hunt by the Sulvaran troops, however."

"How far would we have to flee to get away from the shadow beasts?"

"I couldn't say. They might be able to pursue you virtually anywhere."

"That doesn't leave me a great deal of choice then."

"I think not."

Dilvish sighed and dismounted.

"All right. We'll take the thing to Kallusan, explain what happened, and deliver it to Cabolus's priests. Hoping they give us an opportunity to explain, that is."

He picked up the shadow belt.

"What the hell," he said, and he drew it about his waist and tied it.

He looked up and swayed. He put forth a hand.

"What's wrong?" Black asked.

The world was filled with a silver light filtered through a misty haze. And it was not featured as it had been previously. He still beheld the glade, the bodies, Black, and the trees at the clearing's edge. Also, however, there were now trees where he remembered no trees—thin, dark ones, one of them grown up between Black and himself. The ground seemed somehow higher, too, in his doubled vision, as if he were sunk knee deep in a gray hillock. The horizon was hidden by mists. There was a dark boulder to his left. Beyond it charcoal forms seemed to be churning in the half-light. He reached for the shadow tree to his right. He felt it, yet his hand passed through it, as if it were splashless, flowing water. And cold.

Black repeated his question.

"I'm seeing double—our world, and I guess that other plane he was talking about," Dilvish replied.

He untied the belt and removed it. Nothing changed.

"It won't go away," he said.

"You're still holding the belt. Stuff it into the saddlebag and get mounted. We'd better be moving."

Dilvish did this. "Still the same," he said.

"Proximity, then," Black replied.

"Is it affecting you, now you're carrying it?"

"It could if I'd let it. I'm blocking that plane, though. I can't afford to run with double vision. But I'll take a look every now and then as we go along."

Black began to move in the direction in which Fly had indicated that Kallusan lay, passing into a trail-less section of the forest.

"Better check your map for Kallusan," he said. "Find us the best route."

Dilvish tore his gaze away from the dizzying scene and withdrew the map from a pocket in the other bag.

"Go right," he said, "until you hit the road we were on beyond the turning. It will be easier if we backtrack for a little distance. It should take us to a clearer piece of countryside."

"All right."

Black turned. Shortly they located the trail. By now it seemed distant and twilit to Dilvish. He found himself ducking away from branches that proved nothing more than breezes upon his face. It grew increasingly difficult to keep the two worlds separate. He tried closing his eyes for a time, but quickly grew nauseated with the vertigo this produced.

"No way you could block the vision for me, is there?" he called out, as they rushed through a seemingly solid boulder to the accompaniment of sensations that made it seem as if they passed through a tunnel of ice.

"Sorry," Black answered. "It does not seem to be a transferable skill."

Dilvish cursed and kept low. After a time they came to a branching of the trail they had passed earlier, taking the way that led to their left: well marked, fairly level, and descending gradually. They rode into the setting sun, the light of which served to blur some, though not all, of the unsettling visions that swam past them—the sentient-seeming, menacing trees that swung branches like bony fingers, their touch cold, weak, and disturbing; the gray, spinning things that occasionally dove toward them and veered away from sword cuts; tentacled things that slithered after, reaching, but were unable to match Black's pace; the icy wind that seemed more than a wind, filled with rushing black flakes and streamers, bearing a charnel-house odor. As for occasional animallike sounds he heard, Dilvish could not be certain from which version of reality they came.

As the sun moved lower in the west and the shadows lengthened, the other world with its undiminished silvery light took ascendancy in the duel for control of his senses. If anything, the shadow world looked brighter, though its mists seemed proportionately thicker now. Dilvish was oppressed by the possibility that the objects of that plane might be gaining in density relative to himself as the day waned in his own world.

Something of elephantine proportions approached from the left in a menacing manner. It moved rapidly for its size but was unable to match Black's pace and soon fell behind and was gone from sight. Dilvish sighed and peered ahead, half-palpable plant tendrils slapping at his trousers and sleeves.

It was as Black slowed to negotiate a turn in the trail that Dilvish felt a sudden weight upon his back, felt claws dig into his shoulders.

Twisting and reaching, he grasped hold of the neck beneath a grotesque beaked head thrusting toward his own. The force of the impact and his own movement caused him to lose his seat. As he fell from Black's back, the shadow world faded about him. The creature, birdlike and about the size of a small dog, let out a shrill, warbling note and flapped membranous wings as they plunged to the ground, but Dilvish gripped it tightly and twisted so that he landed atop it.

It turned beneath him immediately they struck, pulling away, flapping its wings against his head. Jerking its neck free, it leaped back, glancing wildly in all directions. It sprang into the air then and glided off to the right of the trail to vanish among the trees.

"What," Dilvish asked, moving toward Black, "happened?"

"You succeeded in transporting the creature from the shadow plane to our own," Black replied. "You had hold of it when you broke contact with the belt's circuit, and you pulled it right along with you. Congratulations. I've a feeling that doesn't occur too often."

"Let's get out of here before it comes back," Dilvish said, mounting. "The feeling of achievement is more than a little mixed. What's it going to do in our world, anyway?"

"Probably follow you to try again," Black responded. "I'll bet it won't last too long, though. It doesn't know much about your world, and predators will smell its difference right away. Something will do it in, eventually." He moved forward again. "Should be interesting, though," he mused, "if it comes across any chickens."

"How so?" Dilvish inquired.

"I recognize the thing from my own travels on that plane, long ago," Black said. "If one of them does get through and finds some hens, there'll be a few broods of cockatrices before too long. They like to have a go at chickens, and that's normally the result." The trail straightened and Black increased his pace again.

"Fortunately, cockatrices don't last too long on this plane either," he added.

"That's nice to know," Dilvish said, ducking beneath a shadow branch as his vision readjusted to that other plane.

Daylight fled the normal world, its forms now becoming shadowy and insubstantial. The other plane grew even brighter, more solid-seeming. To test it, Dilvish reached out and plucked a long, serrated, dark leaf from a tree that flapped at them as they passed. Immediately the leaf wrapped itself about his hand and its points pierced his skin with the feeling of a multitude of insect bites. He cursed as he tore it loose and cast it away.

"Curiosity again," Black remarked. "Don't torment the plants. They're very sensitive."

Dilvish replied with an obscenity and rubbed his hand.

They rushed on for several hours, at a speed far greater than any horse could maintain. Large, menacing creatures were outrun; smaller, faster ones were avoided or briefly engaged. Dilvish was bitten on the left thigh and right forearm.

"You're lucky they weren't among the poisonous ones," Black had commented.

"Why don't I feel lucky?" Dilvish had replied.

At length they neared a rising of the land in the other world, though their own way remained straight and level. While there had been incongruous dips and descents to their own plane, producing the impression of riding through the air above the shining landscape, this was the first point where it seemed to Dilvish that they were about to run into the side of a hill.

"Slow down, Black! Slow down!" Dilvish called out, just as a human form emerged from a cleft in a boulder to the right to take up a position in the trail before them. "What… ?"

"I see him," Black said. "I've been checking. I might mention that the place is not noted for human habitation."

The figure—that of a dark-cloaked old man— gestured with his staff as if bidding them to halt.

"Let's stop and see what he wants," Dilvish said.

Black halted. The man smiled.

"What is it?" Dilvish asked.

The man raised his hand. He was breathing heavily.

"A moment," he said. "I must catch my breath. I've been projecting all over, trying to locate you. Hard work."

"The belt," Dilvish said.

The other nodded.

"The belt," he agreed. "You're taking it in the wrong direction."

"Oh?"

"Yes. You'll have nothing from the Kallusans out of this, not even thanks. They're a barbaric people."

"I see," Dilvish said. "I'll bet you're a priest of Salbacus, out of Sulvar."

"How could I deny it?" the man asked. "Unfortunately, I do not possess the power to transport an object such as the belt from plane to plane and place to place. Therefore, your cooperation is necessary. I want to assure you that you will be well-rewarded for it."

"What, exactly, do you want me to do?"

"From this plane we observed the theft of the belt," he answered. "In anticipation of it, our army was already mobilized. Our officers began moving it in this direction at the time Fly took the belt. It is still on its way, but the Kallusans are already aware of this and have mobilized themselves. They, too, are coming this way, from the west."

"You mean that I'm between two advancing armies?"

"Exactly. Now, we also have a number of advance strike forces and scouting parties out. There is one not even half an hour behind you on this trail. They have with them the temple's statue of Salbacus. It would be simplest if you were to turn around and go back. You could turn the belt over to them, and their officer would give you safe conduct back to Sulvar. You will be a hero there, and well paid. On the other hand, there are also some of our people heading to cut you off—"

"Wait a minute," Dilvish said. "Being a hero and being well paid is always nice, but what about this plane and the beasts, which even now, I see, are drawing near again."

The priest laughed.

"The first priest of Salbacus to get that belt in his hands will lift the curse, never fear. All right?"

Dilvish did not reply.

"What do you think, Black?" he whispered.

"It seems as if it would be cheaper to kill you than to reward you," Black answered. "On the other hand, the Kallusans will be happy to have their property returned, and they'll know you didn't take it in the first place because they know who did."

"True," Dilvish said.

"All right?" the priest repeated.

"I don't think so," Dilvish replied. "It is their belt."

The priest shook his head.

"I can't believe that there are people riding about the countryside doing things just because they feel they are right," he said. "It's perverse, that's what it is. That belt has been stolen back and forth so many times that we've lost track of where things started. Don't chase after some ghostly notion of honor, spinning like a windmill and going nowhere. Be reasonable."

"Sorry," Dilvish said. "But that's how it's going to be."

"In that case," the other stated, "the troops will recover it from your remains."

He lowered his staff so that its tip was pointed, spearlike, at Dilvish. Instantly, Black reared, fires dancing in his eye sockets, smoke curling from his nostrils.

At that moment a short, rotund man, wearing a brown cloak and also carrying a staff, emerged from the cleft in the rock.

"Just a moment, Izim," he said, turning his staff toward the other.

"Damn! Just when my shift is ending!" the priest of Salbacus observed.

"Stranger, keep riding," the newcomer stated. "I am a priest of Cabolus. A force from Kallusan is headed this way, bearing the statue of Cabolus. Once the belt is about his waist, things will be resolved satisfactorily."

The priest of Salbacus swung his staff at the second man, who parried it, struck back, and leaped to one side. Immediately, he pointed the tip of his staff toward the other and an oily flame sprang forth. The one called Izim lowered his and steam gushed from its end, dampening the other's flame. He swung the staff again and the other blocked the blow.

"A question has just occurred to me," Dilvish shouted, "with respect to identification. With these troops and gods moving about the countryside, how does one distinguish a statue of Cabolus from one of Salbacus?"

"Cabolus has his right hand upraised!" cried the short priest, whacking the other upon the shoulder.

"Should you change your mind," Izim called out, tripping the other, "Salbacus has his left hand upraised."

The shorter priest rolled, rose, and punched the other in the stomach.

"Let us ride on," Dilvish said, and Black plunged into the hillside and there was darkness.

Dilvish lost track of time within the claustrophobia that followed. Then, faintly, his own world came into view as if seen through a cloud of smoke. He glanced back over his shoulder and saw that the moon had risen.

"I hope you've at least learned not to strike up conversations with people who try to rob you," Black said.

"Well, you have to admit he had an interesting story."

"I'm sure Jelerak has some fascinating stories, if it comes to that."

Dilvish did not respond. He stared ahead to where a small light had appeared among the trees.

"Campfire?" he finally said.

"I'd guess," Black replied.

"Kallusans or Sulvarans, I wonder?"

"I don't suppose they've posted a notice."

"Slow down. I'd say stealth is in order."

Black complied, his movements growing silent. Dilvish still had a sense of being underground, his normal world a shadowy place about him, as they moved to the side of the trail, departed it, and entered the wood. Black continued to move leftward as well as ahead, continuing a circular course in the general direction of the fire. Dilvish hoped they did not emerge from the shadow hill soon, to confuse him with double images.

It seemed a ghostly wood through which they passed, all night sounds muffled, a dreamlike, faded quality to every tree and stone. The movements of branches following each gust of the barely perceptible wind were gestures of darkness overhead and to his sides. He seemed to hear a fluttering behind him at one point, but he halted, waited, checked, and nothing more could be detected; nothing emerged to challenge them. They continued then across this darkened landscape, until Dilvish could smell the fire and hear the faint sounds of men's voices.

"I'd better go ahead on foot," Dilvish said. "Elf-boots are great for sneaking."

Black halted.

"I'll take my time and follow quietly," he said. "If you need me suddenly, I'll be there fast."

Dilvish dismounted. As he moved away from Black and the belt in the bag, the night lost something of its spectral quality, as if the world were being slowly unwrapped. The smell of mold and damp earth grew stronger. The volume of the night sounds increased. The voices from the camp also seemed louder, the fire brighter.

He moved low among screening trees, dropping to all fours, slowing all of his movements as he neared the edge of the camp. Finally he halted and watched. After a time Black drifted up beside him and became completely immobile.

Over a dozen men stood, reclined, or moved about the campfire, all of them bearing arms and garbed as if for war. A number of horses stood tethered upwind. The ground was well scuffed and in places looked as if it had been turned. Branches were strewn about, perhaps to feed the fire. Beyond the fire and to the left lay a platform litter. Blocked and tied in place atop it was what seemed to be a statue, from what Dilvish could see of it. His view was partly blocked by the two men who stood conversing before it.

"Move, damn it!" Dilvish breathed.

It was several minutes before this occurred, however. When they finally did move, though, Dilvish sighed.

"All right," he whispered to Black. "The right arm is raised. I can return the belt to Cabolus's gang and be out of the game."

He rose, moved back, opened the saddlebag, and withdrew the belt.

"I'll wait here," Black stated, "in reserve."

"Very well," Dilvish said, and he moved forward.

He pushed his way through a screen of branches and stood still. Never a good practice to rush into a military encampment unannounced, he decided. A moment later the man he had taken for an officer turned toward him. Several of the men near the camp-fire also noted his presence and began to rise, reaching for their weapons. Dilvish raised an empty right hand.

"You have received a message," he asked, "concerning the belt?"

The man he had guessed to be in command stood for a moment and then nodded. He moved forward.

"Yes," he said. "You have it?"

Dilvish raised his left hand and let the belt unroll like a fiery cascade.

"I had it from the man who stole it," he stated. "He's dead now."

He advanced, extending it.

"Take the thing," he said. "I'm glad to be rid of it."

The man smiled.

"Surely," he said. "We have awaited this since our priest's visitation earlier. We—"

Dilvish halted, having felt something soft within a clump of long grasses beneath his feet. He stooped suddenly, seized an object, and raised it.

It was a human hand that he held.

"What is this?" he cried, dropping it, springing to the side, and drawing his blade.

He dug the point of his weapon into a place where the earth had been turned. It was a shallow grave. A sweeping movement exposed a portion of a leg beneath the soil.

The man hurried toward him now, his face twisting, but Dilvish flicked his blade into a guard position. The other halted ..immediately and raised a hand to stay his men, who had begun moving toward them.

"A patrol of Sulvarans attacked us here earlier," he explained. "We bested them, then gave them a decent burial—which is more than they would have done for us, I'm certain."

"And then you worked to remove all signs of the conflict?"

"Who likes grim reminders about his campsite?"

"Then why cover them where they fell, underfoot? Why not remove them a distance? There is something peculiar here…"

"We were tired," the man said, "from marching all day. Let it be, stranger. Give me the belt now and be free of your charge."

He extended a hand and took a step forward.

"Unless…"

The man took another step and Dilvish's blade twitched toward him.

"A moment," Dilvish said. "Another explanation has just occurred to me."

"That being?" the man asked, halting again.

"Supposing you are the Sulvarans? Supposing you had fallen upon this party of Kallusans and slain them all—and then, having the message that I was coming, you cleaned up in a hurry and waited here to claim the belt?"

"That's a lot of supposing," the man said, "and like most wild stories, I know of no way to disprove it."

"Well, as I understand it, whichever side's god wears the belt is the side that tends to win these conflicts." Dilvish moved to his left, turned his body, maintained his guard, and began to back toward the statue. "So I'll just restore the belt to Cabolus and be on my way."

"Hold!" the man cried, drawing his own blade now. "It would be sacrilegious for your unconsecrated hands to perform such an act!"

Dilvish cocked his head at an oddly familiar whistling sound within the woods.

"I've been carrying it around all this time," he said, "so the damage must already have been done—and I don't see anyone here who looks particularly priestly. I'll take my chances."

"No!"

The man sprang forward, his blade swinging. Dilvish parried and cut back. He heard the sound of hoofbeats, and a black, horselike shadow slid from the woods to fall upon the other men who were now rushing at him.

Black crushed several of them with his initial rush, then turned, rearing, to strike out with his hooves— and Dilvish knew that the fires would be building within him.

He dispatched his adversary with a cut to the neck and continued his retreat as three more men fell upon him.

He dropped to one knee and thrust upward, a maneuver against which the nearest was unprepared. The other two men separated, however, and moved to flank him.

Across the clearing he saw Black's flames boil forth, and he heard the cries of those who fell before them.

He feinted at the man to his right and rushed the one to his left, engaging him. As soon as their blades met, however, he realized that he had made a mistake. The man was fast and above-average in skill. There seemed no way to dispatch quickly or to thrust him back and turn to deal with the other who must even now be preparing to fall upon him. Almost frantically, Dilvish commenced a clockwise circling, hoping to interpose his opponent between him and the second man. His adversary fought against the turning, however, slowing his oblique withdrawal. And from the edge of his vision Dilvish saw that Black was too far away to come to his assistance in time.

He heard the whistling again, and the beating of wings. He recognized his nemesis from the shadow plane, flying toward him from the trees.

Dilvish beat down his opponent's blade, leaped backward, and threw himself into a crouch before the second man, his blade above his head in a guard position.

The gliding shadow had veered toward him as he leaped. Now, at close range, it spread its wings but was unable to brake itself in time. It crashed into the back of the second man, who fell over Dilvish into the path of the first. The fallen man twisted and swung his blade at it. It sprang beneath it, spearing his shoulder and clawing toward his face.

Still crouched, Dilvish swung a hamstringing blow toward the other man, who screamed when it connected. Rising then, he saw an opening for a clean cut and he performed it.

Turning, Dilvish saw that the shadow bird had just pierced the fallen man's throat with its beak and was rising from the red fountain that occurred there, its dark eyes fixed upon him. It beat hard with its wings and leaped toward him.

His blade flashed and its head flew to the right while the rest of it continued forward, spouting a pale-blue ichor from the stump of its neck. He sidestepped and it passed him by, to continue running erratically when it struck the ground.

Dilvish saw that no new attackers were rushing at him, and Black was still trampling bodies. He sheathed his blade and backtracked then over the ground on which he had fought, seeking the belt, which had been dropped during the conflict. Stooping, he finally retrieved it, near the body of his first attacker.

He dusted it off and turned toward the statue.

"Here it is, Cabolus," he announced, advancing. "I'm returning your belt. I'd appreciate it if you'd call off the beasts of the shadow plane and take away my vision of the place. Sorry my hands aren't cleaner, but they came that way."

He knelt and tied the belt in place about the statue's middle. Immediately he felt a softening of the light in the vicinity, and the rough-carved features before him seemed more natural though less human. He backed away then as a light was born within the eye sockets and about the upraised hand.

"Well done! Oh, well done!" came a voice from behind him.

He whirled to confront the less- than-solid figure of the fat priest he had encountered earlier. The man's left eye was swollen shut and there was a cut on his forehead. He leaned heavily upon his staff.

"Astral combat looks as rough as the regular kind," Dilvish remarked.

"You should see the other priest," his visitor stated. "You've done a fine job, stranger"—and here he gestured about the encampment—"with an excellent blood sacrifice to warm old Cabolus's heart."

"The reason was a bit more temporal than spiritual," Dilvish observed.

"Nevertheless, nevertheless…" the priest mused, "It is sure to have found favor. Now that the balance is tipped again we will feast in Sulvar shortly, and there will be executions and burnings and much good loot. You will be honored for your part in this."

"Now you have the belt back, why not just call things off and go home?"

The priest quirked an eyebrow.

"Surely you jest," he said. "They started this. They need a lesson. It's our turn, anyway. They did it to us within my lifetime. And besides, the troops are already in the field. Can't send them home at this point without some action or there'd be trouble. No, that's the long and short of it. Some of them should be arriving here shortly, in fact. You can accompany our band. It will be an honor to go with Cabolus—and you'll come in for a share of the spoils."

Black had drifted to them during this time and he stood listening. Finally: "I wonder whether it found any chickens while it was about?" he asked, regarding the fallen head of the shadow bird.

"Thanks for your kind offer," Dilvish told the image of the priest. "But I've a long journey before me and I don't want to be late. I relinquish my share of the loot." He mounted Black. "Good night, priest."

"In that case, the temple will claim your portion," the priest said, smiling. "Good night then, and the blessing of Cabolus go with you."

Dilvish shuddered, then nodded.

"Let's get the hell out of here," he said to Black, "avoiding all battlefields."

Black turned to face south and moved off into the wood, leaving the glowing statue with the upraised arm and the fading priest with the swollen eye there in the blood-smeared clearing. The headless shadow bird staggered through it once again, then fell, flapping and leaking ichor, near a corpse and the fire. From a distance came the vibrations of an advancing cavalry troop. The moon rode higher now, but the shadows were clear-cut and empty. Black lowered his head and it all spun away from them.

The following afternoon, on another trail twisting its way south through the forest, a young woman rushed from the woods, approaching them.

"Good sir!" she cried to Dilvish. "My lover lies injured just over this hill! We were beset by robbers earlier! Please come and help him!"

"Hold on, Black," Dilvish said.

"Really," Black hissed, almost inaudibly. "It's one of the oldest games in the book. You follow her and a couple of armed men will ambush you. Defeat them and the woman will stab you in the back. There are even ballads about it. Didn't you learn anything yesterday?"

Dilvish looked down into her swollen eyes, regarded the wringing of the lady's hands.

"But she could be telling the truth, you know," he said softly.

"Please, sir! Please! Come quickly!" she cried.

"That first priest had a point, I'd say," Black observed.

Dilvish slapped his metal shoulder with a faint ringing sound.

"Damned if you do, damned if you don't," he said, dismounting.

A Del Rey Book

Published by Ballantine Books

Copyright © 1981 by The Amber Corporation

Cover art by Michael Herring

(+uncredited Czech cover illustration)

Published in the United States by Ballantine Books,

a division of Random House,. Inc., New York.

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 80-68221

ISBN 0-345-25389-2

Manufactured in the United States of America

First Edition: April 1981

The Changing Land

(Dilvish the Damned Book Two)

by Roger Zelazny

Del Rey/Ballantine

April

1981

To Stephen Gregg,

Stuart David Schiff,

and Lin Carter,

who, in that order,

called Dilvish back from the smoky lands;

and to the shade

of William Hope Hodgson,

who came along for the ride,

bringing friends.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 1

The seven men wore wrist manacles to which chains were attached. Each chain was affixed to a separate cleat within the sweating walls of the stone chamber. A single oil lamp burned weakly in a small niche to the right of the doorway in the far wall. Empty sets of chains and manacles hung here and there about the high walls. The floor was straw-covered and filthy, the odors strong. All of the men were bearded and ragged. Their pale faces were deeply lined. Their eyes were fixed upon the doorway.

Bright forms danced or darted in the air before them, passing through the solid walls, occasionally emerging elsewhere. Some of these were abstract, some resembled natural objects— flowers, snakes, birds, leaves—generally to the point of parody. A pale green whirlwind rose and died in the far left corner, shedding a horde of insects upon the floor. Immediately, a scrabbling began within the straw as small things rushed to consume them. A low laugh came from somewhere beyond the doorway, and an irregular series of footsteps followed it, approaching.

The young man named Hodgson, who might have been handsome were he cleaner and less emaciated, shook his long brown hair out of his eyes, licked his lips and glared at the blue-eyed man to his right.

"So soon…" he muttered hoarsely.

"It's been longer than you might think," the dark man said. "I'm afraid it's about time for one of them."

A fair young man farther to the right began to moan softly. Two of the others conversed in whispers.

A large, purple-gray, taloned hand appeared within the doorway, clutching at its right side. The footsteps paused, deep breathing ensued, followed by a rumbling chuckle. The still-fat, bald- headed man at Hodgson's left emitted a high-pitched shriek.

A large, shadowy form slid into the frame of the doorway, its eyes—the left one yellow, the right one red—taking light from the flickering lamp. The already chill air of the chamber grew even colder as it lurched forward, a hoof terminating its backward-jointed left leg, clicking upon the stone beneath the straw, the wide, webbed foot of its heavy, scaled right leg flopping as it advanced to enter. Swinging forward, its long, thickly muscled arms reached to the ground, talons raking along it. The gash in its near-triangular face widened into something that was almost a smile as it surveyed the prisoners, revealing a picket row of yellow teeth.

It moved to the center of the chamber and halted. A shower of flowers fell about it, and it brushed at them as if annoyed. It was completely hairless, its skin of a leathery texture with a sprinkling of scales in peculiar locations. It appeared to be without gender. Its tongue, which darted suddenly, was liver-colored and forked.

The chained men were silent now, and unnaturally still, as its mismatched eyes swept over them—once, again…

It moved then, with extreme rapidity. It bounded forward and its right arm shot out, seizing the fat man who had shrieked earlier.

A single jerk brought the man free of his chains and screaming horribly. Then the creature's mouth closed upon his neck and the outcry died with a gurgle. The man thrashed for several moments and went limp in its grasp.

It gurgled itself as it raised its head and licked its lips. Its eyes came to rest upon the place from which it had fetched its victim. Slowly then, it shifted its burden to a position beneath its left arm and reached forward with its right, retrieving an arm which still hung within a swinging manacle against the wall. It did not pay any heed to smaller remains upon the floor.

Turning, it shuffled back toward the doorway, gnawing upon the arm as it went. It seemed oblivious to the bright fish which appeared to swim through the air, and to the visions which opened and closed like sliding screens above, below and about it—walls of flame, stands of sharp-needled trees, torrents of muddy water, fields of melting snow…

The remaining prisoners listened to the stumping, flapping sounds of its retreat. Finally, Hodgson cleared his throat.

"Now, here is my plan…" he began.

Semirama crouched on the stone lip of the pit, leaning forward, hands resting upon its edge, the dozen golden bracelets on her pale arms gleaming in the faint light, her long black hair in perfect array. Her garment was yellow and scanty, the room warm and humid. A long series of chirping noises emerged from her puckered lips. At various points near and about the pit, the slaves leaned upon their shovels and held their breaths. Half a dozen paces behind her and several to the right, Baran of the Extra Hand stood—a tall, barrel-shaped man, thumbs hooked behind his sharp-studded belt, bearded head cocked to the side as if he half understood the meaning behind the sounds she made. His eyes were upon her half-exposed buttocks, however, as were a number of his thoughts.

A pity she is so necessary to the operation and cares not a whit for me, he mused. A pity I must treat her with respect and courtesy, rather than, say, insolence and rape. Working with her would be so much easier if she were, say, ugly. Still, the view is good, and perhaps one day…

She rocked back on her heels and ceased making the sounds which had filled the fetid chamber. Baran wrinkled his nose as a draft of air bore certain odors to it. They all waited.

Splashing sounds commenced deep within the pit, and an occasional thud caused the floor to vibrate. The slaves retreated to positions against the wall. Fiery flakes began to form and descend from somewhere beneath the ceiling. Brushing at her garment, Semirama trilled high notes. Immediately, the firefall ceased and something within the pit chirped in response. The room grew perceptibly cooler. Baran sighed.

"At last…" he breathed.

The sounds continued to emerge from the pit for a long while. Semirama stiffened, to begin a reply or an attempted interruption. It was as if she were ignored, however, for the other sounds continued, drowning out her own. The thrashing commenced again, and a tongue of flame rose above the pit, wavered, and fell, all in a matter of moments. A face—long, twisted, anguished—had appeared for an instant within the orange glow. She drew back from the pit. A sound like that of a great bell tolling filled the room. Suddenly, hundreds of live frogs were falling, leaping about them, tumbling into the pit, bounding up and down the high heaps of excrement at which the slaves had been laboring, escaping through the far archway. A cake of ice larger than two men crashed to the floor nearby.

Semirama rose slowly, stepped back a pace, and turned toward the slaves.

"Continue your work," she ordered.

The men hesitated. Baran rushed forward, seizing the nearest shoulder and thigh. He raised the man off his feet and thrust him forward, out over the edge, into the pit. The scream that followed was a brief one.

"Shovel that shit!" Baran cried.

The others hastened to return to work, digging rapidly at the reeking mounds, casting the material out over the edge of the dark hole.

Baran turned suddenly as Semirama's hand fell upon his arm.

"In the future, restrain yourself," she said. "Labor is dear."

He opened his mouth, closed it, nodded sharply. Even as she spoke, the heavier splashings subsided, the trilling ceased.

"… On the other hand, he probably welcomed the diversion." A smile crossed her full lips. She released his biceps, smoothed her garment.

"What—what did he have to say— this time?"

"Come," she said.

They circled the pit, avoided the melting cake of ice, and passed through the archway into a long gallery with a low ceiling. She crossed it to a wide window, where she waited, regarding the morning's shining landscape through the haze. He followed her, stood beside her, hands clasped behind his back

"Well?" he finally asked. "What had Tualua to say?"

She continued to study the flashing colors and the metamorphosing rocks beyond the streamers of fog. Then, "He is completely irrational," she said.

"Not angry?"

"Occasionally. It comes and goes. But it is not a thing in itself. It is part of the entire condition. His kind has always had a streak of madness."

"All these months, then—he has not really been seeking to punish us?"

She smiled.

"No more than usual," she said. "But the wards always took care of his normal hostility toward mankind."

"How did he manage to break them?"

"There is strength in madness, as well as completely original approaches to problems."

Baran began tapping his foot.

"You're our expert on the Elder Gods and their kin," he finally said. "How long is this thing going to last?"

She shook her head.

"There is no way to tell. It could be permanent. It could end right now—or anything in between."

"And there is nothing we can do to… expedite his recovery?"

"He may become aware of his own condition and propose a remedy. This sometimes happens."

"You had this problem with them in the old days?"

"Yes, and the procedure was the same. I have to talk with him regularly, try to reach his other self."

"In the meantime," Baran said, "he could kill us all at any time—without the wards, with his magic gone wild the way it is."

"Possibly. We must remain on guard."

Baran snorted.

"Guard? If he does move against us, there's nothing we can do—not even flee." He made a sweeping gesture at the scene beyond the window. "What could pass through that wasteland?"

"The prisoners did."

"That was earlier, when the effect wasn't so strong. Would you want to go out into that?"

"Only if there was no alternative," she replied.

"And the mirror—like most other magic—doesn't work properly now," he continued. "Even Jelerak can't reach us."

"He may have other problems at the moment. Who knows?"

Baran shrugged.

"Either way," he said, "the effect is the same. Nothing can get out or in."

"But I'll bet there are many trying to get in. This place must seem a real plum to any sorcerer on the outside."

"Well, it would be—if one could gain control. Of course, no one out there has any way of knowing what is wrong. It would be a gamble."

"But less of a gamble for those of us on the inside, eh?"

He licked his lips and turned to stare at her.

"I am not certain that I catch your meaning…"

Just then a slave came up from the stables, passed by with a wheelbarrow filled with horse manure. Semirama waited till he was gone.

"I've watched you," she said. "I can read you, Baran. Do you really think you could hold this place against your master?"

"He's slipping, Semirama. He's already lost some of his power, and Tualua is another piece of it. I believe it could be done, though I couldn't do it alone. This is the most weakened he's been in ages."

She laughed.

"You speak of ages? You speak of his power? I walked this world when it was a far, far younger place. I reigned in the High Court of the West at Jandar. I knew Jelerak when he strove against a god. What are your few centuries, that you talk of the ages?"

"He was blasted and twisted by the god…"

"Yet he survived. No, reaching your dream would not be an easy task."

"I take it," he said, "that you are not interested. All right. Just remember that there is a big difference between a dream and an act. I have done nothing against him."

"I've no call to inform him of every idle word we pass," she said.

He sighed.

"Thank you for that," he replied. "But you were a queen. Have you no desire for such power again?"

"I grew weary of power. I am grateful just to be alive once more. I do owe him that."

"He only called you back because he needed one who could speak with Tualua."

"Whatever the reason…"

They stood for a moment, staring out the window. The fogs shifted and they had a glimpse of dark forms struggling upon a gleaming, sandy bed. Baran made a gesture near the right side of the window, and the image rushed toward them until it seemed but a few paces distant: two men and a pack horse were sinking into the ground.

"They keep coming," Baran observed. "The plum you mentioned… That's a sorcerer and his apprentice, I'll wager."

As they watched, a horde of red scorpions, each the size of a man's thumb, scuttled across the sand toward the struggling figures. Seeing them, the sinking man in the lead made a long, slow gesture. A circle of flames sprang up about the figures. The insects slowed, drew back, began to trace its perimeter.

"Yes. Now, that spell worked…" He nodded.

"Sometimes they do," she said. "Tualua's energies are moving in very erratic patterns."

After a time, the insects cast themselves forward into the flames, the bodies of those who perished providing bridges for their fellows. The sinking sorcerer gestured again, and a second circle of fire occurred within the first. Again the scorpions were baffled, but for a much briefer time than before. They repeated their assault on the fires and began crossing this barrier also. By then, more of them were moving across the sands to join the first wave. The sorcerer raised his hand once more and commenced another gesture. Flames bloomed in the beginnings of a third circle. At that moment, however, the drifting mists obscured the entire prospect once again.

"Damn!" Baran said. "Just when it was getting interesting. How many more circles do you think he'll raise?"

"Five," she replied. "That's about all he had room for."

"I'd have guessed four, but perhaps you're right. There was a little distortion."

A faint thumping, flapping sound arose somewhere in the distance.

"What was it like?" he said a little while later.

"What?"

"Being dead. Being summoned back after all this time. You never talk about it."

She averted her gaze.

"You think perhaps that I passed the time in some horrid hell? Or possibly in some place of delight? Or that it is all shadowy and dreamlike to me now? Or else that nothing intervened? An empty blackness?"

"All of these had occurred to me at one time or another. Which one was it?"

"Actually, none of them," she said. "I underwent a series of reincarnations —some of them very interesting, many quite tedious."

"Really?"

"Yes. In the past, I was a serving wench in a kingdom far to the east, where I soon came to be a secret favorite of the king's. When Jelerak reanimated my original dust and called my spirit back to it, that poor girl was left a gibbering idiot. At a most awkward moment, I might add—while enjoying the royal embrace." She paused a moment. Then, "He never noticed," she finished.

Baran moved so as to view her face. She was laughing.

"Bitch!" he said. "Always mocking. You never give a man a straight answer!"

"You've noticed. Yes. It pleases me to be perhaps the only person around with some knowledge of such a profound matter—and not to share it." The irregular noises of approach had grown louder.

"Oh, look! It's cleared! He's drawing the sixth circle now!"

Baran chuckled.

"So he is. But he can barely move that hand. I don't know whether he'll get another one inscribed. It's even possible he'll go under before they get to him. He seems to be sinking faster now."

"Misted over again! We'll never know…"

The noises increased in tempo, and they turned in time to see a purple creature with mismatched eyes and legs scurry past them in the direction of the chamber they had quitted.

"Don't go in there!" she shouted in Mabrahoring. Then, "Baran! Stop it! I won't be responsible for the results if Tualua's disturbed by a demon! If this place comes unmoored—"

"Halt!" Baran cried, turning.

But the demon, a suspicious object held close to the source of its chuckle, scurried across a dung-heap and rushed toward the edge of the pit.

An instant later, the empty space directly before it seemed to come open with a sound like tearing fabric, revealing a brief field of absolute blackness. The slaves rushed away. The demon halted, cowered.

There was movement within the dark opening. An enormous pale hand emerged from it. The demon moved quickly then, to sidestep and retreat, but the hand was quicker. It shot forward and seized it by the neck, raising it above the floor. Then it moved, the dark area drifting with it, bearing its writhing, choking burden back over the heap, across the chamber, out the doorway and along the gallery.

It approached Baran and Semirama and dropped the creature at the former's feet. Then the Hand withdrew into the darkness, the tearing sound followed, and the air was still once more.

Semirama gasped. The object still clutched by the writhing demon was a human leg, upon which it had been chewing.

"It's been among the prisoners again!" she cried. "I recognize that tattoo! It was Joab, the fat sorcerer from the East."

Baran kicked the cowering creature on the buttocks.

"Stay out of that chamber! Stay away from that pit!" he shouted in Mabrahoring, gesturing back up the hall. "If you go near that place again, the full wrath of the Hand will descend upon you!"

He kicked again, sending the large creature sprawling. It began to moan, it clutched the leg more closely.

"Do you understand?"

"Yes," it whimpered in the same tongue.

"Then remember my words—and get out of my sight!"

The demon rushed back in the direction from which it had originally come.

"But the prisoners—" Semirama put in again.

"What of them?" Baran asked.

"It shouldn't be allowed to regard them as its personal larder."

"Why not?"

"Jelerak will want all of them intact, to face his personal judgment."

"I doubt it. They're not that important. And for that matter, he'd be hard put to find a worse fate for them, on the edge of a moment."

"Still… they are technically his prisoners. Not ours."

Baran shrugged.

"I doubt we'll ever be called to task for it. If so, I take full responsibility." He paused. Then, "I'm not at all that certain he'll be coming back," he continued. Another pause. "Are you?"

She turned to regard the murky view beyond the window once again.

"I couldn't really say. And for that matter, I'm not sure that I'd care to if I could—at, this point."

"Why is this point different from any other point?"

"It's too soon. He's been away longer than this on other occasions."

"We both know that something happened to him up in the Arctic."

"He's been through worse. I'm certain. I was there in the early days —remember?"

"And supposing he never returns?"

"It's an academic question unless Tualua comes around."

Baran's eyes flashed, then almost twinkled.

"Say your charge recovers tomorrow?"

"You can ask me then."

Baran snorted, turned on his heel, and stalked off in the same direction the demon had taken. As he did, Semirama counted slowly on her fingers until she reached six. Then she stopped. There were tears in her eyes.

It was moderately hilly country, with a rich growth of spring vegetation. Meliash sat upon a low hillock with his back to most of it, his arm-length ebony wand standing upright before him, its nether end driven a span into the ground. He stared past, to where the mists, pinked over with morning sunlight, shifted about the enchanted area, revealing the transformations and retransformations of the landscape. He was a broad-shouldered man with tawny hair. His mainly orange garments were surprisingly rich for the area and the situation he had assumed. A golden chain hung about his neck, supporting a bright blue stone which matched his eyes. At his back, both his servants moved about the camp, preparing the morning meal. He leaned forward slowly and placed his fingertips upon the wand. He continued to stare past it. As eddies occurred in the mist, as waves of shadows rolled, he turned his eyes to regard them. Finally, he grew still and assumed a listening attitude. Then he spoke softly and waited. He repeated his performance a number of times before he rose and walked back to his camp.

