 
# Tales From the Court of the Crimson King

By Mark Hawkes

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2020 Mark Hawkes

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

Thank you for downloading this ebook. You are welcome to share it with your friends. This book may be reproduced, copied and distributed for non-commercial purposes, provided the book remains in its complete original form.

Cover art: "Floating Castle" by Martin Stanojevic, 2011

 https://www.deviantart.com/dardaros/art/Floating-Castle-194764670

Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 License

Other titles by this author:

Darkmoor

Island Dragon

The Court of the Crimson King lies beyond the Land of Dream.

Its gold and silver ornaments glitter by the ruddy light of the Fire-Witch's magic.

The Jester giggles derisively at jokes he cannot comprehend.

The Juggler strives with a sweating brow to keep as many lost hopes in the air as possible.

The wise men share a senile complaint and await acceptable entertainment.

But all fall into vagueness before the brazen glory of the Crimson King.

### Table of Contents

Prologue: The Wanderer from the Lands of Men & Dream

Chapter 1: The Folly of Fasnir

Chapter 2: Dawn on the Plains of Shendi

Chapter 3: The Blind Priests of Yahnn

Chapter 4: The Dreaming God

Chapter 5: The King of Lost Kadeish

Chapter 6: The Tears of Aku

Chapter 7: The Geas of Yrtovis Grehnn

Chapter 8: Here There Be Dragons

Chapter 9: The Towers of Yrkra

Chapter 10: Demon Foundling

Chapter 11: The Storming of Death

Chapter 12: The Siege of the Fortress Valerion

Chapter 13: The Curse of Mortality

Chapter 14: Where Worlds Meet

Epilogue: Time's Victory

Bonus Story: Soul Chaser (sequel to Demon Foundling)

### Acknowledgements:

I gratefully acknowledge Giovanni Boccaccio's The Decameron, Geoffrey Chaucer's The Canterbury Tales, and the English rock band, King Crimson's 1969 debut album, In the Court of the Crimson King, which provided the inspiration for the setting and characters of this frame story.

I wrote this collection of short stories in the mid-1970's as an homage to the great writers of the Golden Age of Fantasy: Lord Dunsany and Clark Ashton Smith, but also those who came later, such as J.R.R. Tolkien, Fritz Leiber, Michael Moorcock, Jack Vance, L. Sprague de Camp, and Tanith Lee, to name a few. If you are unfamiliar with any of these authors and their works and are a fan of dream fantasy or swords and sorcery, I strongly encourage you to seek them out. From Moorcock's tales of Fafhrd the barbarian and his sidekick, the Gray Mouser, to Jack Vance's Overworld novels; these writers laid the foundation for the decades of fantasy fiction that followed. They are the giants on whose shoulders modern fantasy writers now stand.

Map illustration by Tannia May

<https://tanniamay.myportfolio.com/>

# Prologue: The Wanderer from the Lands of Men and Dream

Few are those who can travel from the fields of Earth to the Land of Dream where it lies beautiful and serene beyond belief, and fewer still can make the final transition into the Realms of Chaos, where drifts the Court of the Crimson King. But there are some who are capable of this—be they men, immortals, or fell creatures of the night. No one knows why they wander thus, risking the innumerable dangers that beset their paths. It was one such that made his way slowly, laboriously, to the Court which had not borne the tread of a stranger down its shadowy halls for countless eons.

Time does not flow in the Court of the Crimson King, for time is a consistent and logical thing and cannot exist for long within the Realms of Chaos. So it was, that it took the Wanderer both forever and no time at all to arrive at his destination. Word of his coming preceded him, however, for suddenly, the Fire-Witch halted her manipulation of the torch flames and croaked in astonishment, "One approaches!"

At this outburst, the sweating Juggler started—immediately the lost hopes clattered to the floor and burst like fragile soap-bubbles. The Jester flew into a fit of maniacal laughter and the barest hint of a smile came to the faces of the wise men. But there was no humor on the majestic countenance of the Crimson King. His flaming brows were stern, and his smoldering eyes flared periodically. In a mighty voice, he spoke. "Who is this, that hath entered my domain?"

The Fire-Witch turned toward the golden throne and sparks fell from her midnight robes. She cocked her head, closed one eye and squinted at the leaping brilliance of the Crimson King. In a voice of withered ashes, she said, "He is a Wanderer—an Immortal, and he seems sure of his path. Nothing more can I tell you, Sire, for there is a cloud of mystery around him and I cannot perceive his designs." A murmur of anticipation came from the wise men as they debated this.

These were the sole inhabitants of the Court at this time, and had been for as long as they could remember—save, perhaps for the King himself, whose memory could reach back through the abysmal Gulf to when there were no Fields of Men and the Land of Dream was still young. Now, though Time was nothing in that place, still there lay upon its inhabitants the deadly weight of boredom, for newness was an almost unknown thing to them. Thus, the prospect of this impending arrival was a thrill to all, save the Jester, who could not quite grasp the significance of the situation. His mind merely rambled over the countless, over-worked japes and limericks that he knew, hoping to find one that the others might have forgotten.

The Wanderer now stood before the iron gate of the Fortress Beyond the Night, which was his destination, for it housed the Court of the Crimson King. It reared its awesome bulk above him, stark and grey in the twilight. Those massive battlements were indeed a most forbidding and oppressive sight. The Fortress was constructed on a jagged island of rock shaped like an irregular, inverted cone which drifted eternally through the darkness of Chaos. Trailing off into the gloomy distance was a long, pliant bridge of silver that led from the gate of that mighty Fortress to the vicinity of the Land of Dream. But it acted not like a tether, for it stretched and shrank as necessary, permitting the tides of Chaos to carry the Fortress whither they would.

Beneath his broad-brimmed hat of black felt, the Wanderer smiled with the satisfaction of one who has attained a long-pursued goal. He wore a grey cloak wrapped tightly about himself to ward off the deadly cold of Chaos. His boots were metallic, but flexible, and they flashed with silvery light as he walked. The heavy black gate swung open and the Wanderer stepped confidently into the shadows within.

When he entered the Court of the Crimson King, the Wanderer paused at the entrance to scan its inhabitants. He saw the King in all his blazing glory upon a throne of ruddy gold, and the Fire-witch in her sparkling, coal-black robes. He saw the Juggler with his array of lost hopes and forgotten dreams, the Jester in his fool's livery of orange and green with bells, and he saw the three wise men sitting at a table with their white beards coiled before them. He saw all these things...and he smiled again.

But all that the others saw was a small man clad in grey, whose unconventionally broad-brimmed hat hid his face in enigmatic shadows.

"Enter," said the King, "you are welcome here at this Court, for we have long been lacking entertainment and tedium gnaws at us like a worm gnaws a corpse. Any diversion would be a momentous thing to us, but be warned: if you should fail to amuse or astound us in some way, then be assured that our dear Witch here, will find a way to make your visit more entertaining for us!"

There was silence for a moment and all eyes were fastened upon the Wanderer, who stood motionless in the doorway. Finally, he bowed low without removing his hat and when he spoke it was with the faintly ominous sound of distant thunder, or dull echoes in a vast cavern. "Your welcome is somewhat lacking in warmth, O'King, but I shall assume that your want for visitors has rendered you unaccustomed to proper greetings. As to your warning, fear not! For, if I am permitted, I will entertain you thoroughly, driving away your deadly ennui and bringing into your lives the delight of Change."

Everyone flinched at this, save the Jester, who was occupied with plucking a loose thread from his sleeve. The rage of the King at the Wanderer's impertinence was embodied in a sudden crimson brilliance that poured forth from his person, but so strong was his desire for entertainment that he choked back his wrath and replied stiffly, "Very well, stranger, come before us now and prove your worth. We are anxious for diversion, so cease lurking in shadows and begin at once!"

The Wanderer entered the Court and sat down at the table with the wise men. Leaning back in his chair, he said, "Long has been my journey here and I am in need of sustenance before I may begin—some meat and a little wine would do nicely."

The King's frown deepened, but he said nothing and made a gesture toward the table. Instantly a meal lay before the Wanderer and he began to eat with gusto. The Fire-Witch conjured a chair of flames and seated herself saying, "Tell us of yourself, stranger, and of your profession."

Between mouthfuls, the Wanderer replied, "there is little to tell, save that I am a wanderer—I think that is the term you would use—and as such, I travel ceaselessly across the Realms. This is what I have always done and will probably always do...you see, I am immortal." He took a gulp of the wine.

The Fire-Witch's clouded eyes narrowed, and she leaned forward in her chair. "But even wanderers have a purpose...their meanderings are not without objectives. Why do you roam the Pathless Ways?"

The stranger was silent for a moment, seeming to ponder his empty goblet. Finally, he replied, "I am a collector, of sorts...a collector of tales. For ages beyond recall I have gathered the lore and legends of the Realms. It is this, in fact, that has brought me to your Court, for surely you must have marvelous tales to tell."

There was a flash of crimson lightning and the King bellowed, "You are to entertain us, not we, you!"

The Wanderer seemed unfazed by the fury of the monarch's outburst. "Certainly, O'King, but I think it only fair that I receive some recompense for my trouble. I propose that for every tale I relate, one of you must in turn give me a story for my collection."

This seemed acceptable to the others and they nodded their agreement. The Crimson King became more impatient and shouted, "You will tell the first tale, Wanderer, and if it is not one of merit the deal will be void! This is my decree!" he slammed his fist on the arm of the throne and echoes filled the Court.

The wide-brimmed hat still hid the Wanderer's face, but his frown could almost be felt. The Fire-Witch shuddered. Within the shadows of the ungainly hat, the frown gradually became a mocking smile, but no mockery could be heard in his voice as he replied, "Very well, then...I shall begin with a tale from the Lands of Men: a tale of avarice and what becomes of those who live by it...."

# Chapter 1: The Folly of Fasnir

There was a man, known to some by the name of Aerloth and to others by more unearthly names. He was an ancient fellow and the marks of time lay deeply upon him. Within a field of wrinkles his eyes sat like two grey stones beneath his shaggy brows. A sharp nose jutted out beyond thin lips that seemed perpetually pursed in thought. Thin wisps of silver beard sprouted from his narrow chin and hair of the same color hung in tangles upon his bowed shoulders. He was slight and thin-boned, but a voluminous brown cloak gave him a less fragile appearance. To men's eyes Aerloth was just an old man, senile and dotardly, but this was not so: Aerloth was a Wizard.

Aerloth was perched upon a tall stool before a rugged wooden table on which were spread several ancient books of lore and a yellowed skull. The books were priceless indices of ancient spells and cantrips—the skull was that of the wizard's predecessor, Landrak Muul. Aerloth was writing furiously with a quill when an impatient yowl interrupted him. He looked up quickly and a chuckle cracked his wizened lips. A lithe cat with fur of midnight black had leapt onto the table and was now watching him with amber eyes. The wizard reached out a thin hand and gently stroked the cat between its ears.

"You old demon! Won't wait an extra minute for your supper, will you? I just sit down to finish some long unattended work and here you are, pestering me for food! I don't know why I put up with you!" He chuckled again as a deep purring sprang from the cat's throat. Its eyes were closed in ecstasy and its mouth seemed almost to smile. The wizard rose to his feet. "Very well, Glaeris, I'll fetch your dinner and be done with it."

He crossed the room to a cupboard from which he took a flagon of goat's milk. By magical means the interior of the cupboard was kept cold: thus, the milk was both fresh and cool.

Once the cat was contented, Aerloth returned to his work. He had long been cataloguing the Erasnian herb lore texts in his collection and was now nearing completion. He thumbed through several pages of one book and made cryptic notes in another.

Light entered the room through an oval window, the shadows cast by its latticework stretching across the floor and walls. As it sank into dusk, the westering sun cast ruddy beams upon the table, causing a sullen glow to surround the skull. Finishing his last sentence, Aerloth set down his pen and sighed with satisfaction. He blotted the page, gathered up the various books and returned them to their places on his overburdened shelves. He moved to the window and stood there in pleasant thought as the warm rays soothed his tired body.

The view was magnificent. The window looked out of one of the tallest towers of Castle Rorn: below were the courtyards and battlements in which tiny, ant-like figures moved. Beyond the castle walls was the village with its homey cottages and cobbled streets. Curls of smoke drifted upwards from stone chimneys as the supper-fires were lit in every hearth. Along the outskirts of the village were scattered the ramshackle huts and tents of the peasants and the beggars. There were only one or two oily smokes rising from these, since few had anything to cook on a supper-fire in those hovels.

Farther still lay the fields: some freshly tilled and others laden with crops. Beyond these there was a dark blur on the horizon: the silhouette of the vast forest that spread for many leagues north and west—even unto the very feet of the Mountains of Myth, so-called because no one knew if they truly existed.

Aerloth was brought abruptly out of his peaceful reverie by a dull pounding on his door. Cursing this interruption, the wizard hurried to admit the insistent caller. It was a young servant clad in the drab green tunic of the lower class. He bowed deeply, his oiled locks dangling, saying, "His Majestic Sovereignty and High Imperator, Lord Fasnir, desires your presence at his court, O'mage. He bids you make haste to comply...."

With an irritated snort, Aerloth interrupted the man, "Very well! Tell him I am on my way—now go!" He shut the door and turned back to his room, muttering to himself. Ever since he was a young apprentice, he had served the lord of Castle Rorn—all to the youngster's pleasure and advantage. Several years ago, however, the ruling monarch had died, and his damned fool of a son had inherited the throne. This was none other than Fasnir, a conceited and overbearing oaf whose ignorance was only exceeded by his lust for power and wealth. He had the country locked in a death-grip as he wrung it for all it was worth. Plunging into costly wars and ruling with violence and terror, Fasnir was swiftly driving the kingdom to ruin. He was forever thinking of new tasks for Aerloth, taxing the wizard's powers to the extreme. He surrounded himself with magical charms to guard against ills of every sort. Perhaps this was why the numerous assassination attempts had all failed. That, and Fasnir's merciless handling of those whom he considered to be his enemies.

Aerloth dusted off the skull, absently saying, "Oh, Landrak Muul, my peerless tutor...if only I hadn't been fool enough to give that tyrant the Eryn Stone, and thus a shield against all curses and spells! Now he is invulnerable to both violence and malign sorcery and there is no way to end his dreadful reign!

I wonder what new task he has devised for me now; demons plague him!"

Puzzled by his master's anger, the cat leapt onto the table and nuzzled the wizard's fingers. Aerloth smiled and tickled its chin. "We can wait though, can't we Glaeris? Patience is the key. Sooner or later Fasnir will be his own undoing and Death will find him at last. Then we will have the final laugh, my friend!" he took his cloak from its peg and set off to keep his appointment.

Fasnir the All-Powerful sat upon a jade throne while his various wives and courtiers attended his every desire. He was clad in silk and ermine and upon his brow was set the Astral Crown, so called because its bountiful diamonds glittered like the stars on a cold winter's eve. His black hair fell in perfumed curls to his shoulders. He wore a general look of arrogance, and his small mouth was pinched in its usual pout as he impatiently awaited the arrival of his wizard. He toyed with a golden pendant that was set with rubies, but soon grew tired of that and began to drum his fingers on the arm of the throne.

A door on the opposite side of the court opened and Aerloth entered, his cloak flapping in his haste. The cat followed close behind, but at a more dignified pace. Fasnir dismissed his attendants with an impetuous wave of a ring-laden hand. When they had all left, he smiled mockingly and said, "Well, my dear Aerloth! I hope that I have not disturbed you in some vastly important work! It took you so long to arrive that I cannot but assume you were reluctant to leave whatever it was you were doing."

Ignoring this, Aerloth bowed and said nothing. The cat took up a post to one side of its master and proceeded to lick a paw.

Fasnir continued, "The recent battles in the East have gone well and I am victorious. My banners fly proudly over the broken bastions of my enemies and there are none left in these lands who do not acknowledge me their Lord and Imperator. The riches of my conquests flow ceaselessly in, bursting the coffers in the royal treasury. I have more than any other man—even the gods themselves must envy my wealth—yet still I am not content. You must use your powers to give me some new distraction, a play-thing to amuse me for a while and ease the tedium of my existence!"

"But my lord, as you say: there is nothing that you do not already own! Everything you can imagine is already yours!" protested Aerloth, hoping to evade this task.

"No, you fool! You must find me some..." he stopped abruptly in mid-sentence and a smile replaced his anger. "Wait...what was that you said--about everything I can imagine? Why Aerloth, that is not true...but it could be! Yes, that's it! I want everything I can imagine to become reality...you must give me that power! I command it!" He slammed down his fist for emphasis.

Aerloth stood aghast for a moment and then blurted angrily, "Impossible! This time you ask too much! Before, your demands were relatively small, yet still they drained me terribly. What you ask now would almost consume me! I would be left with little or no power! Besides, you know not what you are asking.... "

"Demanding!"

"Very well: demanding. You would be unable to control such power. What if you were to imagine some horror from the depths of your lowly brain, it would destroy you!"

Fasnir's eyes narrowed dangerously and he thrust a finger at the wizard. "Mind your tongue, old man, else I'll have it removed!'' He paused to let this warning have effect and then added, "As for your assertion, I would merely have to imagine that it did not exist, and it would vanish. Nothing could harm me!"

"Save for one thing," thought Aerloth. Slowly a plan began to form in his mind: a chance to be rid of Fasnir forever. The cost would be great, of course, and there were risks, but the outcome would be worth it. Besides, he knew the Emperor only too well; once he had set his mind on something he would not relent until he had attained it. The fool could make life very unpleasant for the wizard; Aerloth grimaced as he considered the steps that Fasnir might take.

Fasnir continued, "Aerloth, don't make me use force, it's so unchivalrous. And don't worry about weakening your power: I'll simply imagine you as you were in the days of your prime and we'll both benefit!"

Aerloth could tell by the cunning look in Fasnir's eyes that this was not so, yet he replied with false reluctance. "Very well, my lord. Give me time to prepare and it shall be done."

"Excellent! You have two days! Go now! Begin at once!"

Aerloth bowed his head and left by the way he had come, the cat following closely upon his heels. Fasnir watched the door close behind the wizard and he smiled slowly in anticipation--the future looked promising indeed. Soon he would have the ultimate power: the power to create or destroy at will, and once he had that power, he would no longer have to depend on the doddering old wizard. In fact, he might even eliminate the old fool since he would no longer be useful. He began to think of the wondrous things he would do with his new puissance. Suddenly, he threw back his head and laughed coldly, sending the echoes of his exultance flying about the vaulting above.

Aerloth was hard-pressed to prepare the spell in two days, but he worked diligently to finish on time.

First, he had to rummage through hundreds of volumes to find the proper incantation. Once he had every tongue-torturing syllable memorized, he began the second step: the search for the Fire Crystal. This was a powerful talisman that would be needed for the spell. Aerloth summoned dozens of demons from the nether regions and questioned them intensely about the location of the Crystal. Unfortunately, none could tell him anything; soon he became frustrated and his hope dwindled. Finally, however, a lesser sprite of the air revealed that it had seen the Crystal atop a lofty pinnacle girt about by ominous clouds and fierce lightnings. Yet, it said, even the brilliance of the lightning was as nothing compared to the fiery glare of the Crystal whenever the moon's rays fell upon it.

Much encouraged, Aerloth raised a demon whom he knew to be at least somewhat trustworthy and arranged a bargain with it. In exchange for the heart of a man, it would fly to the high

mountain peak and bring the wizard that potent charm known as the Fire Crystal. The demon left on its mission and Aerloth went to the castle's dungeons to obtain his half of the bargain.

So it was that by the second night he had the Fire Crystal and the necessary incantation: the spell could commence. The time was not the most auspicious, for the moon was not yet full, but Fasnir was impatient and would brook no delay. Aerloth planned to conduct the spell in his room since it was the most convenient place: all the equipment being readily available. The first rays of moonlight were slipping through the window of flawless magical glass to fall in narrow beams upon the floor when the Imperator arrived. He was clad for the occasion in black silk robes, mouse-skin slippers on his feet, and a silver circlet on his head. He greeted the wizard with a nod and moved into the confines of the study, awaiting instructions.

The worktable had been moved aside, and on the floor where it had stood was chalked an intricate mandala which could hypnotize if one stared at it too closely. At the center of this was set a low wooden stool upon which Fasnir would sit during the necromancy. Between the stool and the window there stood an iron tripod which held the Fire Crystal in clasps shaped like talons. Pungent incense burned in crucibles set about the room, sending columns of smoke towards the ceiling and making vision indistinct.

Aerloth guided Fasnir to the stool and set him upon it. He then extinguished all the lamps in the room, plunging it into semi-darkness. As the light of the moon fell upon the Fire Crystal, it was altered strangely and focused in a thin point of light upon Fasnir's forehead. The Crystal began to glow with its own deep, crimson light.

Standing behind Fasnir, Aerloth placed his index fingers on the Imperator's temples and began to recite the rune. Fasnir feared no treachery, for around his neck he wore the precious Eryn Stone which shielded him from harmful magic. The wizard's chanting grew louder and more rapid as he recited again and again those potent words. As the moon rose higher in the cloudless heavens, its light shone more directly onto the Fire Crystal and thence onto Fasnir's brow. More silvery lunar radiation poured through the heart of the Crystal and was converted to a bloody effulgence. As that crimson hue deepened and spread, the light that fell upon Fasnir became more intense. Aerloth chanted on.

The red light of the Crystal flooded the room and exuded warmth. Fasnir's eyes slowly closed as he slipped into a hypnotic trance. Sweat trickled on the faces of both men, forming wet patches in their beards as the heat from the Crystal increased. The incantation droned on and seemed to blend and flow with the glow from the gem. Suddenly, small flames sprang out of the Crystal and danced lightly over its surface. They leaped and flashed, filling the room with cavorting shadows and heat, the iron tripod turned a sullen red where it touched the Crystal and began to soften and melt. The air in the room became charged and an occasional flash of static electricity lashed out from the Crystal.

Aerloth's chanting reached a fever pitch and his ancient figure was wracked with the effort of the spell. Then several things happened simultaneously; Aerloth shouted out the last word of the incantation, Fasnir shrieked, and the tripod supporting the Crystal collapsed in a shower of sparks and molten metal.

The Fire Crystal bounced and rolled into a corner, its glow already fading away. Aerloth collapsed in an unconscious heap of robes and Fasnir emerged slowly from his trance. It took a moment for him to regain his senses as he rubbed at a dull ache over his eyes. With a sudden panic he wondered if the spell had failed and then the thought came to him to try an experiment. Since the room was dark save for the moonlight, he decided to imagine some illumination. In his mind's eye, Fasnir pictured a lantern sitting on the floor in front of him, careful to concentrate on its every detail. When he opened his eyes, there before him was a lantern, exactly as he had imagined it. A sudden exultance surged through him and he leapt to his feet with a triumphant shout. People in the town were awakened by his joy and they looked fearfully towards the single window in the tallest tower of Castle Rorn and shook their heads. They were a simple folk and feared the unknown, as well they should. They al1 made signs against black magic and muttered oaths to guard them from evil spirits of the night. And high in that lonely tower, Fasnir rejoiced.

When Aerloth awoke, sunlight was pouring through the window and Fasnir was gone. With groans and curses he dragged himself to his feet. The room was cluttered with objects that had not been there the night before, including the lantern. In the corner there was no longer just one Fire Crystal, but ten. In jest Fasnir had duplicated the precious talisman which now was no more to him than a toy. Furniture, ornaments, armor, and even a small tree lay in disarray about the room. Aerloth frowned at this and pursed his lips, it was just as he had expected; Fasnir was using his new powers in excessive and frivolous pursuits. The wizard sighed, shaking his head. A soft voice interrupted his brooding.

"My master asks that you come to his court, sir Wizard. I fear you have slept longer than he had expected. You must hurry now, or he will be angry." Aerloth turned around and there by the door was a damsel of astounding beauty. She was not from the castle or even the surrounding village; she had a strange, exotic 1ook about her. With a chuckle the wizard realized she was another of Fasnir's creations. Well, he thought, at least the Emperor's choice of subjects was improving. Still chuckling, he thanked the girl with a bow and hurried out the door.

When Aerloth entered the throne-room he could not suppress a gasp of awe at what he saw there. The floor was buried beneath riches several feet deep. Gold, silver, diamonds, rubies and pearls were spread around in a glittering flood. Engines of war stood here and there amidst the wealth, as did several maidservants who were very similar to the one Aerloth had already seen.

Fasnir sat atop a mountain of gold beside a smaller one of ale kegs and was busy admiring his creations. When he noticed the wizard, he shouted a greeting and beckoned for him to come closer. Aerloth complied and soon stood below the monarch.

"How do you like my creations?" laughed Fasnir, "The spell worked—everything I imagine becomes reality. For example, you need a chair, so...." he closed his eyes and pressed his fingers to his temples. Instantly, a fine leather chair appeared beside Aerloth, who seated himself after a careful inspection assured him that it was real. "Do you desire anything else? A pipe...some wine?" Fasnir asked like a courteous host eager to show-off his wealth. A lit pipe and a goblet appeared in Aerloth's hands even though his fists had been closed. He wrinkled his nose at the acrid fumes from the pipe and tossed it away, preferring to sip the wine instead. The discarded pipe vanished before it reached the floor. Fasnir was becoming adept.

Slowly Aerloth spoke, "You must learn to restrain yourself from such foolishness," he indicated the cluttered room, "for it is an indulgence and a waste of mental energy." This seemed true enough, for Fasnir had not slept all night and his face was haggard and grey.

"Hal This is only the beginning:'' he shouted, "Once I have mastered this power my grand plans will begin to operate. I will conquer with my mind and the entire world shall lie beneath my feet! In an instant I can create armies, castles—anything!" he spread his arms in a grand gesture.

Aerloth face flushed with anger. He leapt to his feet. "Fool! don't you realize what I have given you? You are almost a god...a titan! You have the power to heal the wounds of the world and banish all evil forever, yet you talk of battles and killing! Is your brain so small that you cannot find anything useful to do with this power?"

Fasnir flew into a rage, "You are the fool, not I! You could have had this power for yourself! You could have done all these fine things of which you speak and slept sounder for it; I'll warrant! But no, you sacrificed your own puny powers and reduced yourself to a doddering old man just to give me this skill! Why? What is your motive, wizard?" Fasnir bent forward accusingly.

Aerloth's eyes became shrewd and he tossed the empty goblet aside. With a veiled expression he pointed a withered finger at Fasnir. "The reason, though you have not yet realized it, is simple. Right now, you control your imagination and the things you bring into being are of your own choice. But often the imagination slips beyond the control of reason and logic; what of nightmares, or fears on a stormy night? Soon Fasnir, you will begin to create and destroy things which you have no desire to tamper with; then you will realize what a curse I have lain upon you!"

Fear and anger clouded the Emperor's face as he leapt to his feet. "Nonsense! Lies! You old fool! Your power is nothing; what do I need you for? You needn't exist! In fact, you don't exist!" He closed his eyes once more and began to concentrate.

A sudden terror gripped Aerloth as he realized what Fasnir was trying to do. He was too weak to try to resist, or even to flee. A strange tingling spread through him and he suddenly felt very light. He looked at his hand and could see right through it. With a last cry of despair, he said, "Oh wicked Fasnir! You may triumph now, but your end draws nigh, and it will be more terrible than mine! You may assure yourself that you can always undo any mistakes you make, but don't be fooled: there is one thing which you will eventually imagine, and once you do it will be too late! Your doom will have arrived, and you will be powerless to stop it! Powerless!" Aerloth's last words faded to a whisper as his body vanished in a wisp of vapor.

Fasnir laughed. "Old fool! If you are lucky, I may recreate you someday just to show you my victories! Nothing I do is irreversible as long as I possess this power!" he shouted to the place where Aerloth had stood. After a moment, he slumped in his chair, muttering, "Yet he spoke of one thing that would be my undoing when I imagined it—could this be true? No, it can't be. Yet, what could the wizard have gained by lying?" He fell into a discontented moodiness and avoided further use of his power for the rest of that day.

Weeks flowed into months as time wound inexorably onward and Fasnir's glorious plans became a gradual reality. He had perfected his skill to the point where he could choose the kind of weather he desired and even transport himself from place to place without the slightest effort. His mental feats grew more stupendous, with his ultimate goal being the total control of reality: creating or destroying an entire world at will. But progress was slow and extremely taxing. Occasionally something undesirable might pop into existence, or result from something he had created, but inevitably he would imagine it away.

The wizard's last words constantly haunted Fasnir, though; they preyed upon his fears, straining his sanity. Late at night when he was resting from the day's mental labors, his thoughts would always stray to that one unknown thing that would be his bane. Unwillingly, he perpetually pursued the answer: that one mysterious thought that could kill him. It was like a puzzle that he must solve, and he searched for the answer with morbid fascination, yet still it eluded him.