"Set an extra place for breakfast," he told the servants, "but put on enough food for several more people and keep it warm. It is going to be an interesting day."

The men grumbled, but one began removing vegetables from a sack and scraping them. He passed them to the other, who chopped them into the stewpot.

"A bit of meat there, too."

"Ay, Meliash. But we're getting low," said the older, a small man with a faded beard.

"Then one of you must do some hunting this afternoon."

"I've no liking for these woods," said the other, a thin, sharp-featured man with very dark eyes. "Could be some werebeast or other ill-gotten wight has wandered over."

"The woods are safe," Meliash replied.

The smaller man began dicing a piece of meat.

"How long until your guest arrives?" he asked.

Meliash shrugged and moved away, facing up the hill to the rear of the camp.

"I've no way of estimating how rapidly another will travel. I—"

Something moved, and he realized that it was a green boot beside the twisted tree ahead of him. A pair of them…

He halted and raised his head. A tall figure, the sun at its back…

"Good morning," he said, squinting and shading his eyes. "I am Meliash, Society warden for this sector—"

"I know," came the reply. "Good morning to you, Meliash."

The figure advanced, soundlessly. A slim woman, with pale hair and complexion, green eyes, delicate features, she wore a cloak, belt, and headband to match her green boots; her breeches and blouse were black, her vest of brown leather. Heavy black gloves hung from her belt, along with a short sword and a long dagger. In her left hand was a light bow, unstrung, of a reddish wood Meliash did not recognize. He did recognize the heavy black ring with the green design on the second finger of that hand, however. Dispensing with the recognition sign of the Society, he fell to one knee, bowing.

"Lady of Marinta…" he said.

"Rise, Meliash," she replied. "I am here on the business you serve as witness. Call me Arlata."

"I would like to dissuade you— Arlata," he said, rising. "The risk is very great."

"So is the gain," she replied.

"Come and have breakfast with me," he said, "and I will tell you somewhat about it."

"I have already eaten," she answered, turning with him toward the camp, "but I will join you for the conversation."

She accompanied him to a trestle table south of the fire and seated herself on a bench at its side.

"Shall I serve you now?" asked the younger retainer.

"Would you care for some tea?" Meliash asked.

"Yes, I'll have that."

He nodded to the servant.

"Two teas."

They sat in silence while the beverage was prepared, poured, and placed before them, staring westward into the changing land with its mists. When she had tasted her tea, he raised his cup and sipped also.

"Good, on this cold morning."

"Good on any morning. It's a fine brew."

"Thank you. Why should you want to go to that place, lady?"

"Why should anyone? There is power there."

"Unless I have heard very wrongly, you are already possessed of considerable power, not to mention riches of the more mundane sort."

She smiled.

"I suppose that I am. But the power locked in that curious place is enormous. To gain control of that Old One… You may list me as an idealist, but there is so much good that it could accomplish. I could relieve many of the miseries of the world."

Meliash sighed.

"Why couldn't you be self-seeking like the others?" he asked. "You know that a part of my job here is to attempt to discourage these expeditions. Your motive makes it all the harder in your case."

"I know the Society's position. Jelerak may return at any time, you say, and the presence of intruders could create an incident involving the entire Society. You are an unimpeachable witness, as are the other four pointed about the place. To satisfy the Society requirement, I give my oath that I am acting solely on my own behalf in this enterprise. Is that sufficient?"

"Technically, yes. But that was not what I was aiming at. Even if you get through, the castle still has its defenses, and its master's agents are presumably still in command there. But putting all that aside for the moment, I strongly doubt that one of the Old Ones can long be coerced into doing good, should you succeed in gaining some measure of control over it. They're a rotten lot, and it's best to let them sleep. Return to the realms of Elfdom, lady. Work your charities along simpler lines. Even if you succeed, I say that you will fail."

"I've heard all this before," she stated, "and have given it much thought. Thank you for your consideration, but I am determined."

Meliash sipped his tea.

"I have tried," he finally said. "If anything happens to you within sight of here, I will attempt to rescue you. But I can promise nothing."

"I have asked nothing."

She finished her tea and rose.

"I will be going now."

Meliash stood. "Why hurry? The day is young. It will be warmer and brighter later—and mayhap another seeker will come along. A pair of you might stand a better chance—"

"No! I will not share whatever there is to be gained."

"As you would. Come, I will walk you to the perimeter."

They moved across the campsite to the place where the grasses began to fade. A few paces beyond, the foliage was bleached to a dead white.

"There you have it," he said, gesturing. "Approximately two leagues across, roughly circular. The castle's the highest point, somewhere near the middle. There are five Society representatives stationed about its periphery at almost equal distances from one another—to study the effect and to advise and witness. If you must use magic, you may find that your spells work perfectly well; then again, their efforts may be enhanced, diminished, canceled, or in some way distorted. You may be approached by creatures harmless or otherwise—or by the landscape itself. There is no way of telling in advance what your journey will be like. But I do not believe that too many have made it across. If some have, nothing appears to have been changed thereby."

"Which you attribute to defenders within?"

"It seems likely. The castle itself appears to be undamaged."

"Surely," she said, catching his eye, "one cannot base any conclusions on the condition of that castle. It is not like other structures."

"I have never known for certain, though there may be some truth in this. The Brotherhood— rather, the Society—is checking now."

"Well, I do know. I could have saved you the trouble. Would you know who was in charge of it when this thing happened?"

"Yes. The one called Baran of the Extra Hand. He'd been a Society member in good standing until some years ago, when he went over to Jelerak."

"I've heard of him. It seems he might be the sort who would have gone for the power himself if the opportunity were present."

"Perhaps he tried and this was the result. I don't know."

"I expect I will be finding out soon. Have you any advice?"

"Not too much, really. First, cover yourself with a general defensive spell—"

"That is already done."

"—and pay heed to the waves of disturbance as you go. They appear to sweep outward and around the place widdershins, building in force as they move. Depending upon their intensity, they may pass about it anywhere from one to three times. Their pace is normally about that of an ocean breaker on a pleasant day. In their wake, things are changed, and the effects on your spells will be most severe at their crests."

"Is there any period to them?"

"None that we have been able to detect. There may be long lulls, there may be several in rapid succession. They begin without warning."

He was silent then, and she looked at him. He looked away.

"Yes?" she asked.

"Should you be overcome," he said, "unable to retreat or advance—in short, should you fail in the crossing—it would be appreciated if you would attempt to use one of the means at the Society's disposal to communicate all of the particulars to me."

He glanced at the upright wand nearby.

"If I am dying and have yet the strength, you will have the record for the archives," she replied, "or for any other use to which it might be put— if the message can reach you."

"Thank you." He met her eyes. "I can only wish you good luck."

She turned her back upon the changing land and whistled three soft notes.

Meliash turned in time to see a white horse with a golden mane make its way out of the wood beyond the camp and move toward them, head high. He drew a breath at the beauty of the approaching animal.

When it had come to her, she held its head and spoke to it in Elvish. Then she mounted quickly, smoothly, and faced the changing land once again.

"The most recent wave was just before sunrise," he said, "and for some time, things have seemed clearest past those two orange pinnacles off to the right—you'll see them in a moment, I think."

They waited till a breeze stirred the fogs, and the twin stands of stone were momentarily visible.

"I'll try it," she said.

"Better you than many another."

She leaned and spoke softly. The horse flowed forward into the pale land. They grew dim and noiseless in a matter of moments.

Meliash turned back toward his camp, touching the dark wand as he passed it. He halted instantly, his brow furrowing, running his fingertips along its length, squatting beside it. Finally, he opened a soft leather pouch which hung from his belt, withdrew a small yellow crystal, raised it, and spoke a few words. The face of an older, bearded man appeared within its depths.

"Yes, Meliash?" The words came into his head.

"I'm getting peculiar vibrations," he stated. "Are you? Is another wave beginning over there?"

The older man shook his head.

"Nothing here yet. No."

"Thanks. I'll try Tarba."

The face faded as he spoke additional words, to be succeeded by that of a dark, turbaned man.

"How are things in your sector?" he asked him.

"Still," Tarba replied.

"Have you checked your wand recently?"

"I'm right beside it now. Nothing."

He communicated with the remaining wardens—an older, heavy- jowled man with bright blue eyes, and an intense young man with a deeply lined face. Their responses were the same as the others.

After he had restored the crystal to its bag, he stood for some time staring into the changing land, but no new wave rose. He touched the wand once again, to discover that the vibrations which had disturbed him had now subsided.

He returned to his camp and seated himself at the table, chin propped on his fist, eyes narrowed.

"Do you want your breakfast now?" the younger servant called.

"Let it cook. There's more to come," Meliash answered. "Bring me more tea, though."

Later, as he sat drinking, he spilled a little on the tabletop and began tracing designs with his fingers. The castle, so… A pentagram of watchers about it, thus… Waves spiraling outward in this manner, generally arising in the west…

A shadow fell across the diagram and he looked up. A dark-haired young man of medium stature, with dark eyes and a laughing twist to his lips, stood beside him. He wore a yellow tunic and black fur leggings; his link belt and the clasp of his brown cloak were of bronze. His beard was short and neatly trimmed. He nodded and smiled the moment that Meliash looked up.

"I'm sorry. I didn't hear you approach," Meliash said.

He looked at the servants, but their attention was elsewhere.

"Yet you knew of my coming?"

"In a general sort of way. My name is Meliash. I am the Society warden here."

"I know. I am Weleand of Murcave. I am come to cross the changing land and claim the Castle Timeless in its midst."

"Timeless… ?"

"A few of us know it by that name."

The Society sign passed between them.

"Sit down," Meliash said. "Join me for breakfast. Might as well start with a warm meal inside you."

"Thank you, no. I've already had one."

"A cup of tea?"

"I'd better not take the time. It is a long road I've chosen."

"I'm afraid there is not too much I can tell you about it."

"I know everything I need to know on that account," Weleand replied. "What I would like to know is how much traffic you have seen."

"You are the second today. I have been on duty here for two weeks. You are the twelfth to pass this way. I believe that makes thirty-two altogether, of whom we have record."

"Do you know whether any of them made it through?"

"I do not."

"Good."

"Small chance, I suppose, of my persuading you not to try it?"

"I imagine you are obligated to try talking everyone out of it. Have any heeded you?"

"No."

"There's your answer."

"You have obviously decided that the power to be gained is worth the risk. What would you do with it, though, if you obtained it?"

Weleand lowered his head. "Do?" he said. "I would right wrongs. I would go up and down in the world and to and fro in it, putting down injustices and rewarding virtues. I would use it to make this land a better place in which to live."

"And what would be your gain from this?"

"The satisfaction."

"Oh. Well, there is that, I suppose. Yes, of course. Sure you won't take some tea?"

"No. I'd best be moving on. I'd like to be across before nightfall."

"Good luck to you, then."

"Thank you. Oh, by the way—of the other thirty-one you mentioned, was one of them a big, green-booted fellow riding a metal horse?"

Meliash shook his head.

"No, no one such as that has passed this way. The only elfboots I saw were on a woman—not too long ago."

"And who might that have been?"

"Arlata of Marinta."

"Really? How interesting."

"Where did you say you are from?"

"Murcave."

"I'm afraid I don't know it."

"It is a minor shire, far to the east. I've done my small share in keeping it a happy place."

"So may it remain," said Meliash. "A metal horse, you say?"

"Yes."

"I've never seen such. You think he may come this way?"

"Anything is possible."

"What else about him is special?"

"I believe that he is one of our darker brothers in the Art. Should he succeed, there is no telling what mischief he may work."

"The Society will not take a position one way or another as to who may essay this thing."

"I know. Yet, one need not go out of one's way to help such a one with good directions and advice, if you catch my meaning."

"I believe that I do, Weleand."

"… and his name is Dilvish."

"I will remember it."

Weleand smiled and reached out to retrieve an elaborately carved staff which was leaning against a tree. Meliash had not noticed it until that moment.

"I will be on my way now. Good day to you, warden."

"Have you no mount, no pack animal?"

The other shook his head.

"My needs are few."

"Then fare thee well, Weleand."

The other turned and walked off toward the changing land. He did not look back. After a time, Meliash rose and went to watch until the mists enfolded the man.

Chapter 2

Hodgson strained against the chains. They cut into his wrists, his ankles, but his weight loss during the month of his imprisonment gave him the slack he desired. With the big toe of his right foot, he continued the line he had been inscribing in the gritty floor, joining it at last with the one his nearest companion had drawn. Then he sagged and hung in his chains, breathing heavily.

Across the way, near to the entrance, Odil—who was shorter than the others —strove in a similar manner to draw a character into his section of the diagram.

"Hurry!" called the dark wizard, Derkon, who hung at Hodgson's right. "I believe one of them is on the way."

Two lesser mages chained to the same bench along the wall to the left nodded.

"Perhaps we'd best begin concealing it," one of them suggested. "Odil knows where his part goes."

"Yes," Hodgson answered, hauling himself upright again. "Hide the damned thing from the damned thing!" Extending his foot, he scuffed a clump of straw into the diagram's center. "But gently! Don't mar it!"

The others joined him in kicking wisps of the floor covering onto their sections. Odil completed another stroke at his character. The room took on an eerie blue glow, and a pale bird which had not been there earlier beat its way from corner to corner until it finally found the doorway and exited.

The glow subsided, Derkon muttered, Odil managed another mark.

"I believe I hear something," said the one on the left who was nearer to the door.

They all grew silent, listening. A faint clicking sound occurred outside the chamber.

"Odil," Hodgson said softly. "Please…"

The small man struggled once more. The others moved to conceal their pattern further. A wheezing sound reached them from without. Odil executed a pair of parallel lines, the second longer than the first, then carefully traced one perpendicular to the latter. He fell limp immediately upon its completion, his face glistening with perspiration.

"Done!" said Derkon. "If it, too, has not been denatured, that is."

"Do you feel up to it?" Hodgson asked him.

"It will be my first pleasure since I've come to this place," replied the other, and he began intoning certain preliminary words, softly.

But it was a long while before anything more occurred. They glanced repeatedly at the empty chains where the man Joab had hung, as the dark-streaked wall behind them. Derkon had completed the first stages of his work and there was a faraway look in his pale eyes, which stared straight ahead, unblinking. Hodgson had leaned toward him, occasionally muttering, as if attempting to transfer his own remaining energies to the man. Several of the others had assumed similar attitudes.

The creature appeared suddenly in the doorway and immediately sprang toward Hodgson, who was secured directly across the way from it. It was a red-bodied, thick-tailed, sharp-jointed streak, crowned with antlers, red eyes blazing, dark claws extended.

As it touched the middle of the concealed platform, it gave voice to an ear-piercing cry and pressed forward as against an invisible wall, the ivory pickets of its permanent grin clashing audibly upon its completion.

Derkon spoke a single word, firmly, without emotion.

The creature wailed and darkened. Its flesh began to shrivel, as if it were being burned by invisible flames. Grimacing horribly, it beat at itself. Then, suddenly, came a bright flash, and it was gone.

A collective sigh went up. Moments later, there were smiles.

"It worked…" someone breathed.

Derkon turned toward Hodgson and nodded, somehow making it seem a courtly bow.

"Not bad for a white magician. I didn't think it could really be managed."

"I wasn't too certain about it myself," Hodgson replied.

"Good show," said one of the two to his left.

"We've got us a working demon-trap," said the other.

"Now that we've insured our survival for a little longer," Hodgson said, "we've got to figure a way out of here and plan what to do once we're free."

"I'd just like to get out, call everything off and go home," said Vane, the nearer of the two on the bench. "I've tried both spells I know for getting rid of manacles, getting free of bondage, over and over again. Neither of them works here."

His companion, Galt, who sat to his left, nodded.

"I've been grinding away at the weakest link in my chain—the same as the rest of you, I guess—for weeks now, because nothing else works," Galt said. "I've made some progress, but it looks as if it will be weeks more before it yields. I take it no one knows a better way?"

"I don't," Odil answered.

"We seem to be restricted to physical methods," Derkon said. "We must all keep grinding until something better comes along. But say it does—or say we break free the hard way. What then? Hodgson has a good point. Shall we simply run for it? Or do we attempt to take over here?"

The sorcerer Lorman—the oldest —had hung silent for a long while, there in his shadowy corner. Now he finally spoke, and his voice was a croaking thing.

"Yes. We must attempt to free ourselves of these chains by physical means. The tides of Tualua make magic too uncertain. Still, we must continue to try the spells, for sometimes he rests and there are brief interludes when things may fall out right. It is our position that is bad in relation to his pit. His force goes forth in this direction before the swirling commences. There are places in this castle which are free of his inter- ference—a long gallery near his pit, for instance."

"How do you know this?" Derkon asked.

"The force that blocks our magic has not interfered with my ability to sense things on other planes," the old man replied. "This much I have seen—and more."

"Then why did you not speak of it sooner?"

"What good would it have done us? I cannot predict when there will be an interruption in the flow, nor how long it will last."

"If you would tell us when an interruption occurs, we could at least try our spells," Hodgson said.

"And what then? I had felt we were doomed, anyway."

"You use the past tense," Derkon observed.

"Yes."

"Then you have seen something that gives you hope?"

"Possibly."

"Your vision is far better than ours, Lorman," Hodgson stated. "You will have to tell us about it."

The old sorcerer raised his head. His eyes were yellow and focused upon nothing present.

"There is a master spell—a great working, from long ago—that somehow seems to hold this place together—"

"Tualua's?" Vane inquired.

Lorman shook his head slowly.

"No. It is not of his doing. Mayhap Jelerak himself wrought it. I cannot say. I do not understand it. I simply feel its existence. It is very old, and it binds this place somehow."

"How can that help us, when you are not even certain of its function?"

"It does not matter whether we understand it. What would you do if your chains fell away this instant?"

"Go home," Vane answered.

"Walk out the gate? Hike back? How many guards, slaves, zombies, and demons inhabit this place? And say you succeed in bypassing them. Would you relish the walk through the changing land?"

"I made it through once," Vane said.

"You're weaker now."

"True. Forgive me. Continue. How can the master spell help us?"

"It cannot. But its absence may."

"Break a spell of which you're not certain—one that is sustaining things?" Derkon asked.

"Exactly."

"Granting that it can be done, it might destroy us all"

"It might not, too. Whereas if we do nothing, we are almost certainly lost."

"How would we go about it?" Hodgson asked. "One generally needs to know a spell's exact nature in order to unmake it."

"A simple but powerful channeling spell. If we got to the gallery and combined our efforts—"

"What exactly would we be channeling against it?" Hodgson asked.

"Why, the only thing in the neighborhood that flows with enormous force—the emanations of Tualua himself."

"Say we succeed," said Derkon, "and say that it does shatter the master spell—have you any notion at all what the result might be?"

"This place is known in ancient lore as the Castle Timeless," Lorman said. "No man knows its origin or its age. My suspicion is that it is a preserving spell. If it be broken, I feel the place could fall apart about us, possibly even fade to dust and gravel."

"And how would this help us?" Galt asked.

"There would no longer be a castle from which we must escape—only rubble and confusion. Tualua would absorb the actual backlash of the working, as it would be his force turned against the master spell. He may well be sufficiently debilitated by it to terminate the emanations. The changing land would be stabilized and our magic would work again. We depart, fit to deal with any normal challenge."

"Supposing," Hodgson asked, "that instead of stunning him, it whips Tualua into a frenzy? Supposing he lashes out at everything?"

Lorman smiled faintly, then shrugged.

"Six fewer sorcerers in the world," he said. "Of course it's a risk. But consider the alternative."

"You employ the singular," Derkon said. "There is more than one alternative."

"If you have a better plan, please instruct me."

"I have nothing better to offer, up to a point," Derkon stated. "If we were to free ourselves, I can see performing the channeling spell of which you spoke, to break the master spell. But say things fall out as you have supposed—we live through it and Tualua is incapacitated—I cannot see fleeing at that point. We would then occupy an enviable position—half a dozen sorcerers, united and in full possession of our powers, with an Elder One helpless at our feet. We would be fools if we did not move to bind him then, as each of us had originally planned to try. Our chances of success, in fact, would seem good."

Lorman chewed his mustache.

"Such a course of action had occurred to me also," he finally said, "and I can offer no rational objection. Yet—I have a feeling—a strong one— that the best thing we can do is get as far away from here as possible as soon as we can. I do not foresee the nature of the danger that will follow if we wait around, but I am certain it will be a grave one."

"But you admit that it is only a feeling, an apprehension—"

"A very strong one."

Derkon looked about at the others.

"How do you feel about it?" he asked them. "If we get that far, do we go for the prize, or do we run?"

Odil licked his lips.

"If we try that and fail," he said, "we're all dead —or worse."

"True," Derkon replied. "But we all faced what was basically the same decision, severally, when we considered coming here in the first place—and we all came. We will actually be in a stronger position my way—united."

"Yet, I had never realized the full magnitude of Tualua's strength until recently," Odil answered.

"Which increases the reward for success."

"True…"

He looked at Vane.

"It does seem worth trying," that one stated.

Galt nodded as he said it.

"Hodgson?"

Hodgson regarded each of them in turn, quickly, as if just becoming aware how important his choice would be. Derkon was an avowed disciple of the darkest phases of the Art. Lorman had been, but in his old age seemed occasionally to waver. The others were of the gray, uncommitted sort which made up the majority of practitioners. Only Hodgson had declared himself a follower of the white way.

"There is merit to your plan," he said to Derkon. "But say we succeed. Our ends will be different. We will all have different uses in mind, desire different employments of the power. The next struggle will be among ourselves."

Derkon smiled.

"Conflicts among any of us might occur in the normal courses of our affairs," he said. "In this, at least, we will have a chance to talk things over before doing anything rash."

"And we are bound to disagree on something sooner or later."

"Such is life," said Derkon, shrugging. "We can settle our differences as they arise."

"Which means that should we gain control, only one of us will be around long enough really to enjoy it."

"It need not necessarily follow…"

"But it will. You know it will."

"Well…What is to be done?"

"There are several very binding oaths which might protect us from one another," Hodgson said.

He saw Odil's face brighten as he spoke—also Vane's and Lorman's. Derkon bit back a beginning gibe as he noted these reactions.

"It would seem that it may be the only way to insure full cooperation," he said after a moment. "It will make life a little less interesting. But, on the other hand, it may well lengthen it." He laughed. "Very well. I'll go along with it, if the others will."

He saw Galt nodding.

"Let's get on with it, then," he said.

Semirama entered the Chamber of the Pit. The brown heaps were greatly diminished. The shovels were leaned against the nearest wall. The slaves had departed. Baran was in Jelerak's study, attempting to recover lost spells from moldering tomes.

Slowly, she moved to the edge of the pit. Below, the watery surface was still. Once more she looked around the room. Then she leaned forward and uttered a sharp, trilling note.

A tentative tentacle broke the murky surface. A moment later, her exotic speech was answered in the same fashion.

She laughed lightly and seated herself upon the edge of the pit, legs hanging over its side. She began a series of the chirping sounds, pausing occasionally to listen to more of the same. After a time, a long tentacle reared itself to rest lightly upon her leg, caressing, rising.

Arlata of Marinta guided her mount at a slow gait. Shortly after she had passed between the orange pinnacles, the wind had risen in intensity, periodically puffing gusts of extra force sufficient to whip her cloak into awkward positions about her face and restrict the movements of her arms. Finally, she tucked it partway behind her belt. She drew the cowl low, to shield her eyes, and tied it in place. The mists were swirled away about her, but the visibility worsened rather than improved, as large amounts of dust and sand became airborne. A brownish cast came over the land, and she took shelter in the lee of a low ridge of orange stone.

She brushed sand from her garments. Her mount snorted and pawed the ground. There came a series of delicate, tinkling sounds.

Looking down, she beheld a small shininess along the base of the stone. Puzzled, she dismounted and reached toward that portion of it that lay nearest her mount's hoof. She raised a broken flower of yellow glass and stared at it.

At that moment, a sound like laughter came out of the moaning of the wind. Lifting her eyes, Arlata beheld an enormous face formed out of a vortex of sand which had risen before her shelter. Its huge, hollow mouth was swirled in the form of a grin. Behind its eyeholes was a dark emptiness. Getting to her feet, she saw that from what might be called its chin to the place where its forehead merged with blowing dust, it was taller than she. The glass flower fell from her fingertips, shattering at her feet.

"What are you?" she asked.

As if in reply, the howling of the wind increased in volume, the eyes narrowed, and the mouth became a circle. The sounds now seemed to be funneled through it.

She wanted to cover her ears, but she restrained herself. The face began to drift toward her, and she saw through it. Something glistening lay uncovered in its wake. She invoked her protective spell and began one of banishment.

The face blew apart and there was only the wind.

Arlata mounted, then took a drink from the silver flask which hung at the right of the delicate green saddle. Moments later, she rode forward, passing the rib cage, right arm and head of a crystallized human skeleton which had been exposed by the eddying winds.

She rode on past the river of fire and halted again beside the iron wall.

"Dish it up," Meliash said. "I'm hungry." He seated himself at the table and began recording the morning's occurrences in the journal he maintained. The sun was higher now, the day warmer. A pair of small brown birds was building a nest in the tree over his head. When the food arrived, he pushed the journal aside and began to eat.

He was into his second bowl when he felt the vibrations. Since these were not uncommon within the changing land, he did not even pause as he dipped the coarse bread into the gravy. It was not until the birds departed in nervous flight and the vibrations resolved into a series of regular sounds that he looked up, wiped his mustache, and sought their direction. The east… Too heavy for the hoofs of a horse, yet…

They were hoofbeats. He rose to his feet. The others had come silently upon his camp, but there was no stealth here. Whatever—whoever—it was, was crashing through the undergrowth now, moving like a juggernaut. No subtlety, no finesse…

He saw the dark form among the trees, only slowing now that it was almost upon his camp. Big. Very large for a horse…

He touched the stone upon his breast and took a step forward.

Abruptly, the dark form halted, still partly screened by the trees. Meliash began moving toward it through the sudden silence as he saw a single rider dismount a shadowy steed. Now the man was striding toward his camp, making no sound whatsoever…

Meliash halted and awaited his approach as the man emerged from the wood. He was taller than most, slim, light-haired; his boots and cloak were green. As he drew near, the man responded to the recognition sign with a version of the counter-gesture which had once been valid but was now several centuries out of date. Meliash recognized it for what it was only because history had long been one of his passions.

"I am Meliash," he said.

"And I am Dilvish. You are the Brotherhood's warden in this area?"

Meliash cocked an eyebrow and smiled.

"I know not from what place you might have come," he said, "but we have not been known by that name for some fifty or sixty years."

"Really?" said the other. "What are we now?"

"The Society."

"The Society?"

"Yes. The Circle of Sorceresses, Enchantresses, and Wizardresses raised a fuss, and finally got it changed to that. It's no longer considered good form to use the old designation."

"I'll remember that."

"Would you care to join me for something to eat?"

"Delighted," Dilvish said. "It's been a long journey."

"From where?" Meliash asked as they moved toward the camp and its table.

"Many places. Most recently, far in the North."

They seated themselves and were served shortly thereafter. Meliash fell to, as if he had not just eaten two bowls of the stew. Dilvish also applied himself with vigor to the fare.

"Your account, your garb, your appearance," said Meliash when he finally paused, "all speak of an Elvish origin. Yet there are none of your people in the North—that I know of."

"I have been doing a lot of traveling."

"… and you decided to travel this way and try for the power."

"What power?"

Meliash set down his spoon and studied the other's face.

"You're not joking," he said a moment later.

"No."

Meliash furrowed his brow, scratched his temple.

"I'm afraid I do not entirely understand," he said. "Did you come here for purposes of journeying to the castle in the middle of the—" he gestured, "wasteland?"

"That's right," Dilvish said, breaking off another piece of bread.

Meliash leaned back.

"Do you know why I am here?"

"To help contain the spell that has produced the phenomenon, I'd guess," Dilvish answered. "To keep it from spreading."

"What makes you think it is a spell that has done that?"

Now the other looked puzzled. Finally, he shrugged.

"What else could it be?" he asked. "Jelerak was hurt earlier—in the North. He's come here to lick his wounds. He set that up to protect himself while he recovers. It may well be a self-perpetuating spell. The Brotherhood— pardon me, the Society wants to prevent its running wild, should he expire within. And that's why you are here. That is my guess."

"It makes sense," Meliash replied. "But you are wrong. This place has indeed been one of his strongholds. Somewhere inside is one of the Old Ones—the ancient, tentacled kin of the Elder Gods—Tualua, by name. Long had Jelerak controlled this one, tapping its power for his own ends. We do not know whether Jelerak himself is in the place right now. What we do know is that Tualua as apparently gone mad—a condition not uncommon among his kind, if tradition speaks true—and that all of that—" He glanced toward the changing land, "—is his doing."

"How can you be so certain?"

"The Society was able to determine by specialized arcane means that the phenomenon you behold results from the emanations of a being magical in itself, rather than any particular spell. It is a rare thing to observe these days, which is why we have set up these stations."

"You are not here to keep it under control, should it reach out and become a danger beyond this region?"

"And that, too, of course."

"You are not here to use it as some sort of trap for Jelerak?"

Meliash reddened.

"The Society's position toward Jelerak has always been one of neutrality," he stated.

"Yet you barred his return to the Tower of Ice to keep Ridley in reserve against him."

Meliash frowned and studied Dilvish. Suddenly, then, his right hand dipped into a slit in his garment, emerging to cast a handful of golden dust toward Dilvish. Recognizing the material, Dilvish stood unmoving, smiling.

"You're that nervous, eh?" he remarked. "You see that I retain my form. I am what I appear to be—not Jelerak in disguise."

"Then how do you know of the doings at the Tower of Ice?"

"As I said, I was in the North recently."

"Those actions in the North," Meliash said, "were not Society- sanctioned. They were the work of a number of individual members acting on their own initiative. We are neutral on that matter also."

Dilvish laughed.

"Saving your commitments for the big ones?" he inquired.

"It is extremely difficult to get a group of temperamental individualists to take a position on anything. You talk as if you were not yourself a member. Speaking of which, you gave me an out-of-date countersign—very out-of- date."

"I've been away for a long while. But I was once a member of the Brotherhood in good standing, albeit a lesser one."

"You continue to puzzle me. You want to ride through a dangerous area toward a dangerous place. Everyone else who has gone that way has done it because he believes there may be a chance of binding Tualua to his own ends—now that he is not in full control of himself, now that Jelerak is either absent or too weak to defend his own. Control of that magical being would indeed bestow a great power. Yet that is not what you are after?"

"No," Dilvish answered.

"That is a refreshing change, at any rate. Would you be offended if I were to ask your objective? I'm doing something in the manner of a survey—"

"I've come to kill Jelerak."

Meliash stared at him. "If you do not wish to answer, of course I have no power to require—" he began.

"I have answered," Dilvish said, rising. "If he is in there, I'll face him. If he is not, I'll look for clues as to his whereabouts and try again."

He turned back toward the wood.

"Thank you for the meal," he said.

He felt Meliash's hand upon his shoulder.

"I believe you," he heard him say. "But I am not certain that you realize what you are facing. Supposing you do make it through, and supposing he should indeed be inside, or you run him to ground elsewhere. Even weakened, he is the most dangerous sorcerer in the world. He will blast you, wither you, transform you, banish you. None have ever faced his wrath and survived."

"I have faced his wrath. That is why I want him to face mine."

"I find that difficult to believe."

Dilvish shrugged off Meliash's hand.

"Believe what you would. I know what I am about."

"You think even Elvish magic would prove sufficient?"

"I may have something stronger."

"What?" asked Meliash, following him as he began to move away again.

"I've said all that I care to," Dilvish replied. "Thanks again for the refreshment. I will be going on now."

Meliash halted, watched him return to the wood. It seemed that a few words were spoken there—at first in Dilvish's voice. The reply that followed came in deeper tones. Then heavy footfalls moved off toward his left, and for a moment he saw the outline of a great black beast, Dilvish mounted upon it. In that moment, the light fell upon it in such a manner that it appeared to be made of metal. The hoofbeats became more rapid, circling the camp, heading west toward the changing land.

Meliash fumbled at the leathery pouch as he moved back toward the table. Seating himself, he withdrew the crystal and placed it before him upon the flattened pouch. He spoke softly, firmly. He waited, then repeated the words. After a pause, he commenced a third iteration.

The crystal cleared before he had finished, however, showing a long, thin face seined with wrinkles, tufted top and bottom with white, framing a black, shifty right eye beside a dead white one. This face was frowning. The lips moved. Meliash felt the word:

"Yes?"

"Did I disturb you, Rawk?"

"Indeed you did," said the other, glancing back over his shoulder. "What do you want?"

"Society business. This job I'm on…"

"It requires you consult the records?"

"I'm afraid so."

Rawk sighed.

"Okay. She'll keep. What do you need to know?"

Meliash raised his hands. He made a gesture.

"That was once a countersign to our recognition signal," he said.

"Things were a lot younger then," the other replied. "I remember…"

"If you can recall exactly when that one was in use, I would like you to search the archives for the membership records of that period. See if we had a brother named Dilvish. Elf. One of the lower circles, I'd guess. If so, did he tend toward either extreme? Also, is there reference to a metal horse or similar beast? I'd like to know anything at all that we have on him."

Rawk produced a quill, flourished it and jotted.

"All right. I'll do that and get back to you."

"Another thing."

"Yes?"

"While you're at it, see what we have on a current member—Weleand of Murcave."

Again the quill.

"I will do that. The first one sounds somehow familiar. I can't say why."

"Well, let me know."

"What is the situation there?"

"It seems unchanged."

"Good. It may settle itself."

"I've a feeling it won't."

"Good luck, then."

The crystal grew dark.

Meliash replaced it and went to regard the misted-over area which screened the castle. A lone rider on something heavy and black was moving away from him, fading.

Chapter 3

Black halted. Dilvish peered over the green scarf which muffled half his face, his right hand on the hilt of his larger blade, head turning.

"What's the matter?" he inquired.

"Not matter. Something less tangible," replied his mount.

"Is there something I should be doing about it?"

"Not really. I have detected a reality ripple—moving this way. All we need do is wait. It will pass shortly, missing us."

"What would happen if we did not wait?"

"You would be burned to ashes."

"We will wait. It is good that you have a feeling for these things."

"It may be somewhat less than perfect, however, in a place such as this. These are not ordinary spells, you know."

"Then Meliash was correct?"

"Yes. Those are the emanations of a magical being."

"It takes one to know one?"

"As they say…"

Dilvish felt a sudden blast of heat, and the landscape before him rippled and wavered. As this occurred, the wind died and the air grew clearer. Dilvish glimpsed shining spires, dark, moving forms, stripes of blue soil or rock, towering dust devils, fountains of blood—all far ahead, all for but a few moments—and could not tell whether they were mirage or substance. Then the wave passed. Winds dragging streamers of dust broke the prospect.

"Cling tightly now!" cried Black, and they moved forward at an incredible pace.

"Why the rush?" Dilvish shouted as they swept across the still-warm land, but his words were caught and carried away by the wind.

Their speed increased until Dilvish was forced to crouch low, squeezing his eyes tightly shut. The wind was now a single, immense roar all about him. After a time, it was like a silence, and in his mind he went back, back past his adventures since his return, beyond the hellfire, into the moist green land where the twilight fought the rainbow. He seemed to hear a voice singing, accompanied by one of the older instruments, an ancient song he had all but forgotten. The singer was a slim, fair woman with green eyes. There was a smell of wildflowers…

The sound of the wind broke in upon his reverie. They were slowing. He raised his head. After a moment, he opened his eyes.

They were moving upward, and Black's pace continued to decrease. Soon they came to a halt upon a hilltop beneath a brilliant sky. The wind was still. All about, below them, a fog drifted, churning in places. It was as if they stood upon an island in the midst of a foamy sea. Far off before them, the Castle Timeless stood, diminutive—a study in pink, lavender, gray, and shadow—in morning's oblique light.

"Why the speed?" Dilvish asked.

"There was more than one wave," Black replied. "I had to cross before the next one reached the area."

"Oh. Then we can rest here awhile and choose the best route."

"Not for too long. This hilltop is about to explode, becoming a mud volcano. But I have already determined the next leg of our journey, at least for a little distance. It seems it will be clearest if we bear to the right as we descend."

Dilvish became aware of vibrations beneath them.

"Perhaps we ought to be moving on."

"Behold the Castle Timeless," Black remarked, staring ahead.

Dilvish glanced forward once again.

"A place out of time," Black continued. "Long have I wished to view it."

The trembling of the ground became more pronounced.

"Uh… Black…"

"Built by the Elder Gods themselves, for some arcane purpose; destined, it is said, to circuit all of time; alterable, I have heard, but indestructible—"

"Black!"

"What?"

"Move!"

"Excuse me," he said. "I was transported. Esthetics."

Lowering his head, Black plunged down the hillside into the fog, his eyes glowing like coals. The ground was shaking steadily now, and in the portions of which he had view, Dilvish could see cracks appearing, widening. Wisps of smoke rose from several of these, moving to mingle with the fog. The winds rose again about them, though not as strongly as before.

Leaping among large, cube-shaped green rocks in a very unhorselike fashion, Black bore steadily to the right as the ground leveled and the fog was abated in patches. The sound of a terrific explosion reached them and splatters of hot mud rained nearby, though only a few fell upon them.

"In the future," Dilvish remarked, "I would prefer not cutting things quite that closely."

"Sorry," Black replied. "I was caught up in a beautiful moment."

He leaped a hedge of flames which sprang up before them, and for a time raced parallel to the course of a black and boiling river, down through a canyon where screams too high-pitched to be human filled the air. Along the river's bank, black flowers swayed, hissing and spitting. Tiny points of light rose above the dark waters and drifted off, to explode with soft popping noises, emitting noxious odors amid showers of sparks. The ground continued to shake and the dark waters overleaped their banks in places, staining the rocks and the land about with tarlike films. A winged, monkey-faced thing the size of a large bird flew at them, shrieking, talons outstretched. Dilvish cut at it several times, but it eluded his blade. Finally, it passed too near Black's head. He breathed a flame upon it and it fell to the ground to be stepped on.

The river vanished into a steaming cavern, wails echoing within it. The ground split before them and Black leaped the chasm. It closed behind them with a grinding sound, and rocks and sand were shaken down upon them from a height to the left.

The far mouth of the canyon was hung with a screen of blue fires. Dilvish drew his cloak more tightly about him and Black increased his pace. As they rushed through, Dilvish shuddered at an intense cold, rather than the heat he had expected. Looking down, he discovered that both he and Black had become a rich cobalt color. His limbs felt stiff, almost brittle.

"It will pass! It will pass in moments!" Black cried.

It did pass, somewhere within a yellow cloud-bank, but this took longer than a few moments. They stood shuddering within a protective circle Black had raised, and the color and stiffness were slowly leached away. The winds were minimal here. Dilvish exercised his fingers and massaged his hands and biceps.

"So much for the easy part," Black remarked after a time.

"I hope that you are joking."

Black scarred the ground with a cloven hoof.

"No," he answered. "I am afraid that the emanations are stronger closer to the center of things."

"Have you any special plan of attack for that area?"

"Every protective spell I know is upon us," he said, "but that can only be one line of defense. Tualua, who dreams and hurts within, is so much stronger than I am that any direct encounter could overwhelm them. I must count on my perceptions, my speed, and our combined strength and ingenuity."

"I was afraid that was the case."

"They have served us well thus far."

"Then why are we moving—circle and all?"

"We are not moving."

"I think we are."

Black raised his head and stared through the fogs. The ground beneath them seemed firm enough now, but…

"Something does seem to be happening," he finally admitted. "The farthest rock I can see appears to be changing its position. I am going to risk a small spell. It may achieve nothing, it may rebound upon us, its effect may be distorted. But I would like to stir up the wind to clear the prospect —long enough to view our situation in better perspective."

"Go ahead."

Dilvish braced himself and waited. Black muttered in Mabrahoring. The errant gush which had been buffeting them settled, took on a uniform direction for a few moments, then shifted. It was several minutes after that that a steady wind came at them from the right. Black had grown silent by then, and both of them remained motionless, staring ahead.

Gradually, the fog bank began a leftward movement. A faint, lightninglike flicker occurred within it. It began to grow thin in patches, but the drifting vapors filled these areas almost immediately.

Then, as they watched, it all seemed to break loose and race away, revealing a dark prospect under sunny skies…

They were moving. Everything seemed to be moving in relation to the distant castle itself, which stood revealed again, salmon pink and orange. Only some things were moving faster than others…

They were drifting toward their right. The features of the landscape immediately before them also seemed to be drifting toward the right, and those more distant appeared to be moving faster. At a greater distance, however, bright rocks and sparkling glassy trees were racing leftward.

"I don't understand…" Black began.

The land had acquired ripples. The area where they rested, which had been low, was now rising. Dilvish, at a higher eye level than Black, was first to see and understand.

"Gods!" he exclaimed.

Far below and ahead was an enormous circular opening in a depressed area. The landscape was winding itself about it, spiraling inward; possessed of an abnormal plasticity, rocks and shrubs, logs and litter were all drawn toward that great dark hole and swirled about it, to vanish over its edges, along with the entire surface layer of soil upon which they rested.

"It's like a whirlpool…" Dilvish said, turning his head to look behind him.

In that distance also, things were moving in the opposite direction. Only…

"At least we are nearer the outer edge than the center," he said. "We had better get away quickly, though."

Black reared and remained upright for long seconds. Then he dropped heavily to the ground and turned to face the north. He began to move, breaking the circle which guarded them.

"This may work to our advantage," he offered. "We are being borne westward as we head toward the turning edge. By the time we depart the disturbed area, it will have carried us nearer to our goal."

He increased his pace.

"It sounds good, said Dilvish, "but I wonder… ?"

"What?"

"When we get to the edge—the place where this land platform ends and the stable ground begins…"

"Yes. I see what you mean."

Black moved even faster.

"That dark, curving line farther ahead…" Black said as he half rose again. "The ground does seem to be in turmoil there."

They raced on toward the dark band. Stray wisps of fog were blown past them. A low, growling sound now reached their ears.

"It does seem fairly wide."

"Yes."

The vibrations came to them. Ahead, a river of grinding rocks and soil seethed, crunching, like a boiling moat. As they drew nearer, the sounds grew louder. The ground began to dip and rock beneath Black's hoofs, and he slowed, finally halting perhaps fifteen paces from the place where the turmoil began.

Dilvish dismounted and moved slowly forward. A sudden dropping and recovery of the land threw him to one side, but his elfbooted feet moved with uncanny precision to preserve his balance. A log flashed by within the area of turbulence, moving as though it rode atop a horizontal avalanche. It struck a slower-moving stone with a dull sound, upended, and was ground to splinters before his eyes. Stooping, Dilvish seized a head-sized stone and raised it to shoulder level. This he cast out before him. It skipped several times before it was borne away atop the rush to his right. Dilvish stood waiting for a time, adjusting his footing in response to the landswells; then he took hold of another stone and repeated the performance, with the same results. He took a step forward. Several larger stones passed. He looked up and to his left, to where the castle seemed to be inching from left to right along the horizon. He took two more steps, then halted again.

"You might be able to," Black called, "if you time it just right. I'll keep watch for the proper steppingstones and call out to you. The elfboots should carry you."

Dilvish shook his head and turned back.

"No," he said, mounting again. "We have to go together."

"It is too far for me to leap."

"Then we wait until something large comes along."

"Risky. But it would seem to be the only way. All right."

Black reared again and peered upstream.

"Nothing suitable in sight."

He turned on his hind legs until he was facing back in the direction from which he had come.

"I can see the area we left. It's a lot nearer the hole."

"I can see a big rock coming."

Black turned and dropped almost immediately. The castle was now directly ahead and drifting to the right.

"Hold very tightly," Black said. "If I fall, try to spring from my body and keep going."

Black moved into a new position facing the dark and grumbling river of debris. The ground beneath them was raised, lowered, raised again. Dilvish leaned forward and squeezed until his legs ached. He turned his head to the left. He heard a distant booming sound, almost like a giant's laugh. He saw a sheet of flame fall from the heavens, disappearing at some point far ahead. Castle Timeless glistened like an amethyst now. The ground rocked gently, and there came a sound as of a massive gong being repeatedly struck, followed by a shattering noise, as if an entire wall of windows had suddenly given way somewhere. The dark river continued its crashing, its rumbling.

"Here it comes," Black announced.

Dilvish saw the half-submerged boulder again, rounding the bend with some difficulty, pushing toward them…

He tried to judge its pace. He closed his eyes and opened them again. A streamer of fog wound its way past.

"Now!" Black cried.

Suddenly they were moving. Dilvish thought it was too soon. The rock appeared as if it were caught for a moment and sinking further. Its surface seemed to offer no purchase for even the most careful feet…

They were in the air.

Involuntarily, Dilvish closed his eyes again. His teeth were jolted by the force of the contact. Black's body twisted beneath him, and he thought that they were slipping, falling.

He opened his eyes to find them rising through the air once again. He clenched his jaw.

They struck solid ground and kept moving. Dilvish straightened and exhaled, realizing he had been holding his breath. They were southwest of the castle and racing across a rocky plain, among fuming holes.

Black paused for a moment when they had mounted a pebbly hillock and looked back.

"Not bad," he said. "I wasn't sure."

Then he started down the farther slopes, bearing to the right.

"I wonder where it all goes," Dilvish said.

"What?"

"The stuff being drawn into that hole."

"I believe it will be spit out again somewhere else," said Black, increasing his pace as they approached a sandy field.

"Comforting thought."

There came a rustling sound as they struck the sandy stretch. Small, dark, moving things began to appear below, Dilvish noted almost subliminally, growing like rapid weeds about them. The sand was then disturbed before them, and larger, faster versions of the same broke the surface, wriggling upward.

"Fingers!" Dilvish exclaimed, almost to himself.

Black did not reply, but raced on as large purple hands came up to clutch at them, waving and grasping, higher now. He trod upon them and his metal limbs tore free of them. Ahead, they rose to even greater heights, long, hairy arms like stalks in their way. Dilvish felt something brush against his right foot, and his blade came into his hand. He began swinging it downward, lopping grasping fingers which came too near. Black lowered his head and breathed flames to scorch the ground before him.

Mist rose in depressed areas about them, but this stayed at ground level, the air itself remaining clear beneath a bright blue sky with but a few puffs of cloud to the west. The castle, only slightly nearer now, glittered as if fire from the sunlight reflected upon its many panes of glass.

Dilvish began to perspire as he swung his blade on both sides at the hands, which continued to rise in profusion. They neared the far end of the field, where the land dropped downward out of sight beyond a low, dunelike ridge. As they approached it, the ground heaved and the most massive hand yet began to work its way free of the earth. Dilvish felt Black's strides lengthening, and bones crunched and snapped beneath them as they almost flew the final distance. Black's head was raised and his fires had been remitted. The palm of his huge hand was rising directly in their path.

Dilvish knew what was about to follow even before they left the ground, arcing through the air. The hand was reaching, still rising, as Black sprang. Dilvish struck outward and down at the nearest finger, feeling his blade strike and cut deeply. The hand suddenly clenched into a tight fist, completely clearing their way. A bleeding log of a finger struck the ground and rolled back down the dune.

Then they were descending. The slope was steeper than anticipated, but it was its hard, sleek, shiny quality which caused Dilvish to stiffen the moment before Black's hoofs struck. It was a side of a large, bowl-shaped depression, at the bottom of which lay a still, steaming pool. Sulfurous fumes filled the air here, and something suspiciously like a partly decomposed human torso floated in the yellow waters, along with smaller, possibly once-living objects.

As they struck the glistening surface, Black's hoofs immediately went out from under him and he toppled to the left. Dilvish sprang free so as not to be crushed, casting himself backward and to the side, rolling, blade still in hand.

The elfboots touched the surface and held. Dilvish threw his left arm crossbody and rolled to his right, catching hold of Black's right flank. As Black continued to slide, Dilvish's shinbones felt as if they were about to snap as the elfboots maintained their purchase. He shuffled his feet, breaking the contact, sheathed his blade, rolled onto his stomach and caught hold of Black with both hands, to be dragged forward, sprawled behind his mount.

He moved his feet again, gaining traction, rose into a crouched position, still holding on to Black. In the meantime, Black's front hoofs continued to flail, striking deep gouges as he slid head-foremost toward the pool.

Dilvish began moving his grip, one hand at a time, working his way forward along Black's left side, his back, until he caught hold of his neck. He moved until he was in advance of his sliding mount, the elfboots locking with each step as he began pushing upward. His shoulders and thighs strained, his joints creaked, but Black began slowing and the movements of his forelimbs became more deliberate, the force of each thrust better directed.

The smell of the pool grew heavier, irritating his nostrils; and looking past Black, Dilvish could see that they had descended a major portion of the slope. He did not look behind him, but redoubled his efforts at stabilization.

Black's right forefoot struck and held, scoring the slick surface deeply, sending up a great shower of glassy particles. Then his left foot caught and Dilvish heaved with all of his strength. Black rose on both legs, his hindquarters still depressed, legs shuffling, digging. Dilvish caught hold of him about the neck and locked his legs, straining forward, upward.

Black halted, reared his hindquarters, stood immobile. Dilvish relaxed gradually, took a deep breath, began coughing as the noxious fumes entered his lungs.

"Don't," said Black, "take even another step backward."

Dilvish looked behind him.

The scummy waters lapped gently at a place less than a pace away. Dilvish shuddered. Looking further, he saw that it was indeed the remains of a human body drifting near the pool's center, bones exposed in places. The water was darker about it. He could almost see the decomposition continuing. He looked away.

"What now?" Black asked. "I know of no spell sufficiently specialized to cover situations such as this."

Dilvish smiled faintly and looked back up along the way they had descended.

"Offhand, I'd say we must do it the hard way," he remarked. "Let me test this slick stuff."

He removed his hand slowly from Black's neck, straightened and drew his blade. He took several paces to his left, raised the weapon, and brought it crashing down upon the smooth, sloping surface. The blade smashed its way through several inches of the material, and fracture lines spread about it for a full handspan in every direction.

"It can be done," Dilvish announced. "If I chop a series of holds along here, we can get you turned around and headed back up."

"Do that," said Black, "and I'll be able to make my own holds going up. I feel rather delicately poised at the moment, though."

"Yes," said Dilvish, coughing. "Don't do anything that requires movement."

He turned and assailed the slope once again. Chips flew.

After several minutes, he had hacked out a set of parallel tracks over eight feet in length, heading off to Black's right.

"How does that look?" he asked.

"Once I'm onto them, I'll feel uplifted in spirit as well as in body," Black replied. "Then I suppose it will be best to proceed in a straight line, right on up that side."

"I'd think it would," Dilvish said, sheathing his blade and moving back to a position to the left of Black's head. "I'm going to be pushing up against you as you move across. Right foot first, I'd say." He took hold and braced his shoulder against Black's neck. "Any time you're ready."

Gingerly, Black raised his right forefoot and extended it, turning his body slowly. He placed the foot upon the far track, then shifted his weight further in that direction.

"The next one should be the real test."

He raised his left forefoot. Immediately, Dilvish felt increased pressure. He strained upward as Black moved the foot. His breath burned in his nostrils. Slowly, the foot came to rest upon the nearer track. The weight did not lift, however. Black was now moving his left hind leg into the niche just vacated. When he had achieved this, he brought the right hind leg forward.

"Two more steps…" he said softly, then quickly transferred the right hind leg to the farther track.

"Now…"

Dilvish continued the pressure as Black slid by, moving the first leg up to the track. Then he took several steps forward and Dilvish sighed, coughed, and stretched.

"Fine," Black said. "Fine."

Dilvish tied his scarf about his nose and mouth, then moved up beside Black once again, remaining between him and the pool. Black proceeded to the ends of the tracks.

"Now what?" Dilvish asked.

"No problem. Watch."

Black's right forefoot flashed forward, smashing a large hole within the glossy surface. It remained there as his left struck another, higher. He drew himself up and the right moved again. Soon his hind feet were moving into the spaces vacated.

"By the way, thanks," he said, driving another cloven hoof forward.

Dilvish rested his right hand upon Black's back and matched his slow pace.

"The sky seems to have darkened during our sojourn below," he observed.

"The emanations are very strong," Black said. "But I do not feel any change waves moving this way."

"What does that mean?"

"Almost anything."

The sky continued to darken to an almost twilit depth as they made their way upward. After several minutes they heard a short, sharp shriek from above, and a dark form slid over the rim, high to their left.

"It's a man!" Black cried.

Dilvish's hands flew to his waist as he moved to the left and called out: "Here!"

His belt came free in his hands and he cast it out before him, the weight of the heavy buckle bearing it directly into the sliding man's path. A long stick came bouncing past, almost striking Dilvish on the shoulder.

"Catch hold!" he cried.

The man twisted and grasped, his left hand seizing hold of the belt just above the buckle. Dilvish braced himself and turned as the other slid past.

"Don't let go!" the man cried, his right hand catching hold of the belt above the left as his body slued sideways.

"I wouldn't lose a good belt just for the pleasure of seeing a man in an acid pit," Dilvish answered through clenched teeth, feeling the full weight of the other now. "And it's getting too dark to enjoy the spectacle properly," he continued, drawing the other upward until he could catch hold of his hand.

A greenish glow began in the pool below, and moments later a blinding fountain of sparks rose above it.

"My staff!" the man cried, glancing back over his shoulder. "My staff! You've no idea what went into its crafting —what powers were stored within it!"

"I'll bet your life's worth more," Dilvish said, looping his belt over his neck and catching hold of the man's other hand.

An enormous bubbling began within the now-green pool, and the fumes rose more noxious than before.

The man managed a smile.

"Of course you're right," he said, his boot slipping out from beneath him as he attempted to gain footing. He immediately commenced an almost profound stream of profanity. Dilvish listened with admiration, for even in his military days he would have been hard put to find its equal.

"You managed to blaspheme gods even the priests have forgotten," he said with awe in his voice when the other paused for breath and began coughing. "I owe it to the Art now to drag you out of here. Don't try to stand up. Just let me pull you along to where my mount waits."

Dilvish drew the man up and across the slope, finally raising one of his yellow-tunicked arms and drawing it over his shoulders, assisting him to throw the other across Black's back. Behind them, a series of small explosions began within the roiling pool.

"Don't try to keep your footing," Dilvish said. "Just lean and let us carry you. Let your feet drag."

The man stared at Black for a moment and then nodded.

Dilvish and Black resumed their upward progress. Tendrils of fog slid across the darkened sky. The slope shuddered slightly beneath their feet, following another disruption within the pool. Black paused in mid-stride and waited until it had passed.

"That's quite a staff you had there," Dilvish commented.

The man gnashed his teeth and growled. Black's hoofs crunched through the glossy surface.

"It was like an account with an honest banker," the man said finally. "I had invested it with power over the years, against a time of need. Claiming the castle is going to be more difficult without it."

"Sad," said Dilvish. "Why do you want the castle so badly?"

The man only looked at him.

They neared the rim, pausing several more times to allow the passage of intermittent shudders emanating from below. When Dilvish looked back, all that he could see was a welling of greenish foam which now reached fully a third of the way up the sides of the depression. The air was clearer here, however, where a light breeze from the northwest reached them.

They moved steadily up the final distance and mounted the rim. Dilvish dropped his scarf to his neck and refastened his belt when they stood upon level ground. Black snorted a wisp of smoke. The man they had rescued brushed at his black fur leggings. They faced the castle, which was now an inky silhouette against a dusky sky. The sun shone pale as a moon in high heaven.

"If my flasks are not all broken or lost, I'll fix us some wine and water," Dilvish said, moving around to Black's right.

"Good."

"My name is Dilvish."

"I am Weleand of Murcave, and I am beginning to wonder about this place."

"What do you mean?"

"It was my understanding that Tualua, who lies within, had undergone one of his periodic fits of madness—" He gestured widely, "—and so brought all this about with his unbridled energies and his dreaming."

"So it would seem."

"No."

"What, then?"

"Not all dreams are lethal—even those of his kind. Nor are all of them subtle. This entire belt about the castle strikes me as a carefully planned series of defensive deathtraps, not as the mongering wet dreams of a feebleminded demigod."

Dilvish passed him a flask and Weleand took a long pull at it.

"Why—and how—should this be?" he asked.

Weleand lowered the flask and laughed.

"It means, my friend, that someone has already taken control within. He has set this up to keep the rest of us out while he consolidates his power."

Dilvish smiled.

"Or while he recovers his strength," he said. "A tired, injured Jelerak may well have constructed such a defense to keep his enemies at bay."

Weleand took another drink and returned the flask. He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and stroked his beard.

"It may be as you say, only—"

"What?"

"Only I think not. This sort of thing is too primeval. He would have drunk deeply of this power and been healed. Then he would have had no need for such foolery."

Dilvish sipped at the flask and nodded slowly.

"That, too, may be true—unless he is extremely enfeebled and things have gotten out of hand. It is not unknown for an apprentice to turn upon his master either."

Weleand faced the castle and stared.

"I know of but one way to learn for certain what prevails within," he said at last.

He jammed his hands into pockets in his leggings and began strolling off in the direction of the castle. Dilvish mounted Black and followed slowly after him. He leaned forward and whispered a single word:

"Impressions."

"That man," Black replied softly, "may be a very powerful white sorcerer masquerading as something more sinister. On the other hoof, he may be as dark as my hide—but I do not believe that he is anything in between. And I am sure of the power."

As they moved on, the winds rose again and the mists came up off the ground. They were headed into a forest of tall, bleached, irregularly shaped stones. When they entered it, their footfalls grew silent upon the powdery talc that covered the ground, that swirled in occasional blizzards about them. The wind began to sing among the rocky towers—high-pitched and wavering. Glass flowers tinkled in the shadows of the monoliths' bases. Weleand trudged on, slightly hunched. Streamers of pale fog snaked along the pinnacles. Tiny points of white and orange light appeared, to dance and dart in the middle air. It reminded Dilvish of his recent trek into the far North, yet the temperature was not exceptionally chill. He watched the flapping of Weleand's brown cloak some twenty paces ahead. Abruptly the man halted, pointed off to his right, and laughed.

Dilvish came up beside him and stared. Up a stone alley, partly covered by a drift of talc, a moist-seeming, manlike shape was crouched on both knees and right hand; the left hand was raised, and there was a look of open-mouthed surprise on the upturned face. Moving nearer, Dilvish saw that the apparent moistness was actually a solid glassy sheen with a faint bluish cast to it. He also saw that the figure's trousers were pushed down around the knees.

Dilvish leaned forward and touched the upraised hand.

"A glass statue of a man relieving himself?" he said.

He heard Weleand's chuckle.

"He wasn't always a glass statue," the other stated. "Look at that expression! If we had a little brass plate, we could make him a caption: 'Caught with his pants down when the werewinds blew.' "

"You are familiar with the phenomenon?" Dilvish asked.

"Elimination or werewinds?"

"I'm serious! What happened here?"

"Tualua—or his master—seems to have incorporated the more brittle aspects of a transforming wind into the repertory. Such winds were said to be more common in the early days of the world—the breath of a drunken god, perhaps?—leaving behind such curious artifacts as are occasionally unearthed in the southern deserts. Occasionally, they can be quite amusing—such as this, or a pair once found near Kaladesh, now in the collection of Lord Hyelmot of Kubadad. Several books, now out of circulation, have been written, cataloging—"

"Enough!" said Dilvish. "Is there anything that can be done for the poor fellow?"

"Short of another werewind's coming along and retransforming him, no. And that's not very likely. So help yourself if you want souvenirs. He's very brittle. Here, I'll show you."

He reached toward the figure's ear. Dilvish caught his wrist.

"No. Let him be."

Weleand shrugged and dropped his arm.

"At least it is refreshing to learn that whoever is behind it all has a sense of humor," he remarked.

He turned away then, thrust his hands back into his pockets, and resumed his travel.

Dilvish and Black fell into step behind him again. Long minutes passed and the lights drifted, the wind continued its song unbroken—

"Black! Go left!"

"What is it?"

"Do it!"

Black turned immediately, passing between two pale spires and around a third. He halted.

"Which way?"

"Left. Back farther. I saw it by one of those little lights. I think I saw it… Straight ahead now, then right. Back in there."

They slid in and out of shadows. Weleand was lost to sight. One of the lights descended, moved by, transforming a grotesque rock crop they were passing into something else, shining and fair…

"Gods!" Dilvish cried, sliding to the ground, moving toward it. "It cannot be—"

He leaned very close, straining his eyes against the shadow which shrouded the figure.

"It—"

He reached out and carefully, almost delicately, touched the face, moving his fingers slowly over the features. Another light moved unsteadily toward them, dropping, retreating, wobbling along. Black, who nearly always stood stock-still when at rest, shifted from foot to foot.

The light steadied, moved forward and upward once again.

"—is!" Dilvish breathed as the glow fell upon the features he caressed.

He fell to his knees and lowered his head for several moments. Then he looked up again, brow furrowed, eyes narrowed.

"But how can it be—here—after all these years?"

Black made a wordless noise and moved forward.

"Dilvish," he said, "what is it? What has happened?"

"In that other life, before the doom was laid upon me," Dilvish said, "long before… I—I loved an Elvish maid— Fevera of Mirata. She stands before us. But how can that be? So much time has passed, and this changing land is a recent thing… She is unchanged. I—I do not understand. What mad turn of fate can it be—to find one for whom I had given up hope—here, frozen for eternity? I would give anything to restore her."

The wavering point of light had floated away while he spoke, though sunlight pale as that of the moon now fell nearby. Other lights drifted, and a strange shadow moved toward them.

"Anything? Is that what you said?" came the deep and now-familiar voice of Weleand.

The man came forward, seeming taller now in the half-light, and entered the triangle formed by Dilvish, Black, and the statue.

"I thought that you said nothing could be done for such a one," Dilvish stated.

"Under ordinary circumstances, that is true," Weleand replied, reaching out to touch the lady's frozen shoulder, where she stood with her hand upon the bridle of a gleaming horse, looking upward. "However, in view of your extraordinary offer…"

His left hand shot forward and fell upon Black's neck.

Black emitted a wail and reared, fires dancing in his eye sockets. Weleand's hand, retaining contact, slid across his chest and onto his wavering leg.

"I know you!" Black cried, and a diminutive bolt of lightning leaped from his mouth, veered away from Weleand and charred the ground nearby.

Then Black grew immobile and the fires died in his eyes. A glossy sheen fled across his hide. The girl sighed and collapsed against her horse. The horse whinnied and moved its feet.

Weleand immediately stepped past Black, turned to face the new tableau, and seized the corners of his cloak behind him as he bowed.

"As you requested," he said, smiling. "One may take the place of another, Lord Dilvish—and in this case, I was able to throw in the lady's horse. You've come out ahead. One good turn, as they say—"

Dilvish rushed forward, but the man was suddenly swept backward and up, as if he were a leaf in the singing wind, to rise, spiraling among the stony towers, cloak extended like a great dark wing behind him, to wheel away to the northeast and out of Dilvish's sight.

He turned toward Black, who stood balanced upon his hind legs, a statue out of dark ice, and he extended his hand. Black swayed and began to topple.

Chapter 4

Baran of Blackwold paced within the small chamber. Several old volumes lay opened on the table beside the wall. All the paraphernalia for conjuring lay spread upon the floor, and he found his way without glancing down as he walked.

A tall mirror with a grayish cast to its glass hung within an elaborately wrought iron frame, chased about with figures both animal and human, engaged in acts of a mainly violent nature. An elongated orange-gold form swam within the depths of the mirror, as a fish in a shaded pool. It was not a reflection of anything within the room. The paraphernalia had already been used.

"I charge thee, speak," Baran said in a low voice. "You have had ample opportunity to explore the mechanism of the mirror's operation. Tell me of it."

A musical, almost cheerful voice chimed in the vicinity of the glass:

"It is very intricate."

"I already knew that."

"I mean to say that I see how it functions, but I do not understand how the effects were wrought. The spells involved are incredibly subtle."

The figure seemed to be swimming toward the surface. It grew. It turned. Its body was obscured by its shining, elongated head, which rushed forward until it filled the entire glass—triangular-eyed, gilt-scaled, small-mouthed, above a tiny, pointed chin, below a broad forehead, its three small horns thrusting forward from amid a soft and stirring mane of feathers or of flame.

"Release me now," it requested. "It is a doorway to other places, from other places. There is no more that I can tell you."

Baran halted and raised his head, hands clasped behind his back. He regarded it and smiled.

"Try," he said. "Try describing to me the mechanism of its defense. Every guardian I have set within it to prevent its functioning has vanished in a matter of days. Why is this?"

"I find it difficult to suppose. The spells lie dormant now, awaiting the proper key. Yet it is as if there were a stirring within their depths, as if something very cold might be moved to strike to clear the way, should it be blocked."

"Are you capable of blocking it?"

"Yes."

"What would you do if the cold thing struck?"

"I do not like that cold."

"But what could you do?"

"Defend against it with my own fires, if I were here."

"Would such a defense be successful?"

"I know not."

"Could you not explore that aspect of the spell and tell me how to negate it?"

"Alas! It lies too deep."

"I charge you, by all the names which draw you here, remain within the depths of the glass. Prevent its functioning to transport anyone or anything into or out of this place. Defend yourself to the fullest extent of your ability and power against the cold thing, should it move to destroy you or expel you."

"Then I am not to be released?"

"Not at this time."

"I beseech you: reconsider. It is dangerous in here. I do not wish to go the way of the others, who are no more."

"You are trying to tell me that the mirror cannot be blocked for long periods of time?"

"I fear that this may be the case."

"Then tell me this, since you are regarded wise: not long ago, in the Tower of Ice, the one called Ridley succeeded in blocking a mirror such as this indefinitely. How did he manage to defeat its ends?"

"I do not know. Mayhap he employed a guardian far greater than myself to set his will against its workings."

"That would not be practicable. The power involved would have to be enormous—or else his skill of an extraordinary subtlety."

"Either may well have been the case, or both. One hears of that one even in my domain."

Baran shook his head.

"I cannot believe that such skill and force lay within his hands. I once knew him."

"I did not."

Baran shrugged.

"You have heard my charge. Remain within and block the functioning of the key. If you are destroyed in the process, your successor will continue the work. If I lack the skill or the power, I possess an infinite supply of those such as yourself."

"You cannot!" it cried.

Then it began to wail, a rising, ear-filling note.

"Silence! Return to the depths and do as I have bidden you!"

The face spun away, dwindled, diminished, became a darting thing within the mirror. Baran began retrieving his magical gear and stowing it within bins, chests and drawers.

When the room was cleared, he fetched a basket and a chamber pot from an armoire which stood beside the single window. He placed these before the mirror and kicked a small bench into position near them. Then he crossed the chamber and unbolted the door.

"You," he said, when he had opened it. "Get in here."

A young male slave, clad in colorless tunic, leggings and sandals, sidled into the room, eyes darting.

He cringed as Baran reached for his shoulder.

"I'm not going to hurt you—unless you fail to perform your task. In fact, I've provided everything necessary for your comfort." He drew him toward the bench. "There is food and water in that basket. The reason for the pot is that you are not to desert this station for any reason."

The young man nodded quickly.

"Look into that glass and tell me what you see."

"The—the room, sir. And ourselves…"

"Look more deeply. There is one thing there which is not present here."

"You mean that little bright thing, moving—way in back?"

"Exactly. Exactly. You must keep your eye on it at all times. Should it vanish, you must come and tell me immediately. You must not go to sleep, no matter what—so I will send another slave to relieve you later, before you grow weary. Do you understand?"

"Yes, m'lord."

"Have you any questions?"

"Supposing you are not in your chambers?"

"Then my man will be. I will keep him informed as to my whereabouts. Is there anything else?"

"No, sir."

Baran returned to the armoire and took out a broom and a fistful of rags. Returning, he cast these down on the floor before the servant.

"Now, brand my words upon your brain, young man, if you dream of one day reaching a respectable old age and dying in your sleep. It is unlikely that the queen will pass this way. In the event that she should, however, you must under no circumstances tell her what you are about, or that I have set you to it. Snatch up those rags, this broom, look guilty. Say that you were set to cleaning this place. Should she inquire further, say that you found this food here and could not contain your hunger. Understood?"

The man nodded again.

"But might she not punish me for this, m'lord?"

"Mayhap," Baran replied, "though it would in no way compare to the agonies I will inflict if you tell her. But should you bear it with fortitude, I will reward you with a better position."

"M'lord!"

Baran clapped him on the shoulder.

"Fear not, I doubt she will be by."

He moved to the table, where he closed the books, and took them up under his arm before he departed, whistling.

Semirama, wondering what the world was like in this day, beyond the walls of Castle Timeless, beyond the changing land, looked up in her wanderings through halls and galleries to discover that she had found her way back to her own apartments. She seated herself upon a heap of furs atop a heap of cushions, her eyes focusing slowly upon the intricacies carved into an ebony screen across the large chamber. Something aromatic smoldered within a brazier to her left. Tapestries depicting court scenes and hunting scenes covered much of the wall space. The room's six windows were narrow and high. Animal skins lay upon the flagged floors. The bed was large, canopied, of a dark wood crowded with carvings. Semirama fingered the chain about her neck and tasted her bright lower lip. She heard a sandal shuffle—someone moving from the chamber behind the dark screen.

A stout, plain woman, her hair well into the gray of middle years, looked about the right-hand edge of the screen.

"Madame?" she inquired. "I thought I heard you enter."

"You did indeed, Lisha."

"May I fetch you anything, do anything for you?"

Semirama was silent for several moments, considering. "A small glass of the tawny wine from —Bildesh? I forget where it comes from. You know the one I like," she said.

Lisha entered the room and crossed to a cabinet set against the far wall. A clinking of glass ensued. Shortly, she returned with a glass on a silver tray which she set upon a small table to Semirama's right.

"Anything else, ma'am?" she asked.

"No. I think not." She raised the glass and sipped. "Were you ever in love, Lisha?"

The other woman reddened and turned her eyes away.

"I suppose I once was. That was a long while back."

"What happened?"

"He was taken for a soldier, ma'am. Died in his first engagement."

'What did you do?"

"Cried a lot, as I recall. Grew older."

"You know that I was queen long ago in a city that no longer exists? That Jelerak summoned me back from the land of the dead because my family knew the language of the Old Ones, because he needed an interpreter when the one who serves him here began acting strangely?"

"So I heard. I was here the day he called you back. I first saw you that same evening. They brought you to me, still asleep, some hours later, to take care of. It was three days before your eyes focused, before you spoke."

"That long? I never realized. It was only a week later when poor Jelerak went off and we were left to our own devices. So many months ago…"

" 'Poor Jelerak'?"

Semirama turned and studied her servant, frowning.

"I find your reaction puzzling. It is not the first time I have met it. He was always a kindly man. You act as if this were not so."

Lisha began to finger her sash. Her eyes darted.

"I'm only a servant here."

"But why this reaction from so many? You can tell me."

"I—I have heard that long ago he was as you have said…"

"But that he is no longer?"

Lisha nodded.

"Strange… the things that time does to us," Semirama mused. "I had heard things about him, even near my own end. I did not believe them, however. But then, I was too occupied with thoughts of another to pay much heed to such matters. My husband was busy with his concubines and my heart lay elsewhere…"

Lisha brightened, her eyes returning to her mistress's face.

"Yes…" said Semirama, regarding the designs of the ebony screen, raising her glass for another sip. "I loved a man of the Elvish kind—he who went off to Shoredan and slew the mighty First, Hohorga, against whom even Jelerak had struggled in vain. Selar was his name. He was slain immediately himself, on completion of the deed…"

"I have… heard of him, ma'am."

"I should have killed myself then, but I did not. I lived for several years afterward. I consoled myself with other lovers. I died in my sleep. Thinking back now, it had to be foul play. My husband, Randel, I suspect. I was weak." She laughed simply. "If I had known I was to be resurrected, I would surely have done it."

She stretched and sighed.

"You may go, Lisha."

The woman did not move.

"You—you would not be thinking of doing yourself harm now—would you, m'lady?"

Semirama smiled.

"Gods bless you, no. Too much time has passed for such a gesture to have any meaning. I am no longer that girl. I grew a bit weary over other matters, and my mind turned to the foolishness of youth. Go now, and fear not. I wanted a willing ear. That is all."

Lisha nodded and turned.

"If you need anything more, just call."

"I will."

She watched the woman leave. After a time, she drew upon the chain around her neck once again, raising a small, octagonal, bluish metal locket, inlaid with darkened silver. This she opened, to regard the countenance graven within.

It was a full-face view of a young man—long pale hair, slightly sharp-featured, piercing eyes, a short chin- beard, an appearance of strength or determination in the width of the brow, the line of the mouth.

She looked for a moment, touched it to her lips, closed it, let it fall. She finished her drink.

Rising, she wandered about the room, picking up small objects and replacing them. At length, she crossed to the door, found herself again in the hall, stood undecided a moment, began walking.

For over an hour she padded through chambers, along galleries, up and down stairs, meeting no one, occasionally encountering the transitory dreams of her charge, as in the room she found which had been transformed into an undersea grotto, the hall through which a hurricane blew, the corridor, blocked with ice, the inky hole in the middle of the air which opened upon nothing, though soft, exotic music emerged from it. At one point, her way was strewn with flowers; at another, with toads. A storm raged within the main hall; a gentle blue rainfall descended within its antechamber.

Gradually, she found her feet turned, climbing, bearing her in the direction of the room of the Pit. But she was of no mind to speak with Tualua now, even in search of memories of times gone by. Am I the last, she wondered, not for the first time, the last person in the world who can converse with him?

She moved along the gallery outside his chamber. She paused to look out and down. There was a dark area off to her right, as if night had prematurely domed those far rocky acres. To her left, the land was in a state of flux once more, rippling as if under heat waves, upheaving itself, changing colors. The fogs had retreated eastward, where they formed a great yellow wall.

She moved forward and seated herself upon the wide sill, a cushion at her back. There was nothing living in sight below.

What are the cities like now? she thought. How much have they changed?

Meliash, at his records, felt rather than heard his name being called. He set aside his writing equipment and fumbled after his crystal.

It cleared almost instantly, and he faced the rheumy-eyed Rawk, who smiled faintly.

"Did I disturb you?" the old man asked.

"No."

"Pity. Well, I've something for you. I found the date in our Book of Signs for that recognition signal. It was somewhat over two hundred years ago. Checking the membership records for the same period, I learned that there was but one person named Dilvish among the Brotherhood—half Elf, House of Selar, a minor adept, appears to have been a military man. I think I might have met him once. Tall fellow, I believe."

"I feel that might well be him. What else have you got?"

"He is gone from the rolls a few years later. No reason given. There is more to it than that, I believe, thinking back. But I can't remember what."

"Try."

"I did. But it seems to be beyond reach."

"What about the other one?"

"The current rolls show a Weleand from the small western town of Murcave. A minor magician. In good standing."

"Of extreme persuasion, either way?"

"No. He's gray."

"Was Dilvish?"

"Yes."

"Have you anything else at all on either of them?"

"Only my curiosity. Do you mind telling me what this is about?"

Meliash leaned back, sorting his feelings, impressions, and ideas. Then he spoke slowly:

"I am bound by this assignment to check into anything peculiar pertaining to… the former proprietor of the castle at the center of things. Now, this Dilvish is the only person who has passed this way who has said that he is not seeking the power within the place. Indeed, he has stated that his sole purpose in coming here is to kill… the castle's erstwhile lord. He would not elaborate."

"There are many who would like to take vengeance on that one."

"Of course. But Dilvish is the only one who has come calling. Also, he was aware of the business at the Tower of Ice—"

"That is hardly a secret matter any longer within the Society."

"True. But he mentioned having been in the far North recently."

Rawk gnawed at his beard.

"I don't see what you're getting at. I don't recall hearing of any third party being involved in that affair."

"Nor I. But didn't Ridley have a sister?"

"Yes. Pretty thing. Reena, by name. She's a Society member herself."

"It seems I heard she escaped, with some assistance…"

"That does sound correct."

"Is there any way we could check further into that?"

"Possibly. There were any number of members watching the conflict—from the safety of their own apartments. Some one of them might have further information."

"Would you try to find out for me?"

Rawk sighed.

"I fail to see what it would prove."

"So do I, at this time. Yet I feel something is there."

"All right. I will inquire of several and let you know what I learn. But what is Weleand's place in all this?"

"I do not know. He came by earlier and warned me of Dilvish's coming, insinuating that he was darker than gray and not to be trusted."

"Something personal, most likely. I will be back when I know more."

His image faded.

Meliash polished the crystal upon his sleeve before replacing it. Then he rose and walked the perimeter of the changing land, where he stood with his hands clasped behind his back, staring off toward the darkened area which had occurred to the southwest.

Dilvish rushed to the side, interposing his shoulder to block Black's passage to the ground.

"What is it? What is happening?" a soft, almost familiar woman's voice inquired.

"Help me!" Dilvish called out, bracing himself, not even looking to where the girl now stood, brushing hair back from her face. "We can't let him fall! Hurry!"

Moments later, she was beside him, her back against Black's left flank.

"Stormbird, come to me—gently," she said, speaking in High Elvish.

The white horse moved toward them.

"Around." She gestured with her head, sliding toward Dilvish.

The horse moved toward the rear, turned.

"Your shoulder, where mine was— lean!"

The horse moved, taking some of Black's weight upon himself. The girl turned toward Dilvish and lapsed into the common tongue:

"What now?" she asked him.

"Down now, to the ground, with great care, lest he shatter," Dilvish replied, speaking High Elvish himself for the first time in many years.

She studied his face for a moment, then nodded.

It took several minutes and one near-catastrophe before Black lay on his side upon the ground.

"I do not understand what is happening," the girl said. "One moment I was standing over there, now it is night and you appear out of nowhere, propping a statue of—it isn't exactly a horse, is it?"

"No," Dilvish replied, turning toward her. "No, Fevera, it is not."