Thus, the High Imperator continued his wars and lofty schemes, but drew less and less satisfaction from them as the burning question began to occupy his every waking moment. He soon began to concentrate the full magnitude of his power upon the enigma. Countless wisemen and scholars were summoned to Castle Rorn, but none could find the solution. They merely scratched their beards and solemnly shook their heads. Fasnir considered recreating Aerloth just to ask him what he had meant by his cryptic speech, but pride was an important thing to the Imperator.

Finally, he decided to search the wizard's old books, hoping to find a clue there. He mentally transported himself to Aerloth's room and created several lamps to banish the gloom of the place. The junk that he had first conjured on that night long ago still cluttered the room. With an impatient curse, Fasnir caused the mess to vanish. As he approached the dusty shelves that stored the books of sorcery and wisdom, a shape extricated itself from the shadows to block his path. It was Glaeris, Aerloth's cat: half-starved since the disappearance of its master. Its fur was dull, and its ribs showed starkly. With a curled lip and an arched back, the cat glared at Fasnir, seeming in some strange manner of its kind to know that he was responsible for the demise of its master.

Without warning, the enraged feline sprang at Fasnir: a spitting, clawing ball of fury. Taken by surprise, he struggled with the beast and, tripping over a chair, fell to the floor in a flurry of arms and fur. Finally, he tore the cat from his face and, holding it at arm's length, imagined it away. It vanished with a last, defiant yowl. He could have instantly healed the scratches on his face and hands but chose to ignore them and continued with his search.

Volume by volume, he went through Aerloth's library: leafing quickly through knowledge that many would have sold their souls for. Nowhere could he find any mention of the thing he must never imagine. In his frustration he caused all the books that could not help him to disappear and one he even cast out the window in a shower of broken glass. Cursing, Fasnir slumped into a chair and clenched his fists. Then, becoming calm again, he searched the room with his eyes, seeking something that he might have overlooked, even a clue...and then he saw a book sitting on a table by itself, already opened to a certain page. With a triumphant shout, Fasnir leapt across the room and bent over the book, his eyes drinking in the bold script that burned upon the open page. It read:

"Greetings Fasnir, King of Fools! I, Aerloth the Wizard, laugh at your folly and rejoice at my victory, for if you are reading this I have triumphed finally. It also means that you have destroyed me as I suspected you would and that you are searching for the one thing that will bring your irrevocable doom once you imagine it. Very well...I shall reveal this mystery to you, though no doubt you would have discovered it yourself, eventually. You should have realized that if I could give you such power, I could also have given it to myself, so why didn't I? That is simple; there is one unavoidable drawback in having your particular power, and that is as I have told you: there is one thing that, when you imagine it, will instantly become reality and you will be powerless to send it away. That one thing is.... "

The writing reached the bottom of the page at that point.

With an excited curse, Fasnir flipped to the next page. Instantly his face paled and his eyes bulged in stark terror. He pushed the book away and tried to shut out the thoughts that now crowded relentlessly into his head. With a long, despairing scream he fell to the floor--dead. A breeze entering through the broken window gently fluttered that deadly second page, the page on which was printed in large, unmistakable letters, the words:

"YOUR OWN DEATH!"

The Court of the Crimson King lay in silence for a moment as the story ended. The Fire-Witch was the first to respond, indicating her approval with a shower of blazing sparks from her fingertips. There arose an excited murmur from the wisemen as they discussed what they had just heard. The Juggler nodded and smiled appreciatively. With careful aim he cast a forgotten dream which burst upon the head of the Jester, who had dozed off shortly after the Wanderer began.

The Crimson King leaned forward in his throne and cleared his throat, saying grudgingly, "An acceptable tale, though a trifle long. By our bargain then, one of us must now relate a story to you...is that not true?"

"It is, Sire." said the Wanderer with mock formality.

"Very well then, who shall go first?" The fiery monarch glanced over his subjects.

"I will, Sire!" croaked one of the wisemen as he raised his hand. "I have a tale that should interest you, Stranger, one from the days of my youth. It is the reason for my being here in this court where Time wil1 never come."

"Not that again!" protested the Fire-Witch, "We've heard that one so many times, have you no new stories, old man?" Mumbled agreements came from some of the others.

"Silence!" the Crimson King stifled the complaints and bade the wiseman to proceed, which he did....

# Chapter 2: Dawn on the Plains of Shendi

Restless shadows haunted the rocks about me as I climbed the little-travelled path that leads from the fishing hamlet of Tarnga to the fabled Plains of Shendi. The way was difficult for it was in a state of ruin and was almost entirely uphill. Boulders littered the path and deep fissures yawned in wait for careless feet. I had been warned of these hazards, however, and threaded my way with utmost caution. The jungle was becoming less dense as I climbed higher, but vines and bushes still encroached on either side, creating a living tunnel through which I crawled like some persistent insect.

The night was suffocatingly humid; sweat soaked my face and back. A wan moon flickered between the leaves, giving just enough light for me to see the ground before me. My clothing was becoming tattered as clinging branches and thorns took their toll. I tried to ignore the irritable itching of numerous scratches on my legs and arms.

The path slithered upwards toward the stars. I followed it tirelessly, resolute in my goal. Soon, I was to witness the dawn on the Plains of Shendi. For years, I had heard tales of the fabulous beauty of this sight, though most were rumors and scraps of legends. When I pressed the tellers for more information, they admitted that they themselves had not actually had the experience but had heard of it from others. Indeed, few were those who had ever beheld this marvel, and I decided that I must become one of them.

It had taken me many months to prepare for my journey and acquire accurate directions, for the Plains of Shendi are not on any ordinary maps. Fortunately, I came into the possession of a crumbling sea-chart that placed the Plains deep within the mysterious East, beyond the normal traffic of men. I immediately set out for Tarnga and finally arrived there after many arduous days at sea.

My aims were once again thwarted, however, for the villagers were strangely reticent about the Plains of Shendi and they refused to be a part of any discussion about them. I began to despair, fearing that I must undertake the journey without a guide to ward me from danger. Then, upon my return to my room one night, I found a hastily scrawled note tacked to my door informing me that I would find a guide awaiting me at the end of the Ridge Path an hour before dawn, It also mentioned that a toll would be assessed, but it did not mention the amount.

So it was that I found myself scrambling along that treacherous route during the most unhallowed hours of the night, when lost souls and other evils are said to be afoot. Fearful shapes rose out of the darkness before me, only to resolve themselves into rocky outcroppings. The land had become suddenly barren, the vegetation reduced to, a few straggled bushes. Jagged boulders lay on either side of the path and the precipitous face of the ridge towered menacingly on my left. Below lay the jungle, stretching almost to the white sands of the coast. The watch-lights of Tarnga twinkled where they lay huddled between these and the jungle. I suddenly felt very alone as I gazed at those lights where the villagers slept peacefully. I had an urge to turn back and join them, but I resisted and turned my attention back to the path.

I was nearing the top now and could see the crest of the ridge silhouetted against the sinking moon. Another silhouette drew my attention: that of a lone figure standing at the path's end. As I came closer, I saw that it was wrapped in a long, shadowy cloak rustled slightly in the faint breeze. Twin crimson points of light regarded me from within the fathomless depths of the being's cowl. With a twinge of uneasiness, I realized that this mysterious entity must be my escort.

''Greetings," the figure spoke suddenly, it's deep and sonorous voice quiet but commanding, "1 am known as the Usher. I will take you to a place where you may witness the full glory of the Dawn on the Plains of Shendi and tell you what I know of that area. In return you must yield to me a small toll." His manner was very business-like.

'What manner of toll?" I inquired cautiously.

''Merely ten years of your allotted time on Earth, to be collected exactly one decade before the hour that you are destined to die," he replied tersely.

The price was outrageous, and I told him so. "I have no intention of trading ten years of my life for your meager aid! I'll merely go and see the Dawn for myself, without a guide!"

"That would not be wise."

The menace in that statement was enough to make me halt in mid-stride. Terrible malice poured forth from those evil eyes. I suddenly realized that my position was most precarious. My desire to see the Dawn burned relentlessly within me: I knew that there could be no turning back now. I would just have to agree to the terms and try to find a way to avoid payment afterward. My shoulders slumped as I replied, "Very well, I accept your terms."

"Excellent. We shall proceed." The Usher turned and moved silently through the shadows. Resolutely, I followed.

The ground was almost level here and plant life had returned in abundance. Gnarled trees and shrubs stretched grasping branches towards us as we passed, but always we were just beyond their reach. We were traversing a narrow arm of land that thrust sharply out into the sea. On either side were jagged cliffs that dropped from spectacular heights to the waves below. It was the flat, table-like top of the largest of these rocky, coastal projections that was known as the Plains of Shendi.

The shrill cry of a bird of prey pierced the dead air and sent a shiver through my body. It was followed by a rustling commotion in the bushes just ahead of us. As we approached the scene of the disturbance, a large bird erupted from the underbrush bearing a dangling serpent in its powerful talons. With another cry, it shot away and disappeared among the trees.

The Usher spoke as we went on, "An Ackyri bird: renowned for its lustrous blue plumage and its ferocity. The serpent was one of many that inhabit this area. They possess a most unusual cunning and lightning-swiftness which makes them formidab1e foes. These snake's prey upon the eggs and offspring of the Ackyri bird, often climbing to hazardous heights to obtain them. The Ackyri, in turn, subsists on the flesh of the serpents, which it also feeds to its young. In this way a perpetual cycle is formed, and the population of each species is kept in check." He ended with a disconcerting note of irony in his voice and once again I found myself questioning my own judgement in undertaking this quest.

The surroundings had become lush jungle once more, with a great number of clinging vines hanging from the trees and laying about on the ground. Upon the first appearance of these vines the Usher warned ominously, ''Maintain a good distance from such as those, for if you look closely you will see that they are no ordinary vegetation." And surely enough, upon closer inspection in that poor light, I saw that these unearthly plants possessed limbs at regular intervals down the stem. These were in the form of human arms, each of which looked disturbingly powerful as it held the branch next to it in a formidable grip. "A small demonstration might interest you," the Usher said with a tone of amusement,

He looked about his feet for a moment and finally selected a dead branch from amongst the debris. It was thin and about the length of a man's leg.

"Stand back!" he motioned me away.

Gladly, I complied, wondering all the time what he was up to.

The Usher swung the stick back and cast it lightly into a mass of vines a few feet away. The instant it landed, a dozen vegetal arms shot out to grasp it. The stick snapped in several places beneath the grip of those supernatural fists, which quickly abandoned the pieces and returned to their original positions. The entire spectacle had lasted only a matter of seconds.

Seeing the effect that his demonstration had had on me, the Usher chuckled dryly within the shadows of his hood. "Mind your step, or you sha11 suffer a similar fate." I couldn't repress a shudder at the thought, and he chuckled again. "It is not far now to the place where we can view the Dawn, which shall be upon us shortly." The Usher turned, and we continued our journey.

From where he strode a few paces before me, the Usher said, "At the edge of the Plains of Shendi where they plunge as jagged cliffs into the sea, there stands an ancient fortification known as Castle Khyron. It is built into the very rock of those cliffs as though it were a mere extension of them, thrusting up at the sky. At the four corners of the castle there are spires, each ending in a minaret, save for one which is fashioned into the shape of a gigantic hand clutching a sphere of crystal.

"It is inhabited by a wizard of incredible age and power: one Daurfis Ameron. How old he is no man knows, though some say he was one of the First. The ages have not dealt lightly with his body, however; even magic such as his could do nothing to stave off the decay of years. Farseeing his body's collapse into uselessness, Daurfis crested Castle Khyron to use as his final refuge. His body lies somewhere in its depths, maintained by unearthly servitors who nurture the lifeforce that it houses.

"Once his body degenerated, Daurfis was forced to find some other method by which he could travel about. He quickly found and mastered the art of Astral Projection wherein one's soul may leave the confining house of flesh to wander the vast reaches of the Universe. At dusk each night, the wizard's soul emerges from the crystal sphere held by the hand and ventures off on unimaginable journeys. It returns with the coming of dawn and rests during the day, regaining strength for its next excursion."

I had heard of this strange castle along with the rumors and legends about the Plains of Shendi, but had never given them much credence, tending to believe instead that they were mere embellishments of the less spectacular truth. Now I found myself reluctantly accepting the existence of such a castle, though totally rejecting the idea of some omnipotent sorcerer and all this talk of wandering souls. I said as much to the Usher. At this he gave me another one of his unnerving chuckles and merely said, "We shall see."

A few minutes later, we reached the vantage point from whence we wou1d view the Dawn on the Plains of Shandi. It was a rocky crest that stood in a gap between the wall of gripping vines. Straining my eyes in the weak light, I could make out the flat outline of the Plains against the eastern horizon, which was beginning to pale with the coming of dawn. Also silhouetted against that growing light was the graceful shape of a large edifice, its slender spires pointing at the stars. I thought I could see a cluster of the clinging vines draped on the seaward wall, but because of the shadowy dimness I could not be certain. The muffled roar of a waterfall filled the air and I could see the silvery glint of the water as it rushed over the brink near the castle and cascaded down the cliff to the ocean below,

The Usher' s voice came from beside me, "There was once another sorcerer, whose name is not known, who was a rival to Daurfis Ameren and challenged his sovereignty. There ensued a battle of sorcery that was so fierce it shook the very roots of this world and repercussions of it were even felt in the next. For thirty days and thirty nights that conflict raged, threatening to end in stalemate. At last, Daurfis drew upon his most awesome and darkest powers and overthrew the other wizard, tearing from him all his magical skills.

He then exiled his foe to a tiny island of barren rock as punishment and as an example to any others that might think to usurp his position. He sends provisions to the island, including the materials to build a boat. With hope of escaping his lonely fate, the broken wizard struggles to construct a boat, but each time it nears completion, Daurfis sends a great serpent of the sea to destroy it. Once again, the exile begins the construction of a new boat, even though he knows that the same thing will happen again and again."

"But why does he waste his time in such a futile effort?" I was unable to keep the skepticism out of mv voice.

"Because it is his only hope of release from damnation, and perhaps, too, because it helps to pass some of those endless hours." I snorted at this, but the Usher ignored me, saying, "Ah, the Dawn has arrived." Surely enough, the eastern sky had brightened into a roseate glow that was reflected on the white stone spires of Castle Khyron. The Plains of Shendi flushed with a warm pink flood of light as the sun rose slowly on the horizon. The magnificent beauty of the sight left me breathless and the very air was silent and still, as if in awe. The east caught fire in a glorious blaze of color that turned the walls of the castle to go1d.

On the edge of hearing there came the whistling roar of a raging wind. It grew to a tumult. A streak of blue light flashed out of the dark western sky like runaway lightning and came to rest above Castle Khyron. It hovered there and burned, an incandescent ball. Just below it was the spire shaped like a hand. It clasped a sphere of murky crystal that absorbed the light from above. The fireball slowly dimmed and transformed itself into a roiling thundercloud that sent bolts of lightning lashing out from it. From within the depths of that cloud there formed two baleful eyes that burned like angry suns. Their gaze slowly focused and turned directly upon me, unveiling the deepest secrets of my brain as they probed mercilessly.

A terrible realization flooded through me as the last shreds of skepticism were blown away and I knew that this malevolent being was indeed Daurfis Ameron. Stark terror gripped me, and I turned and fled without pause, back down the path to safety, with the Usher's evil laughter echoing coldly behind me.

As the wiseman finished, his hands were trembling and sweat glistened on his face. A few of the others stirred uncomfortably and coughed to break the oppressive silence. The Wanderer spoke, "I thank you for your tale, old one: it shall assume an honored place in my collection. But tell me, how have you avoided the toll exacted by your guide?"

The old man grinned slyly, saying, "Ah, well, it took me several fear-filled years to learn of the existence of this place where Time holds no sway. More years of terror followed as I sought to get here, dreading that at any moment the Usher would come for his due. But as you can see, I arrived here safely and consequently arrested my aging process. I have not moved an instant closer to my death since I entered the Realms of Chaos and thus, I have cheated the Usher and conquered Death."

"I see...." The tone of the Wanderer's voice caused the wiseman to shiver suddenly. The others looked at the Wanderer oddly, but he did not seem to notice, and continued, "It is unwise to tamper with the workings of Time, for it is unrelenting and omnipotent and will not long tolerate the interference of Gods or mortals in its progress."

The Crimson King snorted and said, "So say you, yet my kingdom has evaded the effects of Time while ordinary realms have been crushed and reborn countless times. Beyond the Realms of Chaos, Time ravages on in its mindless rush to eternity, but here our only sense of Time comes from occasional occurrences such as your arrival. Why then, has your mighty Entity neglected us? Where is your inescapable Time?" he spread his arms, palms upturned.

The Wanderer was silent for a moment and when he spoke his voice was low. "Perhaps it is because your lengthy reign is no more than an instant in the infinity of Time, that you have escaped notice ... so far." The Wanderer lapsed into silence, declining to elaborate on this cryptic, threatening statement.

The Fire-Witch looked at him with a new depth to her eye, as if observing a slow but fearful revelation. Oblivious to this, the King grumbled, "Enough of this speculation! Idle thoughts and unfounded hypotheses! Give us your next tale, Wanderer, may it be a good one!"

The Wanderer calmly folded his hands in his lap as he spoke, ''Very well, my next story is one very popular in the Lands of Men. It concerns a certain thief....

# Chapter 3: the Blind Priests of Yahnn

How the thief Jerkin came to possess the designer's sketch of the Dark Maze is a matter best not disclosed, though it may be safely assumed that it was not by any legal or decent means. The maze lay beneath the lofty stonework of the Temple of Yahnn and served as a safeguard against intrusion. It was the least known of two entrances to the temple, the other being the main gate which was guarded by black-skinned giants who bore huge scimitars. The reclusive inhabitants of this mighty sanctuary were the infamous Blind Priests of Yahnn. The omnipotent Yahnn, whom they believed to be the creator of all light in the universe, was their only deity. Since they considered matter to be condensed and transmuted light, to them Yahnn was the Maker of All.

When entering the priesthood, these worshippers were initiated into the mysteries of the glorious Yahnn by sacrificing their sight to him during a strange and painful ritual. Thus, they believed that the light of their bodies would return to Yahnn and illumine the path that their souls must follow after death.

Little was known about the other activities of these furtive priests, but rumors and conjecture abounded. Their religion was considered a cult by many and the priests were often accused of congress with demons. It was said that during periods of alignment or the planets, the priests engaged in terrible sacrificial rites and committed all manner of blasphemies against Nature.

One of the reasons for these rumors was the assumption that the interior of the Temple of Yahnn lay in perpetual darkness, since the blind priests had no use for lamps or windows. What sort of loathsome creatures lurked in those darkened halls, no one knew, but the mysterious disappearances of those men unwise enough to venture into the temple unbidden were enough to keep most people at a healthy distance.

Jorkin was an exception.

It was not the tales of monsters and demons that caused his interest in the Temple of Yahnn, but those concerning vast amounts of gold and gems amassed over the centuries and hoarded somewhere in the temple's black interior. Limitless wealth was said to be strewn freely about the temple, since the guards and the labyrinth made the threat of theft very unlikely. For a master of the art like Jerkin, though, these baubles (if they existed), were of secondary importance, for their like could be had from any royal coffer or money-lender's stash with much less risk. It was the legendary Black Emerald of Yahnn that Jerkin was after, and that Jerkin had sworn he would get.

The thief now stood at the entrance to a small cave which le1 into the labyrinth beneath the temple. Sheer rock cliffs towered above him, looming ominously against the sky. It was late evening: Jorkin had spent the entire day traversing the boulder-strewn slopes of these mountains where they plunged into the forests below. There was a path of sorts leading up the mountainside, but it was in bad repair and half buried by centuries of rockslides. Jorkin was clad in a close-fitting tunic and a woolen cloak. He was a small man, but well-built, like a gymnast. His long, dark hair was held back from his face by a silver fillet. He had been wearing heavy boots, but he now replaced these with soft slippers made of cat's skin. These would permit him to move so quietly that not even the ears of the Blind Priests could hear him. He carried a large sack in one hand, and stiletto on his hip was his only weapon. From this he now drew a stick and a resin-soaked rag. He bound the rag tightly around the top of the stick and struck a spark with flint and steel. The resinous cloth caught quickly and soon his torch sputtered with sullen orange flame.

Taking torch in hand, Jorkin stepped into the dank blackness of the cave. The jumping light revealed a small blotch of darkness in the wall to the left: the entrance to the Dark Maze. The size of the opening posed no difficulties for a man of Jerkin's stature. He passed easily through it and entered a narrow passageway. The floor and walls were made of smooth, black obsidian that glittered in the torchlight. The walls stretched upward out of sight and Jorkin knew that it would be impossible to scale them. His eyes were now adjusted to the dim light and he proceeded confidently onward.

The passage ran straight for short distance before it branched into three directions. With careful consideration of the crumbling parchment sketch of the maze, Jerkin chose the oath on the right and resumed his trek. At one point his foot stepne1 into nothingness and he barely checked himself from plunging into a wide chasm that stretched from one wall to the other.

After a moment, he found a slender oak beam bridging the gap with cautious steps he crossed over. Once safely on the other side he examined the sketch to see why he had not been forewarned of the dangerous chasm, which he had taken for a crease in the paper, signified the fissure into which he had almost fallen. He cursed himself for his carelessness and rechecked the route ahead for further traps. He noted strange cabalistic symbols at various points of the passages that branched off the main one and assumed that these represented sorcerous defenses against unwary intruders. Jorkin wondered about the nature of these defenses but, recalling the evil tales concerning the Blind Priests, he decided he would rather not know. According to the sketch he had almost reached the end of the maze but, with a start, he saw that one of the ominous symbols lay between him and the stairway that would take him upward to the Temple of Yahnn. He drew his stiletto and crept silently forward.

Jorkin advanced quite a distance without encountering any sign of resistance to his progress. All his thief's instincts were operating at full pitch: his eyes searched the featureless walls for signs of anything unusual, his nostrils were flared, testing the air for scents, and his ears strained to catch the tiniest sound should one break the tomb-like stillness of that dreadful place. Whether it was ultimately his ears or some sixth sense which detected a change in the passage ahead, he could not tell, but he was certain that there was something subtly different about the section of the maze directly before him.

A faint sound like the whine of a mosquito brushed his hearing, scarcely noticeable above the kettledrum thumping of his own heart. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled and he felt an electric presence in the air. He dropped to a crouch and by so doing became aware that the sound was coming from the floor in front of him. Looking closely, he noticed that its surface was dark and lusterless, unlike the rest of the obsidian which was glassy and reflective. He then realized that the floor was covered by a thin layer of black dust. Taking off his cloak, he used it as a fan to blow the dust aside. When the billows subsided there lay revealed on the floor a glowing pentacle of red light, four of its points touching the walls.

Jorkin took off his ring and gently tossed it onto a glowing section of the pentacle. It vanished in a burst of smoke and flame. The pentacle was too broad to leap over, but there was just enough room at its center to receive a carefully placed foot. Using this as a stepping-stone, the thief crossed safely to the other side. He jogged a few yards farther down the passage and gave a laugh of triumph: rising out of the darkness before him were the stairs that led upward to the temple and the Black Emerald of Yahnn.

The thief planned to carry out the rest of his work by the light of a small lamp, which he proceeded to light. He then wedged his torch into a niche between the stairs and began his journey upwards. Before long, he saw a dim grey light ahead and soon he emerged in a deserted hallway somewhere within the Temple of Yahnn. The dim light was a surprise to Jerkin, who had expected the lightless passages of the legends.

He soon saw that moonlight filtered down from numerous cracks and holes in the roof; apparently the priests, being blind, were unaware that their temple was in a sad state of repair, or else they were unable to do anything about it. Jorkin chuckled at the thought of a temple crumbling about the heads of oblivious worshippers and began his search for the Black Emerald.

According to the rumors, the stone lay at the very center of the temple, in the sacrificial room where the fledgling priests relinquished their eyesight to Yahnn. Jorkin assumed that the gem had something to do with that ritual and chuckled again at the thought of the priests' dismay when they discovered that their precious emerald had been stolen. The thief was anything but religious and he scorned these fools who sacrificed their sight to a non-existent deity.

It was not long before his diligent search was rewarded as he crept through tall brass doors into a vast chamber. The room was pyramid-shaped and empty, save for a silver pedestal at its center. Perched on this pedestal was the object of Jorkin's desire: the Black Emerald of Yahnn.

Its beauty was astounding, for it was dramatically illuminated by a beam of moonlight that shone through an opening in the apex of the pyramid. Jorkin broke from his trance and approached the stone with humble steps. He gazed into its crystalline depths, entranced by the sorcerous fires which leapt therein. After a moment, he reached out shaking hands to wrest the gem from its place. As his fingers touched its icy surface, a shadow passed before his eyes and a sharp stab of pain in his skull made him groan. He shook his head and swayed dizzily, but his senses gradually cleared.

Jorkin began to move with speed instilled by fear. He snatched up the emerald and cast it into his sack. Turning, he bounded out of the chamber and down the long corridors which had now become oppressive and threatening. It occurred to him that the moonlight was less strong now and the hallways darker, but he passed it off as sudden cloudiness obscuring the moon.

Suddenly, a cloaked figure emerged from the shadows before him.

"Stop! Who dares desecrate the sacred Temple of Yahnn?" the figure demanded.

Jorkin could see white, pupil-less eyes gazing past him and knew that he beheld one of the blind priests. He slipped silently to one side of the priest, attempting to get behind him. The priest groped outward, attempting to apprehend the intruder.

"I know you are there, heathen! Your sweat hangs as rank in my nostrils s the myrrh of a strumpet! Surrender yourself to the mercy of Yahnn!"

Now standing behind the priest, Jorkin slipped out his deadly stiletto and slid it deftly between the man's ribs. With a gurgling cry, the priest collapsed.

A convu1sive movement as he fell, however, wrenched the blade from Jorkin's hand. The stiletto clattered to the floor beside the priest. The thief bent to retrieve his weapon but, squint as he might in the poor light, he could not see it. Once again, dizziness overtook him, and it seemed that waves of darkness swept over his eyes.

The temple had been awakened by the cries of the murdered priest and alarmed shouts could be heard as his fellows came to his aid. Somewhere down those darkened halls two massive guards were running, naked scimitars shining balefully.

Now almost completely governed by panic, Jorkin sprang away down the passage and groped his way to the head of the stairs where he had left his lamp. His fumbling hands found the lamp, but it appeared to be almost burned out, for the thief could not get more than a glimmer from it, With a curse, he kicked it aside and started down the stairway, stumbling repeatedly in the total darkness. He fiercely clutched the sack containing the Emerald to his side, confident that he could easily escape a mob of blind old men. With his torch and his sketch of the maze, he would quickly retrace his steps and be away in the night, like a shadow disappearing without a trace.

He came abruptly to the bottom of the stairs and sprawled headlong into the passage. Cursing repeatedly, he wondered what had become of his torch, He guessed that it must have fallen over and been extinguished and was enraged at the delay that would cause. He groped wildly in the darkness and suddenly his hand was burned terribly as it encountered the flaming head of the torch. With a shrill cry of pain, Jorkin looked vainly for the fire that had burned him, but his eyes could see no light of any kind.

Slowly, a terrible realization came to him: he was now as blind as the fool priests somewhere above, who now lusted for his blood. With an agonized cry, he cast aside the now useless torch and map, and collapsed onto the bottom stair. His fate was sealed: before him and behind him lay certain death, and to stay put was only to wait longer for it. Clutching the Black Emerald to his breast, he buried his head between his knees and his stricken eyes did the one thing they could still do: they wept.

In unison, the wisemen applauded and pounded their table.

The Wanderer acknowledged their compliment with a nod of his wide-brimmed hat. He looked over at the King. "Well, Sire, do you approve of my tale?" he asked with mock concern.

The Crimson King adjusted his gleaming crown and said, grudgingly, "Yes, well-told sir, well-told." He stroked his fiery beard as he considered the ending of the Wanderer's story.

In the silence which followed there was an uncomfortable rustling amongst the other inhabitants of the Court. The Juggler toyed disinterestedly with a pair of lost hopes, causing them to shimmer with silvery light as they capered about his head and rebounded silently against one another. The Jester muttered to himself as he scratched at the marble floor with a chipped and dirty fingernail. Tiny flames of impatience began to dance along the Fire-Witch's sooty hair, forming a halo that rivalled even the Crimson King's ruddy effulgence.

The Wanderer remained motionless where he sat sprawled comfortably in his chair.