She cocked her head, narrowed her eyes.

"Who are you?" she asked.

"You do not recognize me?"

"I am Arlata of Marinta. Fevera is my grandmother's name."

"… of the House of Mirata?" Dilvish asked.

"The same. Who are you?"

"Does she still live?"

"Possibly. She went away several years ago, into the Twilit lands. You seem acquainted with the family, but—"

"Forgive me. I am Dilvish of Selar."

"You? The one they say was stricken to stone long ago?"

"The same."

"Is it true?"

"That I was stone? My body was, yes. My spirit was—elsewhere. And you yourself were a statue until a little while ago. Not of stone, but of some glassy substance—as my mount now is."

"I do not understand."

"Nor do I, completely. A sorcerer named Weleand restored you by somehow transferring the effect to Black, here. Do you know anything of such a one?"

"Weleand? No, I've never heard of the man. I was a statue?"

"You and your mount both. Standing over there." He gestured. "You have no memory of how it happened?"

"None." She shook her head slowly. "The last I recall was dismounting here to rest a little before going on. I had but stepped down when the wind acquired a peculiar note. Then it struck me like a wave, and I remember that it was incredibly cold. Then I heard your voice, and it seemed as if I were coming out of a faint or a slumber. I am sorry that your mount was the price of my awakening."

"You had small choice in the matter."

"Still, if there were anything I could do—"

"Don't say that! It was similar words on my part that brought the entire thing about. Talk that way, and Weleand's likely to turn up and change you back."

He looked skyward. She followed his gaze.

"It is a strange moon," she said at last.

"It's the sun."

"What?"

"It is not really night. The darkness is unnatural." He gestured. "And the castle lies that way."

She turned.

"I cannot see it."

"Take my word."

"What is now to be done?" she asked. "I have studied the Art, but I know of no way to restore—" She nodded toward Black, "—that. What is he?"

"That story is too long," Dilvish replied, "and what is done is done. Yet I know not what to do. I cannot leave him this way, and I cannot let you go on alone."

At that moment, a single word echoed within Black's frozen throat:

"Go!" he said.

Dilvish turned and dropped to one knee, placed his head alongside Black's.

"You hear! You can speak!" he cried. "Is there anything at all that I can do for you?"

There was silence for the space of a dozen pulse beats, then Black's voice rang again: "Go!"

Dilvish rose and turned toward Arlata.

"He generally means what he says," he stated, "but I feel worse now than ever. There is no way of telling what new misfortune may pass this way to cause him further distress."

"But he must possess intellect if he speaks—and some power beyond that of our kind, to be able to speak under the circumstances."

"Yes, to both," Dilvish replied. "He is a magical being. He knows things that I do not know. In fact, he can detect an emanation from Tualua before the wave strikes—and I am wondering now whether he was warning of this."

"What, then, should we do?"

"I think we should do as he says—get out of here."

Dilvish turned and pointed.

"Get mounted and head for the castle. I'll follow on foot."

"I believe that Stormbird will carry both of us." She spoke quietly to the horse, and he came up and stood before them. "Mount!"

"I would slow your progress," Dilvish said.

She shook her head.

"We've a better chance together. I'm sure. Mount!"

Dilvish obeyed, and she followed him. She guided Stormbird to the northwest, and Dilvish looked back as they departed, to the place where Black lay like a block of ice.

The sky darkened as they rode, the pale, westering sun growing fainter and fainter. They rode for several minutes, hurrying past two more gleaming human statues at which Dilvish did not look any longer than was necessary to determine that neither was Weleand. The distances between the ghostly stands of stone began to widen. The layer of talc grew thinner and the sounds of Stormbird's hoof-beats began to reach their ears.

Abruptly, the singing winds ceased. Far ahead, a large, open area came into view, where the ground was darker and lightly ridged. Stormbird's pace increased moments before they felt a sharp vibration, followed by a loud explosion from overhead. For several seconds the sky grew bright as day, and then it darkened again.

A little farther along, the way was lightened once more, this time by tiny flakes of fire which began to descend like snow.

At first the flames were falling only ahead and to the right, but soon they were upon them, and Dilvish raised his cloak to shield Arlata and himself. Stormbird whinnied, laid his ears back, and raced beyond the final pinnacles.

"Those glints ahead!" Dilvish cried. "Is it water?"

Arlata's answer, if there was one, was lost to him in the series of explosions which sounded then, above and somewhat to the rear. The falling flames increased in size and number.

"Those last noises sounded almost like laughter of a sort," Arlata called back to him.

Dilvish twisted his body so as not to uncover them to the flames, and looked back. A fiery, manlike outline with a mane of flaming hair towered before the pale, stony land they had just quitted, its silhouettes still visible through the half-substantial form. The figure's right hand was upraised to a great height, and it held a huge bowl of fire from which it shook the blazing leaves that fell upon the land.

"You're right!" Dilvish shouted. "It's an elemental—the biggest one I've ever seen!"

"Can you do anything about it?"

"I've never been very good with elementals, except sometimes earth ones. But that looks like water up ahead."

"Yes, it does."

They veered to the right. Dilvish's cloak was smoldering in a dozen places by then. He smelled burning horsehair as well, and Stormbird was making sharp, nickering noises with increasing frequency.

"The gods know what may be in that water," she said as they reached it, dark and glinting with the reflected light from behind them, "but it can't be much worse than being burned alive."

Dilvish did not reply, but battered at the flames which fell within reach upon them. Another series of explosive peals of laughter sounded above them, much nearer this time. Dilvish looked again and saw that the elemental was almost upon them—and even as he watched, it upended the bowl and an unbroken stream of fire poured forth like bright honey.

"Ride! He's dumping it all! Right on us!" he cried.

Arlata shouted to Stormbird, and the horse put forth a final effort, leaping about like one of the great white cats of the snowfields. The fires fell almost directly behind them and splattered. Dilvish took his long gauntlets into his hand and began beating at Stormbird's tail, at the two places where the hair was burning.

Then water was splashing all about them, and the pace was slowed and Dilvish felt his legs grow wet up to the knees. He restored his gloves to his belt, leaned forward, and dropped his cloak back over his shoulders, for the firefall had ended.

They splashed on ahead and the water grew no deeper. After a time it even grew shallower, though the bottom became mucky as they progressed. It was still and very cold. When Dilvish looked back again, he saw that the elemental had retreated into the still, pale forest of stone, and only its flowing, flaming mane and blazing shoulders were visible as it moved away.

He could not understand a feeling that something was out of joint until he realized that though the flames were dead, the world seemed no darker than it had been. In fact, it appeared to be lightening. He regarded the sky and realized that the moonlike sun had brightened. Looking ahead then, he saw that the area before them was lighter still, with a pearly complexion upon the face of the water. Moving beyond twilight, the world began to brighten with almost every sucking pace they advanced. The hazy outline of the Castle Timeless loomed large suddenly, immediately before and above, its windows like the dark eyes of an enormous insect.

"I see the shore now!" Arlata announced. "It is not all that far ahead. Stormbird can rest…"

For the first time, Dilvish became aware of all the places where their bodies touched.

"You were a soldier, weren't you?" she asked.

"For a time."

"Not just in the old days. There was some engagement within the past few years."

"Yes. We won and I've done with all that. I set out on a personal quest after the last battle. I stop and work occasionally at anything available, replenish my supplies, and continue on."

"What is it that you seek?"

"The man who turned me to stone and sent me to Hell."

"Who might that be?"

Dilvish laughed.

"Why else would I journey through this nightmare? The man whose castle lies ahead, of course."

"Jel—the old wizard? I've heard he is dead."

"He is not dead—yet."

"So we are not in competition for the power of Tualua?"

"You can have Tualua. Just leave me his master."

"Obviously, you intend to kill him."

"Of course."

"You may be wasting your time. I inquired before I came this way. In the opinion of Wishlar of the Marshes, he is not here. He felt that he might even be dead. That was why I thought so."

"Wishlar still lives? I knew him when I was a boy. Is he at Ban-Selar still?"

"Yes, though that area has been annexed by Orlet Vargesh and is no longer known by the old name. Oh… that would have been your family, would it not?"

"Yes. When I've settled this business, I'd like to set those claims right. If you see this—Orlet—before I do, tell him that I said so."

"Dilvish, if the one you seek be indeed within, I've a feeling you might not be traveling home."

"Most likely you're right. But I'll be happy to go if I can take him along with me."

"I've often heard it said that a strong hatred is self-destructive. Now I believe it."

"I like to think that I'll be doing good for a lot of others as well as for myself, should I succeed."

"But if that were not the case, would you still do it?"

"Yes."

"I see."

Stormbird slowed as they drew nearer the shore.

"A magician of that power could blast you with a look," she said.

"Black was to have helped me on that count. I met him in Hell. But even without him, I know that Jelerak is weaker now than perhaps he ever has been. And I bring weapons I believe are more than sufficient to the task."

Stormbird uttered a long neighing sound and halted, panting.

"We've tired him to the end of endurance," she said, dismounting. "Let us lead him ashore."

"Yes," Dilvish replied, swinging his leg and stepping down. "He needs a rubdown, he needs my cloak. We can rest for a—"

The neighing continued. The horse appeared to be struggling now, and there was foam upon his lips.

"I—"

Dilvish sank into the mud. He struggled to raise his foot, failed.

"Oh, no! I have come so far—" she said, looking ahead to where the bright sun shone upon a clear, sandy shore, to where the grasses waved beyond it, where patches of blue and red flowers swayed within the field.

She lowered her head and Dilvish heard her sob.

"It isn't fair," she said.

Dilvish struggled, leaned forward, wrapped his arms around her.

"What are you doing?"

He dragged, lifted. Slowly she began to rise. The water grew muddy about them. Bubbles broke on the surface. She came higher within his arms as he sank lower.

"Reach for Stormbird," he said, twisting his body. "Get onto him."

She extended her arms, caught hold of the horse's mane with her left hand, cast her right across his back. Still sinking, Dilvish pushed, thrusting her up and forward. She drew herself across the horses back, threw a muddy and soaking leg over him, rose erect.

"Rest. Recover your strength," Dilvish said, "then swim to shore."

She spoke to Stormbird and caressed him. His struggling ceased. He stood still. Then she leaned to the side, to reach for Dilvish. The distance was too great.

"No good," he said. "You can't help me that way. But when you get ashore, there are those trees off to the left… Use your blade. Cut a long limb. Bring it back. Push it out to me."

"Yes," she said, unfastening her cloak. She paused and looked at it. "If you took hold of one end of my cloak, perhaps I could pull you up here."

"Or perhaps I'd pull you back in. No. Do it from the shore. I seem to be stabilizing."

'Wait… Supposing I cut my cloak and knot the lengths together? You could take one end and tie it under your arms. I could swim to shore with the other end and try pulling you out as soon as I've a foothold."

Dilvish nodded slowly.

"It may work."

She drew her blade and began cutting the long cloak into strips.

"Now I remember hearing of you," she said as she worked, "as someone who lived long ago. It is a strange feeling, seeing you here and recalling that you loved my grandmother."

"What did you hear about me?"

"You sang, you wrote poetry, danced, hunted. Not the sort of person one would guess to become a Colonel in the Armies of the East. Why did you leave and take up such a life? Was it grandmother?"

Dilvish smiled faintly.

"Or wanderlust? Or both?" he said. "That was a long time ago. Memories grow rusty. Why do you want the power that lies in that pile of colored rock up ahead?"

"I could do much good with it. The world is full of evils that cry out for righting."

She finished cutting and sheathed her blade. She began knotting the lengths of cloth together.

"I felt that way once," Dilvish said. "I even tried righting a few. The world is still pretty much the same as it has always been."

"But you are here to try again."

"I suppose… But I cannot lie to myself about it. My feelings are not unalloyed. It is as much a matter of revenge for me as it is the removal of an evil from the world."

"I'd guess it's even sweeter when they come together that way."

Dilvish laughed harshly.

"No. My feelings are not such nice things. You don't even want to know them. Listen, if you were to gain the power you seek and try the things you wish to try with it, it will change you—"

"I expect so. I hope so."

"But not in all of the ways you anticipate, I'm sure. It is not always easy to tell an evil from a good, or to separate the two. You would be bound to make mistakes."

"You're certain about what you are doing."

"That's different, and I'm not entirely pleased with it. I feel it has to be done, but I do not like what it is doing to me. Perhaps I would like to dance and sing again one day—when we get out of this. To turn around and go home."

"Would you come with me?"

Dilvish looked away.

"I can't."

She smiled, coiling her handiwork.

"There. All knotted. Catch the end, now."

She tossed it to Dilvish, who snagged it, passed it under his arm, around his back and forward beneath his other armpit. He knotted it before him.

"Good," she said, securing the other end at her waist and slinging her blade across her back. "When we're both ashore, one of us can swim back and put a line on Stormbird. The two of us will drag him loose."

"I hope so."

She leaned forward and spoke again to the horse, stroking his neck. He nickered and tossed his head but did not struggle.

"All right," she announced, drawing up her feet, rising into a crouched position on Stormbird's back, one hand still twisted in his mane for balance.

She released her grip and drew her arms back.

"Now!" she said.

Her arms shot forward, her legs straightened. She cut the water in a powerful plunge which bore her almost entirely to the shore before she took a single stroke.

Then her arms moved a few times. She raised her head and moved to rise. She screamed:

"I'm sinking!"

Dilvish began drawing back on the slack line which joined them, to pull her into the water. She was over her knees in the sand-encrusted mud, and still sinking rapidly.

"Don't struggle," Dilvish said, finally drawing the line taut. "Take hold with both hands."

She gripped it and leaned forward. Dilvish began to haul upon it, slowly, steadily. She ceased sinking, bent far forward.

Then, with a single, sharp noise, the line parted and she fell face forward.

"Arlata!"

She struggled upright again, face and hair splashed with mud. Dilvish heard her utter a single sob as she began sinking once more. He cursed softly, the slack line still in his hands.

Chapter 5

"Please, sir, how is a girl to rest when you keep jumping into and out of bed with such annoying frequency?" said the dark-eyed girl through the pale screen of her hair.

"Sorry," said Rawk, brushing the hair aside to stroke her cheek. "It's this damned Society business that's come up. I keep thinking of records I should be checking. I get up to check them, I find nothing, I re-retire."

"What seems to be the problem?"

"Mm. Nothing you could help me with, my dear." He dropped his clawlike hand upon her shoulder. "I'm trying to find more information on this Dilvish fellow."

"Dilvish the Deliverer, the hero of Portaroy?" she asked. "He who raised the lost legions of Shoredan to save the city a second time?"

"What? What are you saying? When was this?"

"A little over a year ago, I believe. Also known as Dilvish the Damned, in a popular ballad of the same name—the one Jelerak's supposed to have turned into a statue for a couple of hundred years?"

"Gods!"

Rawk sat upright.

"I do recall the statue business now," he stated. "That's what was gnawing at my mind! Of course…"

He tugged at his beard, ran his tongue among the gaps in his teeth.

"On, my!" he finally said. "There are more sides to this thing than I'd realized. I wonder, then, what that Weleand fellow would have against such a one. If he has a contact file, I've a mind to ask him. Might as well get the whole picture before I report back."

He leaned over and brushed his lips against her cheek.

"Thank you, my pigeon."

He was out of bed and down the hall, nightshirt flapping.

He rushed across the great Society library to a large, nondescript piece of furniture. Finally, he began rummaging in one of its drawers. After a time he straightened, bearing in his hand an envelope across which the name "Weleand" was written.

Opening the envelope, he discovered it to contain several strands of white hair, held together by a drop of red sealing wax.

These he removed and took with him to the black-hung table in the corner, where he deposited them beside a yellow ball of crystal. Then he seated himself and stared forward, lips moving, fingers touching the white strands.

Shortly, the crystal clouded. It remained so for a time. Rawk began repeating the name "Weleand." Finally, there came a clearing. A fat-faced, nearly bald man peered up at him. He seemed out of breath.

"Yes?" he inquired.

"I'm Rawk, Society Archivist," Rawk stated. "I'm sorry to trouble you in the midst of such an arduous undertaking, but there is something you might be able to clarify for us."

The man's brow furrowed.

"Arduous undertaking?" he said. "It's just a little spell-"

"You needn't be modest."

"—of interest mainly to practitioners of veterinary sorcery. Of course, I'm rather proud of what it does for the mange."

"Mange?"

"Mange."

"I—Aren't you in the foothills of the Kannais, in the changing belt, near the Castle Timeless?"

"I'm treating a stable of ailing horses here in Murcave. Is this a joke?"

"If it is, it is on us, not on yourself. Do you know anything at all about a man named Dilvish, who rides a metal horse?"

"His reputation only," Weleand replied. "He is said to have played a significant role in one of the border wars awhile back—at Portaroy, I believe. I've never met him."

"You've not spoken with a Society representative named Meliash recently, have you?"

The other shook his head.

"I know who he is, but I've never met him either."

"Oh. Then we have been fooled—by someone, about something. I'm not certain who, or what. Thank you for your time. I'm sorry to have bothered you."

"Wait! I would at least like to know what is happening."

"So would I. Someone—a fellow of the Art—used your name recently. Down South. He is apparently not kindly disposed to this Dilvish, who is also down there. I can't say that I understand what it all means."

Weleand shook his head.

"Rivals, most likely," he said, "and the one using my name is doubtless up to no good. Let me know what comes of this, will you? I've a good reputation, and I don't want it besmirched."

"I'll do that. Good luck with the mange."

"Thank you."

The crystal clouded again and Rawk sat staring into its depths, trying to order his thoughts. Finally, he rose and returned to bed.

Dreaming dreams of days gone by and wondering at the bright world beyond, Semirama regarded the changing land. It was about time for another wave—one of massive destructiveness —to sweep over it. She smiled. Things were working according to plan. Once matters were resolved here, she could go forth to enjoy the present incarnation of the world. What sort of garments might now be in fashion? she wondered.

Below, she saw two figures on horseback emerge from the darkened area, splashing across the still waters of the treacherous pond.

Why did they keep coming? she wondered. Nothing had changed here, so they must be aware that all of their predecessors had failed. Avarice and stupidity, she decided. All noble sentiments had doubtless vanished with her own times. Still—

There!

The horse was stuck, near to the shore. Two more power-hungry fortune -seekers were about to enrich the world with their absence.

Idly, she leaned forward and ran her hand along the side of the window, pronouncing the spell of activation, directing its focus toward the couple on the horse.

The scene leaped forward and Semirama's face underwent a series of rapid changes. She touched the window again, with additional words of fine tuning.

The Elfin girl was common enough. One of the willowy blonde sort, from Marint' or Mirat'. But the man—

"Selar!" she gasped, her hand moving to her throat, eyes wide. "Selar…"

The girl had dismounted. The man was following her.

"No!"

Semirama had risen to her feet. Her fists were clenched at her sides. Both figures were now in the water, beginning to struggle. And—something else…

The change wave! It was beginning!

Turning, she ran toward the Chamber of the Pit, phrases in the chirping tongue of the Old Ones already rising to her lips. As she entered the reeking room, she saw the demon Baran had quieted earlier, lurking in a corner, gnawing on a bone.

She snapped several brief words in Mabrahoring at it, and it cringed. She reached the edge of the pit and warbled three vibrant notes. After several moments, she repeated them. A dark, amorphous form broke the shadowy surface and writhed slowly. It emitted a single musical tone. She responded with an intricate aria to which she received a very brief reply.

She sighed then and smiled. They exchanged a few more notes. Then a tentacle rose beside her and she embraced it. She held it for a long while, unmoving, and gradually her flesh took on a faint glow.

When she finally released it with a parting note and turned away, she looked somehow larger, stronger, wilder. Her eyes flashed as she approached the demon in the corner. It dropped its bone and crouched when she pointed her finger at it, its mismatched eyes rolling and darting.

"That way," she said, indicating the gallery she had recently quitted. "Stay with me."

It moved to obey, but when they had passed through the doorway, it broke into a lop-legged run. She raised her finger again, and this time a line of something like fire seemed to race from it to envelop the creature. Her peculiar aura was diminished slightly as this occurred.

The demon had halted and begun wailing. She crooked her finger and the flames vanished.

"Now you must do as I say," she said, approaching it. "Do you understand?"

It prostrated itself before her, took gentle hold of her right ankle, and placed her foot upon its head.

"Very good," she observed. "One should always define a relationship at the outset." She removed her foot to the ground. "Get up. I want you to accompany me to the window. There is something you must see."

She returned to her former observation post and looked down. The girl was now floundering at the shore's edge and the man was still in the water, by the horse, immersed to near shoulder level. The girl had sunk to a point slightly above her waist.

"Do you see that man in the green kerchief, beside the horse?" she asked. When the demon grunted an affirmative, "I want him," she said.

She reached out and laid her hand upon the creature's head.

"I lay this geas upon you, that you know no rest until you have retrieved him and brought him to me, alive and unmaimed."

The demon drew back.

"But—I—will—sink—too," it rumbled, beginning to tremble. "And—I—do—not —like—water," it added.

She laughed.

"You have my sympathy, for what it's worth," she said. "Still, I see the necessity for something a bit firmer."

She turned toward the center of the gallery, to where the wheelbarrows and carts passed with their burdens from the stable. She looked up and down the hall, then moved off to her left to a place where the fallen dirt from the wheels was deepest. Shaking out a handkerchief, she stooped, spread it flat upon the floor, and began filling it with handfuls of powdered soil. When a good-sized heap was accumulated at its center, she placed her fingertip atop it. More of the spectral light seemed to pass out of her. She looked smaller, less elemental, more human once again. The sandy pyramid, however, was now glowing faintly.

She raised the corners of the handkerchief and knotted them together. Then she turned and held it before the creature.

"Now hear me," she said. "You are to take this with you. When you reach the place where the sinking sands begin, cast some of this before you upon them. It will freeze them to a great depth, so that you may walk on them. Do likewise upon the water and you will fashion yourself a bridge of ice that you may pass over. You need not fear to handle it, however, as long as you are fairly quick about it. It will not work nearly so well on living things. Still, it would be prudent to carry it—so. Take it!"

A taloned hand came forward and took hold of it by the knot.

"If he struggles and does not wish to accompany you," she added, "you may render him unconscious with a sharp blow here—on the bone just behind the ear. Do not strike so hard that you smash the skull, however. Remember that I want him alive and unbroken."

She turned away.

"Follow me, now. You shall depart from the small sitting room to the side of the main hall. That area should be vacant this time of day. Let us hurry!"

Nothing else of a peculiar nature was now occurring anywhere within the castle or its environs. And Semirama had lost her glow.

Baran ordered a large meal prepared, to be served in his apartments, and strolled out while he waited for this to be done. He thought of Semirama again, this time as a confidante and source of information on Jelerak in his earlier days, rather than as a prospective lover. He mounted to the third floor, paused outside her door, adjusted his apparel, and knocked.

Presently, Lisha opened it.

"Is your mistress in?" he inquired.

Lisha shook her head.

"She's walked out. I'm not certain where to, or when she'll be returning."

Baran nodded.

"When she does," he said, "tell her I stopped by to continue an earlier discussion I still feel might prove profitable."

"I'll do that, sir."

He turned away. The food would not be ready for some time yet.

He mounted more stairs, coming at last to the room where the slave sat bolt upright before the mirror, staring.

"Any changes?" he asked.

"No, sir. It's still there."

"Very good."

He closed the door, moved to the stairs, and began to descend. He chuckled for a moment, then frowned.

If I can just keep the old bastard out long enough to get control of Tualua, I'll let him in, then challenge him. If he doesn't show, I'll go looking for him. Once he's out of the way, even the Society will step warily about my shadow. I suppose I could smash them then. Maybe not, though … Even he never tried that. On the other hand, they do have their uses. Maybe that's it. I wonder how I'd like heading the group myself… ?

He paused to lean upon a railing, looking out over a deep, high-ceilinged room with doors at various heights in its walls, leading nowhere, half-stairways wandering into nothingness, a dry fountain at its center. As with so many other things about the castle, he had never been able to figure its function. It struck him then that Jelerak must have known of these and many other matters he might never know. In that moment he was afraid, and he felt a sudden dizziness which caused him to draw back from the rail.

What if she knows? What if Semirama already has the key, holds the power, and is just toying with me—only pretending that all these communications difficulties exist?

He resumed walking down the stair, his hand upon the wall, face averted from the railing.

And who could tell? She must be the only human left in the world who can talk that lingo. Even Jelerak never knew much of it. Never needed to. Had his spells to control the thing. Till it went wild. Wouldn't have used the massive, complicated rites it took to bring her back if he could understand, could talk to it. Ugly, slippery thing, swimming in shit. Probably eats it, too. Ha! Hereditary thing with that family. Priests and priestesses of the Old Ones. They must have known a lot we don't hear about, even sorcerers. Probably as wily and mean as their charges. Powers, too. Don't get her mad unless you know for sure. Might feed you to it.

He pressed nearer to the wall.

But if she knows, has control, what is she waiting for? It's a deep game if that's the case. Was she the last of her line? Have to look that up. Strange thought now… Why her, if he could call back anyone he wanted of that family? Knew her in the old, days, that's why. Wonder how well? Never thought of the old sack of sticks riding anything but a broom, but he was young once, too… Goes in and out in all the right places, she does. Had a pretty lusty reign, too, I believe. Like to surprise her one day with the Hand… Wonder if they used to do it and that's why her… ?

He reached a landing, took a turn, stopped and shuddered.

Steep stairs, those. Dark. Haven't been this way in ages, though …

He seated himself on the top step, moved his feet down, lowered himself to the second step, moved his feet down. His face was wet and his teeth were clenched.

Not since I fell out of the tree, mother! Why now? So long it's been… Don't let anyone come by now, see me … Oh, my!

He continued inching his way down the stairs.

Think of something else, make it easier …

He moved his legs, his hands, his rump; dropped. Again…

Supposing, then, it is true? Supposing she has things well in hand and is merely waiting for the return of her old lover? Supposing all of the— effects—are mere trumpery? For my benefit? Each day I stick my neck out a little farther. She smiles and nods and leads me on. Then when Jelerak returns he'll have me howling in some special Hell… Just supposing …

Another step. He paused to wipe his palms on his sleeves.

Supposing. Just supposing… If it is all true, what is to be done?

Another step. Again. He rested his cheek against the wall. His breathing was heavy.

I must keep him out until I am strong. How? Double the guard on the mirror? Set traps and dismiss the spirit? Let him come through and destroy him immediately? Only it might not work. That way I lose, too. There must be something else I can do… What a time to have one of these spells! It's been years…

He commenced his downward motion once again. The landing was now in sight.

Of course, it is not all that probable. Only a guess, really. He could have his choice among the queens of Hell. Probably has, too… On the other hand, she has disdained me on several occasions. Why else would she do a thing like that, save that she is being faithful to him?

Three more steps, quickly. Pause to rest again.

If I knew for certain there was a secret to be wrested from her, I would do it. Then all else would be given to me… Strange! How quiet this place has become! I only just now noticed . . . What might it be?

He bounced down the final stairs quickly and rose to his feet, steadying himself against the railing.

Finally, I'll go and have a look at big ugly's pit, he decided. He seems to be at the center of everything.

He pushed himself away and lurched off toward the gallery.

Then a good dinner to set things right.

Meliash sat upon a hilltop at some distance from his camp, studying the entire prospect. The changing land had stopped changing. The fogs had dissipated, the winds had died, the landscape was utterly still. He could view much of the vast wasteland now, frozen into contorted shapes, sweeping on a full league toward the castle, now sharp-edged in silhouette by the declining sun. He sought after any trace of activity within that place but detected none.

It would seem, he decided, that his superior in this matter—Holrun—should be notified, and if he were unavailable, some other member of the Council. It would be good to have something more to report, however, other than the bare fact that the turmoil had ceased. If only he possessed some means of accounting for its quiescence…

He was loath to journey forward personally, lest it suddenly resume its activity. This was neither a matter of cowardice nor prudence upon his part. The fainthearted had not been considered for this assignment, neither had the impetuous nor the overly cautious. The maintenance of the posts was paramount. It was very likely that, if properly manned, they could contain even the most violent upheavals of the one within, should its excesses rush to overwhelm the boundaries they had established about the domain. The wardens had been selected for their sense of duty, their dedication to what could be a difficult task. Meliash did not wish to depart too far from the place where the black wand was planted.

He sighed and withdrew his crystal. The time had come to tell Holrun this much, anyway. Perhaps the other might even have a suggestion. Perhaps the Council itself might be moved to penetrate the place, on one plane or another, for a quick reconnaissance. He rather doubted they would do this immediately, however. They were still so touchy concerning anything that smelled of Jelerak…

As he polished the crystal on his sleeve, he wondered what had become of all those he had seen on their way to the interior. It could well be that one of them had made it through and somehow effected this… stillness.

He placed the amber globe on his lap and stared down upon it. The cloudiness was already present within it. He tried to blank his mind and reach out, but it was difficult. His head began to ache. He broke off the attempt at contact. Immediately, the crystal cleared and old Rawk grinned up at him.

"You've got a pained expression, son. Something the matter?"

"Possibly," Meliash replied. "I see what it was with the crystal, anyway. Have you got something for me?"

"It seems that I do, if my lady has just kicked me out of bed to tell you about it. Why do we put up with it?"

"A wise man may reverse the obvious. Then again, maybe not. What is her message?"

"First, to tell you that the one who passed your post under the name of Weleand was lying. I spoke with the real Weleand earlier. He is in a stable in Murcave, keeping company with sick horses. Next, there is a possibility that your Dilvish is the one Jelerak turned to a stone at about the time ours vanished in the old records. That one was supposed to have been restored recently and distinguished himself in a border clash at Portaroy by raising the legions of Shoredan to succor that city. There is even a song going around. She sang it before she kicked me out of bed. It mentions a metal horse named Black, and it hints of a continuing feud with the sorcerer."

"I am happy that you listened to her."

"It was a rousing song— Now, if you will excuse me—"

"Wait. What do you think about this?"

"Oh, she's probably right. She usually is. Her suspicions, though, are a trifle melodramatic."

"I'd like them, anyhow."

Rawk wiped a bit of spittle from the corner of his mouth.

"Well, I'm sure it will give you a good laugh. It did me. She thinks Weleand is Jelerak in disguise and that he is trying to break into his own castle, that he is too weak from his recent injuries up North to employ his usual high-powered means."

"How does she know what happened up North?"

"I talk in my sleep. Anyway, he knows this Dilvish is after him, she says, which is why he said what he did to you—hoping you'd slow his enemy a bit. What can you do with a woman like that?"

"Offer her your job," Meliash said.

"You think there is something to it?"

"The possibility cannot be dismissed. If there is anything to it at all, I think that we—Well. Who knows? Thank her for me. And thank you."

"Glad to be of help. By the way…"

"Yes?"

"If you meet this Dilvish again, tell him he's behind on his dues."

Rawk ended the communication and Meliash returned his gaze to the towers of Timeless. That place was another thing on which he wanted information. No time now, though.

Melbriniononsadsazzersteldregandishfeltselior had seldom been exploited by terrestrial adepts, inasmuch as the use of a demon's name was necessary in those rites binding him to servitude. One missed syllable and the conjurer would step from the circle smiling, to discover that the demon was smiling also.

Then, leaving the remains artistically disposed about the conjuring area, the demon would return to the infernal regions, perhaps bearing with him some small souvenir of an amusing interlude.

It was Melbriniononsadsazzersteld -regandishfeltselior's misfortune, however, that Baran of the Extra Hand hailed from Blackwold, where a complex, agglutinative language was spoken. This was why he found himself in service to the inhabitants of the Castle Timeless—a precariously moored temporal artifact which frightened him even beyond most things in his homeland. Which was why he was now picking his way downslope across the broken landscape, on a mission toward that sticky area he had thus far been able to avoid, at the behest of the woman he feared above all beings on this plane because of the company she kept. And this was why he feared failure even more than the wear and strain on his mismatched legs, amazingly adapted as they were to the peculiar features of his own little corner of an unusual place.

When he cursed, it sounded like the most pious mouthings of the devout translated into Mabrahoring. And he was cursing now, for the way was rocky and steep. He clutched at the kerchief and rehearsed his instructions as he advanced upon the now-peaceful pond, still portions of humans and a horse jutting above its surface like chess pieces on a blue tabletop.

He was to fetch her one of the humans. Yes. The man. Farther out…

He passed the stand of trees, passed the place where the beach began, moved along its periphery. When he came opposite the stuck people, he paused to undo the kerchief. The humans, having caught sight of him, were now shouting to one another. He wondered whether he was permitted to eat the one he was not required to take back—or the horse. He recalled the urgency in Semirama's voice, however, and decided that it would be prudent to forgo either pleasure.

Scooping up a handful of the icy dust, he cast it before him upon the beach and watched as the sands puckered and cracked. He tested the area, found that it bore his weight, and advanced.

He grinned at the girl as he drew near, then halted. He could not pass by her. It was as if an invisible wall barred his way. He extended his sensory equipment over several adjacent planes then, at last determining that she was shielded by a number of protective spells having an effective range of a little over a six-foot radius. He cursed in Mabrahoring and took up more of the sand to arrange for a detour. All he had wanted was a single, decent bite out of her right shoulder.

He sowed the grains before him, passed around the girl, cast more out over the water, and listened to the rapid clicking notes as a bridge of ice formed before him. Abruptly, he halted, extending his senses again. There was something about the position of the man's shoulders that bothered him. Also, though he knew it to be impossible, the face seemed somehow familiar…

Aha! He detected the metal. The man was holding a drawn blade out of sight beneath the water.

He took up another handful of dust and hesitated. If he froze the man in that position, he would have to chip him free later. That would never do, especially when the lady wanted quick delivery.

He cast the glowing grains off to his left in an arc curving outward about the man, just beyond full reach of arm and blade. He danced along it as soon as the way was firm, taking up another handful of the dirt, continuing the arc toward a position at the man's back, watching the eyes that watched him, in that face…

"Grin, hyena!" the man said in perfect Mabrahoring. "Stump along. I'm almost yours, but not quite. Not yet. One slip and I'll send you home in a hurry. Look down! The ice gives way!"

The demon flailed about, swayed, dropped forward, caught himself with an extended hand, glared at the man before rising again.

"That was well done," he acknowledged. "I would love to eat your heart. You speak well, too. Do you know the Tel Talionis?"

"Yes."

"Doubly sad. For I would enjoy conversing with you."

With that, he leaped to the end of the icy bridge, to the rear of the man, and struck him with a horny knuckle on the bone behind the ear, as he had been instructed.

He seized the man's hair as he slumped forward, then caught hold of him beneath the armpits and began drawing him upward. The water darkened and bubbled as he pulled him free. He slung him across his back, then turned and made his way shoreward, still grinning.

The girl was shouting Elfin pleas and insults at him. As he passed, he looked wistfully at her shoulder. So near and yet so distant…

Chapter 6

Semirama had rung for servants as soon as the demon had departed upon the errand. When, in due course, one arrived in the small room off the main hall, she dispatched him after others, to return with cloths and basins of water, towels, food, wine, a dry robe, and medicines for a cold compress, with particular regard to haste and secrecy.

These had all arrived and were distributed about a couch covered in pale Eastern silks when the demon returned, lurching into the room with Dilvish over one shoulder. The servants drew back in alarm.

"Place him upon the couch," she ordered. Then, to the servants, "You, clean the mud off his boots and trousers. You, bring me the compress," she said. "You, open the wine."

The demon lowered Dilvish to the sofa, then retired across the room. Semirama stared down at the man's face, then slowly seated herself and took his head into her lap. Without looking away, she extended her right hand and said, "Bring me a damp cloth."

Almost immediately, one was placed within it. She commenced washing his face, afterward running her fingertips across his brow, his cheeks, his chin.

"I thought never to see you again," she said softly, "yet you have come back.

"The compress," she said more loudly, dropping the washcloth to the floor. A servant handed it to her. Turning Dilvish's head, she found the place where he had been stricken, glared once at the demon, unfolded and refolded the pungent cloth and applied it behind his ear.

"You, wipe off his scabbard, his belt buckle. You, pour some of that wine upon a clean cloth and bring it here."

She was wiping his lips with the wine-cloth when Baran stepped into the room.

"Just what is the occasion?" he demanded. "Who is this man?"

Semirama looked up suddenly, eyes wide. The servants drew back. Melbriniononsadsazzersteldregandishfeltselior crouched in a corner, in awe of Baran's linguistic abilities.

"Why—he is one of the many who have come this way," she said, "seeking, I suppose, the power of the place."

Baran laughed harshly and stepped forward, his hand moving to the hilt of a short blade at his belt. "Well, let us show him some power by dispatching him and removing another nuisance."

"He has come to us alive," she said steadily. "He should be preserved for your master's judgment." Baran halted, reviving an earlier train of thought. But then he laughed again.

"But why not let a demon eat him now?" he said. "Why make the poor fellow walk all the way to the prison chamber?"

"What do you mean?" she asked.

"Surely you must know where they get those dainties they're always feasting upon?"

She raised a hand to her mouth.

"I'd never thought about it. The prisoners?"

"The same."

"That should not be. We are supposed to be their jailers."

Baran shrugged.

"This is a big castle in a rough world."

"They are your demons," she said. "Speak to them about it."

He started to laugh again, but then he saw the look in her eyes and he felt a momentary touch of a power that he did not understand. He thought again of her and of Jelerak, and a moment of his earlier vertigo returned.

"I'll do that," he said, and he looked down upon the man, studying him.

"You know why I am here?" he asked. "I was walking in the gallery. You left the window focused upon the pond. I wonder at your rescuing the man and leaving the woman behind. He is a good-looking fellow, isn't he?"

For the first time in countless centuries, Semirama blushed. Seeing this, Baran smiled.

"It is a shame to waste them," he added.

Then he turned toward the demon.

"Return to the pond," he ordered in Mabrahoring. "Bring me the woman. I could use a little recreation myself."

The demon beat his breast and bowed until his head touched the floor.

"Master, she is defended by a spell against those such as myself," he said. "I could not draw near her."

Baran frowned. A memory of Arlata's profile stirred within his mind for the first time.

"Very well. I'll get her myself," he said.

He crossed the chamber and flung the door wide. Seven shallow steps led down to a walkway. He took them quickly and departed the walk moments after that, moving toward the edge of the slope the demon had descended earlier.

The sun had fallen into the west. It was already behind the castle and the long shadows had merged before him, casting the fore-edge of twilight's cloak across the steep and rocky way. Baran took several steps forward, to the place where the slope dropped sharply.

He moved to the lee of a large stone and stood with his back against it, looking down. He stared as if hypnotized. He muttered a charm, but it did no good. The prospect seemed to swim before him.

"Not such a good idea," he muttered, breathing heavily. "… no. The hell with her. It's not worth it."

Still, he stood as if glued to the stone. The rocks seemed sharper than they had moments before, seemed almost to be reaching for him.

What am I waiting for? Just go back and say it's not worth the trouble …

His right foot twitched. He closed his eyes and drew a deep breath. His lust and anger had died. He thought again of the girl trapped below. Her face troubled him. It was not just her beauty…

A tiny spark of nobility he would have sworn had never existed, or at least had been extinguished years before, flickered within his breast. He opened his eyes and shuddered as he looked down again.