Finally, the wiseman seated in the middle cleared his throat with a rattling, crow-like noise and said, "My lord, this fellow's tale of a vengeful god has put me in mind of a brief legend I once heard while I was a mercenary in the service of Count Fulja."

The old man turned to the Wanderer. "It is a short tale, but think you'll find it an interesting one," he said, hopefully.

The Wanderer nodded and gestured languidly with a black-gloved hand. "A tale is judged by its merit, not by its length. Please, proceed," he said.

The wiseman smiled toothlessly, cleared his throat once more, and began....

# Chapter 4: The Dreaming God

The recumbent form of the Dreaming God was silhouetted by the silvery light of the full moon as it was slowly swallowed by the western sea. The clear winter sky brimmed with stars that were reflected on the unusually smooth water. Also reflected by that glassy surface was the sloping peninsula on which the Dreaming God lay. But of the god Himself there was no reflection, nor did He cast any shadow.

He lay where He had lain for ages beyond recall: in a large hollow in the rock, high above the water line. He had both legs crossed and His arms were folded behind His head. Long had his lidded eyes stared blindly skyward, through day and through night. He had created everything around Him, for it was all in His dreaming mind. He always dreamed the same dream, though occasionally He would bring new things into it, depending on His mood. For the Dreaming God, the dream was reality and He could not awaken from it.

The dream-world of the God was not without other inhabitants. Not far down the coast was a small village, and there were others like it further inland. The world of the dream was limited however, to what the Dreaming God could visualize at any one moment. The events and peoples of that world were under the control of the god for, unlike ordinary dreamers, He was aware that He was dreaming.

Many times, the Dreaming God wondered what it would be like to awaken; what sort of world might exist outside of His dream? But try as He might, His attempts to escape from that endless slumber had failed...and so the dream continued.

The sailing ship anchored a short distance offshore and dispatched the three executioners in a small dinghy. Shadowy faces watched from the gunwales, thankful that it was not they who had been chosen to go. The executioners' dinghy slid silently across the water, leaving phosphorescent whirlpools in its wake. Two of the executioners were armed with spears, the third bore a large halberd. This third one stood in the bow, looking shoreward to where their goal lay sleeping on a peninsula that thrust towards them like an accusing finger. The man in the bow turned and looked across the water to his right. There an island huddled in the water, cloaked in silence and shadow. Upon that island stood a tall fortress comprised of two buttressed towers and two spires. From these twin spires an unhallowed, blackish-purple light was just beginning to ooze. The man in the bow shuddered and turned his gaze back to the figure on the shore.

He remembered how, a few weeks earlier, that fortress had appeared on the island, which had never borne any such structure before. The wise women of his village immediately pronounced it an ill omen, and rightly so, for its coming heralded a time of terror such as his people had never known. Each night, with the passing of the sun beneath the western waves, those twin spires would emit their fiendish light. This light had a virulent quality of some sort which caused a horrible cancer of the skin in many of the villagers. They never knew whether they would awake to find themselves covered in a creeping leprosy, and they lived in deadly fear of the disease. Mercifully, those stricken by the disease never lived to see another dawn.

The villagers were well-aware of the Sleeping God. He was prominent in most of the local legends and was generally revered as the Creator. The villagers believed He was responsible for everything that happened, and they built little shrines and temples in which they regularly offered Him sacrifices to gain His favor. But now it seemed to these simple folk that their God had turned against them and for no reason was bent upon their destruction. Their offerings and prayers had failed to appease His wrath and it seemed to them in their desperation that there was only one means by which they could still save themselves from annihilation. So it was that the three unfortunate executioners came to find themselves embarked on such a dark, blasphemous mission.

As the dinghy ground onto the gravel of the peninsula, the executioners leaned out and secured it to a rock with a length of rope. Then they turned and clambered up the slope towards the mammoth figure of the Dreaming God. He was an immense being, nearly four times the size of an ordinary man. Soon they stood at His side, where His chest rose ani fell in a slow, steady rhythm. The two spear-bearers held the tips of their weapons just above the spot where titan heart drummed. The other man, standing farther along beside the neck, took aim, raising his razor-edged halberd. It gleamed for one frozen instant in the light of the dying moon, and then flashed downward in the blow that ended the world.

Immediately after the wiseman spoke the last word of his story, the Fire-Witch was on her feet applauding, a sprinkle of scintillating sparks falling whenever her hands met. "Bravo, bravo!" she croaked.

The Crimson King, too, looked appreciative and sketched a salute with his scepter, saying, '"Well, Storyteller, have you a tale to match the one we have just heard? 'Tis your turn...."

"Of course," interrupted the Wanderer, confidently, "I will now relate one of the most ancient tales in my collection. As a King yourself, you may find it of particular interest...."

# Chapter 5: The King of Lost Kadeish

It is said that somewhere in the parched wastes of the Desert Sleroth, far beyond the ancient caravan routes, there lives a man who calls himself king: the King of Lost Kadeish. Kadeish, known to some as the Immortal City, is the place of which the legends speak, whose towers of onyx were raised in the Early Days when the world was young. Splendid Kadeish: city of dreams and dreamers, set with lavish courtyards and fountains which glitter like gems beneath an envious moon.

The city stood, in those bright times long ago, by the edge of the Quodjai Sea, whose extent was much greater then. The city prospered and won great renown, and the awe-inspiring name of Kadeish was forever on the lips of the people—even those who lived in the wintry lands far to the north past the Mountains of Meerqua. But the Earth was still restless in those days: constantly shifting and changing its face, and over the years the Quodjai Sea retreated from Kadeish like a fickle lover and the relentless sand of the desert crept ever closer to the doomed city.

Finally, Kadeish stood as it does today: an island in a sea of sand. No longer did its traders ply the worlds seas in their ships with scarlet sails; no longer did people journey from all lands to see the fabled city. Kadeish was lost—lost somewhere in the vastness of the Desert Sleroth.

Many are those who have since sought to find Kadeish, where it slumbers in its bed of sand, for it is said that the jeweled eyes of but one of the countless idols there could ransom a dozen kings. One such adventurer was a cutthroat from the ancient town of Chalcra, known to the authorities there as Karim-el-Jefir. Nothing in that town was safe from the thieving hands of Karim, unless it had so little value that it was not worthy of his attentions. The thief's skill had made him many enemies, however, and he was pursued constantly. Faced with the prospect of a slashed throat or a lengthy stay in prison, Karim decided to leave Chalcra and seek out the legendary treasures of Lost Kadeish.

For twenty days, Karim had struggled across the Ifskan Marsh and the Mountains of Meerqua northwest of the Desert Sleroth. He finally reached the margin of the desert in the company of an ill-tempered camel. Once, briefly, as the crimson sun was setting and the deadly chill of the desert night crept over him, Karim thought he saw a small band of nomads moving along the southern horizon, but otherwise there was no trace of human life to be found.

The thi8ef had obtained a crumbling papyrus chart—by illicit means, of course—from the archives in Chalcra. This chart purported to show the location of Kadeish in the days before the coming of the sand. Navigating by this and the stars in the crisp, cloudless sky above, Karim found his way across a desert whose only landmarks were strange, wind-gnawed pinnacles of rock and constantly shifting dunes.

The dry desert wind plucked at Karim's loose, white robes and dashed fine particles of grit into his face. At one point, the wind grew so strong that its turbulence stirred up a dense cloud of dust and sand that swallowed even the searing, noon-day sun and cast an eerie twilight over the land. For three days the sandstorm raged while Karim and his camel were pinned down in the scant shelter of a rocky outcropping. The thief's food and water supplies began to run low; he was forced to dine on scorpions and chew the small bulbous leaves of some desert plants for their moisture. Finally, one day after the storm had spent itself, Karim scrambled to the crest of a dune and beheld an awesome sight: the ruins of Lost Kadeish.

The thief's heart sank as he looked upon the fallen towers and minarets of the city and imagined what magnificence had passed from the world. The countless centuries and the teeth of the desert wind had done their work thoroughly; the proud city of Kadeish was now little more than rubble, half-buried in sand.

Hoping still to discover some intact cache of treasure, Karim led his camel across the sand and entered the city. For hours, he wandered the deserted dust-choked ruins, finding nothing but crumbling stone and debris. In a plaza at the center of the city, however he came upon a well which still contained a supply of drinkable, though slightly brackish, water. It was as he hastily gulped down this water that Karim heard a raspy voice speak out behind him.

"Welcome to Kadeish, traveler from afar—may its beauty and its marvels soothe your spirit now and always."

The thief spun around warily; his dagger drawn. There before him stood a man so ancient that he appeared to be a withered mummy resurrected by some malign sorcery. Before Karim could speak, the man continued, "You do not know me? You are a stranger, then. I am Razool, eighty-first king of Kadeish, ruler of the entire Yanuut Empire. You are welcome to my glorious city—come, we shall feast." The old man turned and with an air of absolute authority incongruous with his tattered rags and the ravaged surroundings, he led the thief into one of the few remaining buildings.

Karim had quickly concluded that his host was not sane. Nevertheless, he decided to humor the fool in the hope that the old man might lead him to a concealed hoard of riches. The day passed slowly as the thief listened to the endless ravings of King Razool, most of which praised the extinct glory of Kadeish. The "feast" was nothing more than a meagre serving of millet cakes; apparently the old man cultivated the plant, using water he drew from the well.

When the spectral light of the desert moon began to slant through the cracks and holes in the ceiling above, King Razool suddenly leapt to his feet and clapped his hands. With his long white hair and beard glowing dimly in the moonlight, he said, "I have an announcement to make—quiet please, everybody! This is my last evening as the King of Kadeish! I am very old, and my death is near...I shall not live to see the morning sun glinting off the spires of fair Kadeish. I would now like to appoint this noble stranger, Karim-el-Jefir to rule in my stead as the royal heir!"

With that, the old man stepped over to the thief and crowned him with a circlet of braided millet stalks. He muttered a few vague words, bowed to Karim, then he handed him a small lump of some red, pliable substance. "Here, chew this and you shall see the wealth of Kadeish," the old man said, baring his red-stained teeth in an enthusiastic smile. At the mention of wealth, the thief grew excited and he obediently popped the lump into his mouth and started to chew. The flavor which was released was an odd one but not entirely unpleasant. Karim felt his muscles relax and his thoughts began to wander as a warm sense of well-being began to spread over him.

King Razool nodded approvingly, saying, "You are tasting the gum of the wenya plant, which grows around the outer walls of the city. It will enable you to see the truth!" With that, the old man quietly sat down on the ground in the light of a moonbeam, his head lowered.

As he continued to chew on the gum, Karim felt add sensations washing over him in waves. He ignored these symptoms and watched Razool expectantly, waiting for the madman to resume his games, but Razool remained motionless, eyes closed. Finally, the thief went over to the old man and shook him, thinking him asleep. Razool's body toppled slowly over—he was dead. This disturbed Karim greatly; suddenly he felt utterly alone in the empty city, and he desired to leave immediately. Stumbling through the doorway into the street, the thief was startled by the vision he beheld there. The entire city was bathed in the ghostly light of the moon and seemed to fluctuate, and waver as though viewed underwater.

Everything was blurred by a white mistiness and appeared more dream-like than real. Kadeish no longer lay in ruins, but appeared whole and intact, miraculously restored to its former glory.

Karim stood open-mouthed in the street, enchanted by the impossible beauty of the place. The faint sound of voices came to his ears, and soon the buildings resounded with the noise of a busy marketplace. The thief-who-was-now-a-king could see crowds of brightly dressed people milling past, and they bowed to him as they did. For the first time in his life, the thief was given unhesitating love and respect, and his heart surged with joy: even though it was merely an illusion.

It is said that somewhere in the parched wastes of the Desert Sleroth, far beyond the ancient caravan routes, there lives a man who calls himself king—the King of Lost Kadeish.

The listeners were silent as each paused to consider the implications of what they had just heard. All were startled from their pondering by a sudden, inappropriate outburst of laughter from the Jester, who had managed to flick a shard of broken fingernail into the Fire-Witch's winecup. As the Jester doubled over in hysterics at his prank, the Fire-Witch hissed angrily and cast a handful of flame-worms upon him. With a shriek, the Jester leapt to his feet and began to hop about, frantically brushing at the worms which seared painfully as they crawled. Once he had knocked all his squirming antagonists to the floor, the Jester shouted triumphantly and stomped down with his slippered foot to crush the creatures. When he did so, his look of determination was quickly transformed to one of agony, for the worms burned through his thin slipper as though they were coals fresh from a smithy's forge. Howling, the Jester resumed his erratic dance as the Court rang with laughter. As the flame-worms flickered and became ash, the Jester slunk to his corner where he sat dejectedly licking his burned fingers and muttering imprecations under his breath.

The Crimson King quickly wiped tears of mirth from his eyes, saying, "Well, well, well...now let us get back to our original entertainment. It is once again our turn to relate a tale to the Wanderer: who shall go next?" He scanned the room for a volunteer, but none spoke up. As the King's fleeting smile began to give way to a disapproving scowl, the Wanderer spoke up from his chair.

"Why not continue as we have and let the last wiseman take his turn?" he said, inclining his hat towards the man.

"So be it!" shouted the King, cutting off any argument on the subject.

The old man looked flustered and terribly embarrassed, but he could not deny his stern and fiery lord. With a resigned sigh, he said, "Oh, very well, but I have no great, stirring tales or philosophical myths to tell, for I consider such to be a waste of time and have never bothered to commit any to memory. I prefer to ponder the many convoluted Truths of the Universe and... "

"Get on with it!" bellowed the Crimson King.

Taken aback by this outburst, the wiseman fidgeted with his beard briefly and then cleared his throat, "Ah, um, let's see now, well, there is a story I heard as a child, eons ago, perhaps it will suffice. I believe it began thusly....

# Chapter 6: The Tears of Aku

There was once a town known as Memos, which lay nestled between the mountains and the sea. Its inhabitants were simple folk who lived off the fish they caught and the food they raised in their gardens. Their houses, like their ambitions, were small and unpretentious. They had no interest in things which were not functional. They were a very religious people, however, and had many gods to whom they prayed. The fisher-folk gave homage to Sylgan, God of the Oceans; the farmers prayed to Algur of the Earth: and the rest of the townsfolk made offerings to whichever of the other gods whose auspices they required.

One of the most widely revered gods was one known as Aku, the Weeping God. This was a unique deity whom the villagers felt had power over their general state of well-being. He was known as the Weeping God because of the strange ability of his stone effigy to shed tears. This statue resided in a shrine in the woods on the outskirts of the town. Here many villagers would come to pray every morning, regardless of the weather. On the unfortunate occasions when they found tears rolling down the marble cheeks of their little god, the townsfolk would redouble their prayers and bring offerings to placate the troubled god. If they were successful, Aku would cease his crying and all would be well again; but if they failed, some unfortunate consequence, such as a lost ship or sickened child, would soon follow. Because of this, the villagers came to adopt the axioms "When Aku is sad, times are bad."

One day, a stranger arrived in Mernos and asked to be shown the shrine of Aku, the Weeping God. He explained that he was a scholar from the distant city of Kyandra, and that he was engaged in a study of the countless religions and cults of the land. He had heard of the phenomenon of the Weeping God and desired to witness it himself. The people of Mernos were very hospitable to strangers since they had little contact with the outside world and were always hungry for news of the doings in the great cities. Half a dozen villagers quickly offered their services; before long the group was on their way to the shrine of Aku.

It was a cold, windy day and the grey sky cast down a constant sheet of rain. The path was muddy, with tiny rills of water flowing along it. But the clouds were beginning to break, and the rain had slackened when the damp group of men reached the shrine of Aku and bowed before it. height of a man.

The shrine was a small, stone booth about the Standing within this booth was a marble idol of a man-like creature with large, sunken eyes. It bore a blank expression which indicated neither sadness nor joy, but at that moment there were two streams of tears running out of its hollow eye-sockets and down its cheeks.

There was a disconcerted mumbling as the villagers saw this; they quickly lit a small fire in a crucible which lay before the idol. Their prayers swelled louder, and they bowed still lower to

the ground. The stranger ignored the religious fervor of his guides and stepped closer to the statue, inspecting it with a scholarly eye. He looked closely at the eye-sockets and, to the horror of the villagers, reached out and caught a swelling tear on the tip of his finger. He proceeded to sniff this sacred fluid, and then actually tasted it with his tongue. The townsfolk were so stunned by this blatant sacrilege that they just stared with open mouths at the stranger, who now grunted with satisfaction. He looked to his appalled companions and spoke with compassion. "My friends, I am sorry to report that you have been sadly misled in your beliefs concerning this so-called god. It is no more cognizant nor divine than the ordinary rocks around it. For you see, these tears are nothing more than rainwater entering through a crack in the roof of the shrine and flowing through some hole in the back of the idol's skull. I am surprised that you have not noticed the connection between your god's tears and the weather before...perhaps you have merely chosen to ignore it. At any rate, this Aku is a false god."

With that, the scholar turned and strode off down the path, shaking his head sadly. The devastated villagers watched him go and then turned their eyes to the sky where the sun now shone warmly as the rainclouds scudded away on the breeze. They looked at the now dry cheeks of their idol and they knew that what the stranger had said was true. In miserable silence they doused the fire in the crucible, gathered up their offerings., and followed the stranger back to Mernos: vowing never to worship Aku again.

And from the sightless eyes of the idol that stared blindly at their receding backs, two streams of tears slowly began to flow.

The Wanderer nodded his broad-brimmed hat approvingly as the wiseman finished his brief tale. The King, too, looked impressed as he tugged at the coarse red hairs of his beard. To indicate his appreciation of the story, the Juggler produced five lost hopes from the tooled leather pouch on his hip and began to juggle them vigorously. After the first few transparent globes rose and fell, however, it became evident that the Juggler was not performing with his usual dexterity. His movements were oddly strained, his brow furrowed. He was determined, however, and he struggled on, striving to keep the fragile hopes aloft as trickles of sweat began to wiggle down his face. With great effort, he mastered the challenge and, ceasing his manipulations, bowed low to his audience. They, in turn applauded politely—all save the Fire-Witch, who alone had noticed the Juggler's unprecedented clumsiness and now scrutinized him closely with midnight eyes.

The Wanderer, also, had noted the Juggler's difficulty with interest; within the shadows of his hat he smiled the smile of someone who has seen the beginning fruits of a long labor. With an air of getting down to business, he uncrossed his legs, leaned forward with his gloved hands on his knees and said, "And now I would like to relate a tale of a thief. a man of no small infamy in both the Lands of Men and Dream. Of course, you are all familiar with the term, geas," he stated, glancing from face to face about the room. When he received a few blank looks in return, he elaborated, "A geas is a fate or destiny which may be placed upon someone by Powers whose jurisdiction lies in that area. The geas, or compulsion, usually takes the form of a taboo: something which must not be done in a certain way or at a certain time. The taboo is often broken through ignorance, forgetfulness, or in order to avoid some other unpleasant circumstance. The thief in my story lay under such a geas, and presently you shall hear what became of him....

# Chapter 7: The Geas of Yrtovis Grehnn

Through the sultry haze of mid-afternoon, a diminutive figure crept along a dust-choked path with only his shadow for company. The heat had become unbearable since morning, and the man had been obliged to remove his cloak and tunic and stow them in the worn pack on his back. Even now, clad only in a light shirt and breeches, he was drenched with sweat that itched irritably as it trickled down his back and chest. He was more than grateful for the broad-brimmed, felt hat that he wore, for without it he would surely have fallen victim to the daggers of the sun. The only weapon that he bore was an unusually long and thin dagger, unadorned save for a small emerald mounted on the pommel. The scabbard was similarly bare of ornament. This insignificant-looking person was no ordinary wanderer, though, for he was something more than he appeared to be...he was Yrtovis Grehnn, the Master Thief.

The name Yrtovis Grehnn was well known and much cursed throughout Elyrium, for his exploits had carried him to the farthest corners of that land. Many were the priests who mourned the loss of gold and silver offerings; princes whose royal jewels were missing; and even wizards who had awakened to shelves and chests emptied of their priceless contents. Indeed, there was nothing of value in all the world that was safe from the deft fingers of Yrtovis Grehnn. Try as they might, the authorities could never apprehend the wily thief. But there was a reason for his incomparable skill at his trade: he was cursed.

His father, a member of the constabulary in the coastal city of Thoom, had once apprehended a witch in the process of stealing a child for some unimaginable rite. As was his duty, he brought her to the justice of the Law Givers, who saw fit that she should die for her crime. Her last evil deed as the flames began to lick her withered flesh was to cry out a curse upon the man who had brought her to this end: the father of Yrtovis Grehnn. She shrieked that she was placing a compulsion upon his first-born son, who must become an incurable thief, given over wholly to the desire to steal. What is more she declared that, unlike an ordinary thief, each thing he stole must be of greater value than the last. Thus, was he sure to be caught someday, and forced to endure a fate like hers. Such is the vengeance of a witch.

So it was that Yrtovis Grehnn found himself wandering through the merciless heat of the desert Sleroth, venturing on the most fantastic quest of his notorious career. He had finally reached a time when he had nothing left to steal. Months ago, he had absconded with all the Great Treasures of the Temple of Llan. At first, he believed with horror that his days of crime were over, that there was nothing left on Earth greater than those fabled treasures. But then he learned of the four most precious objects of all legends and all lands: the Gems of the Four Elementals.

The Elementals were supernatural beings, embodying the four elements1 Air, Earth, Fire and Water. Each possessed a large gem as a symbol of their dominion on Earth. They each kept their respective gems in a stronghold girt about with barriers to bar the way to would-be intruders. To overcome these barriers, pass the unseen guardians of the gems, and escape from the Elementals themselves would be Yrtovis Grehnn's most difficult undertaking—and perhaps his last.

Ahead of Yrtovis Grehnn, brooding at the edge of the desert, towered the mighty Aoorm-Ka-Ahir, stronghold of the Air Elemental. It was a mountain of vast proportions, stark and jagged like a gigantic tooth thrust up from beneath the earth's crust. So high were its loftiest peaks that they bore an eternal mantle of ice and snow. About those craggy pinnacles raged boreal winds that shrilled and whined as they tore through icy fissures. As he looked at that barren, forbidding sight, which was his destination, Yrtovis Grehnn suddenly forgot the sweltering heat of the desert and shivered.

Evening found him traversing the foothills and ridges that formed the base of the great mountain. A biting chill had fallen with the coming of darkness and Yrtovis Grehnn was bundled in every available scrap of clothing he had. He now wore heavy, furred boots which made footing less certain but protected his feet from the deadening cold. Across his shoulder hung a coil of stout rope. In his left hand was a three-pronged, iron grappling hook which was tied to one end of the rope. His other hand gripped a short ice-axe. With this scant equipment, the Master Thief intended to challenge the might of Aoorm-Ka-Ahir.

Yrtovis Grehnn began the ascent with the cat-like agility of an experienced thief. Up bare cliff faces and across narrow ledges he scrambled, carefully choosing each hand and foot hold. He wore no gloves so as to get the best grip, but his hands suffered on the knife-edged rocks. Oblivious to the pain, Yrtovis Grehnn concentrated his full attention on the rock face before him and climbed higher. Since he needed both hands free, the hook and the axe dangled at his side, often hampering him as they caught in niches and on protruding rocks.

Though the going was rugged, it did not become truly difficult until he reached the snow level. Then the axe and hook became indispensable on the smooth, icy surfaces. It became necessary to chip out each hold as he went. This was cold, wearying work, but Yrtovis Grehnn pushed on with unwavering determination. Occasionally, he would come to ice cornices which protruded above him. It was here that the grappling hook proved most useful, though it was at the risk of pulling tons of snow and ice down upon himself.

As darkness fell, he found a small cleft where he spent the night sheltered slightly from the wind. When the sky began to brighten with the coming of dawn, he had already eaten a light breakfast and was ready to go. Many times, the thief's foot slipped suddenly, and he hung for a heart-stopping instant over a deep chasm. Often too, he had the sickening experience of feeling a hand-hold crumble beneath his grip. But, despite these near mishaps, by late afternoon Yrtovis Grehnn found himself near the apex of the mountain.

Before him now, stood the Gate of Aoorm: the entrance to a path hidden between the twin peaks of the mountain, which led to the summit of the tallest of these. The Gate of Aoorm was no ordinary portal: it was formed of sorcerous ice much harder than its earthly counterpart. Its adamantine surface could not be marked by any normal axe or pick, and only the fires of Hell itself were hot enough to melt it. But this seemingly unvanquishable barrier did not perturb Yrtovis Grehnn for, like any skilled thief, he had come prepared.

He had heard of this gate and had gathered as much information about it as he could from wanderers, liars, witches and fools, finding at last an old woman who knew the means by which the gate might be opened. Perched before the hearth of a ramshackle hut, she had spoken of certain spells which, when recited over a silver bell, would endow it with extraordinary vibrational power: power which was sufficient to shatter the Gate of Aoorm. An acceptable price was reached, and the hag cast her spells upon a bell of gleaming silver, which Yrtovis Grehnn now drew from his pack.

As he watched the cold, blue light play over its mirror-bright surface, the thief remembered the ominous warning that the old woman had uttered at their parting. She had pointed one gnarled finger at him and rasped cryptically, "Beware the meeting of opposites, my son: that is the geas I see upon thee, and therein lies thy doom!" Yrtovis Grehnn frowned at this unbidden memory and forced his thoughts to return to the bell in his hand.

It was ridiculous to look at, being only the size of a small dinner bell, but the eldritch power that it now possessed was quite evident for, even though the clapper was swathed in cotton, the bell shivered with irrepressible vibration. As he had been instructed, the thief carefully took out a pair of earplugs that the witch had prepared from a rare gum and the blood of a cave-newt and pressed them firmly into his ears. Satisfied that all he could hear was the roaring of his own blood, he was ready to begin.

Holding the bell a hand's-breadth from the center of the gate, he began to shake it. The result was like the clamour of a thousand frenzied church-bells, which even the ensorcelled earplugs were nearly useless against. Yrtovis Grehnn felt as though his ears had been pierced by cold steel needles which were proceeding to probe his brain. He continued to shake the bell, knowing that he would not be able to do so for much longer. But just as his head seemed about to burst, the cacophony rose in pitch beyond human hearing. Though he could still sense the powerful vibration—the hairs on his neck stood on end—Yrtovis Grehnn was no longer tormented by the racket.

He had clenched his eyes shut during the pain and now he opened them to an awesome sight. Huge avalanches cascaded down from the sides of the mountain below, levelling everything in their path. Rocks too, had been shaken loose by the bell; some crashed down from above, narrowly missing the thief. But perhaps most startling of all was the Gate of Aoorm: it had begun to crack. Seeing this, Yrtovis Grehnn shook the bell with a renewed intensity and was rewarded by immediate results. The translucent surface of the ice shattered in a shower of blue fragments. Where the gate had stood, there was now a large pile of these fragments looking very much like a mound of diamonds. In fact, they would have been worth far more than mere diamonds, for they were much harder and certainly rarer. But Yrtovis Grehnn had only one gem in mind at that moment.

He leapt over that glittering heap and stood at the advent of a narrow path between two sheer walls of rock. He continued his ascent. The path banked sharply upwards as it wound on, coiling like a serpent around the tallest peak of Aoorm-Ka-Ahir. At last, Yrtovis Grehnn reached the summit of that prodigious mountain and entered the lonely upper regions of the world. The sky was a sullen grey, matching that of the rocks. The snow lay in pockets in the rock, beyond the reach of the winds which whipped and howled like demons around the thief.

Through wind-stung eyes, Yrtovis Grehnn beheld the precious thing he sought, the Gem of the Air Elemental. It was an amethyst as large as a man's fist. Its surface bore facets too numerous to count, glittering and flashing in the cold light. But strangest of all, the jewel was supported by a small, white cloud which floated several feet off the ground, oblivious to the rampaging winds.

Yrtovis Grehnn gently lifted the gem from its billowy resting place and would have seared his hands had he not been wearing thick gloves, for the stone, which was formed of the gelid vapors of the ether, was far colder than any earthly ice. As it was, the chill of it began to pierce the gloves and the thief hurriedly placed the stone in his pack. At that moment there came a distant roll of thunder sounding like the enraged growl of some terrible giant.

Fear filled the thief and he realized the deadly peril that he was now in. He turned and fled in panic down the path. The wind increased in force and cold, angry clouds converged on the mountain.

When Yrtovis Grehnn reached the gate, snow had begun to fall, and footing was doubly treacherous. He skidded and slipped his way down the mountainside, casting caution aside. The world darkened suddenly, as though something had smitten the sun. There was a blinding flash and a crash of thunder. The storm gathered itself and grew more intense. Large hailstones pelted the thief as he struggled along, half blinded and delirious with fear. The air became a grey-white blur and Yrtovis Grehnn could no longer see the handholds he groped for.

He crept insect-like through a freezing hell with the wind plucking constantly at him. He was sidling along a thin ledge when a bolt of lightning blasted the rock beneath his feet. The force of it threw him off balance. For an interminable moment, he teetered over a lightless gulf. As the thunder roared in brazen triumph, Yrtovis Grehnn plunged headlong into the grey abyss.

Minutes or hours later, he could not tell, Yrtovis Grehnn awoke to profound pain. For a moment it seemed that he would lose consciousness again, but finally he struggled to his feet. His fall had ended in a deep drift of powdery snow, thus saving his life.

The storm had subsided and now the air was deathly still. The onslaught was over. Bruised, and burnt from the lightning, the thief staggered the rest of the way down the mountain: battered, but victorious.

Several months later, once he was healed and well rested, Yrtovis Grehnn's thoughts turned like the unwavering point of a compass to the three gems which he did not yet possess. His next goal was the fantastic diamond of the Earth Elemental. It was rumored to lie at subterranean depths in a remote cavern, referred to as Var-Siccoth. Ancient volumes entitled, "The Books of Darkness", which Yrtovis Grehnn had stolen from a sorcerer many years before, recorded Var-Siccoth's location as somewhere in the foothills of the Mountains of Lir. Accordingly, it was amongst these desolate hills that the master thief now wandered in frustration.

He had searched unsuccessfully for five days, striving vainly to find the entrance to Var-Siccoth. He knew it must be somewhere nearby, but the sea of hillocks was like a vast maze that could easily conceal the small opening. Yrtovis Grehnn spent his time going from hilltop to hilltop, where he would spy out the land. When he descended into the small valleys between hills, however, his vision was greatly inhibited, and his sense of direction became baffled.

To make matters worse, a persistent, creeping fog lingered in the lowlands, blinding Yrtovis Grehnn and concealing much of the surrounding countryside.

It was dusk of the fifth night and the thief had made camp on a hilltop. It was a cold, exposed site, but he preferred it to the stifling fog of the valley below. He lay on his back staring up at the stars. His mind ran restlessly over countless schemes for locating the entrance, but none were workable. His eyes searched the jeweled patterns above him as though he might read the answer there. The air was clear and sharp, and the stars all twinkled, but as he watched, one of them winked completely out for an instant.

Then another, and another. Soon a whole patch of the sky was a confusion of wildly blinking stars.

Yrtovis Grehnn leapt to his feet and stared more closely at the phenomenon. He soon realized that a multitude of small objects was passing over him, subsequently causing the stars to appear to be blinking on and off. Indeed, it was a vast cloud of bats, fluttering out from their lairs to hunt for insects in the lands of night. But the sheer immensity of their numbers amazed the thief and awed him when he thought of the size of the cave that would hold so many creatures. Even as these thoughts ran through his mind, he realized that the home of these creatures could be none other than Var-Siccoth.

Without wasting another moment, Yrtovis Grehnn grabbed his ever-present pack and set out to trace the bats to their source.

He began a journey through which he bobbed like an apple in a river: up one hill and down another. He plunged into pools of fog, fought through their clammy depths and emerged gasping on the next hillside. He repeated this exhausting process countless times, fearing during his moments of fog-blindness that he would lose track of his winged guides, but each time he reached another hilltop he saw their flitting forms once again.

Then, as he emerged from still another fog-pool, Yrtovis Grehnn heard for the first time the sound of the countless wings above him and saw that they were now much closer to the earth. He could now make out more clearly the writhing, coiling mass that spewed into the night. Their darkness merged with that of the hillside on which he stood and, as he strained his eyes, he detected a jagged shadow that was blacker than the rest: he had found the entrance to Var-Siccoth.

Standing at the mouth of the cave, Yrtovis Grehnn withdrew a small lantern from his pack and lit it with flint and steel. The tiny flame was all but engulfed by the musty darkness of the place. The master thief entered the cave, holding the lantern out before him like a weapon. The weak light it shed cast pallid shadows on the walls and peopled the cave with a mob of capering demons. Out of the blackness ahead came the glint and glimmer of metal objects. These turned out to be dozens of gilded sarcophagi scattered about in disarray. They were works of art; their surfaces wrought cunningly in pictures and patterns—some even bore the earthly countenances of their withered occupants. Dust and cobwebs lay everywhere, as did the guano of the bats.

With a thief's curiosity, Yrtovis Grehnn gripped the edge of a coffin lid and lifted. It came up easily, the fastenings having been weakened by time. Inside lay a rag-clad skeleton that grinned evilly at the thief. Upon its yellowed brow was a glittering crown, studded with rainbow hued gems: the dead king of a dead empire, humbled by the greatest king of all. The thief closed the lid and moved to another sarcophagus, different from the others. It stood upright, off to one side of the tomb. It was wrought from pale blue chalcedony, not like the gold and oak of the rest. Before it lay a pile of gnawed, broken bones left behind by some scavenger of the crypt: rats perhaps, thought the thief.

He wiped away the dust from the hinged lid of the sarcophagus and examined the cryptic devices engraved thereon. To his sunrise, he recognized several runes; he was casually acquainted with many scripts, a useful talent for his line of work. Those before him now were from the ancient tongue of wizards: the Laguran dialect. They formed an incantation employed in rituals of immortality, performed to place the life force of a man beyond the reach of Death. Yrtovis Grehnn had heard tales of powerful necromancers who had evaded Death and lived long beyond the normal span of mortals, but the price of such an existence was great, and ultimately could no longer be met. The thief surmised that the occupant of the sarcophagus must have been the king's sorcerer. With a chill, he realized that if the runes were to be effective, the sorcerer would have to have been entombed while still living.

Unable to resist the temptation, Yrtovis Grehnn slowly opened the lid of the sarcophagus. The thing which lay within proved that the spell had done something, but its condition indicated that the runes had not been entirely effective. The magic had somewhat preserved the flesh of the sorcerer, but that he was dead, there could be no doubt. His once sumptuous robes had rotted away to bare most of his wasted, white body, which had an unwholesome look about it. The flaccid skin clung to the bones like slime and was mottled with green, fungus-like patches.

A waft of corruption sent Yrtovis Grehnn into a spluttering fit of coughing, he staggered away from the sarcophagus. When the fit passed and the thief had cleared his watering eyes, he looked with revulsion at the source of his discomfort and was shocked to see that it was gone. The sarcophagus now stood ominously vacant. Yrtovis Grehnn felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck, and he instinctively dropped into a defensive crouch, silently drawing his dagger. His eyes frantically scanned the shadows of the tomb, searching for the corpse, which was evidently not as inanimate as he had presumed.

Yet the sorcerer was nowhere to be seen, and the silence of the crypt remained unbroken, save for the rustlings of the bats.

Cautiously, Yrtovis Grehnn edged his way to the passageway that led deeper underground and, he hoped, to the Gem of the Earth Elemental. He hurried down the tunnel, glancing behind him frequently to see if he was being pursued. The path was reasonably smooth and wide, running in a straight line to the nethermost regions of the earth. There were no forks along the way; the thief travelled rapidly as he began to feel more confident.

Once or twice, Yrtovis Grehnn came upon giant worm creatures crawling blindly along the tunnel's floor. These were up to four feet in length but proved harmless and completely oblivious to his presence. He left them in peace and continued downwards in the dead, musty air. After a while, he developed a terrible thirst and paused to drink from his water-flask. As he stood for a moment in silence, a faint sound reached his well-trained ears, the padding of bare feet on stone in the passageway behind him.

No sooner had he become aware of the sound, than it ceased and, try as he might, he could not pick it up again. Someone or something was stalking him; with a stirring of fear he formulated a desperate plan. He ran a few steps farther and crouched close to the wall. He flung his cloak over the lantern and plunged the passageway into darkness. Dagger in hand, he waited.

During the next few breathless moments, the pursuing footfalls drew ever nearer. At the last instant, Yrtovis Grehnn jerked his cloak from the lantern and the sudden flare of light froze his pursuer whe.re it stood. Crouching there, blinking slit eyes at the unaccustomed light, was the ghoulish sorcerer. Sunken beyond human speech, it made snarling, gargling sounds at the thief and, with a tensing of rope-like muscles, it sprang. Yrtovis Grehnn had been prepared for this and managed to dodge to one side, striking out with his dagger as he did. He felt the blade bite flesh and deflect off bone before he drew back his arm in preparation for the next attack. The sorcerer spun around clutching a wounded shoulder and screamed in rage. Its eyes burned with an unholy light as it leapt upon the thief once more.

This time there was no chance to dodge; Yrtovis Grehnn met the charge with a dagger thrust. As the foul body of the sorcerer slammed into him, he was thrown backwards against the tunnel wall. Teeth and nails slashed him, and the creature's fetid stench made him swoon. With desperate effort, he pushed its loathsome body away from him, the hilt of his dagger still protruding from its ribs.

The sorcerer writhed in a widening pool of black ichor that oozed from its wound, intermittently uttering cries of pain and rage. Yrtovis Grehnn recovered his lantern and backed slowly away down the passage. With a last dying effort, the sorcerer sat up, eyes flaming, and, pointing a withered finger at the thief, cried out a word of Power.

An invisible force knocked Yrtovis Grehnn off his feet and shook the entire passage. With a roar, the ceiling gave way and tons of rock cascaded down on the spot where the thief had been standing. The passage was sealed. Dazed and aching, Yrtovis Grehnn relit his lantern and proceeded further into the depths of the earth.

After a time, he found himself on the threshold of a vast cavern that stretched away into darkness beyond the reach of his lantern's rays. Giant limestone stalactites hung from above and stretched towards the stalagmites that rose like mountain peaks from the cave floor. The effect thus created gave the thief the impression that he was in the tooth-filled mouth of some gigantic beast. As he advanced, a sudden gleam of light caught his eye; he turned and moved towards it. The gleam was the light of his lantern reflecting off one of the many facets of a fist-sized diamond. The stone was pinned at chest-height between a stalactite and a stalagmite: set firmly in place, beautiful and immovable. It was the diamond of the Earth Elemental.

Yrtovis Grehnn took a small hammer and chisel from his pack and prepared to chip away the limestone. This was no ordinary stone though; it may as well have been pure adamantine, for the steel chisel skidded harmlessly off to one side without leaving a scratch.

The thief abandoned this method and stood for a moment considering his next move. Eventually an idea came to him and, rummaging quickly through his pack, he brought out the Aoorm amethyst. It lay in a specially crafted wooden box, which was cleverly insulated against the gem's supernatural chill. Yrtovis Grehnn drew on a thick glove and, holding the gem between the edge of the box and its hinged lid, he touched its gelid surface to the stone just beneath the diamond.

At first nothing happened, but gradually a thin layer of frost formed on the damn surface of the limestone. Small cracks began to appear in the rock and suddenly it shattered in a shower of icy fragments. The freed diamond landed in a frosty pile of debris. With a triumphant laugh, Yrtovis Grehnn returned the Aoorm amethyst and the glove to his pack, followed by the diamond, now carefully wrapped in black velvet.

It was then the thief noticed that the faint trembling he had taken for his own excitement was growing disconcertingly stronger. It came not from his tense limbs, but from the very earth beneath his feet. The tremor increased in intensity and the thief was thrown to the ground as stone fragments began to cascade from above. A deafening roar filled the air. Suddenly the dusty floor disappeared from beneath the thief and he plunged sickeningly into subterranean night.

When he hit bottom, it was not on jagged rocks as he expected, but the wet, icy cushion of an underground river. He fought his way to the surface and was swept along through the blackness. Through sheer tenacity, he still clung onto his pack, which helped to buoy him slightly. Without warning, he burst into daylight and began to fall once more as the river spewed out of the side of a mountain and into a deep lake. Floundering half-conscious through a roil of foam and bubbles, the thief finally reached the sandy shore of the lake and dragged himself up onto it. He collapsed there, stunned and exhausted, but with the pack containing the gems still clutched tightly to his chest.

As he sat comfortably in the Inn of The Seven Satyrs, Yrtovis Grehnn was in a state of high excitement. It had been nearly a month since he had obtained the diamond of Yar-Siccoth, and the impulse to steal was once again hard upon him. He had completed the preparations for his next undertaking, the theft of the gem of the Fire Elemental. All he lacked now was some means to transport the considerable gear necessary for this expedition. The thief smiled deviously to himself; as Fortune would have it, he believed that the answer to his problem had just stepped through the door of the Inn. The subject of his speculation was a grotesquely fat man, clad in gaudy robes and a ridiculously flamboyant hat. The fact that he carried an expensive-looking valise indicated that he was a traveler, and a traveler of such girth could not get far without a mount. And a mount capable of carrying that disgusting mass of flesh, thought Yrtovis Grehnn with satisfaction, would certainly be able to bear several bundles of heavy equipment. He began to observe the stranger more calculatingly.

The fat man spoke momentarily with the innkeeper, apparently arranging a night's lodging. When this was done, he declined to surrender the bulky valise to his host and, instead, brought it with him into the shadowy bar. He stood at the edge of the tables, peering through the smoke and gloom as though searching for someone. To the thief's profound dismay, the stranger stared directly at him, and began to make his way over.

Yrtovis Grehnn quickly dropped his gaze and became engrossed in his empty mug. A massive shadow fell across the table. "A most pleasant good evening to you sir," said a voice with notably mock civility, "might a weary traveler join you for some relaxing parlance and a quaff of brew?"

Grudgingly, Yrtovis Grehnn proffered a seat with a gesture.

The stranger spread his bulk upon it. When he was settled, he eyed the thief across the greasy candle flame and said, "Aye. You're the one all right."

A shiver swept over Yrtovis Grehnn at this, but he said nothing, keeping his eyes averted from the stranger's piercing gaze. One hand moved instinctively to the dagger on his hip. He had been caught off-guard, and he was now struggling within himself to regain control of the situation.

Oblivious of the thief's discomfort, the fat man removed his hat and continued, "You see, I am Nam Sabdu, the futurist. I wander at will about the Lands of Dream, offering my astounding services to the noble upper-class who can afford them," He flashed a ring-laden hand for emphasis. "My achievements are many, my gift unsurpassed: surely you have heard the name before?" He paused to speak with the serving-boy who had come to take his order. Explicit instructions were given, and the boy departed. With an unctuous smile, the futurist turned his attention back to the thief. Now, where was I, oh yes. Each morning I make it a habit to cast my own fortune for the day: a practice which has proved invaluable in the past. This morning my reading was an interesting one; I was warned to be watchful of a small, dark man with dark designs: you." He pointed a finger at the thief.

Yrtovis Grehnn considered it judicious, at this point, to speak. "My good fellow, while I do not doubt for a moment that you are all you say you are, and that your skill at augury is nigh to that of Alcu the Old, I am afraid you are mistaken in your characterization of myself. While I will admit that my stature is not immense, there are those who are smaller. Though my hair is dark, this is not conclusive, for many, including yourself, possess similar coloration. And as for my designs, I can assure you that I am but a poor merchant from Chalkeesh with aims no greater than keeping food in my belly and a roof over my head." He shrugged disarmingly.

The futurist raised an eyebrow, "Indeed? Well, perhaps I am mistaken." He dismissed the matter with a wave of his hand, but suspicion lurked in his eyes. The serving-boy arrived with a tapered glass of some viscous, purple liqueur. The futurist produced a burgeoning silk purse and dropped a silver coin into the boy's outstretched hand. Then, with an alarmed look at Yrtovis Grehnn, he quickly tucked the purse back in his pocket. He took a sip of his drink and relaxed slightly. Yrtovis Grehnn bided his time.

The fat man's capacity for alcohol was amazing, but not infinite. The candle was guttering on the verge of extinction and Yrtovis Grehnn was staring blearily at the five empty mugs before him. The futurist, who had spent the entire evening boasting of this feat and that, put down his seventh drink and leaned amiably towards the thief. His speech was noticeably slurred. "I bet you think I came here on a horse, don't you, Well, you're wrong: it was an iguanadon. Presented to me for excellent service by the Grand Duke of Kantor..."

Yrtovis Grehnn's mind snapped back into focus. He had heard of such beasts before. They were giant lizards of extraordinary strength which could be trained to carry heavy loads of goods or riders. They were also known for their exceedingly unpleasant dispositions. Such a beast would suit his present needs most admirably.

The futurist droned drunkenly on. "...could attempt to control an iguanadon. Only he who possesses the chi-stick can safely approach the beast. He rummaged about in his valise for a moment and withdrew a wooden rod which was tipped with carbon at one end: silver at the other. The polished surface in between was intricately carved with mysterious and powerful runes. The futurist glanced furtively about and held the wand up for Yrtovis Grehnn's inspection. "The chi-stick has been finely attuned with the cosmic forces of heaven and earth, represented by these caps of silver and carbon. The inscriptions help these forces to merge and form an emanation which renders the iguanadon docile and obedient. Would you care to examine them more closely?" Once again suspicious fire's leapt in the futurist's eyes.

Controlling an initial urge to snatch the rod and run, the thief realized that he must proceed carefully. He held up a hand and shook his head emphatically. "Oh no, I couldn't: such affairs are far beyond the likes of me. Magic, you know; it gives me a chill." He feigned a shiver.

The futurist seemed pleased with this response and once more resumed a friendly mien. "Oh, but I insist! You have been a most excellent fellow to share your table and your time with a rogue like me; it's the least I can do to show you a marvel or two.

Now here, have a glance: I assure you it won't bite!" He thrust the rod into the thief's hands.

At once, Yrtovis Grehnn felt a strange vibration of power in the wood and he dropped the stick as though it were a venomous snake. As the futurist burst into bellows of laughter, the thief apologized profusely and crawled under the table to retrieve the stick. He soon found it and, with deft movements only somewhat slowed by alcohol, he popped off the two caps and replaced them at opposite ends of the staff. The vibration in the wood ceased.

Yrtovis Grehnn resumed his place at the table and handed the rod back to the futurist, who was finishing off his drink between outbursts of laughter. He failed to notice the change in the chi-stick. The thief smiled to himself and made his next move. "I don't mean to presume, sir, but I would dearly love to see this beast of yours and your mastery over it. Would you consider a demonstration?"

The futurist beamed. "Certainly! My pleasure! Let us proceed at once!" He lurched to his feet and headed for the door. Yrtovis Grehnn followed anxiously on the heels of the futurist and soon found himself standing beneath the cold gaze of the moon outside in the courtyard. The chill, fresh air was marred by a musty odor, like that of a damp, unused cellar. The fat man stopped abruptly, causing a collision with the eager thief. The futurist raised a finger to his lips for quiet and pointed at the shadows ahead. "There it is," he whispered, "do not awaken it suddenly, or we are both dead men! "

The thief nodded his understanding and quietly held his ground. He peered into the darkness, trying to get a better look at the creature. As his alcohol-numbed senses began to clear in the fresh air, he was able to discern the dim outlines of the sleeping lizard. It was half-again as large as a horse, with four powerful limbs and a short, thick tail. Its hide was leathery and wrinkled. A bulky saddle and a bridle were still in place on the creature which, despite its size, did not appear extraordinarily dangerous.

The futurist spoke once more, "I will now arouse the beast," he said confidently, "and with the chi-stick I shall bend its will to my own. Stand back and behold." He flourished the rod and stepped forward. Instantly, two pale green glints appeared in the shadows: the iguanadon had awakened. The monster gave a defiant hiss and rose to its taloned feet. Unafraid, the futurist brandished the sabotaged chi-stick before him and reached out for the bridle.

With a guttural roar, the iguanadon slashed out a forelimb and batted the powerless stick from the fat man's hand. The chi-stick clattered on the courtyard stones some distance away. Yrtovis Grehnn began edging toward that spot. Meanwhile, the futurist, whose arm had been broken by the blow, had come to realize the precariousness of his present situation. He began to scream. As he turned to run, the creature sprang upon his back and bore him forcefully to the ground. The impact knocked the futurist senseless: mercifully, since the iguanadon now methodically began to rake his back with its talons.

The commotion had brought all the inn's occupants running out to the courtyard, where they now stood futilely cursing and throwing stones at the creature. The beast paused in its dissection of the futurist to examine this new irritation. Its continually darting tongue flicked out in the direction of the crowd and it hissed once again.

Having located the chi-stick and returned the two caps to their original positions, Yrtovis Grehnn was relieved to feel the strange vibration slowly returning. As dramatically as possible, the thief stepped out of the shadows, raised the stick and shouted, "Back!"

The iguanadon twisted around to face him and curled back its slavering lips in rage, but as it sensed the sorcerous vibrations of the chi-stick, its head drooped, and it crept docilely back from the futurist's unconscious bulk.

There was a murmur of awe from the crowd, but the inn-keeper stepped forward saying, "What is the meaning of this disturbance? What manner of deviltry is going on in my courtyard?"

Keeping one eye on the lizard, Yrtovis Grehnn turned his head toward the innkeeper, "This man here," he pointed accusingly at the prone futurist, "has unwisely attempted to steal my mount. Fortunately for him, I arrived in time to quell the beast and save his thieving skin. Be so good as to take him within and administer to his wounds. For myself, I have had enough of this place, and shall be leaving post-haste, just as soon as my baggage has been stowed." The thief reached into his cloak with his free hand and pulled out the futurist's fat purse. He tossed it casually towards the innkeeper. "Here," he said, "I believe that should cover all expenses."

The inn-keeper's eyes bulged, and he quickly pocketed the purse.

Shall we have the local constabulary called for this one?" He jerked a thumb towards the futurist.

Yrtovis Grehnn shook his head. "No, I believe he has been punished enough for his actions. I only hope that this will serve to mend his thieving ways. Now I must hasten, please have my baggage brought down immediately." The thief snapped his fingers and the innkeeper hurried to obey.

As the iguanadon slowly picked its way up the rocky mountainside under the weight of a rider and two voluminous packs, Yrtovis Grehnn contented himself with thoughts of the flaming beauty of the gem which he sought. The mountain that they were scaling was known as Kyr-Akkorish, and was actually the cone of a dormant volcano; its rubble strewn slopes composed of hardened ash and lava flows, Lo0se rocks and fissures made progress slow and treacherous even for the lizard, whose short, powerful legs were ideally suited to such a climb.

The cone was not a high one, and it was not long before the master thief's steed was scrambling through a jagged breach at its crest. Once through this gap, Yrtovis Grehnn found himself on the verge of a shallow crater. Its smoothly undulating surface was laced with a network of stagnant pools and black, ragged fissures. The thief smiled with grim satisfaction at this sight and began to urge the lizard downslope.

Near the center of the crater stretched a chasm wider than the rest: it was toward this that Yrtovis Grehnn made his way. The chasm yawned its black emptiness toward the thief like the shattered jaw of a skull. He shuddered as he gazed into its ominous depths. With a light blow of the chi-stick, he halted the lizard and coaxed it into a crouch, He jumped to the ground and began the lengthy task of unpacking and assembling his equipment. Chief of this was a small, flat-bottomed platform with which the thief planned to lower himself into the now cold heart of Kyr-Akkorish, until he reached the cavern within which lay the glorious gem of the Fire Elemental, He quickly fitted the pre-cut, hardwood planks together and began to nail on thin sheets of metal: armor plating to protect the wood should the volcano prove less dormant than it appeared on the surface.

Once this was accomplished, Yrtovis Grehnn hammered two steel spikes into the ground at the edge of the fissure. To these were securely fastened metal pulleys with which the thief would lower himself and his platform into the pit. He tied a stout rope to one end of the barge-like platform, ran it through the two pulleys, and then attached it to a small winch which was bolted to the other end of the structure. He would now be able to control his descent by slowly paying out the rope and, hopefully, could pull himself back up to the surface when the time came.

Now Yrtovis Grehnn began to don the protective clothing that he hoped would shield him from the heat and noxious gases of Kyr-Akkorish. From out of his worn pack he drew a glittering, tinkling mass: a specially made suit of metal scales, polished mirror bright to reflect the heat of the volcano. Beneath this, for insulation, the thief would wear a shirt and breeches stuffed with strips of linen, which he presently soaked with water from his drinking-flask. Having finished with this, he donned an old basinet, its hinged faceguard full of more damp rags. This would cool the air that he breathed and filter out most of the poisonous fumes.

Yrtovis Grehnn placed his almost empty pack on the platform, which he had lowered a short distance into the chasm. Stepping cautiously down onto the platform, he undid the knot that held it in place, gave the sleeping lizard a brave salute, and slowly began to let out the rope. The platform sank with loud scraping noises into the darkness below: a darkness which was scarcely daunted by the flickering lantern on the thief's hip. He looked up and watched the strip of daylight above him contract to a thin line.

He felt a sickening sensation in his stomach as that last glimpse of the upper world passed from view.

The thief continued to lower himself hand over hand. The only signs of movement were the swiftly shrinking coils of rope on the platform; he had begun with four large piles, two remained. But it was not until he was well into the last pile that Yrtovis Grehnn felt a warm gust on his hands and saw that he had come to an opening in the wall of the fissure. A sullen orange glow, like that in a smithy, filled the passage which disappeared to the right after a short distance.

The thief smiled inside his basinet; this was what the legends had said he would find: a tunnel leading to the cavern where lay the gem of the Fire Elemental. He quickly made fast the rope so that the platform would remain where it was: suspended over a bottomless abyss. Gathering up his pack, the thief leaped nimbly across the short gap to the passageway beyond. His lamp no longer necessary because of the ruddy glow in the tunnel, the thief proceeded towards the source of the light. A few moments later, he emerged into a low-ceilinged cavern whose smooth, obsidian floor was broken at intervals by small, cone-shaped fumaroles. From the mouths of these there spewed a dingy looking vapor which drifted sluggishly along the floor, past Yrtovis Grehnn, and down the tunnel. The acrid smell of sulfur reached the thief's nose even through the damp cloths, and his eyes began to smart in the shadowy depths of the helmet.

As he peered about the chamber through watering eyes, Yrtovis Grehnn suddenly beheld an eerie sight; there was one fumarole much larger than the rest, which spewed not vapor, but a huge flame. It was blue at the bottom and orange red at its flickering tip.

There at its center, suspended and unharmed, floated the massive, blood-red ruby which was the gem of the Fire Elemental.

As sweat began to run in tickling streams down his body, Yrtovis Grehnn quickly opened his pack and put on thick leather gloves. He then pulled out a pair of bronze tongs and an asbestos lined hardwood box which would receive the fiery gem. The thief approached the giant fumarole and, with one deft motion, thrust the tongs into the inferno and plucked the gem from its midst.

Even as he dropped it into the waiting box, he felt the ground shudder beneath him, and the jet of flame leapt up angrily, scorching the cavern's ceiling. As a deep rumbling began in the bowels of the earth, Yrtovis Grehnn fled with his prize.

When he reached his platform, he found it dancing crazily in the air as a hot, violent wind shot up from the shaft below. The thief hesitated for an instant and then, throwing caution aside, made a desperate leap for the platform. He came down hard and only saved himself from sliding off by grabbing onto one of the ropes.

In a frenzy of terror, the thief regained his feet, loosened the safety knot, and began to haul frantically on the rope. The platform rose swiftly towards the surface, but Yrtovis Grehnn knew by the rushing, roaring sound beneath him that something else was rising even faster.

Something faintly resilient struck the metal bottom of the platform and the thief was knocked off his feet. He lay sprawled on his back, staring in horrified fascination as the patch of skylight above swelled in size. The heat which seeped through his protective clothing was becoming intolerable. He looked at his gloves: they were smoking, as was the wood of the platform. The rope had burned away completely.

With an explosion of expanding gases, the platform burst out of the fissure on a fountain of cherry-colored lava. Other lava-bleeding cracks had opened in the crater's bottom, which was swiftly becoming a sea of molten rock. The platform crashed down in the midst of this and was buoyed up by the porridge-like viscosity of the stuff. Yrtovis Grehnn still clung desperately to the platform. He was stunned from the impact of his landing and half-choked by the smoke and fumes which filled the torrid air. Steam now rose from the damp rags beneath his suit of scales; he felt as though he were being cooked alive. He wondered for a moment what had become of the iguanadon. He knew that he could not endure the wrath of the Fire Elemental for much longer.

The platform gave a sickening lurch and dipped dangerously at one end. The smoke cleared somewhat, and Yrtovis Grehnn saw that he was now being swept rapidly down the side of the volcano; the lava had oozed through the breach in the rim of the cone and was now making its relentless way to the valley below. The thief looked about him and noticed tiny flames licking up around the edges of the platform. He felt the blistering of his skin beneath his scorched clothes and the agony of his tortured lungs was doubled with every breath. With heat-weakened arms, he somehow managed to remove his suit of metal scales. Half mad with pain and fear, his eyes rolled back, Yrtovis Grehnn fainted, oblivious to the expansive, hissing roar which came from somewhere ahead. It was the sound which marked his deliverance: for there, about the feet of mighty Kyr-Akkorish, wound the wide and languid river, Qwynlor-ap-Ool into which the lava found its way.