"All right, damn it! Go get her."

He pushed away from the walk and began walking.

Not quite as bad as it looks. Still…

He had descended about forty feet before his way took a turn, and he paused to lean upon a lower rock to his left, a position which now afforded him a clear view down to the pond.

He stared off in that direction for several moments before the scene registered:

The girl was gone. So was the horse.

He began to laugh. Abruptly, he halted.

"Well… well, well…"

He turned and began to trudge back up the hillside.

"… the hell with her."

When Baran reentered the sitting room, he found the scene changed very little. The man was still unconscious, but less pale than he had been earlier.

Semirama turned her head and smiled.

"Back so soon, Baran?"

He nodded.

"I was too late. She's gone. The horse is, too, for that matter…"

"Console yourself with a slave-girl."

He moved nearer.

"This fellow goes to the cellar now," he said. "You're right. We must keep him around to await the master's judgment."

"I want to be certain he is going to make it, first," she said.

At that moment, Dilvish moaned softly.

"There you are," said Baran with a smile. "He lives. A couple of you jackasses get him to his feet and follow me."

Semirama rose and stood nearer to him than she usually did.

"Really, Baran, it might be better if we wait a little longer."

He raised his right hand to the vicinity of her breasts, then suddenly snapped his fingers.

"Better for whom?" he asked. "No, my dear. He is a prisoner like all the rest. We must do our duty and store him safely away. You have shown me the light."

He turned to the two slaves who had drawn Dilvish's arms across their shoulders and raised him, head hanging, feet dragging.

"This way," he called, walking toward the door. "I'll do the honors myself."

Semirama followed.

"I'll just come along," she said, "to be sure that he makes it."

"Can't take your eyes off him, eh?"

She did not reply, but went with them out of the room and across the great hall. Her eyes wandered for a moment as she wondered again at the strange decorations and furnishings that marked it so distinctively—the mighty glass tree which hung inverted from the ceiling; the tapestries depicting young men with white hair drawn back, almost like some sort of headgear, the ladies with impossibly towering hairdos, skirts enormously billowed; elaborately carved and inlaid tables; carved chairs, all curves, upholstered only in places, colorful medallions worked into their fabrics; long mirrors; tiles of peculiar composition upon the floors; long, heavy drapes; a strange piece of furniture possessed of a keyboard, which produced musical tones when the keys were depressed.

There was something about the room which seemed unnatural even in this most unnatural of places. Occasionally, in passing through it, she had glimpsed in the depths of the mirrors reflections of persons and things not present—fleeing, fading—too briefly seen to be identified. And one night she had heard a great deal of music and laughter and babbling in a foreign tongue she could not identify, coming from this hall. Intending either to join the party or to blast a horde of supernatural intruders with two extended fingers, she had made her way down the stairs and along the corridor, had entered. The music ceased. The room was empty. But within the mirrors, a great crowd of beautiful and variously dressed people stood almost frozen in mid-movement, heads turned to regard her—and in particular there had been a tall, almost familiar man in some sort of pale uniform, a bright ribbon running diagonally across its breast, who had turned away from his partner and smiled at her. For a moment only she had hesitated, then moved to enter the mirror and join him. The entire tableau had vanished instantly, leaving the mirror as empty as the hall, her arms, a sorcerer's conscience.

When she had asked Tualua about it, he did not know or seem to care what had happened. The castle, he had told her, writhing luxuriously in his fetid pool, had always existed and always would exist. It contained many strange things, and many strange things passed through it. None of them meant much to him.

As they departed the great hall, four notes were somehow struck from the piece of furniture with the keyboard, though no one was near it. Baran paused and looked back, looked at it, looked at her, shrugged, and passed on.

She followed them to the rear of the hall. The unconscious man moaned again, and she reached out and seized his wrist, satisfying herself that the pulse there was strong.

"… nor your hands, either," said Baran, noting the gesture.

Behind them, Melbriniononsadsazzer -steldregandishfeltselior screamed and raced for another exit. He had seen something in a mirror which had frightened him.

They made their way to a stairwell which led down into the chamber beneath the castle. At its head, Baran trimmed a lantern and lighted it from a nearby brazier. Then, holding it aloft, he led the way down into the murky recess, apparently untroubled by his intermittent vertigo.

As they descended, their prisoner gave signs of awakening, tossing his head and seeking to obtain footing. Semirama reached forward to touch his cheek.

"It's going to be all right, Selar," she said. "It is going to be all right."

She heard Baran chuckle.

"How do you propose making good on that promise, dearie?" he asked.

Could he be faking? she wondered suddenly. Already recovered, gathering his strength, getting ready to break loose and flee through the darkness? Baran is strong and armed, and Selar does not even know where he is. And if he escapes now, Baran will set up a search that will result in his death. How to tell him to wait, to continue the ruse, to remain a prisoner for a time?

They reached the bottom of the stair, turned left. The darkness was heavy with chill, moisture-laden air. The gray stone of the wall to their left glistened and trickled in the lantern light.

The story of Corbryant and Thyseld had been popular in her day—the girl who had had to act as her lover's jailer, lest her father kill him. She wondered whether it was still current, whether Baran would have heard of it at all. It was an Elvish tale… Did Baran understand High Elvish—a difficult tongue, unlike any other she knew or knew of?

She reached out and took hold of Dilvish's right biceps. The arm grew tense.

"Know you the fate of Corbryant?" she asked quickly and softly in that tongue.

There was a long pause.

Then, "I do," he stated.

"So I to thee," she told him.

She felt his arm relax. She hoped that he was counting his footsteps, numbering the turns. She squeezed his arm and released it.

They passed a series of cross- corridors, down some of which rapid clicking noises and grunting sounds echoed. As they neared one, the sounds seemed to be approaching rapidly from their right. Baran raised his head and halted. He lowered the lantern.

So quickly that she was almost uncertain as to what had occurred, a horde of snouted, piglike creatures of considerable size, running on their hind legs, tore past with snuffling, panting noises. Some of them appeared to be carrying cushions and earthenware jugs. As they vanished in the distance, it seemed almost as if they had begun chanting.

"The little bastards are out in force," Baran remarked. "A few of them always manage to make it upstairs and disturb me when I'm in the library."

'They've never bothered me," she answered. "But then, I read in my room. Grotesque little things…"

"Bet they'd make good eating. Which reminds me, my dinner is growing cold. Come along…"

He proceeded, coming at length into a large chamber where one torch flamed, one guttered, and two had turned to ashes in wall sockets. He took up two fresh ones from a bundle by the wall, lit them from the flaming one, hung them in the empty sockets. He headed toward the third doorless opening to the left.

"Get chains," he said.

A rack of chains with a shelf of locks stood near the pile of torches. The slave on Dilvish's left reached out and seized a set of chains as they passed. Semirama moved to his side and chose a set of locks from the shelf.

"I'll carry them," she said. "Your hands are full."

The man nodded, chains hung over his left arm, and continued. She followed, going after them all into the room where Hodgson, Derkon, Odil, Vane, Galt, and Lorman were chained to the curved walls. It seemed that there had been another…

Baran raised his lantern and nodded in the direction of the empty chains and gore-bespattered wall where the fat sorcerer whom the demon was now digesting had hung.

"Over there," he said. "Chain him to that ring."

The other prisoners looked on in complete silence, not stirring from the positions into which they had frozen upon Baran's entry.

The slaves half carried, half walked Dilvish to the position along the wall and threaded the chains through the massive ring fastened there, ignoring those which already hung slack along the damp stone.

"Now you'll know right where he is any time you need him," Baran remarked, "if you don't mind an audience."

She turned and looked Baran up and down, once.

"You long ago ceased to be amusing," she said. "Now I only find you vulgar —and more than a little disgusting."

She turned away and moved toward the place where the slaves were wrapping the chains about Dilvish's limbs. She passed them the locks and they secured them in place. She locked each in turn as it was positioned. Baran followed her over and tested the fastenings.

He grunted an affirmative as he checked the last. He rattled the chains as he rose, gave Semirama a sidelong look, and smiled slyly.

"Makes quite a racket," he observed. "If you come by, the whole castle will know what you're about."

Semirama covered her mouth and yawned.

"Takes your breath away, eh?"

She smiled and turned toward Dilvish.

"Is this what you wanted to see?" she said to Baran.

She embraced Dilvish and kissed him full on the mouth, pressing her entire body up against him.

As the seconds passed, Baran began to shift uneasily. The slaves looked away.

Finally, she drew away with a laugh.

"Of course, I'm passionately devoted to this stranger who has come as a trespasser to steal from us," she said. She turned suddenly and slapped Dilvish. "Insolent dog!" she announced, her face a mask of fury.

She stalked from the cell without looking back.

Baran glanced at Dilvish and grinned. Then he recovered the lantern from the ledge where he had set it and departed the room, followed by the slaves.

Outside, Semirama was pacing near the mouth of the corridor they had followed.

"I knew you'd wait for the light," Baran remarked as he approached.

She did not reply.

"You've no idea how peculiar it looked," he said when he came abreast of her.

"A kiss?" she replied with much puzzlement. "Really, Baran…"

"Finding you ministering to the lout the way you were," he said.

"I didn't want him to die," she answered.

"Now or later? Why not?"

"He's a curiosity… the first Elf to come this way. They're a peculiar people. Usually keep to themselves. Some say 'arrogant.' I thought it might amuse your master to discover this one's reasons for being here."

"And some say 'unlucky,' " Baran stated. "They can be dangerous also."

"So I've heard. Well, this one's secure."

"When I came in and saw you taking care of an interloper that way—it disturbed me, of course…"

"Are you trying to apologize for all of your nasty little remarks?"

Baran stalked on into the corridor, his shadow writhing in the lantern light.

"Yes," his voice came back.

"Good," she said, following him. "Not as gracious as a queen deserves, but doubtless the best I'll get from you."

Baran grunted and continued. Whether he intended to expand upon his most recent comment was never to be known, as he halted abruptly, his grunt submerged by a wave of louder ones.

He lowered the lantern and pressed back against the wall. Semirama and the slaves did the same. The noises in the cross-corridor grew louder.

Suddenly, heading in the same direction the others had earlier, the shadowy forms of eleven of the piglike figures, tusks gleaming, went jogging past in the gloom, each clad in a long-sleeved, tunic-like garment bearing strange numerals. One carried a human skull under its left forelimb.

"My dinner must be getting cold," said Baran, raising the lantern. "Let's get out of here."

Several minutes later, they were making their way up the long stair. Near the top, a shadowy figure came into view. Baran raised the lantern.

As soon as the face became visible, Baran called out, "I thought I left you to watch the mirror. What are you doing here?"

"Another servant told me you were below, sir. The light you set me to watching—it's gone out!"

"What! So soon? I'll have to summon a replacement immediately. Very well. You're dismissed."

"Wait!" Semirama ordered.

The slave looked at her and fear came into his heart.

"Just what mirror are you talking about?" she asked as she mounted the final stairs. "Surely not that in the north room upstairs—the one in the iron frame?"

The man grew pale.

"Yes, Highness," he said, "the same."

Baran had already extinguished the lantern and set it upon a shelf. He turned toward Semirama now, smiling weakly. Semirama had suddenly drawn herself up very straight and her eyes were flashing. He was not unaware of the arcane significance of the gesture her left hand was now commencing, though he had never suspected she might contain such a force.

"Wait, Majesty! Forbear!" he cried. "It is not as you might think! Give me leave to explain!" and he wondered whether he could summon the Extra Hand before she completed the gesture.

She paused.

"Tell me, then."

He sighed.

"In attempting to solve the problem of the jammed mirror," he said, "I sent a spirit within it to investigate other astral damage. I was going to confer with it shortly to learn the extent of the troubles. I set this man to watching, in case there were any unusual developments. You have just heard his report. I should go at once and try to determine what occurred. It may give us the clue we need to open the mirror once again."

Her hand dropped.

"Yes," she said, "you had better be going. Let me know what you learn."

"I will. I will do that."

He turned and broke into a run.

Semirama looked at the two slaves who had assisted in transporting Dilvish and at the one who had just brought Baran the message.

"What are you standing here for?" she said. "Return to your duties or your quarters, as the cases may be."

They departed quickly. She watched until they were out of sight. Only then did she turn and make her way through the great hall, heading toward the doorway which led to the north-south corridor.

The hall had grown darker now that the sun was sinking, its only windows being high upon the west wall. As she passed eastward within it, she saw a slight movement off to her left. The form of a light-haired man who was not present in the hall was there in the mirror, standing beside a white pillar which was also not present in the hall. She paused and stared.

It was the man she had seen on the night of the invisible party, alone now, wearing a green robe, smiling. She had not realized on the last occasion just how handsome he was, how very much he resembled—

He raised a hand and beckoned to her. A place in the glass began to shimmer and she felt almost as if she could pass through at that point to join him.

She shrugged her shoulders and shook her head, smiling back at him. Just her luck to be in such a hurry…

Exiting the hall, she moved quickly along the corridor, passing an occasional servant lighting tapers in sconces and high candlesticks. She continued back into the shadow-decked heart of the place until she came to the gallery which ran along the front of the building, leading at last to the Chamber of the Pit. She paused only to look out through the window again, down to where she had first seen him.

The pond was still in clear, close view, and the girl and the horse were indeed gone. What had she been to him, anyway? Semirama wondered as she reached out to reverse the focusing spell.

The pond reflected the mountains, part of the castle, and the setting sun. The thin strip of beach beside it shone whitely, smooth; the rocks of the slope were occasional, dark interruptions.

For a moment, then, it appeared that she saw a quick movement, below and far to the right.

She hesitated, then altered the window's focus, shifting it, bringing that section of slope nearer. She studied it for several minutes, but there was no recurrence.

She smiled faintly, pleased that she had not surprised another fortune-seeker at close quarters. It did emphasize the need for haste in her present undertaking, however, she decided as she detuned the glass and the prospect slid backward and away.

Departing the window, she hurried along the gallery, sand crunching beneath her sandals. The distinctive odor of the place came to her now. When she entered the room, she felt the humid warmth of the pit.

She approached it, seated herself upon the edge, and gave voice to the call. Minutes passed, and though she repeated it several times, there was no response. This was not extraordinary, for he meditated at times, withdrawing much of his awareness from the world at large. She hoped that he was not beginning one of his periodic states of dormancy, however. It would be a piece of very bad timing for him to undertake it now.

She uttered the call again. There were other explanations also, but she did not like to think of any of them. She leaned far forward and added a note of urgency.

Then she felt his presence within her mind, approaching, gathering strength, indefinably troubled. She braced herself for a purely mental communication which did not occur. Instead, the water began to roil. She waited, but more time passed and still he did not appear. Waves of feelings then began to wash over her—dark, malevolent things rising batlike from the pit—touched only lightly and occasionally with the qualities of playfulness and curiosity which normally dominated this place.

"What is the matter?" she inquired in that chirping tongue she used here.

Again there was no reply, but the waves of feelings, emotions, increased. The atmosphere of the place grew somber, sinister. Then suddenly it broke, and an almost cheerful sensation tinged with a note of triumph arose. This grew in force as the others were swept away, pushed into the background. The waters were disturbed again, and a portion of that amorphous, dark form broke the surface, a vague, pearly aura glowing faintly about it, blurring patterns shifting constantly within it, distorting the shifting bulk beneath them.

"Sister and lover and priestess, greetings, from the many places where I dwell," rose the formal salutation in that same language.

"And to you, from that one in this place, Tualua, kin of the Elders. You are troubled. What is the cause? Tell me."

"Queen in this place, Semirama, it is the painful growth cycle of those of my kind. Kin to both darkness and light, I possess both natures."

"As do we, Tualua."

"Ah, but men manage to mix them in the brief span of their days. It must make life so much simpler."

"It brings its problems."

"Ah, but ours brings eon after eon of recrimination, each time for the previous cycle when the opposite ruled—until that hoped-for, impossible day when our natures merge and we are fit to join our kin in the places beyond this hell of polarities."

An almost unbearable wave of sadness swept over her, and she wept uncontrollably. A tentacle rose, almost shyly, and its tip touched her foot.

"Do not grieve for me, child. Weep rather for mankind. For when the dark will comes over me and I repent these days, my power will go forth across the land and all men will suffer—save yourself, as you serve me, for you shall grow strong and bright and hard and cold as the morning star—and I shall be stronger than ever before and the world will tremble onto its foundations as in the early days when others of my kind of disjunct cycle warred for the soul of man."

"Is there nothing that can be done?" she asked.

"I can still hold it back, and I will for as long as I can"

"What of the good mage Jelerak and the debt all of your kind owe to him of old?"

"What debt there was, Semirama, has long since been paid, believe me. Nor is he that same man whom once you knew."

"What do you mean?"

"He is—changed. Perhaps he, too, has his light and dark natures."

"I find this difficult to believe, though I have recently heard rumors. The last I knew of him in the old days, he had been ill for a long while—years, possibly—following the fall of Hohorga…"

"Then it may be kindest to say that he never recovered."

"He treated me very kindly when he called me back…"

"Of course. He needed you. You possess an extremely specialized skill —for a human. And there is something else…

"I regret most," he continued, "that he and I may soon have much in common."

"You have just turned my world upside down," she said.

"I am sorry, but I had no way of foreseeing when the change would begin to come over me. I will still help you with anything you wish, in any way that I can, for as long as I am able."

She reached out and touched the tentacle.

"If there is any way that I can help you…"

"Nothing," he said. "No mortal can help me. Ironically, I will become truly mad for a time, during the transition period. I will send you away before it comes over me, to a place I have provided for you beyond time and space, where you will know much joy. My other self will doubtless recall you when there is need for your services."

"It saddens me greatly to hear these things."

"And me to tell them. So let us talk instead of what it was that brought you here just now."

"That matter has just been further confused," she said, "by things you have told me. Baran is doing something to the mirror. He's placed at least one spirit inside it. He's probably installing another right now—"

"I have paid small heed to these mortal affairs, save as you bade me. So tell me now who Baran is and why anything he might do with a mirror should matter to you."

"Baran is the dark, heavy man who sometimes accompanies me here."

"The one with the hand trick?"

"Yes. He is Jelerak's steward in this place. The mirror—in a chamber partway up the north tower —is a means of transportation for Jelerak among his many abodes. Jelerak was injured in a sorcerer's duel some time ago, and we thought that he might be coming here, where I could beg power of you to heal him. While we awaited his arrival, many others who thought him dead or weakened sought to storm this place, that they might attempt to bind you to their own uses."

A ripple of amusement flowed past her.

"It was then that I thought of the reason for which Jelerak had restored me—to assist you during last summer's illness…"

"My first spell of madness in centuries. Up until then I had been furnishing him whatever power he asked of me for those favors of long ago of which you spoke. He did not realize what was occurring. Neither did I at the time."

"Nor I, of course. Though I might have recalled some very old dark sayings, I had never witnessed the condition before. But when the interlopers came, I thought it well to suggest you repeat the effects upon the land hereabout in full awareness, to keep them away. I knew that this could not impede Jelerak, for he could always employ the mirror to journey here. I would have told Baran my strategy, but by then I was finding his attentions annoying. Better to let him believe that a more difficult situation such as last summer's had arisen, and that I was the only one who might deal with it effectively. The deception gave me more power over him. But all this while, I believed the mirror to be in proper condition. Now I am not so certain. I believe that he might have been blocking it all along."

"Why would he do such a thing?"

"When you set the land without in turmoil, it barred every easy means of entry here, save for the mirror. If he found a way to block the mirror, then we were completely isolated, and Jelerak himself could not return for the renewal he would be seeking. The purpose, I believe now, is that Baran has become like the invaders themselves. He wished to keep this place to himself while he sought after a means of controlling you."

"He does not then realize that I served Jelerak willingly, not under any compulsion—as the doings of humans have meant little to me these many years?"

"No. I never told him. The less he knew, the better."

"Then what is the problem?"

"Now I am uncertain. Originally, I came to ask you to open the way of the mirror and to keep it open against any attempts he may make to close it off again. This, so that Jelerak might return and be refreshed and deal with Baran as he sees fit. Now, though, that you have told me what you have about Jelerak, I do not know what to say."

"It would be a simple matter to unblock the mirror, though I could not promise to hold it open were another spell of madness to come over me."

"… and then I was going to ask you to recommence the emanations and disturb the land again, to keep unwanted visitors out while giving Jelerak opportunity to enter through the glass —also to convince Baran that you were still uncontrollable, so that he would not bother me to be his accomplice in a fruitless task"

"And now?"

"Now it has become a choice between evils. I do not know. Baran is not nearly so wise, and he likes me. I believe that he would be easy for me to control. Yet I still feel a measure of loyalty to Jelerak. No matter what you may say of him, he has always treated me well."

"No matter what the situation, you might depend upon that."

"Out of respect to my station, of course. He was no stranger to the court of Jandar."

"That may or may not be true, but it was something more personal that I had in mind."

She stiffened. Then she laughed.

"No, that I cannot believe. Jelerak? He was always almost monkish in his habits. He was devoted solely to his Arts."

"He could have called back any of your illustrious line to talk with me."

"True."

"His main love is power and the domination of men's spirits. Yet there are two human attachments of which he has not entirely rid himself—a small, fraternal feeling toward the priests of Babrigore, and a measure of devotion toward yourself. You were always the unattainable queen and priestess."

"Then he hid it well."

"But not from Tualua, for I have seen his heart and all things in it—even those of which he himself is unaware. But I tell you this now for a reason. My will is crumbling, and I wish to provide for my own before it is completely shattered. Even as we have been speaking here I cast my eye along future time-lines. There is a dark spot ahead which I cannot penetrate. I believe that he is in some way involved beyond that point. My first intent was to send you to the place I have prepared for you, for your protection."

Her thoughts ran back to the man in chains.

"I will not go," she stated.

"I saw that also. Which is why I have told you of the sorcerer's human frailty regarding yourself. It is a slim thing at best, of which even he is only partly aware and does not fully understand. I caution you not to rely upon it, yet the knowledge may serve you in some way during the dark hour."

She embraced the tentacle.

"Tualua! Tualua! Perhaps you are stronger than you think. Can you not fight the dark will and perhaps overcome it?"

The atmosphere about her became heavy and brooding even as she spoke.

"That," Tualua finally answered, "is not the pattern of my kind, as I understand it. I am trying and I will continue to try. Yet I fear that my struggles only train it to greater strength."

"Do not give up. Hold out for as long as you can. Call upon your kin the Elder Gods if you must!"

Something like laughter shook the vault.

"My illustrious forbears have long since abandoned this plane to which I am confined. They would not hear me in their high abodes. No, we must prepare ourselves for a trial, and I must concern myself again with human matters, for I find them entwined with my own. Listen now to what I say, for I feel the madness rising again…"

The steaming water of his brightly tiled pool covered Holrun's body to just above shoulder level, and the aroma of an exotic incense filled the air around him. The planes of his face were angular; his eyes—now half lidded—were dark and given to dartings inquisitive and expressive. His mouth, even in repose, quirked toward a slightly sinister smile. He was leaning forward now as one of his favorites, kneeling behind him, massaged his shoulders beneath water level. Another passed him a cooling drink in the carved, curved tusk of an extinct predator. He sipped from it and handed it back, trailing his fingertips along the girl's arm as she withdrew.

When his crystal summoned him, he cursed softly and ran a hand through his thatch of unruly brown hair, shrugging off the other girl's ministrations, and turned toward the large globe he had set within the wall surrounded by a mosaic of delicate tiles in the form of an enormous eye. He focused his attention and the image of Meliash appeared within the pupil.

"I am sorry to disturb you," Meliash began.

"It happens, when you're the youngest member of the Council. Good thing, too, I suppose, if you want to get anything done. Those doddering old unwrapped mummies would take forever to decide to relieve themselves. Someone has to goose them with a hot poker every now and then, and I'm elected. How's everything in the Sangaris? I—"

"The Kannais."

"Yeah, the Kannais. I really envy you being out in the field, you know? This administrative stuff—well, it's got to be done."

He halted abruptly and stared, beginning to smile.

"Yes," Meliash said. "There have been some changes here recently, and I feel that the Council ought to be made aware of them. We've turned up some very interesting information, also. In fact, I believe that the time has finally come for the Council to take action in a matter directly involving Jel—"

"Easy! Easy!" Holrun was suddenly standing, palm upraised, as his masseuse rushed to fit a robe over his shoulders. "The ether has ears as well as other appendages, I sometimes think. Let me take this on my other crystal. It's got security spells you wouldn't believe. I'll call you right back."

He waved his hand and Meliash faded.

Holrun stalked out of the pool and stepped into a pair of sandals. He headed away from the grotto and down a sloping tunnel, raising two fingers to his mouth and whistling a loud, shrill note. A pale light began to glow within long bands of white stone set into the tunnel walls at either hand.

Smiling, he turned a corner and entered an L-shaped chamber carved out of stone on two levels. He snapped his fingers and logs began blazing within a recess directly ahead, the smoke rising up a jagged fissure screened by orange stalactites about which long chains of carved bodies transmitted erotic impulses in great spirals; fat candles flickered to life on high stands, revealing a neat but densely packed room containing almost every variety of magical equipment employed by over thirty nations and tribes; every visible spot on the floor, vaulted ceiling and barrel walls was painted with arcane symbols.

He moved immediately to a shelf at his left and took down a small lemon-wood casket which he bore to a stand in a corner near the fire. With his foot, he drew a low stool covered with gray fur across the geometrically patterned rug. Opening the casket, he withdrew a smoky, almost black crystal which he set in place upon the stand. Then he seated himself upon the stool, took a single deep breath and released it, said one word:

"Meliash!"

The crystal cleared only slightly and the form of Meliash appeared dimly within it.

"How's that?" he said to him.

"You sound so far away," came the minuscule piping reply.

"Can't be helped. The protective spells are pressing all around us, like creditors at a funeral. But you can talk freely. What is all this about wanting the Council to do something to Jelerak?"

"I believe he passed this way in disguise just this morning, and that he's trying to get into the castle now."

"Well, shit, man! It is his place. If going home is the worst thing he's up to these days, I don't see where—"

"You don't understand. He is weaker now than at any time within living memory. I am certain that he is trying to get in there to tap one of his major sources of power, to renew himself. And the possibility of his being able to is not all that good—not if Tualua has entered one of the periodic fits of madness his kind are liable to. And I believe this to be the case. Further—"

Holrun waved his hand.

"Wait. All of this is very interesting, but I don't understand what you're getting at. Even weakened, he would be a formidable foe. There have been all sorts of secret studies and auguries on the results of possible clashes with him."

"You know what those are worth," Meliash said. "Sooner or later the man will destroy or subvert the entire organization, as he has so many individual members. I know that he has a whole bloc of followers among us, and so do you. Sooner or later we are going to have to deal with him, and I think this is the most favorable opportunity we've ever had. I've heard you say yourself that you wanted it to occur during your lifetime."

"Look, I don't deny it. But that was informally and off the record. The Council is a conservative bunch. That's why they've had this hands-off policy on him for years."

"There is more," Meliash stated.

"Let's have it."

"A man went in there this morning with the express intention of killing Jelerak."

Holrun snorted.

"That's all?" he asked. "Do you know how many have tried? How few have even come close? No, that's not worth much one way or the other."

"His name was Dilvish and he rode a metal horse. I've just recently learned who he is."

"Dilvish the Damned? He's there? You're sure? Part Elf? Tall? Light? Wears the green boots?"

"Yes. And he was once a Society member—"

"I know, I know! Dilvish! Gods! I'd hate to see him die this close to his goal. He was one of my boyhood heroes—the Colonel of the East. And when he came back from Hell… He may get him, you know? If I had to choose the assassin myself, I wouldn't look any further. Dilvish…"

"So I was thinking, if the Society wanted to avoid a direct confrontation, perhaps they could simply find a way to help the man and stay out of the picture themselves.

Holrun was not looking at him. He was staring off into space,

'What do you think?" Meliash asked.

"Tell me about that place. What's it like?"

"The disturbances have ceased. The land is quiet about it now. I can see the castle in the distance. Lights have been lit within it. There may be a map of the interior in the archives. I should have checked with Rawk. Jelerak's steward in the place is Baran of Blackwold, a middling good sorcerer—"

"Isn't there something peculiar about the place itself? Most old castles have histories."

"This one fades back into legend. It is reputed to be the oldest building in the world, predating the human race. It is said to be haunted up to the hilt. There is also supposed to be some connection with the Elder Gods."

"One of those, eh? All right, listen. You've gotten me interested. Keep everything to yourself and don't do anything foolish. I am going to take this up with the Council in emergency session immediately. I am going to try selling them on a change in policy. But don't get your hopes up. Most of them wouldn't recognize an opportunity if it came up and bit them on the ass. I'll get back to you as soon as I have something, though, and we can decide what to do next."

He broke the connection, rose, stared for a moment into the fire, smiled, and crossed the chamber.

"Hot damn!"

He snapped his fingers and the lights went out.

Chapter 7

Dilvish heard their laughter, their jests. "Kiss of death" figured prominently among them. But, oblivious to most of it, he hung trembling, his thoughts a chaos of revived memories. His head had ceased hurting. Whatever the woman had done to it had worked with amazing swiftness. The pain he felt now was a mental thing, brought on by the violent touch of a demon. For a time, he was back again in the Houses of Pain, and memories he had sealed off spilled forth like lava, burning him.

After a time, he thought of where he was and why he was there, and a hate stronger than pain took hold. He attempted to refocus his attention, succeeded. Their words came to him:

"… get the demon-catcher repaired. They rubbed a lot of it out when they dragged him in."

"Can you reach his part? He won't be any help for awhile."

"Maybe."

"Odil, you'll have to stretch again."

Through slitted eyes, Dilvish considered his six fellow prisoners. He did not recognize any of them, though from their shop talk and the design they were constructing, he quickly concluded that they were all sorcerers. Their appearances gave him the impression that they had been prisoners for more than a little while.

He opened his eyes entirely. None of them seemed to notice this, so intent were they upon their labors. He examined the design more closely. It proved to be a simple variation on a very basic pattern learned by most apprentices in their first year. Impulsively, he extended a green-booted toe and completed the portion nearest him.

"Look! Lover Boy's come around!" one of them called. Then, as heads began to turn, "I'm Galt, and this is Vane," he said.

As Dilvish nodded, the others spoke:

"… Hodgson."

"… Derkon"—to his left.

"… Lorman"—to his right,

"… Odil."

"And I am Dilvish," he told them.

Derkon's head jerked in his direction again and his eyes met those of Dilvish.

"Colonel Dilvish? You were at Portaroy?" he asked.

"The same."

"I was there."

"I'm afraid I don't recall…"

Derkon laughed.

"I was on the other side—Sorcerer's Corps—casting strong spells for your failure. You were so ungracious as to win, anyway. Cost me my commission."

"I can't really say I'm sorry about that. Why are you drawing demon-traps all over the floor?"

"They think the damned place is a pantry. They wander in occasionally and eat us."

"Good reason, then. Are you all in for the same thing?"

"Yes," said Derkon.

"No," said Hodgson.

Dilvish raised an eyebrow.

"He's just making a metaphysical point," Derkon explained.

"A moral one," Hodgson corrected. "We wanted the power in this place for different reasons."

"But we all wanted it," Derkon said, smiling. "We were all good enough or lucky enough to get through to the castle, and here it ended." He gestured, rattling his chains dramatically. "My spells went wild and I faced Baran man to man. He sneaked up on me with his extra hand, though."

"Extra hand?"

"Yes. He grew himself a spare appendage on another plane. Brings it through whenever he needs it. If you ever get out of here and run into him, remember that it can be quicker than the eye."

"I will."

"Where is your metal steed?"

Dilvish looked pensive.

"Alas. He suffers the fate I once did. He is become a statue." He gestured vaguely with his head. "Out there."

Hodgson cleared his throat.

"Have you a preference for either extreme within the Art?" he inquired.

"My interest in the Art recently has been minimal—and practical rather than technical," he replied.

Hodgson chuckled.

"Then may I inquire as to what ends you would employ the Old One's power, should you achieve control of it?"

"I did not come seeking power," Dilvish said.

"What, then?" Lorman asked him.

"Just Jelerak in the flesh—and a few minutes to terminate his relationship with it."

There were gasps from around the room.

"Really?" Derkon said.

Dilvish nodded.

"Brave, foolish, or both—there is something attractive about an outrageous and futile undertaking. I applaud you. It is unfortunate you'll never have the opportunity to try."

"That remains to be seen," Dilvish said.

"But tell me," Hodgson persisted, "where your greatest strength in the Art lies. You must meet strong magic with something other than a scowl and a sword. What is the color of your main power?"

Dilvish thought upon the Awful Sayings, of which probably he alone on earth knew all.

"Black as the Pit from which it comes, I'm afraid," he told him.

Derkon and Lorman chuckled as he said it.

"That gives us three out of seven, with a couple of grays," Derkon said. "Not bad."

"I don't really think of myself as a sorcerer," Dilvish said.

This time all of them laughed.

"It's like being a little bit dead or pregnant, eh?"

"Who raised the legions of Shoredan?"

"Where did you get that metal horse?"

"How did you make it to the castle?"

"Aren't elfboots magic?"

"Thanks for your help on the demon-trap."

Dilvish looked puzzled.

"I never thought of it all that way," he said. "Perhaps there is some truth in what you say…"

They laughed again.

"You are indeed peculiar," Derkon finally said. "But, of course, what other way is there to fight black magic than with more of the same?"

"White magic!" said Hodgson.

The grays only laughed at both of them.

"I'd prefer using natural weapons, if at all possible."

This time all of them laughed.

"Against him?"

"You'd never get near enough."

"Preference must be sacrificed to expedience."

"As a fly to a stallion…"

"A drop of water in the great desert…"

"… he would dispatch you."

"Perhaps," said Dilvish, and perhaps not."

"At least," said Derkon, "you have given us the first merriment since our capture. And, like most of our discussions, this one, also, will doubtless remain academic."

"Then let us continue in that vein," Dilvish said. "What do you plan to do if you get out of here?"

"What makes you think there is a plan?" Galt asked

"Hush!" Vane told him.

"In every prison I have occupied, there has always been a plan," Dilvish said.

"How do we know that you are not Jelerak in disguise, playing some game with us?"

"Half a dozen sorcerers in here, of all hues, and you can't tell whether a man is under a transformation spell?"

"Our spells are no good in this place—and for that matter, there are simpler disguises than the magical sort."

"Peace!" Derkon cried. "This man is not Jelerak."

"How do you know that?" Odil asked.

"Because I have met Jelerak, and no mundane disguise could change him so. As for a magical one— There are certain things that are not changed. I am a sensitive as well as a sorcerer, and I like this man. I never liked Jelerak."

"You base it on a feeling?"

"A sensitive trusts his feelings."

"Jelerak is a fellow practitioner of Black Art," Hodgson said. "Yet you did not like him?"

"Do all scribes like one another? All soldiers? All priests? Do you like all of the white practitioners? It is like anything else. I respect his talents and some of his accomplishments, but he disturbs me personally."

"In what way?"

"I had never before met a man who I believe loved evil for its own sake."

"A strange thing for one such as yourself to condemn."

"For me the Art is a means, not an end. I am my own man."

"Yet will it tarnish you."

"Then that is my problem. Dilvish asked a question. Is anyone going to answer it?"

"I will," Hodgson said. "No, there is no real plan as such for getting us out of here. But if we should manage it, we share an intention. We mean to go to an unaffected area and there pool our powers into the channeling of Tualua's emanations, to break the maintenance spell upon this place. You are welcome to join in the effort."

"What will its results be?" Dilvish asked.

"We do not know for certain. It may be that the place will fall apart, permitting us to escape amid the disorder."

"Stones piled upon stones tend to maintain themselves so," Dilvish said. "More likely, the place will merely be freed to age naturally. I will decline your invitation, for I must be about other matters as soon as I leave here."

Galt snorted.

"And this will be soon, I suppose?" he asked.

"Yes. But first I must know whether any of you have seen Jelerak. Is he here? Where does he keep his quarters?"

There were no replies. Dilvish looked around the room, and one by one, the men shook their heads.

"If he were here," Odil stated, "we would all be dead by now, or worse."

"As for his quarters," Galt said, "our knowledge of this place is somewhat circumscribed."

"Who was that woman," Dilvish asked, "who helped bring me here?"

The laughter began again.

"And you don't even know her?" Vane inquired.

"She is Queen Semirama of ancient Jandar," Hodgson told him, "summoned back from the dust by Jelerak himself to serve him here."

"I have heard ballads and stories of her beauty, her guile…" Dilvish said. "It is hard to believe she is actually here, alive, by that man's power. An ancestor of mine was said to have been one of her lovers."

"Who might that be?" Hodgson asked.

"Selar himself."

At that moment, Lorman began to wail and rattle his chains.

"Alas! Alas! It begins again, and I did not know it had ended! We are doubly doomed—to have had such a chance and let it go by! Alas!"

"What—what is the matter?" Hodgson asked him.

"We are failed! Ruined! It would have been so easy!"

"What? What?"

But the ancient sorcerer only wailed again, then fell to cursing. A cloud materialized in the high, shadowy spaces above them and a pale blue snow began to fall from it.

"Does anyone know what he is talking about?"

They all shook their heads.

Lorman raised a bony finger, indicating the unnatural blizzard.

"That! That!" he cried. "It has only just begun again! I felt the emanations beginning. They had stopped for some time and we paid it no heed! Our magic would have worked during that time! We could have been out of here!"

He began gnashing what remained of his teeth.

A door of the sitting room off the main hall opened slowly onto the twilit world. A massive head covered with black curly hair ducked beneath the upper frame, and a heavily muscled giant of a man entered the room. Naked to the waist, he wore a short blue and black kirtle, cinched with a wide strap of leather from which an enormous scabbard descended. He turned his head slowly and raised it, nostrils twitching. Soundlessly, on buskined feet, he moved first to the mud-streaked couch, then to the far corner of the room. His eyes were an almost incandescent blue; his full beard was as curly as the rest of his hair.

He crossed to the door at his right and pushed it slowly ajar. He looked out into the main hall. The inverted glass tree on the ceiling was burning with a light that was not fire. The floors shone slick as the surface of a pond. From somewhere near came a ticking sound. The walls of mirrors shuffled infinities as he sniffed at the stale air and stepped forward. There was no one else within the place.

As he advanced, a single chiming note sounded off to his left. He moved with great speed for one of his size, turning, striding, half drawing the blade from his scabbard.

The chime was repeated, somewhere within a tall, narrow box which stood upright within a niche to the right of the door through which he had just passed. It bore a circular face near its higher end, inscribed about with a dozen numerals; two arrows pointed in opposing directions across it. The chiming continued, and he drew nearer, studying what was visible of the mechanism within through a decorated panel of glass, counting the strokes, a smile beginning on his large mouth. It sounded seven times before it ceased, and he realized that it was the source of the ticking. He noted then that the smaller arrow was pointed at the seventh numeral. He considered the images of the sun and the moon in all its phases inscribed and painted upon its face. Suddenly, he comprehended its function and suppressed a laugh of delight at its simplicity, its elegance. He slid his blade silently to rest and turned away.

The hall had changed, or was it only the lighting? It seemed dimmer now, more threatening, and he felt as if unseen eyes watched his progress across the polished floor. The scent he had first caught in the sitting room was still mingled with another which disturbed him greatly.

The huge overhead light crackled and flickered as he passed beneath it. Shadows darted around him and within the mirrors…

The mirrors. He passed a large, hairy hand before his eyes. For but a moment it seemed that the mirror to his right showed something which did not share the hall with him—a large, strangely shaped patch of darkness. It was no longer evident, but as he advanced he kept his eyes upon the place where it might have been.

Of the scents he followed, the wrong one was growing stronger…

The entire castle seemed to shudder, once, lightly, about him…

The light fixture swayed, and the shadows danced again…

Abruptly, within an odd little piece of furniture at the farther side of the hall, music began…

The blackness was back, half hidden behind a pillar which hid nothing on this side of the glass…

He moved doggedly ahead now, ignoring everything but the scents.

(Had the tapestry near the corner ahead, to the right, just stirred slightly?)

The black thing slid out from behind a mirrored pillar, and he halted, staring at it.

It was a huge, horselike beast fashioned of metal that pranced forward, tossed its head, and regarded him. It almost seemed to be laughing at him.

He stared, and bewilderment mingled with disbelief upon his countenance as it seemed to be walking straight toward him. Then it turned abruptly and mimicked his advance into the hall, even pausing to inspect the image of the clock within its niche. When it came abreast of him, it halted and turned to return his gaze.

Suddenly its eyes flickered and glowed, and a wisp of smoke rose from its nostrils.

It lowered its head and leaned forward. A rush of flames emerged from its mouth, spreading about the hall, filling the entire wall of mirrors.

The man raised his hand and turned away.

The mirrors upon the opposite wall also contained the conflagration. The brightness became intense. Yet there was no heat, no sound…

The black beast had disappeared behind the wall of flame, yet the man had the strange feeling that the glass could crack at any moment and the metal thing emerge, charging toward him.

There was an oppressive feeling of ancient magic all about. Whether it emanated from the Old One somewhere within or was a part of the very structure of the castle itself, he could not tell.

Dragging his gaze from the wall, he began to move forward again. The tapestry was stirring once more. It was obvious now that there was a large form hidden behind it. He headed directly toward it.

Before he reached it, however, it was whipped aside and the mismatched eyes of a demon regarded him.

"The flames made me think I was being sent home," he muttered. "But here is only a mortal man—not even one of those I may not harm."

His long, forked tongue emerged to lick his lips.

"Dinner!" he concluded.

The man halted and his hands moved to his belt.

"You are mistaken," said the man in the same language, "Melbriniononsad- sazzersteldregandishfeltselior. And the flames were already banked on the day of your spawning."

"How is it, kin of the apes, that you know my name when I do not know you?"

"You are mistaken," the man repeated, "for you will be sent home. And before you go I will whisper the answer to your final question, and you will know me."

He unfastened his belt and lowered it, with the heavy blade and scabbard, to the floor.

The music grew wilder and the flames continued their dance as the demon came toward him. He moved to meet him, a grim smile upon his lips.

"Presumption, thy name is man," said the demon as he sprang upon him.

"You are mistaken," answered the other as he avoided the snapping fangs, blocked the slashing talons and seized hold of him.

Quickly, they were knotted into a complex array of limbs and they fell to the floor and began rolling. Eyes seemed to open within the flames, to regard them.

Holrun had hung the mirror upon a section of bare wall between a desk and the hearth, covering over threescore and eight interesting runes and symbols. Now he reclined himself upon a heap of cushions before it, drawing upon his water pipe as he considered the approach, slowing his heartbeat, tensing and relaxing groups of muscles. After a time, he set the mouthpiece aside, still thinking of the thing he had learned at the Council meeting, where they had hovered disembodied above the Kannais, considering the Castle Timeless. Jelerak employed a system of mirrors to transport himself between his strongholds. It would require access to one of the mirrors and a full knowledge of the governing spell to utilize the system as he did. The castle itself was surrounded by a hard, dark aura which completely shielded it against psychic penetration. It was too far away for immediate physical access, and the land about it might begin its mad dance again at any time, anyway. Holrun had committed the appearance and the feeling of the place to memory. Upon returning to his body and his quarters, he had checked in his voluminous library for any reference he could think of which might bear upon the subject of the mirrors.

Now he released his spirit once more, to return to that place. Soon the Castle Timeless winked below him, immense and sinister. Its psychic shield still held, but there were places beyond places—planes where reality was reduced to a simple vision…

He shifted to that of pure energy and found his way barred there, too. Then an archetypal place of pure forms, where he was also excluded. With considerably more effort than he had thus far employed, he moved to the plane of essences.

Ah…

The entire pattern of the castle was bizarre, one of the strangest things he had ever beheld. But he wasted no time cataloging wonders. Having already set his will upon locating the mirror, it stood out quite clearly for his inspection in what, in the mundane world, would be the north tower.

He approached it cautiously, searching out unusual essences in its vicinity.

There was a single man present, and from this plane the essence of an extra hand was visible. So that was Baran. Well, well…

He saw the spell and shifted to the plane of structures, where he felt more comfortable. It became a series of interconnected lines of various colors, all of them pulsing, beads of energy passing in seeming-random fashion from junction to junction

Interesting. Something else was studying it also, from closer up, over on the energy plane.

He withdrew somewhat and watched the watcher. If it could locate the starting point for him, a lot of time and energy—not to mention risk —might be saved. He did not like that fuzzy blue coiled thing in one small corner. Upon careful inspection, it seemed to be touching yet unattached…

His fellow student of the spell, upon closer inspection, appeared to be one of those vague, cislunar elementals normally of amorphous, fiery aspect when drawn to his own plane. Here it was an inquiring hook, pulsing redly. It traced the periphery of the spell several times, rapidly, without coming into contact with that cage of lines. It did seem to slow its passage at one sharp corner each time that it went by, however.

Each line that he beheld represented a single unit of the spell, spoken or gestured. That power which filled it was, of course, entered by Jelerak himself in accompaniment to the ritual, drawn either from his own being or from a sacrificial source. The problem for Holrun was to determine the sequence in which the structure had been created back on his own plane—a difficult task, for the beginning was not readily visible, as it would be in the work of a neophyte or even that of a journeyman with no great passion for secrecy. It was an exceedingly intricate piece of work, and Holrun felt an unwilling admiration for the man's technical proficiency.

The hook slowed at another place—a lower angle, as if suddenly attracted to something there—then passed on and paused again at the sharp corner. Holrun maintained his passive screen. He could get out now even if the spell were employed before him. It would be later that things would become dangerous. Better to let the elemental risk these preliminaries.

It slowed again at the angle, almost halting, and Holrun focused his full attention upon that place.

Yes. During the ebb of one of the pulsations he was certain that he had detected the web-thin line of an unnatural juncture where a microwedge of perception might be driven. The elemental did not seem to note it, however, and returned to the sharp corner, where it halted.

He watched, certain what would follow.

The hook extended its sharper end, making contact, applying psychic pressures at that point. The cold blue guardian sprang like an uncoiled spring into the adjacent angle. The hook struggled to free itself, then grew still. It began to shrink and moments later was completely absorbed.

The blue coil fell away and was still, pulsing more brightly now. After several more beats, it attached itself to another angle, and the additional brightness it had gained was drained out of it into the structure of the spell itself. It rolled away then and was still once more, a fuzzy blue thing.

Holrun drew nearer. He could see now that the elemental had been blocking the spell as well as studying it. Features he had at first taken as part of the construct began to flicker and fade—wedges set between open areas which must close when the spell was called upon to function. As he observed their passing, he considered the person who must have introduced the elemental into the picture in the first place. Once he became aware that it had vanished, it would take him a time to set up the conditions to summon another, should he wish to continue the study and the blockage immediately, and additional time to charge one with its task. Which should leave Holrun sufficient time to do what needed to be done without interruption.

Unless, of course, someone employed the spell while he was about it, in which case he would be destroyed.

He advanced upon the lower angle. The only thing remaining to be determined was the direction in which the spell flowed. He had two choices. The wrong one would undo it, totally deactivating the mirror as he ran through it backward.

One line was thinner than the other, indicating a high pitch to the sorcerer's voice as he had uttered that sound. Normally, a spell commenced on a lower note than it ended, though this was not always the case. Either line, for that matter, could also represent a preliminary gesture. He moved nearer and made momentary contact with the heavier line.

The blue coil flashed toward him, but he had already withdrawn by the time it arrived, bearing one piece of information away with him: the line echoed on contact! Therefore, it was a word, not a gesture.

He watched and waited for the coil to subside. It was not so quick to settle back this time, but drifted off, exploring the larger angles.

Once he entered the spell proper, from either end, he would be safe from its attentions, which had to be put in abeyance during the structure's actual operation The only danger then would be if the spell were employed while he was tracing it.

The coil subsided once again, and he sounded the thinner line, withdrawing instantly.

The cold blue thing acted in a predictable fashion, and he ignored it while digesting the additional information he had gained: there had been another echo; therefore, it began and ended with a word.

There was still no way of telling for certain which arm of the angle represented the beginning and which the end—save for the lower-note presumption. He retreated and regarded the spell as a whole once more, attempting to gain an overall impression of its pattern. He rummaged his memory for analogies, brooded upon them, decided that ultimately he must place his trust upon a totally subjective feeling which had been growing within him.

He rushed forward and penetrated the end of the thinner line. The striking of the cold blue thing was beyond his perception, for he was already moving within the system of the spell by the time it arrived.

He realized that he had guessed correctly as he heard the first word—a fairly standard opening—ringing all about him. He advanced through the spell, receiving impressions of each gesture, living within each word, burning them all into his memory. When he came to the end, he jumped the gap and commenced a second circuit. This time he fled through it for a total impression, rather than for a rehearsal of particulars. Again…

He marveled at the cunning manner in which it had been contrived, knowing full well that he would one day require a set of similar transportation devices himself. You just didn't see that sort of spellmanship these days…

Again.

Now it was with a more critical eye that he ran through it, seeking precisely the right point of attack…

Aha!

The seventh term ended with a hard consonant and the eighth began with one. The same applied to the twenty-third and twenty-fourth words. He ran by them again. The caesura between the seven-eight pair was slightly longer.

He halted and inserted a soft "t" into the gap the next time around. Even if Jelerak were to audit his own spell, it would not be detectable between a pair of consonants. Then he spun off from his special element, creating a simple subspell system, all of whose lines paralleled and were superimposed upon existing spell-elements. When he had finished, he ran through the spell proper once again, deleting nothing. Another time around and he activated the "t" and dropped through into his own system. Perfect. The subspell actually utilized the heart of Jelerak's own system, but the linkage should be—

He trickled energy from his own being through his system, activating it, and mentally thumbed his nose at the cold blue thing as the entire construct vanished and he found himself within his own mirror, regarding his reclining form.

He departed the mirror, lowered his vibration rate, and opened his eyes. He stretched and smiled. He had done it, and he had left no footprints.

Rising, he stretched again and massaged his forehead and temples, rubbed his eyes. He began yawning as he obtained the black crystal and set it up. But he gathered his forces, focused his attention, and spoke Meliash's name.

The image appeared.

"Hi," he said. "How are they hanging?"

"Holrun! What's happened? It's been so long!"

"I've been working on this damned thing. Let me tell you about Jelerak's mirror—"

"His transport mirror?"

"The same. I just trapdoored the spell on the one in the castle."

" 'Trapdoored'?"

"Right. If that damned elemental is not in the way, it will work just as he wants it to, as often as he likes, without his ever being aware that I now have access to the spell, the mirror, the castle—at will."

"I've never heard of such a thing."

"It's a sneaky technique I developed myself."

"What are you going to do with it?"

Holrun yawned.

"I'll know when I wake up. Right now I've got to soak and take a nap. I'm dead."

"But this must mean you persuaded the Council to do something."

"Come on, Meliash! You know better than that. All I got out of them— accidentally, at that—was the knowledge that there were such things as the mirrors. They wouldn't touch Jelerak with a hawking gauntlet."

"Then who authorized you to trapdoor the spell?"

"Nobody. I did it on my own."

"Won't you get in trouble if they find out?"

"Not as a private citizen. I resigned from the Council in protest at the end of the meeting."

"I—I'm sorry."

"Oh, it wasn't the first time. Look, I've got to get some rest before I do anything else. Bye-bye."

He blanked the crystal, cased it, and walked to the door. He snapped his fingers as he departed and did not look back.

At first, Semirama ignored the knocking at her door. But when it was repeated and Lisha still did not appear to answer it, she rose from her mound of furs and cushions and crossed the chamber.

"Yes?"

Seeing no one when she cracked the door, she opened it wide.

The hall was empty.

She closed the door and returned to her nest of softness and incense, old wine and memory. The air seemed to sparkle for a moment, and tapestries and draperies fluttered as if a breeze were passing through the closed room.

"My Lady Semirama, Queen. I am here."

She looked about, saw no one.

"Here."

A dark-haired man in yellow tunic and fur leggings was staring off to her right near the foot of the bed, head lowered. He raised his head and smiled.

"Who—who are you?" she said.

"Your servant—Jelerak. I required a disguise in order to reach this place. It amuses me to retain it. I hope that it meets with your approval."

"Indeed," she said, smiling quickly. "When did you arrive?"

"But moments ago," he replied. "I came here directly, to pay my respect and to learn the nature of the difficulty with our Old One."

"The difficulty at the moment," she said, "is that he is quite mad."

"Ah. And how long has this condition prevailed?" he inquired, studying her intently.

"For about half an hour. He anticipated it and told me of it. I was with him when it began."

"I see. Yet the land hereabout has been disturbed by his emanations for a somewhat longer period. How might these be reconciled?"

"Oh." She raised her glass and sipped from it, gestured with her head toward the cabinet. "Please help yourself to a drink, if you'd care to."

"Thank you. I seldom indulge."

She nodded, already knowing this.

"He did it on my instructions."

"That does explain the patterning. I thought I saw a human mind at work there. Would you care to tell me why?"

"To keep out the adventurers who have been trying to break in during your absence. They were getting to be a nuisance."

"It worked against me also."

"But you had the mirror."

"The mirror was not functioning."

"I began to suspect that only this evening, from something Baran had said, and I had Tualua clear it before his lapse. Isn't that how you got here?"

Jelerak shook his head and smiled again.

"I had to do it the hard way. Are you implying that Baran is up to something that goes against my interests?"

"I'm not certain. He may have been trying to repair it for you, also, working to remove some interference."

"We shall see. Does Tualua's problem mean what I think it does?"

"His dark nature is rising and he is struggling against it."

"Hm. Unfortunate, in that it will make him harder to deal with. Too much egotism will accompany some otherwise laudable sentiments. My first order of business had better be the restoration of his sanity so that he can help me to recover from certain debilities."

"Can you help him at all—beyond temporary relief?"

"Alas, lady, no. For who can triumph over his own darker nature? You wouldn't know where I can locate a virgin quickly, would you?"

"No… Perhaps one of the younger servants… What do you need one for?"

"Oh, it's going to take a tedious human sacrifice to straighten out our Old One. It wouldn't if I were in better form, but that's the way it is just now. Don't worry, I've a virgin locater spell I can use. I'd best be about it right now, as a matter of fact. So I'll take my leave, lady."

"Adieu, Jelerak."

"I may require your services later, as interpreter."

"I will be here."

"Excellent."

He crossed to the door and opened it, smiled back and nodded, went out.

Semirama toyed with her glass, wondering whether the mirror was clear now and how far it could take a person, or persons.

Dilvish regarded the others, and when Lorman's wailing had subsided, he asked, "Do any of you know where I might get my hands on a weapon once I leave here?"

There were a few chuckles, but Hodgson shook his head.

"No. I've no idea where the armory is," he said.

"You would simply have to go looking," Derkon stated. "Good luck. By the way, might I inquire as to your means of egress?"

Dilvish raised a hand to his mouth and withdrew it. He moved it to one of his locks. There came a scraping noise followed by a click.

"A key!" Galt shouted. "He has a key!"

"And the whole castle will know of it if you don't keep your voice down!" Hodgson said. "Where'd you get it, Dilvish?"

"A gift from the lady," he replied, unfastening a second lock and shaking off chains, "making it, in many ways, the most memorable kiss I've ever received."

"Do you," Derkon asked, "think that key might fit other locks than your own?"

"Hard to tell," said Dilvish, bent forward, unfastening his leg fetters.

He straightened and kicked off the chains.

"Here, try it."

Derkon snatched the key and inserted it into one of his locks.

"No, damn it! Perhaps this one…"

"Give it here, Derkon! Maybe it fits mine!"

"Over here!"

"Let me try it!"

Derkon tried it on all his locks in succession, while Dilvish was massaging his wrists and ankles, brushing off his garments. Finally, Derkon growled and passed the key to Hodgson.

"There were quite a few keys on the rack outside," Dilvish remarked as Hodgson twisted it within a lock that would not move.

He turned and moved toward the doorway.

"Wait! Wait!"

"Don't go!"

"Get them!"

"Get them!"

He went out. Behind him, their cries turned to curses.

A pale yellow whirlwind sprang up in the center of the room and a variety of exotic aromas filled the place. A number of frogs materialized in the middle of the air and fell to the straw-strewn floor, where they began hopping about. The whirlwind drifted across the chamber, hovered in the doorway.

Moments later a figure appeared behind it, to cast a ring of keys through it to land onto the ledge between Vane and Galt. A brief silence followed, then a chorus of sharp whispers. The figure retreated. The whirlwind turned green. The frogs began to sing.

Dilvish removed a torch from a wall bracket and set out to retrace the course along which he had been dragged. He ignored the cross-tunnels, within which interesting scurryings occurred, even though it seemed that something far back in one called his name in a deep, booming voice. Finally, he came to what seemed the proper turning and headed left, torch flicking, walls dripping, something heavy and leathery bulging from the ceiling and throbbing lightly, as if breathing. He turned again, at the next way which led off to the right. Suddenly, he stopped at another crossway, moving to face each direction in turn. Was this junction here before?

Everything had seemed right up until now, but he had been but semiconscious as they had descended the stair and for a little while afterward…

He moistened his left index finger in his mouth and held the torch at arm's distance behind him.

When he raised the finger he felt the cooling movement of the air from left to right. He raised the torch and moved in that direction.

Twenty paces, and he had a choice between a right branch and a left. The left seemed vaguely familiar, so he took it.

Shortly, he found himself at the foot of a stair. Yes. This was the way.

He turned.

As he mounted slowly through the gloom, a lighted doorway came into view above. There was a wall to his left, nothing to his right.

Before he reached the top he extinguished the torch against the wall and dropped it, for the room beyond was clearly illuminated. He heard a faint musical sound coming from around the corner to his right.

He moved slowly, peered around the corner. There was no one in sight, but—

There was something, heaped near the torn tapestry, the tiles about it gleaming with a dark wetness.

He sought along the visible sections of wall, hoping for a display weapon of any sort.

Nothing. Mirrors mostly, reflecting the hall and reflections of the hall within one another.

The thing on the floor did not stir. The wet area about it seemed a little larger.

He advanced soundlessly, approaching the dark heap. Partway there, he froze. It was a demon—the one which had come for him in the mucky prison of the pond—its body squashed like a piece of fruit, twisted and broken.

He moved no nearer, but only stood regarding it, wondering. Then he backed away. The odor of its ichor had reached his nostrils. He looked over his shoulder and down the length of the hall. There was a wide entranceway far along it and to the left, a small door to the right, huge double doors at the end. An uncomfortable feeling boiled up within him. He had no desire to pass through that hall.

Before him, past the infernal remains, to the left of the tapestry, was a recess containing a partly open door. Detouring as widely as he could about the broken creature, he headed in that direction.

There was silence and dimness beyond the door. He pushed it open far enough to pass through, and then he let it swing slowly back to its former position. It creaked slightly as it moved in both directions.

He passed along a narrow corridor and veils of violet mist drifted past him, accompanied by sounds like glass wind-chimes and the odors of a mown field. He passed a scullery, a pantry, a small bed-room, and an octagonal chamber where a blue flame burned without support above a star-shaped slab of pink stone. All of these rooms were empty of people.

At length, the corridor opened upon a larger one running to the right and the left. Voices reached him from somewhere to the left and he halted, listening. The words were indistinguishable and sufficiently muffled that he chanced a look about the corner.

There was no one in sight. The sounds seemed to be coming from one of several opened doors along that way.

He moved in that direction, staying close to the wall, looking for some object, some niche, for concealment, should someone step out of that room. Nothing, however, presented itself, though by this time the words were coming clear and he gained the impression that these were servants' quarters.

It was several minutes before he heard anything of interest, however.

"… and I say he's back," said a gruff male voice.

"Just because the messing stopped for a time?" a woman responded.

"Exactly. It was to let him pass in."

"Then why's no one seen him?"

"Why should he be showin' himself to the likes of us? Most likely he's up with Baran or the queen, or both of 'em."

Though he listened for many minutes more, he heard nothing that proved of additional value. Still, the one reference was obviously to Jelerak, and "up" might indicate a higher floor. Dilvish sidled away, turned, headed in the other direction.

He wandered cautiously for a quarter of an hour before he came upon a stairway. Then he waited beneath it for a long while, listening, before he set foot upon it and raced upward.

This upstairs hallway was wide, no mere corridor, was carpeted, was hung with sumptuous tapestries. Dilvish moved along it, seeking a weapon, seeking a voice. He came to a window. He paused.

Yellow fogs rolled by without, revealing and concealing a turbulent landscape lit by moonlight and sporadic bursts of flame, above which glinting blue and white diamond shapes drifted and dipped like wingless, featureless birds riding the air currents. Dark, strong prominences grew in the matter of a few eyeblinks; others fell just as rapidly. Occasional lightnings flared, followed by rolls of thunder. If anything, the place looked even worse than it had during his passage through it. He wondered about Black, Arlata, and the sorcerer Weleand. Of them all, only the wretched conjurer seemed to have survived.

He turned away from the spark-shot view of the shuddering world and continued along the hallway, coming at length to another wide, carpeted stair rising from below, turning, continuing on up. On the wall above the landing hung a pair of large halberds. He crossed to them, took hold of the haft of the nearer one with both hands, raised it, shook his head and carefully fitted the weapon back into place upon its pegs. Too heavy. He'd wear himself out lugging the big thing about.

He passed on, and a warm wind blew by him and the walls seemed to waver. A splashing torrent rounded the corner ahead and a wall of water rushed in his direction. He turned, to retreat, but it vanished before it reached him. The walls and floor were dry when he came to the end of the hallway, with only a few flapping fish about.

When he turned the corner, however, there were several puddles. A ghostly arm rose up out of one, holding a blade. Dilvish strode forward and snatched it away. The arm vanished and the blade immediately began to melt. It was made of ice. He dropped it back into the puddle and moved away.

There were a number of doors along the hallway, several of them partly ajar, several closed. He paused and listened outside each of them, hearing nothing, peering into those which stood open. Then he returned to the first of the closed ones and tried it. It was locked, as was the second, the third.

He moved to the end of the hallway where a low stair angled up obliquely to his left. He mounted the stair quickly. The ceiling was lower here, but the carpet and wall hangings were richer. A narrow window gave him a view back upon a portion of the castle itself. It seemed that ghostly figures moved along the battlements above. No doors gave upon this hallway and he hurried through it quickly, mounting another low stair moving off to his left, leading to a high-ceilinged hallway, better illuminated and far more sumptuously furnished than any he had yet seen or traversed.

The first door to his right was locked, but the second was not. He hesitated as it yielded a fraction of an inch to his pressure, overcome by an intuitive certainty that the room beyond was occupied.

He checked his resolution and found that it had not wavered. If Jelerak were within and all else failed, he was still determined to employ his weapon of last resort, the Awful Sayings which would destroy the castle and everything in it—himself included—in the fires that could not be quenched until everything within range of the spell had been reduced to powder and ashes.

He pushed the door open and strode forward.

"Selar! You have come!" Semirama cried, and a moment later she was in his arms.

Chapter 8

The large man with curly hair and beard, and with a raw gash running across his left shoulder and down his breast and rib cage on that side, stalked through the tunnels beneath the Castle Timeless, his great blade in his hand. Fighting in the dark, he had already dispatched a nameless leathery monstrosity which had fallen upon him silently from above, in one of the passages farther back. He still moved in darkness, the pupils of his eyes abnormally dilated. His cursing strangely resembled that of Melbriniononsadsazzer -steldregandishfeltselior, whom he had met in the hall above with less silence but equal effect. He cursed because he had successfully followed a scent down into these tunnels until he had come to the place where the passage of hordes of piglike creatures had hopelessly muddled the odor-patterns. Now he was lost and could only wander aimlessly until he picked up the trail once again.

The most infuriating thing, however, was that he was certain that he had seen his man awhile back, rushing past on one of the crossways. He had even called out his name, but gotten no response. By the time he had reached that point, the man was out of sight, and though he had followed his trail successfully for a time after that, the cursed pig-smell had met, mingled with, and submerged it.

He came to a cross-tunnel and turned left and left again at the next one. The choices did not seem to be that important. The only really important thing was to keep moving. Sooner or later…

Voices!

He turned. No. They were somewhere ahead, not behind.

He moved on quickly and they grew louder. He spied another crossing of the tunnels ahead and rushed to stand at their center. Turning slowly then, he finally came to face down the one which ran off to his right.

Yes.

There was a bend, a twist. Somewhere beyond it people were moving, talking. He walked that way, not really hurrying. A small illumination had already crept partway toward him.

As he moved about the bend, he saw the men. They were passing from right to left along another cross-tunnel, the man at their head holding a torch high. There might have been half a dozen of them, including an old one. He could not make out their words, but they seemed happy. They were also ragged, and as he drew nearer he realized that their scents were very powerful, as if they had been long pent in a place totally lacking in sanitary facilities.

He stood in darkness and watched them pass. Before very long, he stood in the tunnel down which they had moved. Then he turned in the direction from which they had come and moved off along it.

Shortly, he stood in a large room where a single torch burned low in its bracket. To his left stood a rack of chains and locks. A few torture implements lay dusty in various corners.

The trail led across the room and through an open doorway. Mingled with it, here, was also the scent that he sought. It had been with him for some time, actually, once he had turned upon this way. But here it was stronger, and beyond the doorway…

He paused upon the threshold, looking in. The chamber was empty. Its light still burned. Empty chains hung from rings upon the wall. Locks had been cast all over the floor.

He began to move forward and halted again.

That floor…

Extending his blade, he brushed aside bunches of rushes and straw. There was something stretched upon the ground beneath it. Something vaguely familiar…

His breath caught suddenly and he drew back as if shocked. Perspiration broke out upon his brow and he muttered an imprecation.

He snatched back his blade and sheathed it.

Then he withdrew and retraced his steps up the corridor, easily following the powerful man-smell the others had left. He doubted that even the pig-things could smother it completely.

Jelerak stood before the small brass bowl atop the tripod. Seventeen ingredients, of various degrees of unsavoriness, smoldered within it, and pungent trails of smoke rose before him, coiled past, not entirely unpleasant in aroma. He spoke the words and commenced repeating them at a faster tempo. Small crackling sounds occurred within the bowl and an occasional spark shot forth.

A link had been created, and a subtle psychic pressure began to build within him and the subject of his attentions.

When he came again to the end he recommenced his speaking, this time in an even louder voice and at a yet faster pace. The sputtering and flashing of the compound was now a steady thing. As he neared the end this time, he threw his arms wide, became stiffly immobile, and snapped out the final words in a voice close to a shout.

The smoke swirled for an instant, and the substance within the bowl, which had assumed a steady cherry-colored glow, flashed brightly and emitted a pulse of light which rose to hover in the air above it, taking on the form of a scarlet letter, the runic beginning of the word "virgin."

When it had stabilized, Jelerak spoke a brief command and the bright sign drifted slowly away from him. His arms fell and the tension went out of his body. He placed a cover upon the bowl and moved to follow his creation, through an archway, down a corridor.

It flowed along at eye level, a bright ray upon some errant breeze, a sun- pinked sail upon a dark sea, and Jelerak strolled behind it, smiling with the left side of his mouth.

It wound among the labyrinthine corridors in a vaguely southerly direction, dropping into the first stairwell they came upon. Hands in his pockets now, Jelerak trotted down the steps behind it, all the way to the ground floor. Without hesitation, it turned left and so did he.

He followed it past the enclaves of brightness, where the tapers burned, his shadow growing and shrinking, doubling and twisting—ranging from that of a giant to that of a horned dwarf. He yawned delicately as he passed the tub of the writhing shrub—a rival sorcerer he had long ago transformed and afflicted with aphids. He broke off a leaf as he passed. A drop of blood formed on the stem.

A bat flapped by, dipping near him in greeting. Spiders danced upon ledges and rats raced to keep him company.

Finally, the letter passed through an archway and into the main hall, where its glow was caught in reflection until Jelerak entered there and all of the mirrors went black.

It led him across the front of the hall, coming at last to hover before the great main gate. Jelerak's brow furrowed and he halted for a moment behind it. Then he spoke a guide-word and the letter slid to the right and floated through the door of the side room. The ticking of the big clock was loud about him for a moment as he followed it.

It crossed the shadow-decked room and halted before the lesser door in the front wall.

Still frowning, Jelerak opened the door and looked beyond it as the letter drifted out. The area near the castle remained stable, though beyond a certain point below, the land heaved and twisted, sharp explosions occurred and baleful fires drifted among sulfurous fogs. The moon was already high and wearing a topaz mask. The stars in their grand scatter seemed diminished, more distant…

Jelerak followed it outside, the ground trembling slightly beneath his feet. It moved now toward a rough semblance of a trail leading downward among rocks toward the place occupied earlier by a pond, where now a small mountain was reared. A cold wind whipped his cloak about him as he hastened with nimble-footed stride down the alley of boulders.

Partly down the face of the slope, the letter drifted upward to the right, moving across an irregular, sharply angled slope. Jelerak hesitated only a moment and began climbing after it.

Staying close to the slope, it continued its southward drift. Then, abruptly, it vanished.

Jelerak increased his pace, moving rapidly until he caught sight of it again. It had moved around a boulder and now hung in the air before a cleft in the rocks. A faint light emerged from the opening.

As he drew nearer he could see more and more by its glow; until finally, when he stood before it, a blaze of baleful light reached his eyes. The bright rune moved from side to side as if reluctant to enter there. Jelerak spoke another word, however, and it proceeded into the opening.

He followed it, and the rune vanished again, around a bend to the left. When he had made the turn himself, he halted and stared.

A wall of flames completely screened the way before him—dark red, almost oily, braiding and unbraiding itself, silent, feeding upon nothing visible, a faint odor of brimstone about it. The rune hung unmoving once again, several paces before it.

Jelerak stepped forward very slowly, hands upraised, palms outward. He halted when they were about a foot away from the curtains of fire and began moving them in small circles, up and down and to either side.

" 'Tis not the Old One's, my pet," he addressed the letter. "Not an emanation, but a bona fide spell, of a most peculiar sort. However… Everything has its weakness, doesn't it?" he finished, curving his fingers suddenly and plunging his hands ahead.

Immediately, he drew his hands to either side, and the flames parted like a slit arras. He gestured with each hand in turn, rotating the wrists, clicking the fingers.

The fires remained in the parted position. The letter flashed past him.

Stepping forward, Jelerak regarded the sleeping white horse and the sleeping blonde-haired girl he had rescued from glassy statuedom for Dilvish. The letter had affixed itself to her brow and was now beginning to fade.

He knelt, lowering his face to scrutinize her more closely. Then he drew back his hand and slapped her.

Her eyes flew open.

"What… ? Who… ?"

Then she met Jelerak's gaze and grew still.

"Answer my questions," he said. "I last saw you amid shining towers with a man named Dilvish. How did you get here?"

'Where am I?" she responded.

"In a cave, on the slope near the castle. The way was screened by a very interesting protective spell. Who raised it?"

"I do not know," she said, "and I've no idea how I got here."

He peered more deeply into her eyes.

"What is the last thing you remember before the awakening?"

"We were sinking—in the mud—near the pond's edge."

" 'We'? Who else was there?"

"My horse—Stormbird," she said, reaching out and stroking the sleeping animal's neck.

"What became of Dilvish?"

"He crossed the pond with us, was stuck with us," she said. "But a demon came and dragged him free and bore him off up the hill."

"And that was the last you saw of him?"

"Yes."

"Could you tell whether he was taken into the castle?"

She shook her head.

"I didn't see that."

"Then what happened?"

"I don't know. I woke up here. Just now."

"This grows tedious," Jelerak said, rising. "Get on your feet and come with me."

"Who are you?"

He laughed.

"One who requires a special service of you. This way!"

He gestured back along the route he had come. Her mouth tightened and she rose.

"No," she said. "I am not going with you unless I know who you are and what you want of me."

"You bore me," he said, and he raised his hand.

Almost simultaneously, she raised hers in a gesture closely resembling his own.

"Ah! You do know something of the Art."

"I believe you will find me as well equipped as many."

"Sleep!" he announced suddenly, and her eyes closed. She swayed. "Open your eyes now and do exactly as I say: follow me.

"So much for democracy," he added as he turned away, and she fell into step behind him.

He led her out into the night and along the steep way to the trail, by the light of the changing land.

They followed Lorman, and Lorman followed the emanations. Up the shadowy stairway and across the rear of the hall, pausing only to survey the ruined form of their late demonic tormenter with a mixture of dismay and delight, they made their way along a narrow passage, turning right at its farther end.

They passed a stairway and continued on, working their way to the front of the building and heading in a northerly direction.

"I am beginning to feel it," Derkon whispered to Hodgson.

"What?" the other asked.

"The sense of an enormous, mad presence. A feeling of the great power that the thing is pouring forth, rocking the land outside. I—it's frightening."

"That, at least, is a feeling I share with you."

Odil said nothing. Galt and Vane, holding hands, brought up the rear. The walls shimmered, growing transparent in places, and ghostly shapes danced within their depths. Clouds of green smoke puffed past them, leaving them gagging. A huge furry face regarded them solemnly through a hole in the ceiling, vanishing moments later with a flash of fire and a peal of laughter.

At the first window they passed, they viewed the changing land without, where skeletal horsemen raced their skeletal horses through the swirling smoke in the sky.

"We draw nearer!" Lorman croaked, in a voice the others considered overloud.

They came at last to a gallery whose long row of windows afforded numerous views of the altering prospect. The gallery itself was an empty, quiet place, free of the unnatural disturbances they had witnessed during their long walk. Immediately they entered it, all of them were stricken by a sense of the presence Derkon had felt earlier.

"This is the place, isn't it?" he asked.

"No," Lorman replied. "The place is up ahead. There mad Tualua dreams, sending his nightmares to ravage the world. There are two other connecting galleries, it seems. The northernmost may actually be best for purposes of our operation. It will mean passing through his chamber to reach it. But once we have done that, the way should be clear before us."

"If we succeed and live," Odil inquired, "are we going to try to kill him during the disturbance that follows?"

"I would hate to waste all of that power…" said Vane.

"… when we've been through so much for it already," said Galt.

"We've the oath to keep us honest," said Lorman, giggling.

"Of course," said Derkon.

Hodgson nodded.

"So long as I have a say in it," said he, "some of it will be used properly."

"All right," said Odil, his voice wavering.

They moved through the gallery, slowing as they passed the windows to view the fire-shot disorder. Coming at last to the Chamber of the Pit, they stayed near the wall as they moved through. An occasional splashing sound occurred within its depths.

They glanced at one another, backs to the wall, as they sidled along. No one spoke. It was not until they had passed beyond the Chamber and reached the entrance to the far gallery that some of them realized that they had all been holding their breath.

They retreated quickly along the farther gallery, turning the first corner they came to, to put the Chamber out of sight. They found themselves in a large, dim alcove across from another bank of windows which let upon a lower, more lava-filled aspect of the changing land.

"Good," Lorman announced, pacing about the area. "The emanations are strong here. We must form ourselves into a circle. It will be a fairly simple matter of focusing, and I will take care of its direction. No. You—Hodgson—over here. You will speak the final words of Undoing. It will be best to have a white magician for that. Derkon, over there! We will each have our parts in this thing. I will assign them in a moment. We will become a lens. Over there, Odil."

One by one, the six magicians took their places in the glare of the burning land. A headless wraith, followed by portions of five other portents, drifted past the windows, the final one beating upon a drum in time with the eruptions below.

"Is that a good omen or a bad one?" Galt asked Vane.

"As with most omens," the other replied, "it is difficult to be certain until it is too late."

"I was afraid you'd say that."

"Attend me now," Lorman stated. "Here are your parts…"

Dilvish was propped on one elbow. Semirama smiled up at him.

"Son of Selar," she said, "it was worth whatever may come, to meet you and know you, who are so like that other." She adjusted the bedclothes and continued. "I do not like believing what I now believe about Jelerak, who has always been a friend. But I had come to suspect as much before your arrival. Yes, cruelties were common in my day, too, and I had long grown used to them. And I had no other loyalties in this time and place…

"Now—" She sat up. "Now I feel that the time has come to depart and leave him to his own devices. Before long, even the Old One will turn upon him. He will be too occupied then to pursue us. The transport mirror has been cleared. Come flee with me through it. With your sword and certain forces I command, we will soon win us a kingdom."

Dilvish shook his head slowly.

"I've a quarrel with Jelerak which must be settled before I depart this place," he said. "And speaking of blades, I could use one."

She leaned forward and put her arms about him.

"Why must you be so like your ancestor?" she said. "I warned Selar not to go to Shoredan. I knew what would happen. Now to find you, then to have you rush off to your doom in the same fashion… Is your entire line cursed, or is it only me?"

He held her and said, "I must."

"That is what he said also, under very similar circumstances. I feel as if I am suddenly rereading an old book."

"Then I hope the current edition has a slightly improved ending. Do not make my part any harder than it is already."

"That I can always handle," she said, smiling, "if we are together. If you attempt this thing and succeed, will you take me away with you?"

He regarded her in the strange light which was now entering through the windows at his back, and as had his ancestor an age before him, he answered, "Yes."

Later, when they had risen and repaired their costumes and Semirama had sent Lisha to locate a weapon, they drank a glass of wine and her thoughts turned again to Jelerak.

"He has fallen," she said, "from a high place. I do not ask you to forgive where you cannot, but remember that he was not always as he is now. For a time, he and Selar were even friends."

"For a time?"

"They quarreled later. Over what, I never knew. But yet, it was so, in those days."

Dilvish, leaning against a bedpost, stared into his glass.

"This gives rise to a strange thought," he said.

"What is it?"

"The time we met, he might simply have brushed me aside—slain me on the spot, cast me into a sleep, turned my mind away from him as if he were not there. I wonder… Might it have been my resemblance to Selar that caused him to be particularly cruel?"

She shook her head.