The platform, caught fast in the grip of the congealing lava, was dragged through the hissing, billowing clouds of steam, into the cool water of the river, and was lost forever. Yrtovis Grehnn, however, was shocked back to consciousness by the water's chill and, still clutching his precious pack, he drifted unresistingly downstream to safety.

It is not important to know how Yrtovis Grehnn came into possession of the small, sleek sailing-craft that he now plied over the restless Southern Sea. Suffice it to say that his unusual talents were involved in its acquisition. The crumpled sea-chart by which he was presently navigating had also been obtained in this manner. The thief was on his way to his final goal: Syr-Wyshlan, Circle in The Sea, where the gem of the Water Elemental lay hidden.

He was now well-healed from his near-fatal encounter with Kyr-Akkorish, and the irrepressible drive to steal was goading him on once more. He had been rescued, half-drowned, from the river Qwynlor-ap-Ool, by two fishermen. Thinking he was a magician, or a god, they treated him with utmost respect, guarding his battered pack and nursing his equally abused body back to health. They looked at his terrible burns and named him Alduun-Lor, Son of Fire and Water. The thief had thanked them by stealing their only horse, which they would have given to him freely, had he asked.

The master thief scanned the horizon with a spyglass made of brass and froze suddenly as his objective swung into view. There, a short distance to starboard, he could make out the rocky shapes of a group of small islands: islands which formed a protected circle in the middle of the seas Syr-Wyshlan.

Minutes later, Yrtovis Grehnn had guided his small craft into the placid waters at the interior of this circle. The sea here was a brilliant blue-green and very shallow: a complex maze of coral reefs and grottoes. The thief sailed his ship to the exact center of the circle, which was marked by a patch of darker blue where the sea-bottom subsided several leagues beneath the surface.

With a heave, Yrtovis Grehnn sent the rust encrusted anchor over the side, and watched as it vanished in a trail of bubbles. Satisfied that the ship would not go drifting about the ocean, he turned his attention to the weighted oak-barrel which was to serve as his diving-bell. It had been carefully caulked with a tar made from pine resin and was attached to a good length of stout rope. Using a small winch, the thief now lowered the barrel into the water, open end down, taking care not to let it tip and spill any of its precious contents. He let it drop slowly until the rope went slack and it was on the bottom. Then he cranked several arm-lengths of rope back into the boat and secured it so that the barrel would be hung a short distance from the seabed. All was ready for his descent.

Yrtovis Grehnn stripped to his loincloth and bound a sheathed dagger and a leather pouch to his waist. Since the legends maintained that the gem rested in the fleshy jaws of a giant shell of some sort, the thief had procured a stout iron bar with which to prop the mollusk open while he relieved it of its priceless burden. Taking this bar in one hand, he bent down and picked up a large stone which would carry him swiftly to the bottom. The thief took several deep breaths and dove overboard.

The water was warm and very salty. Yrtovis Grehnn kept his eyes open as he sank and was able to see reasonably well, though everything was somewhat blurred. Even as his stone touched bottom and his lungs began to ache for air, the thief caught sight of the barrel, suspended not far away. With strong, smooth strokes, he made his way to it and burst with a gasp into its interior. His breathing echoed noisily in that confined space, and he began to feel trapped. He could only allow himself the luxury of two deep breaths before he propelled himself back to the seabed to search for the gem of the Water Elemental.

Long blades of kelp swayed in a languid dance around the thief, accompanied by darting schools of brightly colored fish. Crabs could be seen creeping over the sandy bottom, their claws held ready for battle. But nowhere was there any sign of the bivalve which was said to hold the gem. After his third return to the shrinking air pocket in the barrel, Yrtovis Grehnn began to entertain thoughts of returning to the surface. Grimly determined, however, he decided to make one last attempt to find the gem before beginning the entire search again. Drawing the last of the barrel's air into his lungs, he struck out along the bottom. From out of the green murk ahead there suddenly appeared a large white object which slowly resolved into a giant clam. The thief's amazement at the size of the thing was quickly subdued by the realization of what it held within its open valves: the sea-green emerald which was the gem of the Water Elemental.

Without wasting another second, Yrtovis Grehnn propped open the two halves of that mighty shell with his iron bar and snatched the gem from its fleshy cushion. Even as he withdrew his arm from the threat of those powerful jaws, he saw with shock that the iron bar was slowly bending beneath the unearthly pressure that was being exerted upon it. His lungs beginning to throb, the thief stuffed the gem into the pouch on his hip and headed for the surface as fast as he could swim.

Something pliant and slippery wrapped itself around one of his legs and immediately arrested his ascent. The thief drew his dagger instinctively and struck out at his assailant. The blade sliced cleanly through a kelp frond which had somehow got wound around his ankle. At that same instant, another kelp entangled his knife wrist. Panic filled the thief as he realized that the kelp's actions were not accidental: they were guided by some greater will. Switching the dagger to his free hand, he began to hack at the rubbery plant. It was thicker and tougher than the first, and by the time he finally cut through it he felt as though his lungs were on fire. His frantically thrashing limbs avoided the grasp of other kelp blades as he propelled himself upwards once again.

A strange, groaning vibration began to fill the sea, and when his head broke the surface, Yrtovis Grehnn saw that the placid waters of Syr-Wyshlan had grown dangerously choppy. He dragged himself, gasping and choking, into his bobbing craft. Without waiting to recover, he quickly raised anchor and cut the rope that tethered the barrel. Then he collapsed onto a crate and sat there panting.

Suddenly, Yrtovis Grehnn began to laugh. It began as a snicker, grew to a chuckle, and soon became gales of triumphant laughter.

He was victorious! After all these months of struggling, he had finally accomplished the grandest theft possible; he had stolen the gems of all four Elementals! Now his life was complete: he was fulfilled. Yrtovis Grehnn laughed...and the waves grew larger.

Intoxicated with success, the master thief ignored the threatening ocean and began to rummage wildly through his pack. Now was the moment he had waited and planned for, for so long! From his pack he drew two boxes, a bundle of black velvet and four finely crafted silver stands. He arranged the stands at the corners of the crate on which he had been sitting. Using delicate silver tongs, he began to place the gems, one by one, upon the stands. First, from its well-insulated box, came the frosty amethyst of the Air Elemental. Next, the glittering diamond of the Earth Elemental was removed from its velvet bed and set into place. Then, the blazing ruby of the Fire Elemental was taken from its asbestos-lined container and placed on a stand. And finally, balancing himself against the wild bucking of the boat, Yrtovis Grehnn opened the pouch at his hip and deposited the rich green emerald of the Water Elemental on the remaining stand. The set was complete. He smiled.

The master thief's smile was quickly transformed to a look of dismay, however, for at that moment a great wave struck the ship broadside and half rolled it over. The thief was knocked over by the impact as were the four stands that held the gems. As he lay helpless on his back amid a tangle of gear and supplies, Yrtovis Grehnn watched the four gems clatter on the top of the crate and bounce down to the floor-planking of the ship. With almost detached interest, he watched the amethyst and the ruby roll directly towards one another on a collision course. One fiery hot, the other freezing cold. Hot, cold...opposites.

Too late his memory clicked: "Beware the meeting of opposites!" His doom was upon him.

The two gems came together in an incandescent blaze and an explosion. A black thundercloud billowed up and hovered ominously above the ship. The Air Elemental had come for its vengeance.

A skeletal finger of lightning lanced down and blasted the ship's tiller into a stump of charred, burning wood, The Fire Elemental, too, had arrived. Yrtovis Grehnn cowered in the front of the craft, his levin-blinded eyes and deafened ears no comfort against the destruction which he could feel around him. The flaming ship was tossed about by the raging sea like a leaf in a cataract. There was a tremendous roaring which rose above the noise of the flames and the waves. From out of the turbulent depths came a jagged pinnacle of rock, thrusting like a fang ready to impale the helpless ship. The Earth Elemental, too, hungered for revenge. In answer, the froth-crested waves swept the craft mercilessly onwards to its doom. Amidst the chaotic tumult of the elements gone mad, the tiny vessel's hull was dashed and broken upon the rock. Its shattered shell tumbled back into the water, and slipped slowly down, taking Yrtovis Grehnn and his hard-won gems with it, beneath the waves.

The Crimson King pounded the armrests of his throne with meaty fists, shouting, "Bravo! Bravo! Excellently told, fellow, excellently told!" He radiated a ruddy effulgence of enthusiasm. "I for one am glad we struck this bargain with the Wanderer, are you not also, my subjects?" he asked imperiously. All the sane members of the Court wagged their heads in agreement, save the Fire-Witch who, much more subdued than usual, sat thoughtfully gazing at the scintillating sparks in her robes.

The Crimson King bristled at the insult of her silence and said indignantly, "Well, Witch? The stories do not please you then? Would you prefer boredom?"

The Fire-Witch lifted her head defiantly, but her voice was a mixture of sadness and fear. "My liege, there are some things much worse than mere boredom..." her words trailed off cryptically.

The King's brow wrinkled, "What do you mean, woman? Speak clearly, or not at all!" he demanded, impatiently.

"Well, my lord," she said with a sideways glance at the Wanderer, "what I mean is: something strange is happening here. I believe that he," she inclined her head toward the Wanderer, who sat unmoving, "is not as he has said." There ensued a moment of apprehensive silence during which the Wanderer regarded the Fire-Witch with new respect, though his features remained shrouded in shadow.

The Crimson King finally cleared his throat uncomfortably, "Why, that's utter nonsense! Pure imagination! Furthermore, you have insulted an honored guest of this Court," he gave the Wanderer a glance that was at once uneasy and apologetic, "and I shall hear no more of it! Now, can we please get on with the next story!" he looked about for a volunteer. The Fire-Witch wisely demurred from pursuing the point and lapsed back into an anxious silence.

As he surveyed the room, the King glanced quickly past the wisemen, who had already taken their turns, failing to notice the fresh wrinkles which now marred the faces of all three. His potent gaze settled upon the eager countenance of the Juggler, who promptly laid down his assortment of lost hopes and forgotten dreams and said, "I think I shall tell my tale, if I may, though I dare say it's not as weighty as some we have heard thus far. It concerns dragons...."

# Chapter 8: Here there be Dragons

Thrax Hessengrim was no ordinary man, he was a Slayer of Dragons. At least, that is what he called himself, and those who knew no better readily accepted his claim. In fact, the name Thrax Dragon-slayer was respected in many places: both in the Lands

of Men and the Land of Dream. People could often be heard chastising their children to be brave like the mighty Thrax, or warning them that if they misbehaved, Thrax would bring a dragon to devour them. Thus, it was that many a child was weaned on grand tales of Thrax's courageous doings, and they grew up in awe of him. In fact, Thrax Hessengrim had never seen a dragon—except a stuffed one, gathering dust and moths in the Royal Museum of Chalcra.

Thrax's interest in dragons had begun as a child, when he used to listen intently to his grandfather's stories of the terrifying great-lizards that once roamed the Lands of Men. These creatures, with their fearsome teeth and claws, had ravaged the countryside searching for the tasty human flesh on which they loved to feed.

They had come from the east: from the Land of Dream, and for many years their numbers increased, and they flourished. They quickly became the scourge of the countryside; only the stone-walled strongholds of the land offered reasonable protection from the beasts' fury. Many a knight in the blossom of his youth and many seasoned veterans fell before the dragons' onslaught. For years, the mighty reptiles roamed unchecked through the Lands of Men. But then, after the White Years—a period of extremely harsh winters which saw snow practically year-round—the dragons suddenly became fewer and less bothersome. Their cold-blooded metabolisms could not tolerate low temperatures; they grew sluggish and unable to hunt down what little prey remained. They continued to decrease, and reports of their marauding became rare: some said that they had returned to the Land of Dream. But the legends of the dragons lived on, fostered by men such as Thrax's grandfather, who had survived their reign of terror.

Once he was of age and strong enough to wield a two-handed broadsword and a lance--the weapons of the dragon-hunter--Thrax set out to pursue the career that he had chosen for himself. He journeyed through countless towns and villages, but none had any need for his services, no dragons having been seen thereabouts for years, They preferred instead, once they knew he was a serious dragon slayer, to gather round and pester him for stories of his greatest adventures. It did not matter to Thrax that he had had none, for in his mind he had fought hundreds of dire battles against his reptilian enemies, and it was these stories that he related with much solemnity to his eager audiences. In return, he was given food and lodging, and all the ale needed to make the tales satisfyingly outrageous. In this manner, years of Thrax's life passed and his reputation grew, while still he had not encountered any dragons.

It gradually became obvious to Thrax that there were no dragons to be found west of the Land of Dream. Accordingly, he decided to journey to that mysterious land and pursue the objects of his quest there. Full of confidence that he would at last put his well-rehearsed skills to use, Thrax crossed over to the Land of Dream by way of a narrow pass through the Mountains of Meerqua. This he judged to be a less hazardous route than those more southerly ones across the Tyrskan Salt Plains and the Qodjai Sea. He arrived at his destination without incident and began to visit the hamlets of the area. Immediately, a discouragingly familiar pattern appeared; everyone wanted to learn of his exploits, but none had heard tell of any dragons. Time passed.

One day, Thrax was given lodging by a prominent merchant and caravan owner who had often, on his journeys, heard mention of Thrax's name. The man was an extraordinary fellow, quite jovial and interesting to talk to. After a hearty meal, he and Thrax retired to the smoking-room for a glass of fine brandy. The hearth fire was coaxed into exuberance and the two settled into over-stuffed chairs and began to converse. The merchant sucked placidly on an ivory pipe and watched the flames dancing in the hearth.

"Dragons, eh? Now there's a word that sparks the imagination. There's something downright unearthly about dragons, you know—something queer. Not that I've ever seen one mind you, but I've heard, oh yes, I've heard. Usually in connection with your name, I might add," he mused.

Thrax just smiled and took another sip of his brandy, enjoying the warm sensation that was spreading over him. The merchant looked over and wagged the stem of his pipe at Thrax. "You've been at it for a long time Thrax, why—you're a veteran. Though, I must say, business must be slow for you nowadays."

Thrax laughed heartily at this. "You make me sound like an old man, my friend: are you suggesting I retire?" He fixed an accusing eye on his host.

The merchant looked abashed and began to shake his head vigorously. "Oh heavens, no! I meant no such thing. Ah, what I'd give for a build like yours: all that muscle. You couldn't be in better health. But look, this dragon-hunting business, it's for young, reckless men who don't mind taking chances and sleeping without a roof over their heads. Don't you ever intend to settle down and raise a family? You can't chase dragons forever, man." The merchant sank back into his chair and waited for the other's reply.

Thrax shrugged and, staring at his glass, said, "Dragons are everything to me: my entire life. I was born to hunt dragons, and hunting dragons I shall die."

The merchant pursed his lips, saying, "Ah well, to each man his own pleasure, be that as it may. But look, I've something to show you from my last trip up north." With visible excitement, the merchant rose, crossing the room to an old chest. He produced a slender key from his vest pocket and proceeded to unlock the chest. The lid swung back; he reached inside and, with great effort, lifted some massive object from its resting place. Shuffling under its weight, the merchant returned with the object cradled in his arms and laid it on the table beside Thrax. He wiped his brow with a handkerchief, saying, "How do you like that? I suppose you've seen plenty of them, but you'll have to admit this one's a fine specimen."

Thrax stared at the object before him in disbelief. It did not take much imagination to realize what it was: the bleached skull of a dragon. Thrax examined one of the shadowy sockets, set far back, and wondered what the living eye must have looked like. Running a hesitant finger over the brow-ridge, he traced the smooth, ivory curve of the horns. A second, smaller horn sprouted on the snout from between the broad nasal apertures. The twin rows of wolfish teeth were clenched in an evil grin.

The merchant's concerned voice interrupted Thrax's reverie.

"Is something wrong? It, it's not a fake, is it?"

Thrax quickly recovered his composure. "Oh, no, no of course not. It's just, as you said, a fine specimen." He drained the rest of his brandy in a gulp. The merchant beamed and nodded his head rapidly, his double-chins quivering. Feeling somewhat better, Thrax continued, as casually as possible, "Where did you come across it?"

The merchant clapped his pudgy hands together with joy, saying, "Well, I'll tell you: like I said, it was on my last trip up north, with thirty carts full of goods from Karbesh, Lyrca, Dalooth, and other, even more remote places. I had stopped for fresh meat at a small hunting village near the mountains...Galn, I believe it was called. There was an old hunter there who took a keen interest in a Merulian bow I had and offered me this skull in trade for it. He claimed that it had magical powers and would give me strength. When I asked him where he had gotten it, he replied that he found it in a nearby cave when he was a youth. I tried to persuade him to take me there, thinking that there might be more skulls laying around, but he flatly refused, saying that the place was the home of other dragons. Nothing could make him change his mind, so I finally had to give up on the idea and be satisfied with this one prize." He indicated the skull on the table.

Hiding his excitement with difficulty, Thrax yawned and said, "I should be getting to bed soon: I'm leaving tomorrow, and I want to get an early start."

The merchant looked dismayed, then shrugged, saying, "Very well, if you must. But first, tell me once more about the time you slew three buck-dragons with naught but a dagger and a length of rope...."

Thrax Hessingrim rode into the tiny hamlet of Galn fully armed and resplendent in gleaming bronze. His horse was a fierce apparition to the awed village-folk as it reared and snorted its defiance.

Thrax dismounted and strode purposefully up to the oldest looking man in the crowd, who had an unmistakably Merulian bow hung across his back. From within his burnished helm, the dragon-hunter's voice boomed menacingly. "Where are the dragons?" The entire crowd hushed and stepped back a pace, and Thrax noticed that the fellow before him was shaking with more than age. Thrax glanced at the dwellings around him; all were squat and made of stone, unlike the temporary wooden huts common to most hunting tribes.

These people obviously feared something.

The old man had fallen to his knees and was proceeding to scratch a crude map in the dirt. Thrax bent down, his leather gear creaking, to examine the man's work. The old man pointed to a small circle. "We are here," he said, looking up at Thrax.

He then indicated a group of 'x's. "This is old forest," he thrust a bony finger northward, "that way: a half-day's walk. Beyond that, a lake and mountains: the home of the dragons."

The last word was hissed through clenched teeth. The man then eyed Thrax's armor and his broadsword, and looked hopefully at the warrior, his yellow teeth bared in a persuasive, ragged grin. "You will kill dragon? Yes?" He began to nod enthusiastically. Thrax rose and returned to his horse. He swung up into the saddle with amazing ease for a man in armor and saluted the villagers with a mailed fist. He then nudged the horse forward, along a winding path that led, relentlessly, northwards.

It was late afternoon; soft golden light filtered down through the leaves, painting shadowy mosaics on the forest floor. The route had been easy, though relatively untraveled, but Thrax

had proceeded cautiously, his lance poised for action. His eyes roved the forest's depths on either side, half-expecting a dragon to appear from behind every gnarled bole. But the only movement was that of insects and an occasional bird. Nevertheless, a nagging feeling that he was being observed dogged Thrax, and he took to glancing nervously over his shoulder.

He had decided to make for the forest's edge before camping, hopefully within sight of the lake and the mountains. Just as he was beginning to worry about reaching this goal by nightfall, the trees began to thin, and the path widened. A short way beyond, Thrax could see the purple humps of distant mountains through the trees. He dropped his lance-tip earthwards and urged his horse into a trot. At that moment, something huge and heavy slammed

into him from behind and he was knocked head-over-heels from his mount. He lay stunned in a pile of leaves and moss, shaking his head dazedly. His horse screamed with fear and bolted, its hoof-beats fading into the distance. Even as Thrax looked up, something grey-green rushed down on him for a second time, and he felt strong talons grasp his armored mid-section. It was a dragon.

Thrax's triple layered armor: cotton, leather and brass, prevented the dragon's talons from puncturing, but the sheer weight of the beast and the power of its grip were coming close to crushing him. The knight watched with fear-widened eyes as the dragon stretched its muscular forelimbs forward, grasped him by the shoulders, and drew his head toward its gaping jaws. A wave of fetid breath engulfed Thrax as those massive teeth rang deafeningly, but harmlessly, off his helmet. With one free hand, Thrax grasped his mace and, with as much force as he could muster in that awkward position, struck the dragon sharply on the side of its massive head. The mace glanced off the beast's armored skull, but the force of the blow must have been painful. An image of rage and frustration exploded through Thrax's mind and he was stunned, for the emotions were primitive and raw: certainly not his own. He found himself staring for a moment into the dragon's huge, slit-pupiled eyes before it cast him down and leapt screaming into the air. Breathing heavily, Thrax watched as the beast vanished among the treetops, borne on leathery wings towards the distant mountains.

By the time Thrax found his horse, he had worked out a plan of action. Since the dragon was obviously too cunning and cowardly to engage him while he was armed, he would have to trick and capture it before he could dispatch the vile creature. He spent the night in a thicket so that he could not be taken by surprise. Thrax kept his armor on and his sword drawn, for he knew that dragons were nocturnal creatures and that he would not be safe until the morning sun had risen far into the heavens.

When the light of dawn did begin to slant in golden beams through the forest, Thrax began his work. Using his axe, he felled many slender young trees and dragged their trimmed trunks out to the lakeshore. He then set about constructing a large cage, the bars of which were jointed and bound securely with hempen rope from his pack. When he was finished, Thrax eyed his work with satisfaction. The cage would not hold up long under the assault of an enraged dragon, but it would give him enough time to put a lance through its heart. Now the task was to disguise the trap so that the dragon could be lured into it. Thrax had brought with him a large tent, thinking that he would be dearly missing the comfortable sleeping arrangements that he had grown used to.

He now draped this tent over the cage, matching its front opening with the door of the cage. He then lit a small cook-fire at the center of the cage and hung his cloak on a stake to create the illusion that he was inside the tent, sitting beside the fire. His helmet and armor he left outside the tent's door, in full view to make the dragon believe that he was unprotected. Thrax tied his horse to a nearby bush and, taking his lance and sword in hand, concealed himself behind a ridge. It was not long before dusk brought the sound of ponderous wings and the shadowy shape of the dragon appeared in the darkening sky. It circled high above the fire-lit tent, seemingly trying to decide whether it was safe to attack. Whether out of desperation, carelessness or insensate hatred for human beings, the dragon finally folded its wings and plummeted like a vengeful comet towards the tent. At the last moment, it spread its wings to break its fall and darted into the opening of the tent.

Thrax was on his feet and running even before the reptile's whipping tail disappeared. He saw the dragon's silhouette thrashing about momentarily before it trampled the cook-fire out of existence. As he slammed the cage door shut and shot home the securing bolt, there came a moment of silence within the tent and then the dragon let out a piercing scream of anger and dismay. Grabbing a hold of the guy-ropes, Thrax drew the tent away from the cage and watched his captive dashing itself against the bars. But the poles were green and supple: they bent, but they did not break. Abruptly, the dragon ceased its struggles and sank into a dejected heap in one corner.

Thrax smiled grimly, levelled his lance at the dragon's breast, and began to advance. Sensing his approach, the creature raised one miserable eye to regard him woefully. There was something inexplicably compelling about that gaze; Thrax found himself standing still, his lance-tip wavering. A deeply sonorous voice rumbled through, his mind. "Surely, oh noble knight, you do not mean to skewer this tired old dragon with that nasty spike of yours, now do you?"

Thrax glanced from side to side in shock, but as his eyes returned to that ancient gaze, he knew that it was, indeed, the dragon who had spoken in his head.

Feeling somewhat foolish, the warrior replied, "Aye, and why, should I not? Twice already you have set upon me with ill intent: you have well-earned your fate." He raised his lance once more and took another step forward. The dragon's thoughts sounded more urgent.

"But kind sir, let me explain! That was all a regrettable mistake on my part; I thought you were one of those miserable hunters come to harass me again. I merely sought to frighten you away that I might live my few remaining years in peace. Can you imagine what it is like being hunted all the time-never knowing when some crafty bowman is going to take a shot at your weak old eye?" The dragon's head drooped with self-pity. There was something oddly persuasive about its words and that hypnotic stare. Thrax was beginning to feel a touch of compassion for the creature. But even as his resolution began to dissolve, he remembered his mission and what he had devoted his entire life to do.

"Know you, dragon, that I am Thrax Hessengrim: Dragon-Slayer, and I have come to put an end to the foul deeds of you and your kind." He threw back his head arrogantly.

The dragon shuddered briefly, and its eye became hooded for an instant. When the membranous lid slid back, it fixed its gaze even more intently on Thrax, its eye glistening in the cold light of the moon. "But I have committed no foul deeds, brave knight, and as for my kind, well, there are no others: I am the last."

Thrax was taken aback, he had not anticipated this, that the first dragon he encountered would also be the last. He spoke angrily, "You're the last? What became of the others, then?"

The dragon's thoughts dripped with melancholy. "Withered and wasted, every single one. Some were caught by the cold and put to sleep forever, others were killed by disease—and men. Now no one is left but I...poor, lonely, hungry me." Indeed, Thrax now noticed that the beast's ribs protruded starkly from beneath its wrinkled hide. Once again, he felt moved to pity. The dragon seemed to sense this, for it persisted. "Please, nice warrior, do not kill this helpless, harmless old dragon. Open this cruel cage and let me go; I promise not to bother you again."

Thrax became suspicious at this, "And how do I know you won't devour me as soon as I release you, eh?" his voice was unsure. The dragon smiled an ancient, evil smile and concentrated all its will in that probing gaze.

"Silly knight," it purred, "dragons do not even like man-food; it's too tough and flavorless. All it's been is roots and berries for me lately. Not bad, once you get used to them. See, you have nothing to fear; let me out and I'll go back to my dark cave: you'll see me no more."

Thrax was overcome by the reasonableness of this wretched creature; it surely was in miserable shape. The poor thing sounded almost child-like when it spoke of its loneliness and hunger. Besides, it was the last dragon, and if he killed the last dragon, he would have nothing left to live for. Such were the arguments which Thrax thought were of his own making. Beaming with kindness, the knight lowered his weapons. "Go free then, good dragon! Long may you live!" he said amiably as he slid back the bolt and stood with out-stretched arms beside the open door.

He was the best meal the dragon had had in months.

Several members of the Court showed expressions of distaste at the ending of the Juggler's tale. The Jester cackled shrilly to himself, then lapsed suddenly into silence as he rubbed absently at his joints. The mutterings of the wisemen were now little more than whispers, faint as the sound of a moth's wings beating on a windowpane. The gloom and shadow in which they sat concealed the profusion of new wrinkles that now creased their faces, where only a few lines had been before.

The Crimson King gave a derisive snort, saying, "Bah, that Hessin-whatever-his-name-was, was a fool! He had the damned beast at his mercy, all he needed to do was give it one good thrust with his lance and his life's aim would have been realized. How could he let such an opportunity slip by?" He shook his head in disgust.

The Wanderer turned to face the King and said, dryly, "But you, O'King, have never faced your own doom squarely, eye-to-eye yet, have you?" And with that, a stray beam of light penetrated the gloom beneath the brim of the Wanderer's hat and caused his eyes to flash menacingly for an instant. The Crimson King's attention was distracted from this disturbing apparition by a sudden wail from the Jester, who was rolling about on the floor.

"Oh, my knees!" he shrieked, "Oh my poor aching hands and back! I'm so stiff and sore!" he cried meekly.

"Bah!" retorted the King, "That's what you get for lying around all the time on the cold floor! If you sat in a chair like a civilized person you'd feel as hearty as I!" This would have been an impressive tirade had not the King broken into a fit of coughing immediately thereafter.

When the King had regained control, the Wanderer spoke in mocking tones, "If you are quite recovered, sire, I believe it is once again my turn to entertain." The King waved weakly for him to proceed.

"Thank you," the Wanderer said, sitting back and crossing his arms. "Now, my next tale is one I acquired whilst sojourning in the court of the Merulian Khan. It deals with clouds...."

# Chapter 9: The Towers of Yrkra

A young man perched on a rock beside a garden pool was absently flipping small stones into the water. The ripples slid swiftly to the edges of the pond, making his reflection dance and quiver. As the surface grew still, the image slowly returned to that of a serious looking, dark-haired man in his mid-twenties, gazing distractedly up out of the pond. His mouth was twisted in a slight frown of discontent and the unshaven stubble which surrounded it added to his generally unkempt appearance. Suddenly becoming aware of his own reflection, the man stopped frowning and smiled wryly; he wondered if anyone would believe that the ragged apparition in the pond was a prince. He gave a snort and tossed another stone.