"Who can say? I wonder whether even he knows the full reasons for everything he does."

She took a sip of wine, rolled it about her mouth.

"Do you?" she added, swallowing.

Dilvish smiled.

"Does anyone? I know enough to satisfy my judgment in the matter. Perfect knowledge I leave to the gods."

"Generous of you," she said.

There came a soft knock upon the door.

"Yes?" she called out.

"It is I. Lisha."

"Come in."

The woman entered, bearing something wrapped in a green shawl.

"You found one?"

"Several. From an upstairs chamber one of the others had shown me."

She unwound the shawl, revealing three blades.

Dilvish finished his drink and put the glass down. He moved forward and took up each of the weapons in turn.

"This one's for show."

He set it aside.

"This one has a good guard, but the other is a bit heavier and has a better point. Though this one's sharper…"

He swung both of them, tried them both in his sheath, decided upon the second. Then he turned and embraced Semirama.

"Wait," he said. "Have some things ready for a quick journey. Who knows how this will all fall out?"

He kissed her and strode to the door.

"Goodbye," she said.

As he moved along the hallway, a peculiar feeling possessed him. None of the creaks or scratchings which had been present earlier were now to be heard. An unnatural stillness lay upon the place—a tense, vibrant thing, like the silence between the peals of a great-throated bell. Imminence and impendency rode like electric beings past him; in their wake came panic, which he fought without understanding, his new blade half drawn, knuckles white as he gripped it.

Baran uttered an oath for the seventh time and seated himself upon the floor in the midst of his paraphernalia. Tears of frustration rose in his eyes and ran down on either side of his nose, losing themselves in his mustache.

Couldn't he do anything right today? Seven times he had summoned elementals, charged them and sent them into Jelerak's mirror. Almost immediately, each had vanished. Something was keeping the mirror open now. Could it be Jelerak himself, getting ready to return? Might not Jelerak appear within it and step out of the frame at any moment, his ancient eyes staring unblinking into his own, reading every secret of his soul as if they were all branded upon his brow?

Baran sobbed. It was so unfair, to be caught in one's treachery before it was brought to a successful conclusion. Any moment now…

Yet Jelerak did not appear behind the glass. The world had not yet ended. It might even be that some other force was responsible for the destruction of his elementals.

What, then?

He shook his mind free of the feelings, forcing himself to think. If it was not Jelerak, it had to be someone else. Who?

Another sorcerer, of course. A powerful one. One who had decided that the time had come to enter here and take charge…

Yet no other face than his own regarded him from the glass. What was that other one waiting for?

Puzzling. Irritating. If it were a stranger, could he make a deal? he wondered. He knew a lot about this place. He was an accomplished sorcerer himself… Why didn't something happen?

He rubbed his eyes. He hauled himself to his feet. This had been a very dissatisfying day.

Crossing to a small window, he looked out. It was several moments before he realized that something was not right, and several more before it struck him as to what it was.

The changing land had again stopped changing. The land lay smoking but still beneath the racing moon. When had this occurred? It could not have been very long ago…

This stoppage signified another lull in Tualua's consciousness. Now might well be the time to move in, to take control. He had to get downstairs, get hold of that bitch queen, drag her to the Pit—before someone came through the mirror and beat him to it. As he hurried across the room, he reviewed the binding spell he had outlined.

As he reached toward the door, a strange tension came into him, and with it a return of his vertigo in a key at which he had never experienced it before.

No! Not now! No!

But even as he flung the door wide and rushed toward the stair, he knew that this time it was different. There was something more to it than a recurrence of all his old fears, something— premonitory, which even his earlier spells were now seen as leading up to. It was as if the entire castle were, in some sense, holding its breath against a monumental occurrence the moment for which was almost at hand. It was as if this—foreboding—had in some measure communicated itself even to mighty Tualua, shocking him into momentary quiescence. It was—

He came to the top of the stair, looked down, and shuddered. His entire nature seemed, at the moment, riven.

He ground his teeth, put out his hand, and took the first step…

Monstrously ancient structures of an imposing nature are not in the habit of having been constructed by men. Nor was the Castle Timeless an exception, as most venerable cities trace their origins to the architectural enterprise of gods and demigods, so the heavy structure in the Kannais which predated them all, and which had over the ages served every conceivable function from royal palace to prison, brothel to university, monastery to abandoned haunt of ghouls —changing even its shape, it was said, to accommodate its users' needs —so it informed with the echoes of all the ages, was muttered by some (with averted eyes and evil-forfending gesture) to be a relic of the days when the Elder Gods walked the earth, a point of their contact with it, a toy, a machine, or perhaps even a strangely living entity, fashioned by those higher powers whose vision transcended that of mankind— whom they had blessed or cursed with the spark of self-consciousness and the ache of curiosity that was the beginning of soul—as mankind's surpassed that of the hairy tree-dwellers counted by some as his kin, for purposes best known only to those shining folk whom it at least served somewhere, somehow as an inter- dimensional clubhouse before those beings absented themselves to felicity of a higher order, leaving behind the unripened fruits of their meddling in the affairs of otherwise satisfied simians; fashioned, in the opinion of some metaphysicians, on a timeless plane out of spiritual substances and, hence, not truly a part of this grosser world to which it had been transported, consisting as it did of equal measures of good and evil and their more interesting counterparts, love and hate, compounded with a beauty, therefore, that was both sinister and beatific, possessed of an aura as absorbent as a psychic sponge and as discriminating, alive in the sense that a man with only a functioning portion of his right hemisphere might be said to live, and anchored in space and time by an act of will imperfect because divided, yet superior to normal earthly vicissitudes for all the unearthly reasons the metaphysician would not care to recite a second time.

This, of course, was all wrong, according to more practical-minded theorists. Old buildings might acquire a patina of use, even exceptionally well- constructed ones, and their ambience had much to do with any physical or psychic impressions to be gained within their walls—particularly those situated in mountainous areas prone to a wide range of meteorological influences. And yes, when such people inhabited the place, it performed almost completely in accord with their expectations, as did the world at large. Such was its sensitivity.

Filled with sorcerers and demons, home to an Old One, it changed again. Other aspects of its nature were called forth.

A test of its true nature, of course, arose when the imperfect will upon which it resided was challenged, 'just as the proof of the evil or the good lay in the doing.

Chapter 9

Humming softly to himself, Jelerak leaned far forward, pushing the wheelbarrow in a low plane so as not to jar its occupant loose. Still entranced, Arlata of Marinta lay spread-eagled in the conveyance, her legs strapped to the handles, her arms hanging over the sides, drawn downward and secured to the traces near the wheel. A large quantity of sacking had first been stuffed into the barrow beneath her shoulders so as to provide for a proper spreading of the rib cage. Her tunic had been opened and a red dotted line painted to bisect her upper abdomen in the substernal area. A rattling sack of instruments lay across her stomach. He moved along the east-west corridor leading to the Chamber of the Pit, and hordes of vermin trailed behind him with a gleeful cluttering. The air grew warmer and more humid as he advanced, and the odor of the place was already heavy. Smiling, he pushed the wheelbarrow through the last few feet of shadow and passed beyond the low archway into the chamber itself.

He continued on across the dung- streaked floor, to position the barrow carefully near the eastern edge of the pit. Straightening then, he stretched, signed, and yawned in that order, before opening the sack and removing three long spokes and a fastener, which he quickly assembled into a tripod. Setting it on the floor between the barrow's handles, he placed his favorite brass bowl atop it and dumped smoldering charcoal into it from a small, perforated bucket which had hung from the barrow's right handle. He blew upon it until it produced a cheery glow, and then from several small sacks he introduced quantities of powder and herbs which caused a thick, sickly smoke to pour forth, sweet-smelling and slow-coiling, about the area.

Rats came from lurking places to pirouette upon the flagstones as he resumed his humming and withdrew a short, wide, triangular-bladed knife from the sack, tested its point and edges with his thumb, placed its tip for a moment at the top of the line he had drawn beginning between Arlata's pink-tipped breasts, smiled, nodded, and set it down upon her stomach for future use. Next, he removed a brush and several small, sealed pots, shook down the sack, placed it upon the floor beside him, opened one of the pots and knelt.

Bats dipped and darted as his hand dipped and darted, beginning with sure, practiced movements the painting of an elaborate design in red.

As he worked, a sudden chill passed over him, and the rats halted their dancing. The squeaking, chirping noises ceased and a moment of profound silence slipped into being, bearing a terrible tension within it. It was almost as if a sound, high above the range of audibility, were slowly descending in pitch toward the point where it would shortly become an unbearable shriek.

He cocked his head as if listening. He looked at the pit. More of the Old One's unnatural rantings, of course. This would soon be set aright, when he tore the heart out of the girl and poured her life force like oil upon the troubled waters of the Old One's mind—at least for a time. At least long enough to obtain the succor he himself would then require of that one's stable and directed energies. Afterward…

He wondered how a creature like that would die. Effecting this state of affairs might take a lot of doing. But soon Tualua would be growing dangerous, not only to the rest of the world but specifically to him, Jelerak, personally. He licked his lips as he foresaw the epic battle which must occur one day soon. He knew that he would not emerge from it unscathed, but he also knew that if he could drain the Old One's life energies, his power would reach a peak he had never before attained—godlike, he would rival Hohorga himself…

His face darkened at the thought of his former enemy and later master. And, fleetingly, he recalled Selar, who had given his life to slay that mighty being. Odd, how that one's features had echoed down the ages, to find a home on the face of the man he had sent to Hell, the man who had somehow returned from that foul place, the man who had saved him from the changing land as Selar had long ago drawn him back from the Nungen Abyss—Selar, who had found favor in the eyes of Semirama… And Dilvish might still be about—somewhere near, even—which was why he needed his full powers again quickly. That one was of godslayer's blood, and for the first time was causing Jelerak to know twinges of fear.

He continued the construction of a ritual diagram, no longer humming, tearing open another pigment pot when the first was exhausted.

Then, borne upon a stray air current through the unnatural silence, a faint sound came to him. It was as if a masculine chorus were somewhere raised in a naggingly familiar chant. He paused in mid-stroke, straining to catch the pattern, if not the words, to the piece.

A focusing spell. A very standard article…

But who were they? And what was it they were attempting to focus?

He looked down at his almost completed diagram. It was not good to have too many magical operations going on within the same area. They sometimes had a way of interfering with one another. Yet at this point he was loath to have his own work undone, so close to completion. He did a rapid mental-spiritual juggling act, a calculation of possible potentials, a balancing of forces.

It should not matter. The outpourings of energy here would be on such a scale that he could see very little that could unbalance the work, even at close proximity. He began painting again with tight-lipped fury. As soon as this business was out of the way, that damned choir was going to learn something about fates worse than death. He rehearsed a few of these to calm and amuse himself as he painted in the final sections. Then he rose, surveyed his work, and saw that it was good.

He backed off, setting his painting equipment aside, then entered the pattern in the proper fashion, moving to the south side of the wheelbarrow— Arlata's right—the brazier smoking and steaming to his right, cleared his head, spoke several words of power, then reached down and picked up the sacrificial blade.

The bats and rats resumed their darting capers as he began the preamble to the directions which would form the spell, and the consecration of the blade which would give it life. Crashing sounds began about the chamber and a scratching noise crossed the ceiling. He raised the blade as he spoke the words, drowning out the voices in the distance—or had they already ceased of their own accord? The trail of smoke became depressed, crossing his pattern like an inquisitive serpent. A general creaking began within the walls.

The superauditory rushing he had sensed earlier seemed about to burst into voice. He shifted his grip upon the blade and enunciated the next eleven words in a voice of beautiful plangency.

Then he froze, shaking, as his name was spoken by a curly-bearded man who had to duck his head to pass beneath the archway:

"There you are, Jelerak, as I should have guessed I'd find you—surrounded by toads, bats, snakes, spiders, rats and noxious fumes, next to a big pool of shit, about to tear out a girl's heart!"

Jelerak lowered the blade.

"These are a few of my favorite things," he said, smiling, "and you—lout! —are not among them!"

The blade began to crackle with a hellish light as he turned to point it at the giant in the doorway.

Then the flames on the blade died, and all else that was light in the chamber was darkened as the scream reached audibility—a piercing thing that went on and on, casting both men to the floor, causing even great Tualua to commence thrashing within his pit, reaching the point where all who heard it were deafened before they lapsed into unconsciousness.

Finally, a pale light came into the still chamber. It brightened and brightened, then faded and went away.

Then it came again…

Hodgson awoke with a mighty headache. For a time he just lay there, trying to think of a spell to make it go away. But his thinking machinery was sluggish. Then he heard the moaning and a soft sobbing. He opened his eyes.

A pale light filled the alcove. It brightened perceptibly even as he looked about him. Old Lorman lay nearby, head turned to the side, a pool of blood below his open mouth. He was not breathing. Derkon was sprawled some distance beyond him. It was his moaning that Hodgson had heard. Odil was breathing, but still obviously unconscious.

He turned his head to the left, toward the source of the sobbing.

Vane was sitting, his back against the wall, Galt's head in his lap. Galt's features were frozen in a look of agony. His limbs had the loose, floppy quality of the recent dead. His chest neither rose nor fell. Vane looked down upon him, making small, rocking movements, his breath coming quickly, his eyes moist.

The light reached the intensity of full daylight.

As there was nothing he could do for Lorman or Galt, he crawled past the former and came up beside Derkon. He inspected the man's head for lacerations, found a red swollen area high and left on his forehead.

A small healing spell then occurred to him. He repeated it three times upon his companion before the moaning stopped. His own headache began to subside while he worked with it. The light had grown noticeably dimmer by then.

Derkon opened his eyes.

"Did it work?" he asked.

"I don't know," Hodgson replied. "I'm not sure what its effects should be."

"I've some idea," said Derkon, sitting up, rubbing his head and neck, standing. "We can check it out in a minute."

He looked around him. He went over and kicked Odil on the side.

Odil rolled over onto his back and looked up at him.

"Wake up when you get a chance," Derkon said.

"What—what's happened?"

"I don't know. Galt and Lorman are dead, though." He looked toward the window, stared, rubbed his eyes and walked off quickly in that direction. "Come here!" he cried.

Hodgson followed him. Odil was still in the process of sitting up.

Hodgson arrived at the window just in time to see the sun plunge out of sight beyond the western mountains. The sky was filled with wheeling points of light.

"Fastest sunset I ever saw," Derkon remarked.

"The whole sky seems to be turning. Look at the stars."

Derkon leaned against the window frame.

"The land has calmed down," he remarked.

A broken white ball rolled down out of the sky behind the mountains.

"Was that what I think it was?"

"Looked like the moon to me," said Hodgson.

"Oh, my!" said Odil, staggering up and leaning upon the sill just as a pale light suffused the heavens and the stars went away. "I don't feel well."

"Obviously," Derkon said. "It took you all night to get here."

"I don't understand."

"Look," Derkon said, gesturing, as shadows swirled about every feature of the landscape and clouds blossomed and blew themselves apart.

A golden ball of fire raced cometlike across the sky.

"Do you think it's speeding up?" Hodgson asked.

"Possibly. Yes. Yes, I do."

The sun passed behind the mountains and the darkness came on again.

"We've been standing here all day," Hodgson said to Odil.

"Gods! What have we done?" Odil asked, unable to take his eyes off the wheeling heavens.

"We've broken the maintenance spell of the Castle Timeless," Hodgson answered. "Now we know what it was maintaining."

"And why the place was called the Castle Timeless," Derkon added.

"What are we going to do? Attempt the binding?"

"Later. I'm going to try to find something to eat first," said Derkon, moving away. "It's been days…"

After a time, the others turned and followed him. Vane still rocked gently, stroking Gait's brow as another night passed.

Dilvish awoke upon a heavy, bright-patterned carpet, his blade still clutched tightly in his right hand. He had difficulty in opening it. He rubbed his hand after he had sheathed the weapon and tried to recall what had happened.

There had been a scream. Oh, yes. A wail of pain and anger. He had halted before the partly-opened door of a room—this room?—when it began.

He sat up and was able to view the hallway's west window through the opened door, as well as an east window on the room's far wall, to his right. A curious phenomenon then became apparent. First, the window on the right grew bright while the one on the left was still dim. Then the right window dimmed as the left one brightened. Then the left one grew dark. Shortly, the one to the right brightened again and the sequence was repeated. He sat unmoving, save for the flexing of his hand as it recurred several times more.

Finally, he rose to his feet and moved to the east window in time to see the sky inscribed with a countless number of bright concentric circles. Moments later, they fled before a tower of flame that came up out of the east and mounted toward mid-heaven.

He shook his head. The land itself seemed to have grown calm. What new device was this? The work of his enemy? Or something else?

Turning away, he passed through the door and out into the hall again. The light-dark succession continued beyond the bank of windows to his left. When he glanced back, he could no longer see the door he had just passed through, but only a blank expanse of wall.

He continued on to what he thought had been another passageway going off right angles to the one he trod. Instead, he found himself at the head of a stair covered with a dark, wine-colored carpeting, a wooden banister at either hand.

He descended slowly. The room was filled with upholstered furniture, and paintings of a sort he had never seen before, in wide, ornate, gilt frames.

He passed through. Dust rose in a huge puff when he rested his hand on the back of one of the chairs.

Turning right, he walked beneath a wooden archway. The next room was a small one, paneled, similarly furnished, and he heard a whooshing sound as he entered.

A small fireplace had just come alive. A bottle of wine, a wedge of cheese, a small loaf of bread and a basket of fruit stood upon a low, round table near the hearth. The chair beside it looked comfortable. Poisoned, perhaps? A trick of the enemy's?

He moved nearer, broke off a crumb of the cheese, sniffed it, tasted it. Then he seated himself and began eating.

His head and eyes moved frequently as he ate, but he saw no one, nothing untoward. Yet it felt as if there were a presence, a beneficent one, in the room with him, guarding him, wishing him well. So strong did the feeling become that he muttered "Thank you" the next time that his mouth was clear. Immediately, the flames leaped and the fire crackled. A wave of pleasant warmth reached him.

Finally he rose and, looking back, was dismayed to discover that the way through which he had entered the room had vanished. Paneling now covered that wall, another of the peculiar pictures hanging upon it—a sun-flooded wood, after a moment's scrutiny, all of the details blurred by a strange kind of loose brushwork of heavy pigments.

"All right," he said, "whoever you are, I take it you are kindly disposed toward me. You have fed me, and it appears that there is some place you would have me go. I must be suspicious of everything within these walls, yet I do feel inclined to trust you. I will go out the only door I see. Lead on, and I will follow."

He crossed to the door and departed the room. He found himself in a long, dim, high hall. There were many doorways, but a soft light shone in only one of them. Dilvish moved in that direction and the light retreated. He walked a short corridor and found himself in another hall similar to the first. This time the light appeared in a doorway far to his left. He crossed the hall diagonally, heading for it.

When he had passed through, he found a corridor running right to left. The light was now somewhere far down to the left. He headed that way.

After several turnings his way debouched into a wide, low hallway with a regular series of narrow windows along its nearer wall. He hesitated there, looking right and left.

Then a pale light passed before him, heading to the right. It winked out almost as soon as he had turned in that direction. He pursued it. It vanished when he set foot upon its trail.

The windows showed him a scene in which swimming clouds had lost their distinction and the sky had taken on a greenish tone, a narrow band of bright yellow arcing from horizon to horizon like the handle of a blazing basket.

Dilvish moved quickly forward, the light beyond the windows pulsing only faintly as he passed.

It was a long hallway, but eventually it led into another—a gallery with wide windows to the right, affording a fuller view of the peculiar sky above a landscape where what must have been daylong storms passed in a matter of eyeblinks, where the trees pulsed green, gold and bone, the ground white and dark, patches of green flickering on and off. It had again become a changing land, but in a manner radically different from the fashion of its previous alterations. What earlier had been barely distinguishable creaking noises were now a steady hum.

An outhouse odor reached his nostrils and he wondered at the dirty trail which ran down the center of the floor. Ahead lay a large, high-ceilinged chamber, and he slowed his pace involuntarily as he neared it. A feeling of foreboding filled him. It was as if a dark and evil aura lay upon that room, as if something brooding, sinister, and— somehow—frustrated dwelt within it, waiting, waiting its opportunity to exercise a unique malice. He shuddered and touched the hilt of his blade, slowing even more as he approached the archway that led inside.

He found himself moving to the left, until he was pressed against that wall, sidling along, finally to halt in the shadowy corner just before the opening.

He edged forward, gripping the weapon now, and peered into the room. At first he saw nothing within the gloom, but then his eyes adjusted to the inferior light and he made out the large, dark, central area of depression within it. Something stood at its left-hand edge, some small object he could not quite distinguish. It was touched for a moment by the glow he had followed earlier, but this light departed almost immediately and he still could not tell what it was that had been so indicated—though the message seemed clear and imperative to him.

Still he hesitated, until a slender tentacle rose up out of the dark place and began groping about its edge, near to the thing he was observing. Then, suddenly moist with perspiration, he forced himself to enter, green boots silent upon the flagstone.

Baran shook his head, spit out a tooth chip, swallowed. The spittle tasted bloody. He spit several times after that and began coughing. His left eye was stuck partly closed. When he rubbed it a dark, caked substance began to flake away. He examined his hand. Dried blood, it was. Then that dully throbbing, seminumb place…

He raised his fingertips to the spot on his forehead. Then the pain began. He turned his head this way and that. He lay upon his side at the foot of the stair. So that's what happened when it finally got you…

He shifted his bulk preparatory to rising and immediately lapsed back from the pain in his left arm and leg. Damn! he thought. They'd better not be broken! Don't know any spells for broken bones…

Trying again, he propped himself only with his right arm and rolled into a seated position, legs extended straight before him. Better, better…

He began carefully flexing the leg and feeling it. The pain did not diminish, but nothing seemed broken. Only then did he try exercising his sorcerer's disciplines upon it. The ache started to subside after a few leg movements, becoming only a minor twinge. Then he turned his attention to his scalp and repeated the process with the same result.

Next, he felt along the length of his arm, and a white flash of pain passed through him when he squeezed the left forearm lightly.

All right.

Carefully, very carefully then, he fitted his left hand in between his wide belt and wide stomach. He began again the exercise that would diminish the pain. When this was completed, he rose cautiously to his feet, his good hand upon the wall. He breathed heavily for a full minute after this, head lowered.

Finally he straightened, took several steps, halted and looked about him. Something was very wrong. There should have been a wall to the left, not a marble balustrade. He followed it with his eyes. It ran for eight or ten paces, then halted next to the head of a wide staircase. A good distance farther along, it began again.

He looked out beyond the balustrade. It was a huge, long room, stone-walled, shadow-hung, with elaborate cornices, with carved capitals atop fluted pilasters. It was furnished in areas, and a dark, long, narrow rug ran its length down the center.

He crossed over, leaned upon the balustrade. There was no trace of his former vertigo. Perhaps it had been exorcised by the fall. Perhaps it had been a premonition of the fall…

Strange, how strange… He moved his eyes. There had been no such room here before. He had never seen such a room, in Castle Timeless or anywhere else. What had happened?

His gaze found the far corner to his left and froze. Behind a group of high-backed chairs, in an area heavy with shadows, something very large and very still and very black was standing, staring at him. He could tell because the eyes shone redly in the gloom, and they met his own, unblinking, across the distance.

His throat tightened, strangling back a cry that could have continued into hysteria. Whatever the thing was, it was facing a master sorcerer.

He raised his hand and summoned the calm necessary to precede the storm he was about to unleash.

A faint light began to play about his fingertips as he rehearsed the spell, speaking only the key words of it. When he brought his fingers together, his hand resembled a conical taper in the light that it shed. When he drew his fingertips apart, a downward-curved plane of illumination remained among them and continued, flaring upward, advancing the line of its arc. It ran back upon itself, forming a blazing white sphere to which he issued a guide-word, then cast directly toward the lurker in the shadows.

Trailing sparks and burning in its flight, it moved slowly, almost drifting toward its target.

The shadowy figure did not stir even as it drew near. The light shattered and went out just before it reached it. Then a sweet voice which seemed to come from a point much nearer said, "Very unfriendly, very unfriendly," and the thing wheeled and passed through the adjacent doorway with a quick, clattering sound.

Baran lowered his hand slowly, then raised it to his mouth as he began to cough again. Damned wight! Who had summoned it, anyway? Could it possibly be that Jelerak had returned?

He moved away from the balustrade and headed for the stair.

When he reached the bottom he investigated the corner. In the dust he found the imprint of a cloven hoof.

Holrun cursed and turned onto his stomach, drawing the pillow over his head and pressing down hard upon it.

"No!" he cried. "No! I'm not here! Go away!"

He lay still for a rapid succession of pulsebeats. Then, gradually, the tension went out of him. His hand fell from the pillow. His breathing grew regular.

Abruptly, his form stiffened again.

"No!" he shrieked. "I'm just a poor little sorcerer trying to get some sleep! Leave me alone, damn it!"

This was followed by a growling noise and a clicking of teeth. Finally, his left hand shot forward and drew upon an ivory inlaid drawer set into the head of the bed. It entered, groped a moment, and withdrew carrying a small crystal.

He rolled onto his back, propped the pillow, and squirmed into a semi-upright position. He balanced the shining ball on his abdomen and looked down at it through half-open, sleep-swollen eyes. It took a long while for the image to form within it.

"Make it good," he mumbled. "Make it worth the risk of transformation into a lower life form with a loathsome disease, itching piles, and Saint Vitus' dance. Make it worth the demon-tormentors, the plague of locusts, and the salt in the wounds. Make it—"

"Holrun," said Meliash, "it's important."

"It better be. I'm tireder than the king's whore come the revolution. What do you want?"

"It's gone."

"Good. Who needed it, anyway?"

He moved his hand, preparatory to breaking the connection, paused.

"What's gone?" he inquired.

"The castle."

"The castle? The whole damned castle?"

"Yes."

He was silent a moment. Then he raised himself further upright, rubbed his eyes, brushed back his hair.

"Tell me about it," he said then, "preferably in simple terms."

"The changing land stopped changing for a time. Then it started in again, wilder than I'd ever seen it before. I got to a good vantage point to watch. After a while, it stopped again. The castle was gone. Everything is still now, and the hilltop is empty. I don't know what happened. I don't know how it happened. That's all."

"Do you think Jel—he was able to move it? If so, why? Or maybe the Old One?"

Meliash shook his head.

"I've been talking with Rawk again. He's turned up more material. There is an old tradition that the place is timeless, was just sort of anchored to time and carried along with it. If that anchor were somehow lifted, it would drift away on the river of eternity."

"Poetic as all hell, but what does it mean?"

"I don't know."

"Do you think that's what happened?''

"I don't know. Maybe."

"Shit!"

Holrun massaged his temples, sighed, picked up the crystal, swung his legs over the bed's edge.

"All right," he said. "All right. I have to look into it. I've come this far. I've got to wash up, though, and eat something first. You've spoken with the other wardens?"

"Yes. They've nothing to add to what I saw."

"Okay. Keep the place under surveillance. Call me immediately if anything new develops."

"Certainly. Are you going to notify the Council?"

Holrun made a face and broke the connection, wondering whether the Council could be unanchored and set adrift in eternity.

Vane had ceased his sobbing, and for a long while he sat deep in thought, no longer looking at Galt, staring instead at the brightness-dimness sequence in the sky beyond the window. Finally, he stirred.

He lowered Galt's head gently to the floor, then got to his feet. Stooping, he raised his companion's still form into a position across his shoulders.

He moved forward, coming out of the alcove, looked to the right, winced, turned left. Slowly, he advanced along the gallery until he came to a low stair leading upward to his left. Spying a short corridor with several open doors above it, he mounted there.

Moving more slowly, more cautiously, he inspected the rooms. None was occupied. The second and third were bedchambers, the first a sitting room.

He entered the third and, stooping, drew back the coverlet with one hand. He deposited Galt upon the bed and arranged his limbs. He leaned forward and kissed him, then covered him over.

Turning away, he departed the room without looking back, drawing the door closed behind him.

Moving to the right, he came to the end of the corridor, where a low archway opened to the right upon a narrow stair leading downward.

He descended, to find himself in a formal dining room, with four places set at one end of a long table. A basket of bread stood at the head. He seized it and began eating. On a tray beneath a napkin was some sliced meat. He commenced wolfing this down also. An earthen crock nearby contained some red wine, which he drank straight from the pot. Maneuvering about the table as he fed himself, he turned gradually to face back in the direction from which he had come.

The stairway had vanished. The wall was now solid at the point where he had made his entrance. Still chewing vigorously, he crossed over and tapped upon it. It did not sound hollow. He shuddered as he drew back from it. This place…

He turned and fled out the double doors at the room's farther end. The hallway was wide, as was the descending stair to which it led. It was decorated with silks and steel, and partly carpeted in green. He reached for the most useful-seeming blade that hung upon the wall—a short, somewhat heavy, double -edged weapon with a simple hilt. As he took it into his hands and turned away to get the feeling of it in motion, he saw that the doors through which he had just departed the dining room had disappeared, to be replaced by a window through which a gentle, pearly light now entered.

He retraced his steps and peered through the panes. A range of mountains was sinking in a place where there had been no mountains before. The sky was now a uniform dead white in color, with neither sun nor stars, as if varying values of illumination had been averaged out above him. A silvery substance rushed forward, halted, moved again. It took some time for him to realize that it was water, creeping nearer. He pulled himself away from the window and headed for the stair.

He fought back the panic which had taken hold of him, replacing it with the hatred he felt for the castle and everything in it. When he reached the foot of the stair, he moved through an anteroom elaborately decorated in a style he did not recognize, though he prided himself upon knowledge of such matters. He halted then upon the threshold to the main hall.

This room also was unoccupied. He was familiar with it from having been brought in this way when captured by the castle's slaves on the slopes below. He and Galt had been dragged before the steward, Baran, routinely abused, and incarcerated below. His hand tightened upon the haft of the weapon as he recalled that day. He moved then, striding across the hall past the great doors, heading toward the sitting room with its smaller entrance to the outside world.

As he neared it he slowed, puzzled. The tall wooden thing with the circular face surrounded by numerals was making a shrill, whining sound. Approaching to study it, he saw that a round, vibrating area existed immediately above the face. He could not determine its character or cause, though it did not seem threatening. He decided against tampering with unknown magics and passed it by, entering the sitting room.

Crossing quickly to the door, he placed his hand upon it, then hesitated. Peculiar things were happening outside. But then, the same might be said for inside also.

He operated the latch and opened the door.

A shrieking, as of some mighty wind, came to his ears. There was water for as far as he could see in every direction of which he commanded a view. Yet the waves and ripples normally present in a large body of water were not distinct here. Perhaps it was the mist of fine spray which seemed to hover above it all…

He extended his blade forward, out into the moist haze. An instant later, he jerked it tack.

Its tip had entirely rusted away. When he touched the oxidized fringe that still clung to the metal, it turned to powder beneath his finger and fell free. The screeching continued, deafening. The sky was still an unbroken, nacreous expanse.

He closed the door and latched it, stood with his back against it. He began to tremble.

Having packed the jewels and garments in which she had been buried into a small parcel that now resided beneath the bed, Semirama paced her room deciding whether anything else would be worth taking. Cosmetics?

There came a knock upon the door. She was near. She opened it herself.

Jelerak smiled at her.

"Oh!"

She reddened.

"I am going to have need of your linguistic abilities," he stated.

A pair of rose-tinted goggles hung about his neck. The butt of a scarlet wand protruded from a long, narrow sheath at his belt. He bowed, gesturing toward her left, down the hallway.

"Please come with me."

"Yes—Of course."

She stepped out, began walking alongside him in that direction. She glanced out the window at a pearly sky above an interminable sea.

"Something is the matter?" she asked finally.

"Yes. There was—interference," he replied.

Abruptly, a rushing sound passed overhead, like a clacking of hoofs.

"A huge, dark-haired man. interrupted me in the midst of my work," he explained.

"Was that what caused the—spasm? And all these effects?"

He shook his head.

"No, someone has released the maintenance spell and we are no longer a part of the normal flow of time."

"Do you think Tualua did it? Or the stranger?"

He paused to look out another window. The sea had almost completely receded, and now mountain ranges reared themselves even as he watched.

"I do not believe that Tualua was in any condition to do that. And I think the stranger was as surprised by it as I was. But I had a glimpse of the stranger's spirit before I lost consciousness. He was something elemental, demonic, which had only taken human form for a time. This was why I fled as soon as I recovered—to obtain certain tools I had cached." He ran his thumb across the top of the wand. "This is my weapon for dealing with beings such as that. You've seen such before, I'm sure, long ago—"

She gasped. The entire sky flamed a brilliant crimson, became a blinding white. She shielded her eyes and looked away, but it was already dimming.

"What—what was that?"

Jelerak lowered his own hand from his eyes.

"Probably the end of the world," he said.

They watched as the sky continued to dim, until it became a smoky, yellowish color. This persisted. Finally, Jelerak turned away.

"At any rate," he went on, "that one has probably removed my original means of accomplishing Tualua's pacification. So"—he touched the goggles— "these. There was a time when I could have charmed him with my eyes and voice alone, but now I have need to augment my gaze. You must call him, get him to raise himself, so that for a moment we look at one another."

"What then?"

"I must restore the maintenance spell."

"What of whoever broke it?"

"I must regain full force next, find that person, and deal with him."

He began walking again. She fell into step beside him.

"We're really trapped, then," she said. "Even if you do these things, where will it leave us?"

He laughed harshly.

"Even knowledge may have its limits," he said. "On the other hand, I believe that ingenuity is boundless. We shall see."

They walked on, took a stair, took a turn.

"Jelerak," she said, "where did this place come from?"

"We may find that out, too," he replied. "I do not know for certain, though I am beginning to believe that it is—somehow—alive."

She nodded.

"I've had a few peculiar feelings myself. If this is the case, whose side might it be on?"

"Its own, I think."

"It's powerful, isn't it?"

"Look out any window. Yes, there are too many powerful things at work here. I don't like it. I once had my will subjugated to a greater force—"

"I know."

"—and I will not permit it to occur again. It would be the end of both of us—and of many other things."

"I do not understand."

"If my will is broken, your flesh will return to the dust from which I raised it—and other things which depend upon me will fail."

She took his arm.

"You must be careful."

He laughed again.

"The battle is barely begun."

Her grip tightened upon his arm.

"But the trip may be ending. Look!"

She pointed ahead to a window through which a very pale sun-arch had appeared in a twilit sky.

She felt him stiffen. "Hurry!" he said.

At the next turning she glanced back and saw only a blank wall behind them.

Chapter 10

As Dilvish edged along the northeast periphery of the room, the tableau became clearer—the upset brazier, the dark design, the groping tentacle, the half-stripped girl upon the barrow, the faintly glowing prints of cloven hoofs…

He sheathed his blade as quietly as he could, feeling that it would be of little use against the possessor of such a member. Better to have both hands free, he decided as he moved forward quickly to take hold of the barrow's handles. The tip of the tentacle found the wheel at about the same time. He raised the barrow and drew it back. The tentacle slipped away. There came a thrashing in the waters below. He continued to back off.

Suddenly, a tentacle shot up to twice his height above the lip of the pit. Dilvish veered sharply to his left as he backed away. The tentacle fell with a great slapping sound upon the place he would have occupied had he continued in a straight line. It began to toss wildly about. He was soon out of range, however, and near the opening of the eastern passageway. He turned the wheelbarrow and headed up it. The splashing noises continued behind him.

It was only as he hurried away that he really had an opportunity to look at the barrow's occupant. He drew in his breath sharply and halted, lowering the conveyance, moving around to its front. Arlata's chest still rose and fell slowly. He closed her tunic, examined her face.

"Arlata?"

She did not stir. He repeated her name in a louder voice. There was no reaction. He slapped her lightly. Her head rolled to the side and remained there.

He returned to the vehicle's rear and began pushing again. The first room he came to was a storeroom full of tools. He went on, inspecting several others. The fourth was a linen room, heaped with folded curtains, blankets, coverlets, rugs, towels. A flash of red came and went behind its solitary small window as he pushed Arlata in and unfastened her bonds. He transferred her then to a pile of linens and unfolded a blanket to cover her.

Closing the door behind him, he turned up the hallway and stared. It became better illuminated before his eyes, all of the brightness emanating from just a few small windows. And in this increased light he saw again the cloven hoofmarks. He began to follow them and continued until his path intersected a carpeted hallway, where they vanished. For a moment he stood undecided. Then, shrugging, he turned to the left. The way seemed long and straight and bright before him, but then a peculiar thing occurred. The air shimmered, then darkened, about six paces ahead of him. A smoky coalescence followed. Suddenly, he faced a stone wall.

He laughed.

"All right," he said.

He did an about-face, then headed up the remaining branch of the hallway, checking as he moved whether his blade was loose in its sheath.

Odil, Hodgson, and Derkon glutted themselves in the pantry they had located.

"What the hell is that?" Derkon asked, pointing with a leg of mutton at the small skylight which was suddenly a blazing, brilliant red.

The others looked, then looked away as the red faded and the brightening continued.

"Are we on fire?" Odil wondered; and it ceased then and the dimness followed.

"More general, I think," Hodgson replied.

"I don't understand," said Odil.

"Everything outside seems to be happening countless times faster than it normally does."

"And we did it somehow—when we broke the maintenance spell?"

"I'd say."

"I thought it would just knock down a wall, or something like that."

Derkon laughed.

"But it would probably kill us to leave the place now! Strand us in a wasteland, deliver us to monsters—or worse…"

Derkon laughed again, tossed him a bottle.

"Here. You need a drink. You're beginning to get the picture."

Odil unstopped it and downed a mouthful.

Then, "What are we to do?" he asked. "If we can't get out of here—"

"Exactly. What's the alternative? Do you recall our original intention?"

Odil, who had been raising the bottle for another swallow, lowered it, eyes widening.

"Go to that thing and try to bind it? Just the three of us? The shape we're in?"

Hodgson nodded.

"Unless we can bring Vane to his senses—or locate Dilvish—it's just the three of us."

"What good will it do us now, even if we succeed?"

Hodgson dropped his eyes. Derkon made a growling sound.

"Maybe none at all," Derkon said. "But the Old One is the only thing in sight with the sort of power that might be able to reverse what is going on—to take us back."

"How will we do it?"

Derkon shrugged and looked at Hodgson as if for advice. When it was not forthcoming, he said, "Well, I was thinking that a modification—and combination—of several of the strongest binding spells I know—"

"They're for demons, aren't they?" Odil inquired. "That thing is no demon."

"No, but the principle is the same for binding anything."

"True. But the normal Names of Power probably would not control in the case of an Old One. You'd have to go back to the Elder Gods for the necessary nomenclature."

Derkon slapped his thigh.

"Good! I've got you thinking about it!" he said. "You work out the proper list of Names while I figure the modifications. We'll put them together when we get there and tie the old boy in knots!"

Odil shook his head.

"It's not that easy…"

"Try!"

"I'll help," said Hodgson when Odil looked dubious. "I can think of no other plan."

They talked of it as they finished eating, and Derkon assembled the spell. Finally he said, "Why postpone it?" and the others nodded.