Prince Jorl of Landen had long held a reputation for strangeness: a reputation which was well deserved. His behavior in the past had been unusual-to say the least. Nocturnal wandering were frequent occurrences; he was often found beyond the castle walls at dawn, his face smudged, and his clothes torn from thrashing through brambles. e He was known to sit on one of the castle's parapets for days on end, staring blankly into space as though longing for some unattainable goal. The common-folk shared many opinions on the cause of the young prince's strangeness, some blamed his parents, saying that they had mistreated him, some thought it was a result of his having been educated by the court magician Geryx, while still others believed that Prince Jorl was a changeling left behind by an evil wight, years before. None of them, however, knew that the real cause of Jorl's oddness was a Voice. The Voice had first come to him in dreams when he was a child. It had shown him images of the wonderous city in which it lived-a city which was built upon a cloud: pure white and perfect. The Voice had told fascinating tales about the beautiful inhabitants of that place, and the joyous pastimes that they occupied themselves with. As Prince Jorl grew older, his longing to see this magic city-which the Voice called Yrkra-grew stronger and stronger. Everything else paled by comparison; the young prince soon lost interest in the real world around him and became completely obsessed with reaching his dream city.

A sudden shiver made the prince aware that the sun was nearing the horizon and that the air had turned chill. He cast one last stone, dusted himself off, and headed back to the castle. He saw the wan, yellow light which shone through the windows of the fortress and smelled the scents of the scullery; it was almost time for the evening meal. The prince acknowledged the guards as he strode through the gate and then made his way to the dining hall. The passages of the great castle were deserted: everyone was involved in preparing, serving and eating the meal. As Prince Jorl stepped into the crowded dining hall there was a momentary lull in conversation as the feasters' eyes turned his way. Most of the castle's inhabitants simply ignored the prince, making a habit of avoiding him whenever possible. Although he had done no harm to anyone, many of the courtiers despised him as an inferior in a superior position. Seeing a beckoning arm, Prince Jorl made his way to the long table at the center of the room.

The person who had summoned him was one of his father's generals, the now retired commander of the guard. He was a jocular, honest fellow who had befriended the young prince despite his strangeness, taking the lad hunting and training him in the use of arms. It was during the warm moments of comradeship with this man that Jorl came closest to escaping the nagging feeling of emptiness that constantly plagued him.

"Have a seat, my boy! Dig in before it gets cold!" he said, clapping the prince on the back. Jorl smiled and sat down. As usual, he had no appetite, although the roasts and fresh vegetables looked delicious. He picked absently at his food, occasionally sipping some wine. Oblivious to his young friend's distracted behavior, the old warrior kept talking. "And where were you all day? Looked high and low for you—wanted you to come hunting with me. Ahh, you should have been there, dropped me an eight-point buck: cleanest shot I've ever fired—it was beautiful!"

The prince half-listened to his friend, nodding from time to time and making appreciative gasps when necessary. Mostly though, he stared into the depths of his crystal wine glass. Finally, his companion relented in his conversation, noticed that the prince's mood was even more morose than usual, and inquired, "What's the trouble, boy? You don't look well today. I swear it's your being alone all the time...it ain't healthy. Why don't you try associating more with people-even commoners?"

Jorl shook his head and picked at the crumbs on his plate. With effort, he turned agonized eyes to his friend. "It's the dreams, Danaal, every night now...the Voice calling me...I think I'm losing my mind!" he clenched his fists in mixed fear and frustration.

The rugged veteran regarded the prince with concern, but his craggy features suddenly brightened, and he said encouragingly, "Don't worry! These things always pass with time! Why, when I was a boy, I had the same nightmare every night for a week-something about being stalked by a skelter through the Ifskan Marsh. It was terrible-I woke up screaming and damn near soiled the bedding, by Gaar! Then it stopped, just as suddenly as it began. Never bothered me since." He flashed his reassuring, gap-toothed grin and drained his goblet of wine.

Prince Jorl looked at him urgently. "It's more than a nightmare, Danaal. It doesn't end when I wake up. I think it's more like...a vision. I've been shown my destiny; there is a place that I must go, but I don't know how to get there." His head and shoulders sagged as though under a ponderous weight and he toyed absently with his empty goblet. Pursing his lips as he tried to make sense of what he had just heard, Danaal shook his head slowly and shrugged.

"I'm afraid this is beyond me, my Prince. Have you talked with old Geryx about it? Surely he would know what to do."

Jorl nodded slightly, in agreement. He had not wanted to bring this problem to his mentor's attention for fear of ridicule, or worse: that the mage might try to prevent him from reaching his goal. But now it seemed that it was a gamble which he must make; he would have to seek the aid of Geryx. Acting quickly while he had resolve, Prince Jorl wiped his mouth and, thanking Danaal, excused himself from the table. He set off immediately in search of the court magician.

The prince made his way up a winding stone stairway to the place where he was most likely to find the mage: his study. When he came to the magician's great oak door, he found it slightly ajar. It slid silently open at his gentle push and he stepped into the dimly lit room beyond. As his eyes adjusted to the weak light, he began to recognize familiar furnishings: dusty shelves of books, tables covered in parchment charts and rolled-up scrolls, the large crystal sphere set in a tripod near the arched window and, most familiar of all, the hunched figure of Geryx, busily writing at his massive desk. He seemed completely oblivious to Jorl's presence. Feeling embarrassed for not having knocked, the prince shifted his weight uncomfortably in the shadows for a moment, and finally coughed loudly to get Geryx's attention.

Without looking up, the magician said: "Well, Prince Jorl, don't just stand there like a half-wit, come in and sit down!"

Well-used to Geryx's uncanny sense of perception, Prince Jorl moved forward and seated himself in a dusty, but comfortable, chair.

"I was hoping you might be able to help me, sir. I've been...."

he began uncertainly.

"You've been hearing that Voice again," the magician interjected.

It was more a statement than a question. "Tell me then, what did it say this time?"

Wondering if Geryx didn't already know the whole story with his mind reading abilities, Jorl reluctantly began to relate his latest visitation. "Just before the fourth hour last night, I awoke from a fitful sleep to the sound of unearthly music. It filled my chamber and my ears, rising and swelling like the ocean-sweet, irresistible music. I tell you Geryx, there is nothing

like it on earth. How could there be, for there are no mortal instruments strung with gossamer or fashioned from moonlight," he shook his head sadly and a faraway look came over his eyes.

Before long, he continued, "As I sat there, dumbfounded in my bed, I noticed a strange, silvery glow coming through the window. I knew it could not be the moon, for you have instructed me well in the cycles of the stars and planets, and I knew that the moon will not be full for many days yet. The incredible music grew louder and seemed to draw me towards the window, so I stepped out of my bed, oblivious to the cold marble beneath my feet, and moved towards the window," he paused, caught up in the memory of his experience.

The wizard waited patiently for a moment, then said, "And what did you see outside-what was the source of the light?"

Brought abruptly back to reality, Prince Jorl passed his hand over his eyes as though to clear them of a persistent vision and continued, "It was unbelievable, Geryx. There before me, suspended in the night sky, was a beautiful city that radiated silver light. Certain that I was dreaming, I pinched myself until my nails drew blood. No, Geryx, I was very definitely awake."

"You said the city was suspended; did it have no support at all then?" inquired the magician.

The prince looked puzzled. "Well yes...and no. That was the strangest part; it was built upon, and out of, a huge cloud.

The towers were set upon a large swell at the center of the cloud, just as an earthly fortress is built upon a hilltop. But oh, those towers, Geryx! I've never seen any so tall and majestic, and seemingly fashioned from some eldritch mixture of cloud and moonlight. I swear, men would die for but a single glimpse of those towers-the Towers of Yrkra!" His eyes shone strangely as he finished, and Geryx found himself beginning to fear for his charge's sanity. Perhaps the boy really had seen this magical city; certainly, such odd occurrences were not unknown to a wizard such as Geryx.

"How did you know the city's name, Jorl? he asked.

"The Voice told me. Many years ago, when it first came to me in my dreams, it spoke of its beautiful homes a wonderful city of cloud called Yrkra. Oh, how I have longed to see that place and wander its airy streets, Geryx! And the Voice promised me that one day I would-when the time was right. That time must be close now-last night I was permitted to see Yrkra; soon I shall go there myself!" the prince stared exultingly into space.

The magician's face took on a stern look at this, and he waggled a knobby finger at Jorl in dire warning. "This is madness, my Prince! Even granting that such a fabulous place exists, how could a corporeal being such as yourself hope to go there? It is obviously a realm of spirits: no place for a mortal such as you! Abandon this foolish desire and concern yourself with your princely duties; your father will not live forever, you know!"

At this an ominous fire came into Jorl's eyes and even the wizard flinched involuntarily under their ferocious gaze. The prince's fist crashed down on the oaken desktop. "Not I have no use for this drab place! Rather would I be dead than to rule over the shiftless drudges in this hovel of a castle!" He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a hiss. "And there is a way, Geryx. It can be done! The Voice told me so. I can leave this body behind and journey as a free soul to the Cloud Kingdom of Yrkra. You know the procedure: I demand that you assist me in this!"

The wizard's face had grown suddenly pale. This was a far more serious affair than he had a first believed. This was no mere case of youthful fantasies, the Prince was obsessed with this desire to go to Yrkra, and it seemed that he would let nothing stand in his way. Gravely considering his few choices, Geryx decided that the best option was to do as the boy demanded; to let him attempt to reach this strange kingdom, whatever it was, in the hope that by doing so he would be released from the terrible compulsion that was upon him. Perhaps then, the prince would be able to settle down and assume his proper place as heir to the throne of Landen.

"Very well, I will do as you ask. But be warned, it is no simple thing that you want to do. Soul-travel is one of the most dangerous magics. Fortunately, I will be here to guard your mortal body from physical harm, and your spirit itself is invulnerable. But the danger lies in the threat of the separation of your two selves. Should the Cosmic Chord that tethers your soul to your earthly body become severed, you would endure eternal un-death. Your body would die without a spirit to give it energy and your soul would wander lost amongst the cosmos for eternity. You may attempt to visit this Yrkra of yours for a short time, but once the energy level of your mortal body begins to drop to a critical level you must return. That is the best I can do."

Prince Jorl's face was lit up with joy and excitement. "Thank you, Geryxl Even to walk the streets of Yrkra for a moment would satisfy me1 I can ask for no more! When shall we begin?"

The wizard sighed, "Immediately, if you wish."

The preparations were quickly made and Prince Jorl soon found himself seated in a comfortable, high-backed chair before an open window in the wizard's study. The cool, fresh breeze stirred Jorl's hair and sharpened his senses. The sky was cloudless, and the stars flickered fitfully across the dark expanse. In his lap, the prince held a small brazier in which burned several chunks of aromatic wood. The pungent smoke from these streamed upwards and was swirled past Jorl's nose by the breeze from the window.

The wood had been chosen for its narcotic properties, and soon Prince Jorl's mind became misted over, like breath upon a mirror, and his eyes slowly fell shut. Geryx began to mumble a low incantation and drew mystical symbols in the air behind Jorl's head.

In a half-dreaming state, Prince Jorl gazed out of the window at the starlit sky beyond. The quarter-moon shone dimly upon the clouds which now drifted languidly across the heavens. Amongst these floated one cloud, vaster than the rest, upon which stood a magnificent, white city that glowed softly in the moonlight, Yrkra. Ethereal music filled the air-music which was a combination of many sounds: the songs of birds, the sound of splashing water, the wind sighing through the trees, and the whisper of waves upon the shore. Mingled with these, yet standing apart, came a very familiar sound: the sound of the Voice.

"Come, my Prince, we are awaiting you here in the gardens of Yrkra. Why do you delay? Come join us at once! Join in our joyous dances, drink our sweet nectar and taste food such as you have never imagined! All is here for the taking. After all these years the time has finally arrived; now I shall show you all the wonders that I have promised you. Come quickly, and they shall be yours!"

Prince Jorl rose from his chair and climbed up onto the casement of the window. He felt strangely light and insubstantial and, looking down at his hand, he saw that the stones were visible right through his diaphanous fingers. Looking behind him, he saw his sleeping form still seated in the chair, its face strangely pale and fragile looking. With a faint twinge of misgiving, Prince Jorl turned his gaze back to the ivory towers of Yrkra. Heaving a long sigh, he stepped forward.

He did not plummet to earth as he had half-expected, but instead drifted effortlessly away from Castle Landen, like a child's soap-bubble. His homeland passed swiftly beneath him. From his abdomen there extended a fragile silver filament that stretched back to the sleeping body in the wizard's study: the Cosmic Chord. As he moved farther away, the Chord stretched and lengthened, growing ever thinner and more tenuous.

The Cloud Kingdom of Yrkra loomed steadily closer now, becoming even more awe-inspiring as it did. Once again, the Voice sounded in Jorl's head. "This way, Prince. Quickly, now!" He felt himself drawn towards a window in the tallest of those slender towers. Passing through this portal, Prince Jorl of Landen found himself floating in the middle of a large, circular room which was bare of furnishings. In fact, the only thing in the room was a lone, shadowy figure that stood beside the window through which Jorl had just come. A smile broke upon its nebulous face and it said in a familiar voice, "Welcome. Long have I awaited your arrival."

The being who was the Voice raised a translucent arm and made a sorcerous sign towards Prince Jorl. Instantly, the prince felt an invisible force grip him in an unbreakable hold-he could not move. Jorl looked in confusion at the figure, saying, "But why are you doing this? Where is everyone? Where are the gardens, the nectar, the food and other wonders? Why have you brought me here?"

Once again, an evil smile crossed the face of the smoke-like being. He spoke in a mocking tone, "Ah, my poor young fool, how easily you were duped! There are no others! No gardens, no nectar, no food, no wonders! Nothing but this thrice-cursed mist and fog!" With a sweeping gesture, he indicated the surroundings. "Even these walls possess only the illusion of solidity: behold!" he passed his arm through the wall without resistance. "I was once a sorcerer of terrible power, but that was robbed from me by Death. All things in the universe are kept in careful balance. The use of magic and sorcery upsets that balance—prices must be paid. The price of my countless works of sorcery was this: eternal imprisonment of my soul in this accursed castle of condensed water vapor. Thus, I know no joy, no pleasure. Oh, how I long to feel something solid in my fist once more-be it a sword or a goblet of fine wine!"

"Ah, but soon I shall, thanks to you! All that is required by the Powers is that a soul—any soul—be present in this castle. They never thought that I might find a way of replacing myself with another...you! Now that you have so considerately vacated your body, I shall take your place there-a new body, a new life, and soon the kingship of a wealthy land! All has worked as I planned!" He wrung his hands in evil satisfaction.

Prince Jorl's heart sank as he realized the extent of the doom which was upon him.

"But enough talk! Your mortal shell grows weak in your absence. I must hasten now to it; else all my work will have been for naught! Farewell, my Prince! Perchance you shall follow my example some day and win a new body for yourself. Hal Scowl if you will, but half an eternity of boredom from now, I think you might feel differently towards the idea! Time will tell!" With that, he leapt out of the window and streaked towards distant Castle Landen. Tense seconds passed as Prince Jorl struggled futilely against his invisible bonds. He must escape at once, before it was too late!

Yet even as he struggled, he felt a fateful tug on his Cosmic Chord which, an instant later, went suddenly, and irreversibly, slack.

The Crimson King sat slumped on his throne, a scowl distorting his regal features. He seemed shrunken somehow, his aura of majesty dimmed slightly, like a lamp shining through a curtain of gauze.

"A fine story, no doubt, Wanderer," he said, grumpily, "if you didn't insist on speaking so quietly: can't hear half of what you say. Speak up, man!" He took off his crown and scratched his thinning scalp. After a moment, he looked up at the Fire-Witch, squinting to focus bleary eyes, and growled, "Well, Witch, t'is your turn, I believe. Let's get on with it...and speak up!"

"I have no tales to tell, sire," the Fire-Witch said, sullenly.

Before the King could lose his temper, the Wanderer interjected, "Ahh, but you must, Madam. A bargain was made, and you were privy to it." She cast him a baleful glance, but he continued, undaunted. "Besides, I have never seen a mortal with powers such as yours, do tell us how you came by them." He put a disturbing emphasis on the word, 'mortal'.

The Fire-Witch's eyes narrowed to dangerous slits as she glared into the shadowed depths of the Wanderer's face. Finally, as though compelled by some will greater than her own, she said, "Very well then, you—whomever you are, shall hear the story of my youth. Tell it to others from now through eternity, that I may, in that small way, attain immortality after all. This boon I ask of you, nothing more." She sat motionless, awaiting his answer. The Wanderer gave a nod and a gesture of acceptance. With a sigh that seemed to empty her of life as well as breath, the Fire-Witch began....

# Chapter 10: Demon Foundling

At the first sound of hoofbeats on the dusty road outside our hut, my mother paused in her herb sorting, a look of consternation clouding her wrinkled features. Gathering her coarsely woven robe closer, she rose from her work before the hearth and crept to the window. Peeking cautiously through the ragged curtain, her eyes verified what her witch-sense had already told her danger was approaching. She had had little to fear during her life as a village witch, since both the country-folk and the wild animals in the area held her arcane powers in great respect. But those who now approached would have no knowledge of her powers, for they were strangers to these lands: outlaws, who spent their days roaming the country preying upon the helpless folk that they met. Nor would her witchcraft be of any use against such men, for her talents lay in the simple arts such as woodlore and earth-magic, and she depended largely on the superstitious fears of the country-folk for her reputation. Perhaps if she'd had more warning, she could have prepared a defense of some sort to frighten away the intruders, but now all she could do was hope that they would ignore an aging woman.

Her first thought, however, was for the safety of me, her last-born daughter: a child of but six summers. With a few commanding words, she sent me scampering out the back door to conceal myself in the large, black cauldron which stood near a woodpile to one side of our hut. There I crouched, up to my knees in slimy rainwater, shivering both from fear and the damp. Summoning every scrap of courage I possessed, I slowly drew myself up to peek over the cauldron's edge.

The riders had halted their mounts before our hut and their leader was calling out in a gruff voice for the occupants to come forth. My hiding place was near enough that I could discern the details of his face, and those of his companions. The leader was dark-haired, with a lupine face full of crags and gullies. The stubble of three days growth of beard added to his rough appearance. But the most striking part of his dark and shadowy countenance were his red, coal-bright eyes which lent a supernatural air to his features. All in all, he had the appearance of a devil or a madman. His companions were a ragged pair of outcasts of no remarkable features save that one wore a small gold earring and the other was disfigured by a thin scar running from nose to jaw.

By the time my curious eyes had finished their inspection of the intruders, my mother had appeared in the doorway and was glaring in silent defiance at the trio. The leader gave a strange, hollow laugh at this and demanded food and drink. My mother replied that she had none for the likes of them and strode back into the hut, slamming the door behind her. For a moment, the outlaws sat in stunned silence, but then the leader gave a terse signal and his cohorts leapt down from their horses. Several kicks later, the door flew off its hinges and the two outlaws burst into the hut. There were sounds of a struggle and muffled curses from within, followed by a great deal of crashing. An evil smirk appeared on the face of the leader as he waited outside. There ensued a long silence and then the two outlaws reappeared, one with an armload of food and the other dragging my half-conscious mother with one hand, holding a flaming torch in the other.

My mother was cast down in a heap as the leader took the torch from his minion, his smirk becoming a leer of delight. Spurring his horse viciously, he rode round-about our hut, setting fire to the thatch as he did. Once the entire structure had begun to flare, he gave an inhuman shriek of joy as he cast the torch through the open doorway and galloped off down the road with his companions, smoke and dust billowing in their wake.

In terrified fascination, I watched as my mother dragged herself to her knees, her beaten face a mask of hatred. With determined movements, she scratched a hasty pentacle in the dust around her and painfully rose to her feet. With her back to me, she faced the roaring inferno that was our hut and raised her arms skyward.

Over the noise of the flames I could hear her mutter an incantation in a strange, throat-tearing language I had never heard before. Suddenly, a terrible chill gripped me, and I knew that my witch-mother was working a greater and more deadly magic than any she had ever attempted before.

Then I noticed a change in the flames that shot skyward above our crumbling hut. Slowly, they combined to form a semi-solid figure. The fire seemed to condense and coalesce into a towering being, who's blazing eyes regarded my mother hungrily, and with contempt. Long afterwards, I would awaken screaming from the memory of that look.

The fire-demon, for that was what I assumed it must be, was human-like in form, save that its body tapered to a point from the waist, and its eyes stood alone in an otherwise featureless mask. It raised its arms threateningly and seemed to be struggling against an invisible barrier between itself and my mother. I tore my eyes from the apparition to see what my mother would do next. It appeared that her initial intention had been to send the monster in pursuit of her assailants. Apparently, she had over-stepped her limitations, however, for her face was strained with effort and concentration as she fought to keep the demon at bay.

The battle of wills seemed to last forever as the fire-demon pressed inexorably closer to the protective pentacle in which my mother stood. The heat of its body was so intense that my mother's hair was singed, and her face became blistered. Hot blasts of sulfurous air even reached me where I crouched in the safety of the cauldron. My mother's eyes were frantic with fear as she felt the demon's superior strength bearing down on her. Crazed by terror and ruled by instinct, mother abandoned the fight and fled for her life. The moment she forsook the protective pentacle, the fire-demon gave a roar of triumph and pounced on her. Then, like a cat playing with a mouse, it pursued her down the road, setting fire to her clothes and singeing her heels as she ran.

Visions of my mother's terrible fate stamped indelibly upon my mind, I collapsed in a sobbing heap in the comforting darkness of the cauldron. In my grief I was unaware of the increasing warmth within the cauldron, and the muffled roaring from without.

Soon, however, the stifling heat made breathing impossible and I leapt gasping to my feet. Floating there above me was the fire-demon, its flaming eyes regarding me with interest. Now beyond fear, I just stood there in the cauldron, returning its gaze and waiting to be eaten alive.

But the demon did not eat me, instead it spoke to me in a voice like the crackling of burning wood, using many ancient words that I did not then understand. I suppose now that it acquired the language of Men during its dealings with wizards and the like. What I came to understand of its speech was this; that it claimed me as a foundling-a child abandoned by its parents, and that it intended to raise me as its own.

Since I was in no position to argue and was distraught from what had already happened that day, I did not resist as the fire-demon wove protective spells around me and transported me to its own domain. There is little I can tell you of that place, save that it was as close to Hell as I ever hope to get. A realm of perpetual night, it was lit by countless flames of every color that burned upon the bare, black rock which formed the landscape. This dead world became my home; my food was flame, and smoke was my drink. Many years passed, though unmarked by seasons, and I gradually grew to maturity. The fire-demon, who I could never come to love, but rather, tolerated through necessity, taught me much concerning magic and the manipulation of fire. This, I suppose, was the greatest reward for my sojourn in that Hellish place.

As I grew older, I must have become more self-possessed and willful, for the fire-demon became less and less patient with my human shortcomings and weaknesses. I pestered my guardian constantly for more knowledge, since that was all I had to pass the time with.

The day finally came when my mentor apparently lost interest in a human foundling who had become an unwelcome burden. With no emotion, the fire-demon informed me that I was old enough now to return to the world of Men. I thanked him for the things he had taught me and the aid he had given me, for although he was responsible for my mother's death, he had saved me from sure starvation by adopting me as his own. Without further exchange, I was teleported back to the site where my mother's hut had stood, all those years before.

All that remained of the home I once knew was the old, black cauldron in which I had hid. It was now half covered by tall grass and weeds. For a moment I stood in a daze, not knowing what I should do in this world with which I no longer had any connection. But as I gazed at the place that had been my home, the terrible memories of that fateful day flooded back to me. With growing rage, I recalled the outlaws and their evil leader who were responsible for the destruction of the life I had known. Suddenly, I knew that I had but one purpose here in the world of Men: to avenge the death of' my mother.

My search for the outlaws was aided by the powers that the fire-demon had given me. I was able to converse with unseen spirits of the air, and soon learned the location of the first of my victims.

I found him getting drunk in one of the filthy taverns of Thoom. He was seated alone at a table in a corner, swallowed by hazy shadows. A mug of ale clutched in his hands, he hunched over the table to gaze distantly at the sluggish flame of the candle before him. The flickering light on his face showed that he had aged greatly since I had last seen him. Although my little-girl memory of him and his companions was vague, the aura of each was clearly etched in my mind, and I knew with certainty that this was the one I sought.

As I watched him from a neighboring table, in my disguise as a courtesan, I felt the hatred and rage of a lifetime of nightmares swelling within me. Fixing my eyes on his candle, I spoke the necessary words to myself and projected my will outward. Candle and table exploded in a fireball which engulfed the helpless outlaw.

No ordinary flame that, but one which fed only on human flesh—very slowly. The unfortunate man's dying shriek were drowned out by the fearful cries of the other patrons as they crowded out of the tavern. Smiling to myself, I left the wretch to his doom and vanished into the night.

My second victim was even easier to locate than the first; he had made quite a name for himself in the intervening years, becoming a wealthy merchant in Kyandra. I found him sitting in his study, relaxing after a huge meal—his last. I watched him through a window which looked out on the gardens of his vast estate. Rich living had made him fatter than I remembered. This was the man who had dragged my mother from the hut and thrown her in a heap on the ground. As he lit a large-bowled pipe, I knew how he must die. I looked at the pipe and spoke a rune. As he sucked the fatal fire into his lungs, the man's face contorted with agony. He collapsed in a writhing fit of coughing. Flames from his lungs were absorbed into his blood stream to course throughout his convulsing body. He tried vainly to scream, as his nerve-endings were slowly consumed, but only smoke emerged from that ravaged throat.

The leader of the outlaws proved to be the most elusive of the three. Finally, though, with the aid of a night-creature that had seen him, I found the man with the burning eyes. Still a renegade it seemed, he sat before a small fire, cooking a rabbit for his dinner. He seemed unchanged since the he set fire to my mother's hut: his face still rough and pitted, his eyes still glowing with red madness. Somehow my hatred for this one was greater than for the others. He seemed to embody all the injustice I felt had been done to me. It was with great pleasure that I commanded the flames of his own campfire to consume him.

In a flash, he was enveloped by raging fire and I thought his doom was sealed. Then, to my dumbfoundment, there came insane, haunting laughter from within the flames. The outlaw leader rose to his feet amid the fire and turned his eerie eyes on me as he continued to laugh. He threw up his arms and, with a roar, was transformed into a towering being of flame: the fire-demon.

Slowly, I realized that I was the victim of an epic joke.

The fire-demon, to whom centuries were but passing moments in the stream of eternity, had spent all these years bringing about this final climax. My entire life had been nothing more than a brief diversion for a bored immortal.

Still relishing the exquisite irony of his carefully planned jest, the fire-demon slowly dimmed as he teleported back to his own world. His mocking laughter continued to echo even after he was gone.

And as for me, well, I just stood and wept, my tears turning to tiny puffs of steam as they fell.

The Fire-Witch's voice cracked with emotion as she concluded her story, and she buried her suddenly lined face in equally withered hands. Her coal-dark hair was now streaked with ashen strands; it was as though she had aged twenty.yea.rs in as many minutes. Without any note of compassion in his voice, the Wanderer said, "Well, an interesting tale. Obviously, you are not one to wrong with impunity—such is your command over the fiery element."

The Fire-Witch did not miss the mockery in his words, and she raised her hand as though to cast a levin-bolt at her antagonist, but the flames at her fingertips were now no more than faint glimmers. With a curse of frustration and despair, the Fire-Witch slumped back in her chair.

The other members of the Court seemed oblivious to these events, so distracted were they by the unpleasant new sensations that they were experiencing.

Without waiting for any encouragement, the Wanderer began, "My next tale concerns an arrogant man who sought to defy Powers far greater than himself. There are many who would do well to learn from his example. As I recall, the tale runs thus...."

# Chapter 11: The Storming of Death

The Grand Exalted High Emperor Kazan Dyvar Fazool sat in brooding silence upon his gem-encrusted throne. His pale forehead was deeply lined from the effort of his concentration and his lips were pursed. One ring-laden hand tugged absently at the thin black beard that dangled limply from his chin. Lying languorously about the room on luxuriant pillows were numerous slave-girls clad in exotic silks. They totally ignored the Emperor, having the good sense not to disturb him while he was grappling with a profound mental problem. The problem with which Kazan was presently at odds was this: he was bored.

This inaction and lack of excitement was what the High Emperor had long anticipated and feared. Always before he had found something new to temporarily divert his attention. Now, however, he was at a loss for something on which to concentrate his awesome powers. He had long since conquered every land within the reach of his mighty armies, and now controlled a vast empire which prospered peacefully under his rule. All his enemies had been sought out and put to the sword, and he had no relatives who might plot against him or try to usurp the throne. Understandably, Kazan had grown extremely vain and arrogant, and would not acknowledge anyone or anything to be greater than himself. He even forbade the worship of all deities and had the temples and altars destroyed. The people thought the Emperor had finally gone too far and would soon pay for his irreverence, but when no avenging blast of lightning came and his good fortune continued as always, they became convinced of his divinity and began to address their prayers to him.

But Kazan was a soldier at heart; the stifling peace sickened him. He wanted to match strength and military cunning with an opponent of equal skill and resource. But none now stood in his way. Suddenly, startling the slave-girls, the Emperor gave a triumphant shout and leapt to his feet calling for his captains and counsellors. What had happened was this: the bored Emperor Kazan had finally conceived of a new diversion, his greatest undertaking, and one that would belittle all the heroic deeds of the past: he would storm the Fortress of Death.

The preparations began immediately. For years, the Empire had functioned as a well-oiled machine of war, and now, with long practiced efficiency, its gears began to turn once again. From all his subject lands, the Emperor demanded, and received, men and supplies for his mighty army. Daily, by caravan and by wagonload, they came. Food and materials, whether they could be spared or not, poured into the capital city until the warehouses could accommodate no more. Able men of all ages answered the Emperor's call, or were brought, and those who had no weapons were properly outfitted by the armories. But more potent than all this vast host which the Emperor gathered was the contingent of sorcerers that he recruited: the most puissant in all the Lands of Men and Dream. Theirs would be the real task of defeating Death, for Kazan knew that it would not be through any earthly means that this would be accomplished. His entire army was meant only as a buffer and a distraction for the real offensive: a spell, born of the strivings of the world's greatest wizards, which was so powerful that it might fell even a being such as Death. The price which the sorcerers exacted for their services was dear, but Kazan was convinced that the investment was worthwhile.

The preparations for the ultimate campaign were completed with whip-inspired haste; soon the entire host of the Empire was on the march for the World's Edge, where stood the indomitable Fortress of Death. No man had ever returned from that land of shadow, save for Radis, the Mad Prophet, who had been neither mad nor a prophet when he set out on his journey.

As they neared that dreaded realm, the land became bleak and barren. Desert replaced the grassy plains and darkness hung over them like a mist. The dire warriors of the Empire began to grow uneasy, and many deserted. There were some who were apprehended as they fled, and these were slowly put to death. Those that did escape were no better off for their flight, for they fell victim to the nightmarish creatures which inhabited that barren land.

Pestilence and blinding heat took a toll on the force and the ranks continued to shrink. Although there had been no actual combat, it was obvious to all that they had encountered Death's forward lines and that, at present, He held the advantage. The horses and pack animals of the army felt Death's first offensive also, as their water and feed became scarcer, and the heat slew them as they plodded along. But the unvanquishable Emperor Kazan, undaunted by his losses, urged his warriors to greater haste.

After days of suffering, the host of the Empire came into sight of that edifice which lurks in the darkest nightmares of dying men: the Fortress of Death. It stood menacingly black against a dark horizon. Around its base were jagged rocks strewn about as though by some titanic explosion. The keep itself was formed from obsidian, which was flawless and keenly sharp on the edges. The uppermost towers of the fortress disappeared into the sullen murk of the storm clouds that brooded above. There were no lights visible in the Fortress of Death.

With a triumphant shout that was immediately swallowed by the sepulchral silence of the place, the Emperor commanded his litter-bearers to proceed. The warriors were all heartened now that their goal was at least in sight but could not help feeling a chill at the thought of what lay within that forbidding castle.

The rough road which they had been following led to a wide causeway that ran through the rocks up to the gate of the fortress. The Emperor now mounted his magnificent white stallion and took his place at the head of his hundred worthiest knights. Their captain rode beside him. They stopped a short distance before the vast gates which lay open and unguarded. Nothing but darkness could be seen beyond them.

Being too wary to venture into his foe's own stronghold, Emperor Kazan sought instead to lure Death out into the open where He might be dealt with more easily. Kazan rose in his stirrups, a task he found difficult because of his heavy armor and, brandishing his sword, called out a challenge for his enemy to appear. His voice echoed into expectant silence and still there came no movement from the castle. The Emperor heard the uneasy scuffling and murmurs of the men at his back; he knew that they were beginning to lose their nerve. He repeated his challenge, louder and more mocking, but his words could not quell the fear that was steadily growing in his heart.

Without warning, the horses reared and screamed, flailing madly at the air with their hooves. The Emperor could not discern the cause of their distress until he perceived the great pair of slit eyes that now watched them from the shadows of the gateway. They gleamed unblinkingly with cold, green light. The enemy had finally shown Himself; it was time for the greatest battle to begin.

With a slashing motion of his sword, Kazan gave the signal for the knights in the front line to attack. The battle-cry of the Empire filled the air as the warriors bore down on the gate, their armor and weapons flashing, even in the dim light. It was a fearsome sight to beholds the Emperor swelled with pride as he watched the charge. His elation turned to shocked disbelief as an immense, shadowy arm shot with lightning speed out of the doorway and swept the leading horsemen off the causeway as though they were mere insects. The remaining horses went mad with fright and bolted—some right over the cliff's edge, taking their riders with them to a horrible death. The broken and maimed bodies of horses and men littered the mountainside and the gorges below.

Emperor Kazan now knew that this would be no easy battle; he was indeed up against a formidable, supernatural foe. But that was exactly what he wanted: to attain the greatest possible victory for humanity: the conquest of Death. He signaled for the archers to begin their assault and turned an anxious eye to the rear of the troops where the sorcerers worked feverishly on their spell. A sheet of arrows arced towards the unearthly eyes in the gateway. Mid-way through their graceful flight, however, every shaft vanished in a burst of flame. Again, and again, the archers unleashed a hail of missiles, but each time with the same result.

A catapult was brought up and fired. The missile lofted skyward and bore down on the still unmoving eyes. Suddenly, as though gripped by an unseen force, the rock was arrested in mid-flight and sent back at twice the speed. It crashed into the ranks of men with terrible devastation.

A low, droning sound now began to drown out the cries of men and horses. Its strange vibration reached into the core of the Emperor's being. It was the cry of stars as they died. It was the groaning of the ocean depths and the whistling of the ether. It was the rumbling in the bowels of raging volcanoes and the roar of the fires of the sun.

Emperor Kazan raised his head from where he knelt cowering amidst the debris on the causeway. His entire army lay in a similar position, the living as prone as the dead. The terrible sound had knocked all of them off their feet and the sight that accompanied it kept them there. Hovering above the heads of the sorcerers—for it was they who had created it—was a vast golden cloud that throbbed with rampant energy. Electric discharges flickered over its surface and a pulsing glow emanated from its interior.

The sorcerers stood like ebon statues, arms raised, pointing to the shadowy gateway of the fortress. Obedient to its creators, the golden cloud glided towards the portal where the two baleful eyes still gleamed defiantly. A loud hissing, spitting sound came from the gateway as the cloud approached and white fangs shone dully in its golden light. In an instant the two combatants merged and the sound from the cloud increased.

The gateway burst in a shower of stone and flame to reveal the golden cloud again. At its center was an obscure black shape which fought and thrashed about, tearing temporary holes in the substance of the cloud. Two emerald eyes could still be seen raging with hell-born fury.

The battle continued and the creature slowly gained the advantage. Under the battering assault of its enraged foe, the golden cloud began to shrink and grow dimmer. Wispy shreds of its substance fluttered to the ground, glowed momentarily, then winked out like dying embers. With a final blow from the dark creature, the ravaged cloud was cast down upon the prostrate men on the causeway. The darkness was split by searing light and a resounding explosion rocked the earth. The Grand Exalted High Emperor Kazan Dyvar Fazool and his mighty army were no more.

When Death returned to His silent Fortress where it stood in shadow at the World's Edge, He found that it had changed somewhat while He was absent. The gateway was destroyed, and spell-blasted stone lay in black heaps all around. The causeway below was littered with debris, including the crumbling bones of many mortals.

As Death stood surveying the devastation on His doorstep, a lithe black shape disengaged itself from the shadows and rubbed affectionately against its master's cloak. Death looked down at its gleaming eyes and shook His cowl in mild disapproval.

"You've not behaved well in my absence, have you?" He said, reproachfully. "Ahh, but I suppose you were bored: I was away longer than I had intended. 'Tis of no consequence...come my pet; I shall prepare your dinner." So saying, Death disappeared into the darkness of His fortress, the creature with the emerald eyes following closely on His heels.

"Harumph!" said the Crimson King, "Harumph!" he repeated for emphasis. "I find such stories much too fantastic for my tastes, Wanderer. Powers and Beings-bah! In all my lengthy existence I have only encountered one such entity: Karach-a-Kazaar, the Lord of Chaos. That was so long ago by the years of Men that I doubt if he still exists; though I dwell in his domain, I have seen no sign of him." The King's thought trailed off absently.

Suddenly, the monarch's attention returned to his court. "Look there," he pointed to the Wisemen's table. One was slumped forward, face-down on the table and another was sprawled backward in his chair. The third ignored his companions and waited patiently for the next story. "See! Despite my warnings, you have continued to speak so softly that you have put two of my subjects to sleep! Well, I'll soon remedy that, since it's my turn; I shall relate a stirring tale of battle and courage—or a history, rather, of a time when this mighty edifice was known by another name: the Fortress Valerion...."

# Chapter 12: The Siege of the Fortress Valerion

There was a time, many eons ago by the reckoning of Men, when the Fortress Beyond the Night did not drift thistle-like through the vastness of the Realms of Chaos. It stood, rather, where it had since the Dawn of the World: upon a grassy knoll on the frontier between Chaos and the Land of Dream. Valerion, it was called in those younger days, and most proudly did the banners stream from atop its imperious battlements.

I was but a youth of eighteen years then, though they were the slow years of the Land of Dream: far longer than the same amount of Earthly time. I was the Crown Prince of Valerion: proud and quick of wit. My father, King Halandor, had given my tutelage into the hands of Kalwyn, the Arms-master, for those were unsettled times, when being skilled with a sword was often the only way to survive. Kalwyn was a good teacher, and I an eager pupil. Some said that he had fought in the Merulian wars—quite believable, since his body was covered in scars, many of which were jagged trails like those left behind by the saw-toothed Merulian swords. My training continued relentlessly, and I progressed well; by the age of twelve I could already match the best of the squires, though they were several years older than I. Those were good times for me: the last I was to know for many years.

One day, after an exhausting session with the pells, Kalwyn took me aside to a secluded part of the armories. I could tell by his nervous glancing about that something was amiss. Finally, seemingly satisfied that he would not be overheard, my tutor turned to me, his eyes wild like those of a hunted beast and, grasping my shoulders, said, "My Prince, I want thee to listen carefully to what I am about to say, for like as not there will ne'er be another chance to say it."

Trying to hide my apprehension, I bit my upper-lip and nodded. "Good," said the Arms-master, "Now, a wise man always keeps his eyes and ears open, observing, analyzing and deducing. Well, lately my eyes and ears, that is, my trusted allies in this castle, have reported some strange goings-on in Valerion, which I think bode ill for thy father and thee. It seems there is some manner of conspiracy afoot; forces are gathering and alliances are being made amongst some of our most disreputable people. There's been a gust of bad rumor concerning thy father: lies and distortions aimed at stirring up resentment amongst the peasants. Also, the petty rivalries of the court nobles are intensifying, abetted by some unknown hand." He shivered and glanced once more over his shoulder. When he looked back again, his features were tired, and weariness hung heavily in his voice. "The kingdom is like a pot on the scullery hearth: beginning to bubble, soon to boil over. And there's nothing I can do to prevent it. Whoever is behind this plot is as cunning as a tree-viper. He does his evil work through others and cannot be traced. Naturally, I have my suspicions, but until I have more evidence, I can say no more." He shook his head and stared sadly at the ground.

I waited tensely for him to continue, but when he did not, I finally blurted, "But, what shall we do? Have you told my father?"

Kalwyn raised his proud eyes to meet mine. His mouth was set and grim. "No. I dare not—not until I know who is behind all this. If the culprit were to learn that his plot had been discovered, he'd merely go into hiding until a later time when he could strike even more stealthily. We'd have no warning then, and all would be lost. No, we must wait and watch; once we are certain who is involved, thy father will be informed, and the kingdom will be purged of all the conspirators. All of the weed must be destroyed, else it will grow again."

Kalwyn looked me sternly in the eyes and put his strong old hands on my shoulders. "But thee, as heir to the throne, may be in grave danger. From this moment on, thou must always be armed and on thy guard. Thou can holdst thy own in fair swordplay but are no match for an assassin's dagger or a deadly tincture in thine food or drink. Thus, thou must feign that thou are fasting and engaged in intensive study with myself. As for me, I will not leave thy side until this unwholesome matter is resolved-will not thou comply?"

I nodded my head vigorously, glad for the security Kalwyn was offering me, and wondered to myself who the enemy was.

"Good, my lad. Thou must speak of this to no one, nor shall thee give any indication by act or expression that anything is amiss: for upon secrecy thy very life may well depend. Now, come quickly, we must return 'for we are missed."

I did as he said, making excuses to my father and spending all my time in the company of the Arms-master. Four days passed and still nothing untoward occurred. I began to think that Kalwyn was the victim of an overly active imagination, but I would never have said so to his face. He remained silent and brooding, spending his time conferring with his agents and sitting by the hearth in my room. One night, as I lay in my bed, I watched him absently poking at stray embers with the tip of his sword, which was never sheathed during the dark hours. He looked incredibly old, hunched there in the firelights like some withered ogre from the Mulweer fens. He was very tired, since he only slept briefly during those long, watchful nights, and I knew that he would not be able to continue his vigil much longer. I hoped that he would admit that he was wrong, and my life would return to normal. As these thoughts passed through my mind and the warm firelight danced hypnotically before me, my eyelids slowly closed and I fell into a light, restless sleep.

I was running frantically through a blizzard, fleeing from some dread pursuer, but the snow clung to my feet and dragged me down relentlessly. I turned to look over my shoulder and tripped, landing on my back in a deep drift of snow. Cold numbed me all over; the will to resist slowly ebbed away. I could not move.

Icy, tingling flakes landed on top of me layer by layer, gathering, building. Soon I was being crushed under the growing weight of the snow. I struggled to inhale as the breath. was squeezed out of me. The snow choked me, smothered me. With what little breath remained, I screamed....

And awoke. But the nightmare continued. There was something soft and heavy on top of me. All I could see was a blurred, translucent whiteness before my eyes, and my nose was clogged by the stench of rotting flesh. My body was paralyzed with fear and cold; I could not move. Something resiliently fleshy pressed down hard on my mouth, forcing my jaws open. It sucked and sucked, emptying my lungs and draining my life gradually away. I heard a throaty growl and a shout full of rage and revulsion; Kalwyn was awake.

A flickering, orange light appeared on my right and I felt a sudden shock as a heavy blow landed on the thing above me. The sucking stopped for a moment and I gasped a fresh lungful of air, but instantly my mouth was forced open again and the sucking resumed at an even greater rate. As my senses began to dim, I faintly heard another shout from Kalwyn and the orange light suddenly grew much brighter;

I felt warmth on my cheek. The sucking stopped immediately, and the weight vanished from on top of me. I could breathe again. As my swoon passed and my eyes began to clear, I beheld a frightening scene. Kalwyn stood beside my bed brandishing his sword in one hand and a flaming brand in the other. His eyes shone with a mixture of determination and fear as he stared fixedly at something on the other side of the room. I shifted my glance quickly to see what it was that had attacked me-and instantly wished I hadn't. My stomach convulsed and nausea swept over me. There, crouched and hissing with rage near the bolted window, was the most loathsome creature imaginable. It was ghoul-like, puffy and hideously pale. Slaver dripped from its slack lips and there were no teeth in its stinking maw. Long, matted strings of hair hung from its skull-like head and two shriveled breasts dangled loosely from its chest; whatever it was, it was female.

Kalwyn cursed at it and ordered it away, but it only paid heed to the dwindling fire that he thrust at it, obviously in deadly fear of its touch. Kalwyn must have realized that the charred stick he clutched would soon burn out, for he gave a desperate shout and leapt over the bed, dashing the flames into the creature's horrified face. With an eldritch wail, the thing transformed into a tenuous wisp of vapor which swirled up to the window and vanished through a gap in the casement.

Kalwyn's shoulders slumped with relief and he quickly turned me a searching glance. "Be thee all right, my Prince?" he inquired.

I sat up and hugged my knees to stop shaking. "I, I think so. What was that?"

He shook his head morosely. "It is as I feared: 'twas a succubus, doubtless sent to kill thee by thy damned sorcerous uncle!"

I could not believe my ears. My uncle, the court sorcerer, had always treated me well, and with kindness. Lately, in fact, he had shown me extra affection, giving me fascinating gifts and teaching me all manner of mystical secrets. How could he possibly wish me ill? "Not Uncle Malagor," I said, "he'd never do such a thing."

"Exactly what he wanted us to think, my Prince, I'm afraid he has duped us all, that he might aspire to thy father's crown. I don't doubt that thy mother's mysterious death last year is somehow connected with his plotting but come; we must make haste to get thee safely away from here. Fortunately, the arrangements are all made; I have had horses standing ready for several days now, just waiting for this moment." He gathered up my cloak from the chair over which it had been thrown.

"But what about Father?" I asked as I put the cloak on over my night-clothes. "We must warn him!"

Kalwyn spun me around and looked me sternly in the eye. "My Prince, in all probability thy father is already dead."

I felt my stomach tighten like a fist. A lump formed in my throat.

"In any case," Kalwyn continued, "we must get thee safely away before Malagor finds out that thou are still alive, else he will finish the job! Besides, there's precious little an honest sword can do against stinking sorcery!"

Before I could protest further, he had bundled me out of the door and down disused, dust-choked passageways. We were joined by several hooded compatriots who appeared out of the shadows. Minutes later, I was clutching the reins of a violently plunging horse, swiftly leaving behind the home of my childhood, bound for some distant, unknown land.

It was several weeks before word finally came of the fate of Valerion and my father. I was talking with some of my rescuers in the mead-hall of our new home, when Kalwyn burst in, puffing from a hard ride. We all stood up, and one of the men said, "Captain! What news?"

The exhausted warrior held up his hand as he grabbed an ale-mug and drained it noisily. With a satisfied belch, Kalwyn sat himself down on the edge of the table. He looked around the room at his men and at me. Then he said, "I have just met with one of our agents at Varca. Several of Valerian's refugees have arrived there over the past few days and it appears that more are coming. Each bears a tale of horror and blood, I'm afraid, concerning the fate of our kingdom. Malagor has indeed usurped the throne, and he's begun a reign of terror such as the Land of Dream has never known before. All those who will not bind themselves to him in a blood ritual are purged with fire and sword. Some escape—some are not so lucky. Rumors say that many of his prisoners are used to purchase the allegiance of demons, though this cannot be proved. Malagor is now extending his influence outward, burning villages and laying waste anything that stands in his way."

Kalwyn lifted his defeated countenance and faced the others. "My friends, the Fortress Valerion is in the hands of a wicked and powerful enemy, and there is naught that we can do about it." He stared resignedly at his hands.

I could contain myself no longer; slamming my fist on the table I leapt to my feet. "What about my father?" I demanded.

Kalwyn slowly raised his eyes to mine, his penetrating gaze assessing, evaluating. His voice came as a rage and grief choked rasp. "Thy father, the noble king Halador, is said to have died a most foul and wretched death. When the servants who heard his screams of anguish finally battered down the door, all that remained of the king was the blood and gore which covered everything in his bedchamber. His sword lay at the center of the room, its blade shriven in two. Whatever that accursed Malagor sent against thy father, it was no decent, earthly creature!"

It is hard to describe the feeling which came over me then, save that something deep within me was wrenched out of place, never to be put right again. I thought that I had come to accept my father's death over the last three weeks, but now that I had learned the morbid details of it, I felt my stony facade crumble and dissolve away.

I would have burst into tears of frustration and collapsed sobbing onto the table, which is what, I suppose, I was expected to do, but something inside me was broken, and rage swelled up instead of tears. Every particle of my being became slowly aligned to a single purpose: vengeance.

With a voice grown suddenly sure and commanding, I spoke to my comrades, "Listen well, my friends, and witness what I say. "Since my father is dead I, as his heir, am the rightful King of Valerion. I demand your allegiance—even unto death. Do I have it?"

Their stunned silence was quickly replaced with enthusiastic shouts of "Aye, my Lord!"

"Excellent. Then I hereby declare that my sole purpose is to have vengeance upon my despicable uncle. I shall not rest until Malagor is dead!" I shouted.

"Death to Malagorl" They all cheered. Caught up in the fervor of the moment, I tore off my drab cloak and cast it aside. I then grasped the dark red tablecloth, and with a flourish, drew it around my shoulders. "Henceforth my color shall be crimson, to symbolize the blood I seek to shed, and all shall know and fear me as the mighty Crimson Kingl" I cried triumphantly; The room thundered with approval and the look in Kalwyn's eyes changed from one of concern, to pride.

It was to be three long years before I was given a chance to fulfill my vow, however. Every day the numbers of our little band were swollen by refugees who had heard through secret channels that the true king still lived. Many joined the cause to fulfill their own grudges against Malagor; many joined because there was nothing left for them to do but fight. Important alliances were made with our neighbors: other inhabitants of the Land of Dream who were beginning to feel threatened by the growing power of the sorcerer in Valerion. Among these were the Kyrsae, a winged race of very intelligent beings, and the Lorskans, a simple, burrowing folk who preferred to live quietly in their underground warrens.

My military training continued, of course, but in addition I began to learn the art of kingship and administration, that I might be prepared to take on the royal duties, should our mission prove successful. Our plan was this we would lay siege to the Fortress Valerion, weaken its defenses, and take the castle by storm when the time was right. We were all concerned about the threat of sorcerous weapons being turned upon us by Malagor, but Aqiuol, the old court-physician, assured us that we had less to fear from necromancy than we might think. According to him, there is a complex balance in the universe; for every act there is a reaction of equal magnitude. In order to prevent dangerous concentrations of energy in any one place, there must be a perpetual, cyclical flux of power throughout the cosmos. Thus, a sorcerer, when working an act of magic, must first expend a large amount of energy to overcome the natural laws, drawing from his own life-force. That is why magic makers often appear much older than they are; they have already spent a great deal of their vitality. The usurpation of my father's throne must have taxed Malagor dearly, and any sorcery he used against us during the siege would weaken him further. It was to be an endurance test, who would last longer, us—or him?

The fateful day finally arrived; the preparations for the siege were complete. Our allies had finished building the massive engines on which we would depend to broach the walls, and the smithies had forged a large supply of weapons with which to arm our troops. We set out for Valerion.

I rode at the front of the army on a fierce, black war-horse, my crimson cape and red hair whipping in the breeze. Upon my brow gleamed the new crown of Valerion, a single, bloody ruby at its e center. My banners were all deep red, as were the surcoats worn by my personal bodyguard of one hundred men. It was an impressive sight, and many joined our ranks as we passed through their towns.

Our scouts, the winged Kyrsae, managed to capture several of Malagor's minions as they were spying on our encampment. From these we extorted, by various means, some very valuable information concerning the strength of our foe. Apparently, the scum of the country, the brigands, thieves and murderers, had been drawn to Valerion like flies to a ripe corpse, and now formed a large part of Malagor's army. This did not worry us though, for such are poor material to build soldiers from, since they are an undisciplined lot and like as not to turn tail when the fighting gets fierce. But we learned also that Malagor had hired a contingent of. veteran mercenaries from the Lands of Mena battle-seasoned warriors who meant business and would prove hard to break. Also, the fate of those who died because they would not join Malagor became known to us; they were resurrected by sorcery to serve as zombie guards on the battlements. These would be the most fearsome foes of all, because they were our kinsmen and because the only means by which they could be eliminated was by decapitation. What other weapons Malagor possessed, we could not discover, for the captives passed beyond the reach of our persuasive methods.

Finally, early one dull and brooding morning, we drew up in front of a once-familiar sight: the Fortress Valerian. No longer was the castle a fair thing to behold. It sat hunched on the hilltop, like a squat gargoyle perched on a rock. The rich green grass of the knoll had been torn up and trampled in the making of earthen works and ditches. In the distance, the swirling, misty greyness that was the border of Chaos hung like a drab curtain behind the scene. There was an expectant hush over the land, as though in anticipation of some dire event. With a blast from my battle-trumpet, I signaled the troops to take their positions; the siege of Valerion had begun.

We opened the battle with a barrage from our catapults. These were very powerful weapons, cleverly wrought by the craftsmen of Legura, a nearby trading center. The catapults were under the command of Kalwyn, who had had some field experience with them in his younger days. Our desire was to use them for their shock effect on the battlements, and possibly to put a breach in one of the walls—hopefully doing only as much damage as was necessary. After this initial assault, I sounded a charge and the army surged forward under a protective hail of arrows from the longbow-men in the rear.

With them, they dragged and pushed two types of siege-crafts tall towers, their frames draped with water-soaked hides of aurochs, and our "turtles": heavy, wheeled shelters with canopies of wet hides, under which were slung stout, wooden battering-rams. Malagor's archers loosed a volley of arrows and crossbow bolts at the advancing army, but most of these were deflected harmlessly by the up-raised shields of my men.

Large groups of our warriors now brought up bundles of brush with which to fill in the ditches. Others began to dig furiously with picks and shovels in order to level the mounds which stood in the way of the siege-engines. Although comrades with shields attempted to ward these workers from missiles fired down from the battlements, there were great losses for every step that we advanced. I directed my own archers to continue firing at the defenders, hoping to gain some respite for my men under the walls, but Malagor' s zombies were undaunted, and continued their assault, even with dozens of arrows bristling from their bodies.

At last, the towers and the two turtles could be brought into place. One turtle was put into position at the front gates of the fortress, and the other attacked from the rear, thus dividing the strength of the defenders. Each turtle was supported by three towers, whose archers attempted to keep the walls clear of defenders. While Malagor was distracted by these threats, I sent two parties of our Lorskan allies to attempt to tunnel under the remaining sides of the fortress. They were protected by the flying Kyrsae, who dove down upon the enemy with javelins and, falchions: scythe-like swords which were particularly effective for beheading the zombie creatures. Unfortunately, the Kyrsae could not fly well if weighted down by metal armor, hence their unprotected bodies made easy targets. The secret to their survival lay in speed and maneuverability, they must not give the enemy time to shoot.

The battle was now fully underway, and yet we still had not seen any sorcery on Malagor's part. Then, even as the battering-rams swung into action, huge cauldrons appeared on the battlements above. Before any warning could be given to my men, these vessels were tipped, and their flaming contents cascaded downwards. It was not oil, or any other earthly substance which Malagor employed, but demon-fire: some sorcerous concoction which burned with intense heat and fume and could not be doused by water. The damp leather shell of the turtle kept the fire off my men, but they were surrounded by flame and choked by the noxious fumes.

I could not see what befell the crew at the rear of the castle, but I doubted that they fared much better. Reinforcements dashed forward and quelled the flames beneath shovelfuls of dirt. Here and there brief spouts of fire still shot up, but the worst of it was spent. Although one siege-tower was half-destroyed, the others were still intact, and the attack was renewed with increased ferocity. A messenger from the Kyrsae informed me that they had suffered heavy casualties, but that the Lorskans were now safely underground.

I gave the command for the Kyrsae to fall back and await further orders-I might have need of them later in the battle.

It was but a few moments later when Malagor dealt his next blow. His minions began to cast melon-sized stones down from the walls of the fortress. These would have done little damage to the towers or the men under the turtle, had they been normal stones. But they were not; they were magically contrived to explode on impact, sending showers of lethal fragments in all directions. Men fell by the scores and my forces began to waver and retreat.

Into this disarray crashed more of Malagor's deviltry: huge boulders ensorcelled so that they would bounce like a child's ball. These repeatedly rose and fell amongst my army, wreaking such terrible devastation that I cursed my uncle's name and spurred my steed forward from my vantage point and into the fray. Kalwyn, my personal guard, and the standard-bearers followed close behind me, their trumpets blaring.

By the time I reached the field, the bouncing boulders had lost their momentum and finally come to rest. The hail of exploding stones had also ceased; Malagor's sorcery was apparently limited.

At the sight of my crimson cape and the sound of my horn, my soldiers gave out battle-cries and rallied to me. But even as I began to advance towards Valerion, the massive wooden gates, splintered and torn by the battering-ram, swung slowly open, and out charged a motley rabble. These were the outlaws who had joined Malagor: armed with every murderous instrument imaginable. We met them with a mounted charge by my bodyguard, and they fell back before us like grass before a strong wind. Our foot-soldiers then closed in on their confused flanks; the battle became a slaughter. My horsemen and I ploughed effortlessly through them until we came suddenly upon a bristling wall of pikes. Hidden there, behind the milling mob, was a steadfast phalanx of mercenaries, and we were trapped between the two groups with no room to maneuver.