They departed the pantry and halted.

"We came this way," said Hodgson, frowning, placing his hand upon the wall to his right. "Didn't we?"

"I thought so," Derkon said, looking at Odil, who nodded.

"We did. However—" He turned to the left. "This is the only way now open to us."

They moved in that direction.

Hodgson cleared his throat.

"Something is obviously guiding us away from our objective," he said as they passed through a wide, low hall. "Either Jelerak is back and toying with us, or the Old One has become aware of our intentions and is steering us away. In which case—"

"No," said Derkon. "I am sufficiently sensitive to feel that something else is behind it."

"What?"

"I do not know, but it does not seem unkindly disposed toward us."

Leaving the hall and taking another turn, they came to a small alcove. Displayed upon a heavy wooden table within it were three blades of various lengths, each with a scabbard and belt.

"Something like that," he said. "I'll wager that each of us will find one of them suitable."

"As suitable as a blade can ever be," Odil remarked as they moved forward and took them up.

The dark thing burst forth upon the open rampart, eyes flashing beneath a pale, sooty, yellow sky. It tossed its head, looking upon a pulsing landscape of sand and stone. The winds screamed about it and were harsh.

I have come, it said in a special way, to this place where we can talk. I will help you.

Perhaps, came the reply from all around.

What do you mean, "Perhaps"?

The man thinks you a demon, little brother.

Let him. We've other problems.

True. So let us confine ourselves to the Hounds.

I do not understand.

All the more reason to pay heed.

Limping slightly as he approached the threshold to the main hall—each passage closed off behind him, no other way open to him—Baran saw Vane at the same moment Vane saw him. Baran hesitated. Vane did not.

Brandishing his blade, a curse upon his lips, Vane rushed forward.

When he had crossed half the distance between them, a ripping noise occurred beside Vane, and out of the dark V which had opened in the air to his left came forth an enormous hand. It seized him about the middle, raised him above the floor, then cast him, bouncing and sliding, across the hall, his rust-tipped weapon spinning free of his grip, to fetch him with a crash up against the mirrored wall, where he lay still.

The Hand hovered in midair as Baran stumped into the hall. Vane's head turned toward him and he moaned softly.

Slowly closing itself into a fist, the Hand moved toward Vane.

"That's Vane!"

"And there's Baran!"

"Get him!"

Baran's gaze flew to the rear of the hall, where three figures had entered. He recognized the former prisoners, saw immediately that they were armed. They commenced sprinting in his direction, their images multiplied in the mirrors at either side.

Baran drew his blade as he turned toward them, but let it hang loosely at his right side. His left hand was still tucked firmly behind his belt.

The great Hand, poised to strike Vane, opened wide and fled through the air toward the approaching men. Seeing it come, Odil ducked, swung at it and missed. It struck Derkon, knocking him off his feet and into Hodgson, sending both men sprawling. The Hand immediately turned and flew after Odil, fingers crooked, thumb bending.

Odil was almost upon Baran, his blade upraised, when he was seized from behind in a massive grasp and lifted above the floor. Blood rushed from his nose and his ribs cracked audibly as he struck downward, cutting at one of the fingers.

Then, off to the right, Baran detected a flash of green. It was the new prisoner, the one Semirama had made such a fuss over…

The Hand jerked, tightening violently, and Odil emitted a brief, bubbling cry before going limp in its grasp, the blade slipping from his fingers. Then the Hand rushed forward, opening, and Odil's crushed form was hurled toward Dilvish.

Dilvish sidestepped and kept coming as the body flashed by him, landing with a thud somewhere to the rear. But now the Hand was rushing directly toward him.

Dilvish, who had seen Hodgson and Derkon regaining their feet and a slow movement from the fallen form of Vane across the hall, knew that none of these others would be able to help him at this point. He sought through his magical arsenal after some weapon even as he dove forward and rolled beneath the Hand. His green boots struck the floor and he was borne immediately to his feet, to whirl, blade raised, and strike the little finger from the rushing Hand.

The Hand convulsed. The finger, dripping a pale fluid which turned to smoke, struck the floor and rolled for half a turn.

Baran raised his blade and backed away. The Hand straightened, dropped, and swung in a floor-skimming slap at Dilvish.

Dilvish leaped over it and cut downward with his blade as it passed, nicking the back of the thumb. Derkon and Hodgson came up beside him as he landed.

"Spread out!" he said. "Hit it from all sides! Keep apart!"

The Hand halted in a backswing as three blades were raised against it from various angles. Dilvish rushed forward and cut at it. It swung at him and he leaped back. Even as it moved, Hodgson and Derkon were both upon it, cutting. It brushed them away and Dilvish darted in and nicked it again. Smoke now rose from half a dozen cuts upon it.

In the mirror, as he danced back, Dilvish saw that Vane was crawling slowly forward, his blade in his hand.

Derkon, recovered, fell upon the Hand again and Dilvish moved to do the same. At that moment, however, the Hand shot straight up into the air, out of their reach. Seeing that Baran intended to swat them one by one from above, Dilvish instantly raised his blade. The others did the same. It was then that Dilvish decided upon his magical weapon, and in a steady voice he began speaking the ancient words.

It was one of the lesser of the Awful Sayings, to lay absolute, impenetrable blackness upon a locale for an entire day. Dilvish heard a gasp from Derkon as that one overheard a phrase.

The Hand circled, feinted several times. Then a mournful sighing sound filled the hall, accompanied by an abrupt drop in temperature. As Dilvish finished speaking, the light began to roll away, as in a succession of waves.

They were left in total darkness.

"Get him!" Dilvish breathed, and he moved quickly.

Blade extended before him now, he headed toward the place where Baran had been standing. He heard a great swishing sound descending and threw himself flat. It passed.

He scrambled to his feet and continued on. He heard a sharp intake of breath nearby. But it was not repeated and he was not certain as to its direction. He heard a brief scuffle, and Derkon and Hodgson both cursed. They had apparently run into one another.

There came another swishing and a thud from somewhere behind him as the Hand slapped the floor.

It seemed that Baran could have moved to his left, his right or backward. But going backward would most readily have led him into a corner. Left seemed to offer the greatest degree of freedom, so Dilvish turned, moved again, blade waving before him.

He would have sworn that a tiny bit of light reached him from the direction of the sitting room. But that was impossible. The Awful Saying would have dampened every light source.

It grew brighter.

Vague outlines were now becoming perceptible. Something was wrong. He knew of no power which would break an Awful Saying. Yet a faint illumination was definitely creeping into the hall.

High overhead, the Hand groped ghostlike through the middle air. A few moments more, and it could be dropping toward him again. He cast his eyes wildly about. There was movement. The forms of crouched men. But which one?

Suddenly there came the sounds of another scuffle, but this one ended in a brief scream. Then it resumed. It came from ahead and somewhat to the right. Yes! There!

Two figures writhed together upon the floor. There came another cry even as Dilvish began his cautious advance.

The darkness continued to ebb. Something overhead caught his eyes. The Hand, now plainly visible, clutched and opened, began to twitch spasmodically. It dipped and hovered again several times.

Then he saw below. The huge form of Baran lay atop that of Vane, the edge of Vane's blunted blade halfway into the neck. Neither figure stirred, but now the Hand was dipping again.

Fingers extended, it reached beneath the upper, stilled form. Trembling then, it lifted Baran into the air. Beneath it, Dilvish could see where Baran's blade protruded from Vane's breast.

Shaking steadily, the Hand rose higher in the increasing light. The black V behind it stood out clearly against the lesser darkness. Then the Hand began to retreat into that aperture, taking Baran with it.

Dilvish and the others watched the slow withdrawal until only three massive fingertips were visible. Then these, too, slid out of sight and the rift closed with a sound like a thunderclap.

Immediately, they became aware of movement all about them.

Turning, Dilvish saw a series of gigantic faces within the mirrors which lined the walls—black, red, yellow, pale; some almost human, many far removed from any resemblance to mankind; some amused, several placid, others frowning; all, bathed in a supernatural light, their gazes too mighty to return. He looked away, and in that moment they vanished and the yellow light returned to the hall at its fullest strength.

He shook himself and rubbed his eyes, wondering whether the others had seen what he thought he had.

"There was a couch in that little room," he heard Hodgson saying to Derkon.

"Yes."

He sheathed his blade and followed them as they bore Vane's body out of the hall. While they arranged it upon the couch, he tore down a hanging, took it back, and cast it over Odil's remains. Then he moved toward the rear of the hall.

"Dilvish. Wait."

He halted, and shortly the other two came up beside him.

"Are we together?" Derkon asked him.

"Physically, for the moment," Dilvish said. "But I still have my own business to take care of, and it's likely to prove even nastier than this was."

"Oh," said Derkon. Then, "How do you propose getting away afterward?" he asked.

Dilvish shook his head.

"I've no idea," he replied. "Maybe I won't be able to."

"That seems an awfully defeatist—"

The floor began to vibrate. The walls seemed to sway, and a mighty groaning sound rose up out of the bowels of the castle. Phantom forms fled briefly across the room, passing through mirror or wall. The light grew more stable. Derkon clutched Hodgson's shoulder for support as the castle gave a final shudder before settling down.

Then a silence came over the place, shortly to be tapped—very lightly—by the ticking of the great clock.

"Always something doing around here, isn't there?" Derkon remarked, grinning weakly.

The big doors at the end of the hall rattled, as with a heavy gust of wind. Dilvish turned slowly in that direction, as if hypnotized.

"I wonder," he said, "whether it has stopped."

He began walking back. After a moment's hesitation the others followed him.

Partway across the hall, they heard a crash followed by a rumbling sound from outside. It grew louder, as if approaching, then ceased abruptly. The door rattled again.

Dilvish continued on, passing the clock, entering the sitting room without a glance at the form on the couch, crossing to the door, and gripping its handle.

"You're going outside?" Hodgson asked.

"I want to see."

Dilvish opened the door and a chill breeze crept in past them. They appeared to be situated in the midst of a great, pale plain, ringed by a range of misty, coppery mountains which faded off into a twilit sky. It took several moments for them to realize that the shrunken, straw-colored disk about halfway to midheaven must, as the major source of illumination, be the remains of the sun. Stars were plainly visible up to three of its own diameters about it. A shower of meteors suddenly cut the prospect above the mountains to the left. A yellow dust cloud drifted and settled, rose again, swirled, vanished. Hodgson coughed. The air had a raw, metallic flavor to it.

Suddenly a pair of gigantic rocks appeared upon the plain, bounced along it for a time, fell still. It took the rumbling noise perhaps half a minute to reach them. Before that occurred, however, a huge red hand came down out of the sky and scooped them up, shaking them like thunder above the watchers' heads.

Dilvish followed the ruddy arm with his eyes up into the misty area, where, after several moments' staring, he was able to discern the outline of a colossal kneeling body, vaguely human in form, stars shining through it, meteors in its hair. It raised the arm an unimaginable distance into the sky, fist shaking. It was only then that the cube-like shape of the rocks registered itself upon Dilvish's understanding.

He looked away. His eyes, now accommodated to the scale of things and the wavelengths involved, had less difficulty in discerning other monolithic beings—like the great black figure, head propped on one hand, two arms folded across its breast, the fingers of a fourth hand stroking the southeastern mountaintops above which it reclined; the shadowy white figure with one eye and one gaping socket, which leaned upon a staff that reached higher than the sun, stars like fireflies caught in its floppy hat; the slow-dancing woman with many breasts; the jackal-headed one; the whirling tower of fire…

Dilvish looked at his companions, saw that they were staring, too, expressions of unutterable awe upon their faces.

The dice were rolled again and the dust rose about them. The celestial figures leaned forward. The black one grinned and moved one of his hands to take up the cubes. The red one straightened and withdrew. Dilvish closed the door.

"The Elder Gods…" Hodgson said. "I never thought I'd be permitted to look upon them…"

"For what," said Derkon, with as much caution as awe, "do you think they might be gaming?"

"Not being privy to the councils of the gods," Dilvish replied, "I can't say for certain. But I've a feeling I had better conclude my business as quickly as possible."

The rumbling sound reached them and the big doors inside rattled again.

"Gentlemen, excuse me," Dilvish said, and he turned and departed the room.

Hodgson and Derkon regarded one another for only a moment, then hurried after.

"You will be accompanying me?" Dilvish asked as they drew up alongside him.

"Despite the dangers you mentioned, I feel that we may all ultimately be safer by staying together," Derkon answered.

"I agree," said Hodgson. "But would you mind telling us where it is that we are headed?"

"I do not know," Dilvish answered, "but I am coming to trust the genius of this place, whatever it may be, and I am willing to surrender myself to its guidance again. Our objectives may be the same."

"What if it is Jelerak, leading you on to some doom?"

Dilvish shook his head.

"Jelerak, I am certain, wouldn't have halted the show to feed me the decent meal I received on the way over here."

They entered the rear passageway Dilvish had taken earlier on his flight from the lower regions. The door still creaked, but the corridor was only about a fourth its former length. There was no right turn at its end, and there were no slave quarters to the left. The room of the blue flame had vanished completely. The walls were all paneled in dark wood and the windows rectangular affairs that slid up and down, set in wooden frames, possessed of peculiar shading devices, draped with white lace curtains. They mounted a wooden stair. There were more paintings on the walls in that peculiar, bright, suggestive style Dilvish had noted earlier.

Outside, they heard again the rumble of the dice, followed this time by something like titanic peals of laughter.

Another turn, and they entered one of the galleries, narrower now and with a long carpet down its center. The windows had grown more rectangular here also, though the walls and floors remained stone.

"Do you feel that this place is growing smaller even as we move about in it?" Hodgson asked.

"Yes," Dilvish replied, looking back. "It seems to be turning itself into something else. And have you noticed that there have been no options, no choices, as to the way we are to go? It is being very definite now."

Ahead, Dilvish heard a series of strange chirping sounds. Abruptly, he halted. Hodgson and Derkon did the same, raising their hands and moving them about. Something was barring the way.

The air began to shimmer before them. It grew opaque, darkened further. Dilvish found himself touching a stone wall.

He turned away. The air was shimmering about six paces behind him. He moved toward it, along with the others. The phenomenon was repeated. The window provided illumination within their sudden cell, but a quick inspection revealed that there was no way to get from it to one of the other windows along the smooth outer wall.

"You were saying," Derkon observed, "that you trust the genius of this place."

Dilvish snarled.

"There is a reason. There must be a reason!" he snapped.

"Timing," said Hodgson. "I think it's timing. We're too early."

"For what?" Derkon asked.

"We'll find out when that wall goes away."

"You really think it will?"

"Of course. The front wall is sufficient to stop us from going ahead. The rear one is to stop us from going away from here."

"An interesting notion."

"So I would suggest we face the front wall and be ready for anything."

"There, may be something to what you say," Dilvish stated, positioning himself and taking his blade into his hand.

They heard the dice of the gods again, and the laughter. But this time the laughter went on and on, growing louder until it rocked the walls of the place, until it seemed to be coming from directly overhead.

The wall began to shimmer and fade at the same moment that a groaning, cracking sound began somewhere beyond it. A quick glance showed Dilvish that the rear wall was not departing.

As soon as the way was clear they moved ahead. But they halted after only a few paces, frozen by the sight in the chamber before them.

Countless rubbery tentacles upon the rim of the pit supported the thing which had drawn itself partway up. At the northeastern edge of the hole stood the man Dilvish had first known as Weleand, a band of ruddy glass across his eyes. At his rear stood Semirama, perfectly still, as both of them regarded the risen form of Tualua. Overhead, the roof had been split open, and even as Dilvish and his companions watched, a set of gigantic fingers entered, curved, took hold of a section of roof, crumpled it in a single motion and drew it aside. Great timbers fell and the starry sky was suddenly visible. Towering there was the enormous figure of a many-breasted woman, an unnatural light emanating from her form. She reached again, down through the opening she had made, and delicately, almost tenderly, took hold of the grotesque figure crouched upon the pit and raised it, moving it carefully through the jagged opening and upward.

"No!" Jelerak cried, pushing the goggles down to hang about his neck and glaring upward, eyes dancing. "No! Give him back! I need him!"

The sorcerer raced about the pit to where one of the fallen beams reached from the floor up to the overhead opening. He seized hold of it and began to climb.

"Return him, I say!" he cried. "No one steals from Jelerak! Not even a goddess!"

Halting halfway up the beam, he drew the red wand and pointed it.

"I said stop! Bring him back!"

The hand continued its slow withdrawal. Jelerak made a gesture and white fire fled from the tip of the wand, bathing the back of the hand in the sky.

"He is Jelerak!" said Dilvish, galvanized to action, sprinting forward.

The hand had halted and Jelerak was climbing again, nearing the broken roof.

Dilvish reached the edge of the pit, raced about its edge.

"Come back yourself, you bastard!" he cried. "I've got something for you!"

Now a second great hand had come into view above the mounting form, descending.

"I demand that you heed me!" Jelerak shouted, and then he saw the fingers opening, reaching.

He raised the wand and the hand was bathed in white light. The wand had no other apparent effect and was shortly knocked from his grasp as he was seized and himself raised, still remonstrating, into the twilit sky.

"He's mine!" Dilvish cried when he reached the foot of the beam. "I've followed too long to relinquish him here! Return him!"

But the hands were already out of sight and the figure had turned away.

Dilvish stretched as if to climb the beam himself, when he felt a hand upon his arm.

"You can't reach him by going his way," Semirama said. "Which did you want, justice or revenge?"

"Both!" Dilvish cried.

"Then at least half your wish is granted. He is in the hands of the Elder Gods."

"It isn't fair!" Dilvish said through clenched teeth.

"Fair?" She laughed. "You talk to me of fairness—I, who have just found the form of my ancient love when Jelerak's death or the breaking of his will is about to end my existence?"

Dilvish turned and looked at her, saw past her. From high above came a great roll of laughter, receding.

Black and Arlata had just entered the chamber. Dilvish took hold of Semirama's hand and sank slowly to his knees. He heard a clatter of hoofs.

"Dilvish, what is it?" came Black's voice. "Our entrance to this chamber was barred until but a moment ago."

Dilvish looked at him, released Semirama's hand, gestured toward the roof.

"He's gone. Weleand was Jelerak— but the Elder Gods have taken him."

Black snorted.

"I knew who he was. I almost had him here earlier, in my human form."

"Your what?"

"The spell I've been working on since the Garden of Blood—I used it to free myself from the statue form. I was still conscious after Jelerak had frozen me to stone to free Arlata." He nodded toward the girl who was just now approaching, then went on. "I recognized him as Jelerak the moment that he did it. When I was free, I continued this way. I found her and her horse and freed them. I had to lay a spell upon her to get her out of the way. I left her in a cave down the hillside with certain protections upon it. Then—"

"Dilvish, who is this underdeveloped child?" Semirama asked.

Dilvish rose to his feet as Arlata hastily repaired her rent tunic.

"Queen Semirama of Jandar," he began, "this is the Lady Arlata of Marinta, whom I encountered on my journey to this place. She bears a striking resemblance to one I once knew well, long ago…"

"The irony is hardly lost on me," Semirama said, smiling and extending her hand, palm downward. "My child, I—"

Her smile vanished and she jerked her hand back, covering it with the other.

"No…" She turned away. "No!"

She raised her hands to cover her face and began running toward the eastern corridor.

"What did I do?" asked Arlata. "I do not understand…"

"Nothing," Dilvish told her. "Nothing. Wait here!"

He began running toward the corridor along which he had earlier pushed Arlata in the barrow. When he reached it, he discovered that it had become a bare alcove with white plastered walls, a wooden stair leading down to the right. He descended quickly.

The others saw a shadow pass overhead, a great black arm descending. Derkon rushed into the north gallery to peer out of the nearest window. Hodgson followed him, as did Arlata moments later. Black lowered his head, studying the fallen roofing material.

Staring out the window, they saw the massive black hand moving slowly, very slowly, toward one of the farther walls. It seemed almost to halt before it made contact, yet they felt the vibration all around them and the entire castle chimed—a single note—like a huge crystal bell.

The heavens began to dance and the ground shifted slightly. Looking up, they saw the smiling face of the dark one, fading, fading, gone.

The sun plunged into the west.

"Gods!" Derkon cried. "It's starting again!"

Nearby, to their right, the air began to shimmer and condense.

Dilvish tore down the steps and, turning, rubbed his eyes, disoriented. A small archway at the foot of the stair led into the rear of the main hall, at the place where the creaking door of the back corridor had been. He passed through quickly and saw the collapsed form of Semirama near the center of the room.

As he rushed toward her, her form seemed to alter, shrinking, becoming more angular. Her hair had turned pure white. Her revealing garments now showed parchmentlike skin and the outlines of bones.

But even as he drew near, a certain lightening of the air above her caused him to slow. For a moment he felt the awful presence of the thing he had seen hovering above the pit before the hand out of the heavens had snatched it away. There even seemed a vague outline of the Old One, tentacles extended, reaching toward her. Yet there was nothing of menace to the gesture. Entirely the contrary. It was as if the creature were reaching out to soothe, to grant some unnatural grace. A moment only the vision persisted, barely beyond the point that might mark it as an aberration of the lighting, an affliction of the retina. Then it was gone, and the tiny form upon the floor turned to dust before him.

When he reached the spot, there was very little to see. Even the garments had decomposed in wispy outline near his feet. Only—

A movement to his left caught his attention.

The mirror…

The mirror no longer reflected the main hall as it lay about him. Instead of the other mirror upon the opposite wall, it now showed a wide, curved, white stone staircase up which the figures were slowly moving. The woman was undoubtedly Semirama, as he had known her before death's recent interruption. And the man…

Although there was something familiar about the man, it was not until he turned his head and their eyes met that Dilvish saw that they could have been brothers. The other was somewhat larger than himself and possibly a bit older, but their features were almost identical. A slight smile came to the other's lips.

"Selar…" Dilvish whispered.

And then a sound like the chiming of a great crystal bell filled the air. Cracks ran like black lightning across the mirror, and pieces of it began to fall away as the entire castle shuddered and jerked.

Dilvish's last view of the pair on the stairway was of their unconcerned ascent and passage among dark blue curtains hung at the rear wall above, and disappearing behind them, before that section of glass also slipped away. Semirama, holding to the other's right arm, never looked back.

Dilvish dropped to one knee, to reach amid the dust before him. He raised a chain from which a small locket depended. He slipped it into his pocket.

Chapter 11

"This way!" Black called. "Hurry! We are moving faster than before!"

Hodgson, Derkon, and Arlata came back into the chamber.

"What is it, Dark One?" Derkon asked.

"You come here," Black answered. "I've something for you."

Derkon obeyed.

"There." Black pointed with a cloven hoof at a streak of red among the rubble. "Pick it up."

Derkon stopped and retrieved it.

"Jelerak's wand?" he asked.

"The Red Wand of Falkyntyne. Bring it along. Hurry!"

Black turned away and moved toward the alcove through which Dilvish had departed. The others followed him.

"Dark One," said Derkon, "I follow. But what is happening? Why are we running?"

"This room still exists only because we are in it. We are helping the house to get rid of an extra wing by departing…"

"House?"

"It has decided upon a smaller scale this time around. But the main reason is that the Great Flash will soon occur, for we left at a very fast pace, as the house requested—"

"Excuse me, Dark One," Hodgson shouted as they passed through the alcove and started down upon the stair, "but this Great Flash—are you referring to… ?"

"The creation of the universe," Black finished. "Yes. We are going all the way around. At any rate, after the flash we will be passing through a dangerous belt inhabited by beings which would do us the worst sort of harm. The house may be able to keep many of them out, but a few—"

Black reached the bottom of the stair and the flash occurred.

All color fled, and the world was black and white, light and darkness. Hodgson saw through the flesh of the girl before him—dark skeleton within a bright integument—and of Derkon before her, to a sort of flickering soul-light, beautiful among the dark geometry through which they passed, to Black —who was a pure and glorious sheet of flame—sweeping across the floor to where another burned within a mortal prison—

"The angles!" he heard Black say. "They will most likely come in at the corners of the hall! Use not the points of your weapons, for these will be powerless! Strike with the curve of your blade, and use a curving cut—save for you, Derkon! You must use the wand!"

"Against what? How?" Derkon cried as something of color and normal form returned to the hall about them and he sighted Dilvish standing at its center, ahead, blade drawn.

"The Hounds of Thandolos! The Red Wand has its greatest power in the hands of a black adept. There is nothing subtle about it. It is one of the most efficient magical blasting instruments ever created. Its operation is purely a function of the will, and it draws upon its wielder's life forces. Yours should be high and blazing now, having just passed through the Creation Flame! Let us stay together at the hall's center—in a circle!"

The lighting had returned to what passed as normal in this place before they reached Dilvish, the chandelier still blazing as high as before. The broken body of the demon had vanished. The hall seemed smaller with the mirrors all in shards, the walls blank and gray. From its place near the front, the tall clock hummed, its dial a shimmering blur.

Hodgson began muttering as something shadowy stirred in the corner nearest the clock.

"The gods you invoke have not yet been born," Black stated.

The figure which emerged was as sharp and angular and unrecallable as a burst of static electricity. It was dark and it stood upright, and there was a vaguely lupine air about it as it sprang forward —also something cold and partaking of a primal hunger which nothing in the new universe might fully satisfy.

"Use the wand! Blast it!" said Black.

"I can't make it work!" said Derkon, the red rod raised before him, lines of tightness about his eyes and mouth.

Dilvish swung his blade in an arc before the advancing creature, repeating the gesture rapidly, over and over again. It darted toward him, halted, drew back. The air was filled with the sound of heavy breathing. Back in the corner from which it had emerged, another creature jerked forth, this one dropping to all fours and darting wide past the confrontation of its fellow and the arcing blade. Arlata scratched a curved line upon the floor before it and struck an en garde position, the point of her weapon moving constantly. It scurried to flank her, and Hodgson scratched a continuation of the curve and began waving his blade before him also. Another of the creatures was coming out of the same corner, and turning his head, Black saw that they were now appearing in all corners of the hall, including those overhead.

More and more of them approached, crowding nearer and nearer, darting, retreating, heads snaking forward, snapping back. Dilvish was pressed on three sides. Derkon uttered imprecations as he shook the wand and waved it.

Then Black snorted and reared. Fires danced in his eyes as he advanced to break the circle and fall upon the Hounds besetting Dilvish. Great gouts of fire spewed from his nostrils upon the angular, darting forms. One fell to the floor and began thrashing about. Another fled. The third sprang upon his back. He reared again and Dilvish's blade slashed across the creature atop him. It howled and slipped to the floor as two more sprang at him.

Dilvish cut at another and Black struck forward and breathed more flames. Five more leaped at them as this occurred.

Abruptly, a great flash of light appeared and Hounds were falling away everywhere.

"I've got it!" Derkon announced, the Red Wand blazing like a star in his hand. "It was almost too simple!"

He directed it first upon those Hounds nearest them, blasting them back across the hall. Some slithered into corners and vanished. Others lay smoldering, jerking, changing shape. Those which had been approaching —sliding down walls, bounding across the floor—halted, milled, transformed themselves into hissing packs. The hall was filled with the sounds of their breathing.

Immediately, Derkon turned the wand upon the nearest pack, shattering and scattering it. The others howled and raced forward.

Dilvish and Black hurried to rejoin the circle as Derkon continued to wield the wand against the oncoming creatures. By then, Derkon was beginning to breathe heavily himself.

Hodgson struck at one of the beasts which had gotten by. It hissed, withdrew, and came at him again. Dilvish cut at another, Arlata at a third and a fourth. Black scraped arcs upon the floor with his metal hoofs and breathed fire above them. Derkon swung the wand again.

"They're falling back!" Hodgson gasped as Derkon continued to swing the wand in widening arcs, his face a mixture of pain and exultation.

The Hounds were retreating. It seemed that wherever there was an angle, one was sliding into it and out of existence. Laughing, Derkon hurled bolt after bolt at them, blasting them along their way. Dilvish straightened. Hodgson massaged his arm. Arlata smiled faintly.

No one spoke again until all of them had departed. And they remained together for a long while, back to back, watching the corners, running their gazes over angles.

Finally, Derkon lowered the wand, lowered his head, and rubbed his eyes.

"Takes a lot out of you," he said softly.

Hodgson clasped his shoulder.

"Well done," he said.

Arlata clasped his hand. Dilvish came over and repeated the gesture.

"They have all departed," Black announced, "and are fleeing back to their own regions. Our velocity is mounting enormously."

"I could use some wine," Derkon said.

"Anticipated," said Black. "Apply to the cabinet across the way."

Derkon raised his head. Dilvish turned his.

The once-gray walls were now white and of a plastered appearance. A group of paintings hung upon the one to the left, a small red and yellow tapestry depicting a boar hunt upon the right -hand one. Directly below the tapestry was a mahogany cabinet. There were bottles of wine and other beverages within, some of them entirely strange. Black indicated one of these latter, a squarish bottle containing an amber fluid.

"Just the thing for my sort," he said to Dilvish. "Pour some of that into yon silver bowl."

Dilvish uncorked it and sniffed.

"Smells like something you'd use in a lamp," he observed. "What is it?"

"It is closely related to demonjuice and other items in my natural fare. Pour out a lot."

Later, Arlata studied Dilvish over her wineglass.

"You alone appear to have achieved your goal," she said, "after a fashion."

"Yes," he replied. "The weight of many years has been lifted. Yet—It is not the way that I had thought it would be. I don't know…"

"Yet you have succeeded," she said. "You have seen your enemy removed from the world. As for Tualua—I suppose that the poor creature is better off with the gods themselves, who count it as kin."

"I begrudge nothing its salvation," Dilvish said. "And I am just beginning to realize how tired I am. Perhaps that is good. You—You will find other ways to better the world, I am certain, than with the use of a mighty slave."

She smiled.

"I'd like to think so," she said, "providing we ever find our way back to our world."

"Go back…" Dilvish said, as if the thought had occurred to him for the first time. "Yes. It might be good at that…"

"What will you do?"

He stared at her.

"I don't know," he answered. "I hadn't given it any thought."

"Over here!" Hodgson called out from around a corner where he had wandered with Derkon. "Come see!"

Dilvish downed his drink and left the glass atop the cabinet. Arlata placed hers beside it. The only urgency in the cry had been that of excitement. They walked toward the room in which the two sorcerers stood before a bay window. The room had not been present earlier.

The brightness beyond the window seemed to be increasing. When they came up beside the others and looked out, they saw a rapidly fluctuating landscape not without considerable patches of green beneath a sky traversed by a great, glowing golden arch.

"The sunbow is bright," said Derkon, "and you can just barely detect a light-dark pattern if you stare for a time. It may be a sign that we are slowing."

"I believe that you are right," said Dilvish after a while.

Hodgson turned away from the window, gestured widely.

"The entire place has changed," he said. "I am going to have a look around."

"I," said Dilvish, "am not," and he returned to the bar.

The others followed Hodgson, save for Black, who raised his muzzle and turned his head.

"A little more of the substitute demonjuice, if you please," he said.

Dilvish refilled the bowl and poured himself another glass of wine.

Black took another drink, then looked at Dilvish.

"I promised to help you," he said slowly, "until Jelerak had been disposed of."

"I know," Dilvish replied.

"And what now, eh? What now?"

"I don't know."

"A number of alternatives present themselves to me."

"Such as… ?"

"Not important, not important. Only the one I choose is important."

"And what have you chosen?"

"It's been an interesting career so far. It would be a shame to end it at this point. I'm curious what will become of you, now that the big driving force in your life has been removed."

"… and the rest of our arrangement?"

From no apparent source, a piece of folded parchment sealed with red wax and imprinted with a cloven hoofmark fell upon the floor between them. Black leaned forward and breathed upon it. It burst into flames.

"I have just scrapped our pact. Forget it."

Dilvish's eyes widened.

"You meet the damndest people in Hell," he said. "I sometimes doubt you really are a demon."

"I never said that I was."

"What, then?"

Black laughed.

"You may never know how close you came to finding out. Pour me the rest of that stuff. Then we'll go and get the lady's horse."

"Arlata's Stormbird?"

"Yes. A part of the hillside has accompanied us, so the cave should still be here. Jelerak was able to go out to it and bring her in. We might as well do the same and save the horse… Thank you."

Black lowered his head to drink again. Across the way, the clock made peculiar noises, beginning to slow.

Not reflecting anything within the room, a form took shape within the great iron-rimmed mirror. Holrun stared out, examining the small chamber, satisfied himself that it was empty and stepped forth.

He wore a soft, sleeveless leather jacket over a dusky knit shirt with palely embroidered cuffs; his trousers were a dark green sateen, bloused into wide-topped black boots; his kellen-hide belt was studded and bore a short, silver-chased scabbard at his right hip.

As he crossed the room, he heard voices from outside and moved to take up a position beside the door.

"It has become a lot smaller," he heard a masculine voice say.

"Yes, everything is changed," answered another.

"I rather like it this way," said the first.

"I wish we could find something worth plundering, though—for our troubles."

"I'll be happy just to get out of here," said a female voice. "I still have a dotted line."

"No problem there," said the second masculine voice, "as soon as it stops. Soon, I'd say."

"Yes, but where?"

"Wherever. Just to be alive in the world again will be good."

"Unless it stops on a desert, a glacier, or a sea bottom."

"I've a feeling," came the girl's voice, "that it knows where it is going and is changing to accommodate itself to the locale."

"Then," came the first masculine voice, "I've a feeling I'll like the place."

Holrun pushed open the door and stepped out into the corridor, where he immediately faced two drawn blades and a red wand.

"I take it you people are not interested in going home, then?" he said, raising his hands. "Point that wand somewhere else, huh?" he added. "I think I recognize it."

"You're Holrun," Derkon said, lowering the wand, "a member of the Council."

"Ex-member," Holrun corrected. "Where's the boss?"

"You mean Jelerak?" Hodgson asked. "Dead, I think. In the hands of the Elder Gods."

Holrun made a clicking noise with his tongue, looked up and down the hall.

"You call this place a castle? Doesn't look like any castle to me. What have you been doing to it?"

"How did you get here?" Derkon asked.

"The mirror. I'm the last one around who appreciates it. Are you three all that's left in the place?"

"There were others about—servants and such," Hodgson said, "but they all seem to have disappeared. We've explored most of the place and found no one else. There's only ourselves and Dilvish and Black—"

"Dilvish is here?"

"Yes. We left him downstairs."

"Come on. Show me the way."

Blades were sheathed and they led him to the stair.

Partway down, they felt a strong draft. When they reached the ground floor, they noted that the former double doors had become a single large one, and this stood open. It was night outside and the movements of the stars had slowed. When the sun came up, it swam rapidly but did not race into the heavens. It seemed to be slowing even as they watched. Before it reached the middle of the sky, the house gave a jolt and the sun stood still.

"We're here," Hodgson said, "wherever here is," and he looked out across a very green landscape toward the misty mountains. "Not bad," he remarked.

"If you have a thing for vegetation," Holrun said, as he stepped over the threshold and looked about.

Dilvish and Black were approaching, leading a white horse.

"Stormbird!" Arlata cried, racing forward to embrace the horse.

Dilvish smiled and passed her the reins.

"Gods!" Holrun said. "You want me to take a horse through into my sanctum?"

Arlata turned, eyes flashing.

"We go together or we do not go."

"It had better be well behaved," Holrun said, turning back toward the house. "Come on."

"I'm not going," Hodgson stated.

"What?" said Derkon. "You're joking!"

"No. I like it here."

"You don't know anything about the place."

"I like its looks—its feeling. If it disappoints me, I can always try the mirror."

"Wouldn't you know, the only white magician I ever liked… Well, good luck to you."

He extended his hand.

"Will anybody who does want to leave please come with me?" said Holrun. "I've got a lot of work ahead of me today."

They filed back into the house, Black's step slightly less sure-footed than usual.

Holrun dropped back as the others returned to the stair.

"So you're Dilvish?" he asked.

"That's right."

"You're not as heroic-looking as I thought you'd be. Say, do you recognize that wand Derkon is carrying?"

"It is the Red Wand of Falkyntyne."

"Does he know it?"

"Yes."

"Damn!"

"Why 'damn'?"

"I want it."

"Maybe you can make a deal with him."

"Maybe so. You really saw Jelerak get his?"

"Afraid so."

Holrun shook his head.

"I've got to have the whole story as soon as we get back so I can tell the Council. I may even join them again, now that their half-assed policy doesn't matter."

They mounted the stair, came to the room of the mirror, and entered. Holrun led them to the glass, activated its spell.

"Goodbye," Hodgson said.

"Good luck," Dilvish told him.

Holrun stepped into the mirror. Arlata nodded and smiled at Hodgson, then she and Dilvish led Stormbird into the glass, Derkon and Black following.

Then came a momentary rippling of reality, a feeling of intense cold. They emerged in Holrun's chamber.

"Out!" Holrun said immediately. "Get that horse out into the hall! All I need's some neat little brown piles on my pentagrams. Out! Out! You— Derkon! —wait a minute! I've been looking at that wand. I'd like it for my collection. What say I trade you one of the Green Wands of Omalskyne, the Mask of Confusion, and a sack of Frilian dream-dust for it?"

Derkon turned and looked at the objects Holrun was snatching from shelves.

"Ah, I don't know…" Derkon began.

Black leaned forward.

"That green wand is a fake," he said to Holrun.

"What do you mean? It works. I paid a bundle for it. Here, I'll show you—"

"I saw the originals destroyed at Sanglasso a thousand years ago."

Holrun lowered the wand, with which he had just begun tracing fiery diagrams in the air.

"A very good fake," Black added. "But I can show you how to test it."

"Damn!" Holrun said. "Wait till I catch that guy. He told me—"

"That Muri power-belt hanging on the wall is a phony, too."

"I've suspected that. Say, could I offer you a job?"

"It depends on how long we'll be here. If there is no place for the horse…"

"We'll find a place! We'll find one! I've always been very fond of horses…"

Outside, in the faintly glowing corridor, Arlata regarded Dilvish.

"I'm tired," she said.

He nodded.

"Me, too. What will you be doing after you've rested?"

"Going home," she said. "And yourself?"

He shook his head.

"It's been a long while since you've visited Elfland, hasn't it?"

He smiled as the others emerged from the chamber.

"Come on," Holrun said. "This way. I need a hot soak. And food. And music."

"It has been," Dilvish said as they followed him up the tunnel, "too long. Far too long."

Behind them, Black snorted something none of them recognized as a tune. The light grew before them. About them, the walls sparkled. Somewhere in the world the black doves were singing as they headed for their landing and their rest.

Table of Contents

THE COMPLETE DILVISH, THE DAMNED

Dilvish, the Damned

Map of Portaroy

PASSAGE TO DILFAR

THELINDE'S SONG

THE BELLS OF SHOREDAN

A KNIGHT FOR MERYTHA

THE PLACES OF AACHE

A CITY DIVIDED

THE WHITE BEAST

TOWER OF ICE

DEVIL AND THE DANCER

GARDEN OF BLOOD

DILVISH, THE DAMNED

Gray Morrow artwork

The Changing Land

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11