The phalanx began to march forward, intent on skewering us with their pikes. Pinned as we were, we could neither strike out at our enemy or evade their advance. Things would have gone badly for us then, but at that moment, the Kyrsae launched an aerial attack on the mercenaries. While some of the winged men bombarded the upraised shields of the mercenaries with stones, others swooped in close and lopped off pike-heads with their falchions. Inevitably, some of the Kyrsae flew too near, and were impaled on up-thrust pikes, but they spread chaos as they fell with flailing wings amongst the mercenaries. Soon, some of the front-line mercenaries no longer enjoyed the overhead shield protection that their comrades behind them had provided. These now had no choice but to break rank and wheel about to face the threat above them.

This gave us the chance we needed. We plunged forward into their ranks, our horse's hooves trampling as many men as our swords slew. It was a slow advance, however, for these were seasoned warriors who did not panic or scatter in the face of defeat but stood their ground and fought to the death. But the sheer weight of our charge was too much for them and, finally, we broke through to their rear.

I then divided my cavalry into two wings which wheeled about and renewed the attack. Meanwhile, our foot-soldiers had dispatched and dispersed the thieves and were now assaulting the mercenaries by marching in a wedge-formation down the alley we had just cleared. It was a fierce, desperate fight, and in the end not a single mercenary remained alive. Our losses were heavy also, for nearly a third of my guard had been slain.

We regrouped and began to advance once again. The gates were shut fast; we would have to resume our work with the battering-ram. Yet, even as I was about to give orders to that effect. I was startled to see the huge gates swing open once more. But it was not to dispense another attacking force; our Lorskan allies had tunneled into the fortress and captured the gatehouse. I could see them there on the threshold, waving us on as enemy arrows flashed past them. The way was open.

A triumphant cheer went up from my army as we surged forward in a bristling wave, but we were halted in mid-stride by a flash of lightning and an ominous roll of thunder over our heads. All eyes gazed fearfully upwards, for there, on the top-most tower of Valerion, was my accursed uncle Malagor in all his dark splendor.

The wizard's back was turned to us, and his arms were raised beckoningly towards the restless curtain that was the edge of the Realms of Chaos. A sudden wind whipped Malagor's ebony robes about and carried to us the faint sound of his pleading voice. "Oh, Karach-a-Kazaar! Lord of Chaos heed my call to thee! I invoke thee by the ancient formula: palas aron azinomas... Bagahi laca Bachabel! Surround this fortress with Chaos that my foes shall never take it! Grant me this and my soul is yours to do with as you see fit. Hear me, Lord of Chaos! I am your servant, come to my aid!" More lightning lashed about Malagor's contorted form as he put all his power into that summons. I had never dreamed he would go this far; he must have been driven mad by his sorcerous dealings. Should Karach-a-Kazaar answer his call, I feared we would all be doomed.

Then it happened; there was a sudden darkening of the curtain near Valerion. The misty swirling motion increased in speed and a piercing whine filled the air. There was a sound like the ripping of a sheet, and a huge, black fist thrust out of the murk of Chaos and clasped its fingers around the base of the hill on which the Fortress Valerion was built. Roaring thunder and whirlwinds swept over the land, and the very earth shuddered as those terrible fingers slowly tightened their grip. My men and I were thrown to the ground as, with a vast rumbling, the Fortress Valerion and its hill were wrenched from the earth. Shielding my eyes against the wind-driven debris, I watched in utter disbelief as the monstrous hand raised the fortress high into the air and drew it back, through the churning curtain, into the Realms of Chaos. It left nothing in its passing, save a single, narrow causeway of gleaming silver, which stretched from the edge of the crater where the hill had been, up into the sky, and through the mist into the depths of Chaos. As I gazed upon this delicate, shining thread, I suddenly realized what use the Lord of Chaos had found for the soul of my uncle Malagor.

The Wanderer solemnly clapped his hands at the end of the Crimson King's story, saying, "Since I am an historian at heart, I especially enjoy tales based on historical fact. I was curious about the nature of the bridge which joins this castle to the Land of Dream; now I know its origin. In short, a worthy tale, your Highness, one appropriate of your noble station."

There was true sincerity in the Wanderer's comments, and for a moment the King's radiance approached its former glory. He made to reply, but the Wanderer hastened to cut him short. "I regret to say, sire, that my brief sojourn in your marvelous Court must soon come to an end; duty beckons me back to the Lands of Men. Therefore, without further delay, I would like to proceed with my last story. It is about mortality—may it give you some comfort...."

# Chapter 13: The Curse of Mortality

The splendid, moonlit halls of Avernal, Gods' Home, are said to grace the lofty heights of Mount Pyhramund, where it stands tall and proud on the border between the Land of Dream and the Lands of Men. Here, it is said, the gods themselves reside-when they are not elsewhere, attending to the functioning of the Universe. One of the foremost of these, a goddess named Calindra, was possessed of a cruel, vicious nature, and delighted in the tormenting of lesser beings. Humans were her favorite playthings, for their intelligence and pride presented interesting challenges to her ingenuity and magnified the intensity of their suffering.

The pastime that Calindra preferred most, however, was playing chess. She did this with living pieces; men and women whom she caused to be transported to Avernal from where they were working in their houses or fields. She would dress them like dolls in appropriate court livery and move them about a gigantic board by the sheer force of her will. When a piece was moved onto a square already occupied by an opposing player, the attacking piece would be compelled to murder its opponent. Any survivors remaining at the end of the game would be casually sent back from whence they came-to be haunted the rest of their lives by the terrible memory of what they had seen and done.

One day, while she was thus engaged in a battle of minds with a fellow god and prospective lover, Calindra failed to notice that she was being watched. The observer, who was concealed behind a massive column of fluted marble, was a lesser god known as Landran. He had been passing through Calindra's sumptuous quarters on an errand, when the dying screams of one of the pieces caught his attention. Unlike Calindra, Landran took no pleasure in the torment of other creatures; he preferred to let them be, while he occupied himself instead by meditating or playing his thousand stringed cythra. He found the spectacle before him disgusting a deplorable and wished that he could do something to put an end to it. Yet he dared not.

Landran was a much younger god than Calindra and, though he was immortal, his powers were no match for hers. He grimaced and set his teeth as, one by one, the helpless players in the game suffered grisly deaths. He looked at their terrified faces and slowly he realized that there were family resemblances in most of them; for an added twist, Calindra had chosen to pit kinsman against kinsman.

This realization was too much for Landran's strained nerves. Stepping out from behind the pillar, he spread his arms and shouted, "Enough!" There was an electric-blue flash and the remaining pieces were instantly transformed into butterflies, which began to escape through the nearest windows.

At first, Calindra and her companion. were frozen with shock, but as soon as the latter realized what had happened, he burst into fits of derisive laughter. Calindra, much discomfited by this, flushed and turned her furious gaze upon Landran. "Fool! How dare you meddle in the affairs of Calindra?" she cried.

Trying to appear unafraid, Landran replied defiantly, "Me? No, Calindra, it is you who meddles-in the affairs of mortals. Leave them in peace! Your energies should be employed in nobler endeavors than this." He indicated the bloody, corpse-strewn chessboard. Calindra's companion continued to snicker and she, seeing that her self-respect was at stake, flew into a greater rage.

"Who are you to tell me what I should and should not do, underling? I shall teach you to remember your place! Since you are so unnaturally fond of mortals, you shall become one! Like so!" With a flourish of her shimmering robes, Calindra pointed a threatening finger at Landran. Her eyes glowed with green incandescence for a moment and then a thin beam of emerald light shot from her fingertip, hitting Landran squarely in the chest and knocking him off his feet with its force.

Landran lay sprawled on the marble floor, his senses spinning, and his body racked with pain. Faint wisps of smoke rose from the charred patch on his chest where both clothing and flesh had been seared. But most remarkable of all was his reduced stature; he was now the size of an ordinary mortal: a child-like dwarf by divine standards. As his pain-blurred eyes slowly cleared and he began to drag himself to his feet, Landran saw Calindra smiling with cruel amusement. He cringed as her voice lashed out at him, "And now, mortal, since thou are not worthy to reside in Avernal with the gods, get thee hence to the Lands of Men!" The air around Landran began to hum and he was engulfed in an icy darkness. As consciousness fled from him like a frightened bird, Landran knew from the strange sensation in his stomach that he was falling ever faster from the glorious heights of Avernal.

When Landran awoke, he was lying in a grassy meadow on a hillside above a small village. This was where Calindra had cast him, to live out a normal lifespan amongst other mortals. That span, which seems so short a time to most mortals, seemed but a few moments to Landran as he contemplated the unpleasant, yet unavoidable, prospect of dying. He sank into a black depression as he thought of his lost immortality. He should never have interfered with Calindra—what did he care what she did with a few mortals? But now it was too late; all was lost, and he was sentenced to die ignominiously amongst lesser beings. Landran cursed himself and his fate, wishing for vengeance upon Calindra. But it seemed that this was to be denied him, for along with his immortality and his godly stature, Landran's few powers had been eliminated also. With grim determination, he decided to set himself apart from humanity, that they might not see his suffering and mock him. He would become a hermit, living on the offerings that travelers left behind in exchange for having their fortunes told. This decision made, Landran set out in search of a suitable dwelling.

Several years passed, and Landran's bitterness grew with each of them. His body aged and, though he was still in his prime, he detested the constant state of change that he now experienced. Landran's beard and hair were long and tangled, and he wore a hooded cloak which a merchant had given him in exchange for a good augury. He had acquired quite a reputation as a soothsayer of remarkable accuracy in the lands neighboring his cave. It seemed that, of all his powers, his prescience alone had been left him.

One day, as Landran was bent over his fire, poking at the embers with a charred stick, there came a rapping sound at his cave entrance. Turning to see what the cause of this interruption was, Landran beheld the most ancient looking man he had ever seen. The fellow was leaning his hunched and bony frame heavily upon the staff with which he had knocked. His face was a ruin of wrinkles and his mottled scalp bore only a few wispy, white hairs. He smiled a snaggle-toothed grin at Landran's amazement.

"Well, young man," he said in a rattling voice, "where are your manners? Are you just going to let me stand out here in the cold?"

Landran quickly recovered from his startlement. "Enter if you must," he said, and grudgingly offered the elder a stool by the hearth. Once his visitor was seated and busily warming his hands, Landran asked, "Why have you disturbed me, old man? Surely it was not merely to share my meager fire."

The oldster cast him a keen glance in which was reflected the flickering orange light of the flames. Once again, he grinned. "Aye, right you are, my lad, 'tis another desire which draws me here: the desire to know my future!" His palsied hand gripped Landran's elbow. "Tell me: what lies ahead for me?"

Landran sneered at the pitiful wretch before him. Time surely had not treated this mortal with kindness; he was the wasted shell of a man, his vigor and his youth dried up in an instant, like a puddle on a summer's day. And yet the fool wanted to know his future; what future could there be for a withered bag of bones at the end of his days. With a cynical snort, Landran said, "Very well, old man, but what shall be my payment?"

"I promise to give to you something of equal or greater value than your divination is to me!" replied the old man.

Landran was dubious about such a vague bargain, but was anxious to be rid of this nuisance, and so agreed to proceed with the augury. He drew out his magical paraphernalia from its place of safe-keeping and went through the unnecessary, but impressive, rituals of fire, water, and the casting of runes. These displays aside, Landran began the real work of divination. He closed his eyes and began to probe the cosmic aura of his client with his mind. He recoiled visibly from what he found there, as a snail recoils from a touch. There, across the multicolored patterns of this man's destiny, lay a deadly shadow-the shadow of Death. Landran re-opened his eyes suddenly and stared with unconcealed horror at the person before him. Realizing that it was now too late to conceal what he had seen, and give a fabricated, but favorable, prediction, Landran decided that he must tell the truth.

"You are soon to die," he said flatly, expecting the old man to fly into a frenzy at this news.

But the old man simply smiled knowingly and said quietly, "As I thought. It is good."

Landran peered at his visitor incredulously, unable to believe his ears. It suddenly occurred to him that this fellow must be mad to accept death so unconcernedly. Becoming angry, Landran grabbed the other by his shoulders and shouted, "Fool! Don't you understand? I said you're going to die! Soon! The end of everything for you: no more knowledge, pleasure, or joy!"

The old man, unperturbed, continued to smile. "No more fear, pain, or sorrow, for that matter, but these things are not important, my friend. I have lived a long and fulfilling life—not without troubles and woe, believe me! But these only made me appreciate the good times...and there were many good times!" he sighed and stared wistfully into space.

Landran was still puzzled. "But how could you enjoy them, knowing that it was all for nothing? All your labors will be wasted once you are dead! Do you not fear death? For myself, I have chosen to shun the fleeting, fickle joys of life, so that death will not seem so bad."

The old man stared hard at Landran and his face became very solemn for the first time. "Then you are as great a fool as has ever traipsed the Lands of Men, my friend, for you have chosen to waste two of the most precious commodities there are: time and life. There is no reason to fear Death, for who knows what lies beyond?

Do you fear falling asleep at night?" he asked.

"No, for there is a good chance that I will awake the next morning," replied Landran.

"Ah, but you don't know what that new day will bring, do you? Yet you don't fear it."

Landran considered the words of his guest carefully and found himself grudgingly being persuaded that there was truth in them. Perhaps he had been a fool; ten of his precious years had been wasted already! He bit his lip and said slowly, "Continue, old man, there is wisdom in what you say."

The other flashed a familiar grin and said, "I had hoped you would find it thus. My advice is this: live each moment to its fullest, be it bad or good; waste not what time you have, and you will have nothing to regret when your time is through. Live for the present, but prepare for the future, and you will be fulfilled. Most of all, fear not Death, for all endings are beginnings." With that, the old man rose slowly to his feet and shuffled to the mouth of the cave, leaving Landran absorbed in thought. As he reached the threshold, the old man turned and said, ""I thank you for your augury, my son, and I hope that my payment is of some value to you. Fare thee well!" And he was gone.

Shortly thereafter, Landran's way of life changed dramatically. No longer did travelers make the long trek into the hills to have their fortunes told; the augur's cave was long deserted. The hermit was a hermit no more; he made his way openly among men, and was welcomed by them, for he came to be known as an extraordinary worker. He lived by his hands, as a laborer, doing odd jobs for the farmers and the merchants. And into each task he put everything he had, no matter how menial the work might be, for that was the way he now lived. Thus, before long, he had built quite a reputation for himself and was in constant demand by people who valued a job well done. Nor did he forget the advice of the old man, and pay no heed to the future; for, though he spent his earnings freely, he spent them wisely, and soon had amassed a modest amount of wealth.

Landran's only regret was this; though time had seemed to slip by unreasonably swiftly during his boring days as a hermit, now it raced by uncontrollably, as it always does when one is busy, and before he knew it, several more years of his brief mortal life had passed by.

At one point, Landran found himself in the employ of a small-town pottery merchant. His task was to erect a stall from which the merchant could sell his wares on the upcoming day of festival. Landran, who had acquired some skill as a carpenter, found his job relatively easy, and soon a sturdy framework took shape beneath his hands. He had sent a message to the merchant, requesting a supply of planks with which he might finish the front of the structure. The planks arrived even as he was nailing the last ceiling strut into place.

"Your planks, sir craftsman," came a high, soft voice. "Thanks, lad!" said Landran, without looking away from his work.

"Where would you like them, sir!" The voice suddenly developed an angry edge.

Remaining pleasant, Landran said, "Oh, just stack them over there..." He turned to point, and his jaw dropped in surprise. There before him, her arms full of wood and her eyes glaring, stood an attractive young woman. She was dressed in drab working clothes and her long brown hair was tied back from her face. Quite flustered, Landran moved to assist her. "I'm terribly sorry, here-let me..."

"I can manage!" she said tersely and dumped the load where he had indicated. Feeling awkward, Landran smiled weakly and looked sheepish. Amused by his discomfort, the woman exchanged her scowl for a friendly grin and said, "I am Ilyra, daughter of the merchant Durnol, who hired you."

"I am Landran, and I am honored." He bowed slightly. He paused and then said courteously, "It is a pity that our meeting could not have been a more auspicious one. Is there some way in which I may make amends for my folly?"

Ilyra eyed him closely for a moment, seemingly uncertain of his sincerity. Finally, convinced that he meant what he had said, Ilyra laughed pleasantly, saying, "The day grows oppressively hot; buy me an ale and you shall have earned my good will for at least an hour!"

Wiping the sweat from his brow, Landran grinned and said, "Gladly!"

As they sat in the cool shadows of the alehouse, Landran and Ilyra drank and talked at length about their past lives. Landran took care never to tell anyone about his life as a god, for fear of ridicule, and so found it necessary to fabricate the history of his youth. As he sat there, listening to Ilyra's interesting account of her family's past, and gazing into her candle-lit face, Landran felt new and powerful emotions stirring within him. Love is not unknown to the gods, but it is indeed a rare occurrence, for they are too concerned with themselves and their own petty affairs to make the sacrifices necessary for a true and lasting love to flower.

Ilyra too, as Fate would have it, felt her emotions begin to quicken, for she was not unaffected by this courteous, strangely awe-inspiring man before her. He seemed possessed of a quiet pride and infinite wisdom, as one who has pondered universal questions through eons of time. He was an intense man, this Landran, with a peculiar, but somehow attractive, philosophy of life. She felt her spirit moved by his cool, fathomless gaze and resonant voice.

A seed was planted, in that first hour of their meeting, which was to grow and flourish into a deep and powerful love, that would last beyond the End of Days, and bestow upon them, in its way, immortality.

Landran, the man-who-was-once-a-god, lay upon his deathbed and considered the days gone by. Except for those years lost as a hermit, he had not wasted a moment. Every waking hour had been filled with activity, marveling at the complexity of the world, and living for the simple joy of living. He had savored his life as a connoisseur savors a fine brandy: to the last drop, and he was happy.

He and Ilyra married a short while after they had met and, with his savings, Landran had purchased a small cottage in the nearby woods. Here he had set up his occupation as a woodcutter and carpenter, soon drawing customers from all the neighboring towns because of the quality of his work. Ilyra had continued to study the art of pottery-making from her father, eventually setting up her own shop and giving instruction to those who wanted it. Both their fame and their wealth grew, and soon they could afford to hire assistants and build a bigger home.

Into this prosperous household were born three offspring: two boys and a girl. One of the boys possessed the gift of skilled hands, like his father, though he preferred to work in metal, not wood, and he became a renowned smithy. The other lad was an artist, and he took to painting his mother's pottery with brilliant designs of stunning beauty that increased their value a hundredfold. The girl was unlike either parent, but rather, was in mind like unto her grandfather, and she set out to pursue a career as a merchant in a caravan when she was scarcely twenty years of age.

Landran smiled at the memory of her glowing face as she had set out on her first trip, her pack-horses laden with samples of pottery, woodcarvings and metalwork. He knew she would do well. Yes, it had been a good life, and a long one-for his vitality had sustained him somewhat beyond the span of an ordinary man. But now he and Ilyra were very old, and very tired; it was time to rest. He turned his gaze slowly to Ilyra's tear-streaked face, where she knelt quietly beside the bed. He tried to smile reassuringly and extended his withered hand to wipe the dampness from her cheek. Her time would come soon, he knew.

She took his hand and kissed it lightly. It was not death she feared but being parted from the one she loved—no matter for how short a time.

Landran bade her farewell with his eyes, and then slowly closed them as he felt his last few seconds slipping away. His thoughts went out into the ether, to those splendid, moonlit halls on the edge of the Land of Dream.

"Calindra!" he called, "Calindra, I wish to thank you, Goddess! For your curse has turned out to be the greatest blessing ever bestowed! Thank you, Calindra...forever!" And then he died.

Oblivious to the tiny mortal voice which called her name, the Goddess Calindra casually cut down a bishop with her knight and, yawning, said, "Checkmate."

"Well, well, well," mumbled the Crimson King, "That's certainly food for thought, indeed hmmm, yes." He gazed at the vaulted ceiling as though trying to grasp a matter of some great importance, his tongue working furiously with the effort of his concentration. His mental wrestling was ended abruptly by a strange buzzing sound, like a nest of angry wasps, which presently filled the Court. The source of the disruption was a seething black fog which floated before the third wiseman. The wiseman was staring in abject horror at this phantasm, his mouth hanging open as if to scream.

From out of the apparition there rose a long, nebulous, arm-like appendage which appeared to beckon to the wiseman. With a shriek, he was on his feet, babbling, "No! It is him: the Usher! He has come!" With that, he suddenly stiffened and pitched forward onto the table. His two already-prone companions remained motionless where they lay.

For a moment no one moved or spoke, save the Jester who, oblivious as ever to his surroundings, continued to nurse his aching joints.

The Crimson King, the Juggler and the Fire-Witch just sat and stared in disbelief at the now dissipating cloud. After a suitable number of heartbeats, the Wanderer mused aloud, "A most interesting occurrence, indeed. It seems there are some things which just cannot be eluded forever." He gave them all a meaningful look which was, of course, lost in the shadows of his hat.

The Crimson King shook his head in confusion, "Well, well, well. What could be the meaning of all this? It's quite beyond me, I must say! Most extraordinary!" He looked over at the Wanderer. "I suppose you'll be leaving us now, then, won't you?" There was unmistakable regret in his voice.

The Wanderer, who was for the most part immune to such sentiment, quickly held up his hand. "Oh no, for I have told seven stories and received only six in return; the Court is in my debt by the terms of our agreement."

The Crimson King considered this for a moment in added confusion, and blustered, "But there is no one left to tell a tale! One of us will have to tell two...but that was not part of the bargain." He shook his balding head in displeasure.

"Ahh, but you are forgetting our friend, the Jester," said the Wanderer, simply.

"What, him?" asked the King incredulously, "Surely you are not serious; that addle-pate has no stories of any worth to tell, why bother with him?"

Within his shadows, the Wanderer slowly smiled. "Because I sense that he has a tale to tell after all—don't you, my good Fool? Tell us now, how it is that you came to be a Jester at the Court of the illustrious Crimson King. Surely you were not always a Fool—were you not once as sane as any of your fellows in the Lands of Men?"

The Jester did not respond immediately, but he left off his massaging and turned feral eyes upon the Wanderer. A thin trickle of saliva escaped his mouth and dripped slowly down his chin onto the floor. Finally, he blurted, "I met Destiny in the street one day and she said unto me, 'Fool, go forth and be foolish.' Now, he who would try to avoid his fate is a fool anyway, so either way, a Fool am I" He rolled his eyes and gnawed on his wrist as though to prove it.

Once more, the Wanderer's eyes flashed balefully in the gloom and transfixed the Jester with their dagger-like gaze. In a voice which was soft, but full of menace, the Wanderer said, "My patience wears thin, Fool. You will tell me your tale now, while Time permits."

At the mention of Time, the Jester tensed visibly, and his eyes grew wide. He stared unseeing, past the Wanderer, as if he beheld a vision. His lips began to move slowly, and in a strange, monotonous voice, he spoke...."

# Chapter 14: Where Worlds Meet

It was twilight, and the mournful cries of the qualu haunted the shadows. The air was clear and chill, which was good, for it numbed the persistent pain of my wound and kept me alert. All day I had fled through the hills, trying to escape the Merulian war-party that had set upon our caravan just before dawn. We were a band of merchants dealing with the isolated communities along the Edge of the World: that area between the Lands of Men and the Unknown Realm which Time is thought to rule. The Merulians greatly outnumbered our guard and fought with the ferocity for which they are renowned. The battle soon became a rout, but I escaped, though wounded, to the cover of a nearby forest. Small groups of men were dispatched to hunt down refugees, but I managed to elude them. At that moment, however, I did not feel so lucky; tired, sore and hungry, I was alone in a strange land, my only hope was to enlist the aid of a crofter or some other forest inhabitant, if I could find one. The chance of this seemed slight, since few are those who dwell so close to the Edge, and the dangers of the Unknown Realm.

Darkness was falling quickly, and still I had not found a place to shelter, when I discerned a light ahead. It came from the tower of a castle-like structure which stood on a hill not far from me. I set out for it at once. The way was not difficult, but my weariness weighed heavily upon me. Staggering, half-conscious, I stumbled and collapsed to the ground. Later, after what seemed to be but a few minutes, I opened my eyes and shook my head to clear it. As I struggled to my feet, I was shocked to see that the crescent moon had risen and was already more than half-way through its passage. I felt certain that I had not been asleep that long, but guessed I must be mistaken, since often a dreamer loses his sense of time. Accepting this explanation, I resumed my trek to the castle.

Before long, I stood before the gate of that structure, which loomed stark and forbidding against the paling sky. It was hewn from a single piece of rock; nowhere could I detect even the finest joint in its dull, black surface. I passed through the gate, which was open and unguarded, and entered the courtyard beyond. This was a place of staggering beauty, filled with colorful, terraced gardens through which snaked pathways of stone. Taking one of these, I wandered amongst the shrubs and flowers for a time, intoxicated by their fragrance. Stopping to examine a flower, I beheld a miracle, a young bud swelled and burst into full bloom-all in a matter of seconds. Yet, even as I watched, the bloom withered and dropped to the ground.

Upon closer inspection, I found that this same rapid process was occurring throughout the garden.

I saw a spider spin its web between two branches in the time it takes to draw a sword. Multicolored objects flashed past me like hummingbirds. One alighted on a scarlet blossom long enough for me to realize that it was a luxurious butterfly.

Wandering further, I saw a snail dart up a wall like a frightened lizard and noticed that in the short time I had spent in the garden, the sun had risen and was now almost directly overhead. To my amazement, I realized that my wound had ceased to throb and, upon examination, found that it had already begun to heal over. I knew now that I had crossed over the border into the Unknown Realm, and that the strange things I had witnessed were the results of Time running unchecked.

I found myself before an open doorway that beckoned me with the promise of even greater marvels. Overcoming my initial apprehension, I passed into its cool shadows. I made my way up a marble staircase that was dimly lit by torches. These gave off an unnaturally steady light for, unlike normal flames that dance and flicker, these appeared motionless, as though carved from amber. I began to think that I was mad, or dreaming, when I realized that the stairway was slowly curving back on itself, almost forming a loop. I had the odd sensation of walking up a wall and across the ceiling.

I emerged from the stairs into a large, unfurnished chamber which was spherical in shape. I stood at the bottom of this sphere with my back to the doorway through which I had come. Directly above me, in what should have been the ceiling, was another door. Since I had little choice but to try to reach this, I started walking. It was as though I remained in the same place while the room itself rotated. I could see the doorway getting closer; it slid down the white surface before me and gaped like a mouth yawning to devour me. At this point something blurred shot out of the doorway and past me: too fast for me to see what it was. I thought that I felt something brush my shoulders briefly as it passed with a gust of air. Once it was gone, I finally came to the second doorway and passed through it.

I was relieved to find myself in a long hallway of normal construction. Its walls and ceiling were made of lusterless, black stone and the floor was of smoothly polished wood. Dim light emanated from chandeliers which were hung down the length of the hall. I could perceive no movement of the candle flames.

On the wall to my right stood a large cabinet clock. Through the glass door in its front I could see a golden blur, which I realized was the pendulum, swinging back and forth at an incredible rate. Consequently, the hands of the clock were moving at a similar speed; the minute hand was invisible, and the hour hand was making complete revolutions in the space of a heartbeat.

Wonderingly, I started off down the hall. As I advanced, I became aware of large, oval-shaped mirrors set at alternate intervals upon either wall. I came to the first of these and looked at my reflection. I was shocked to see the haggardness of my countenance but dismissed it as the result of the stress I had undergone during the past hours. My steps grew heavier as I continued, and fatigue weighed down upon me. When I came to the next mirror, I gasped in surprise, for the face that returned my startled gaze was that of a middle-aged man. It was unmistakably my own, though, for the eyes were still those I had always known. Driven by morbid curiosity and an insane impulse, I trudged on to the next mirror, my breath coming in painful gasps. The distance was the same as that which separated the first two mirrors, yet it took me twice as long to traverse it. It was as though heavy weights had been hung upon my aching limbs, sapping my rapidly ebbing vitality.

I halted, panting, before the third mirror and the shock of what I saw there nearly froze my struggling heart. With horrified fascination, I studied the shriveled mask which hung there before me. Sunken, watery eyes wallowed in a sallow heap of wrinkles. A trickle of saliva slid from the slack, toothless mouth. A few thin wisps of hair protruded from the mottled scalp which shone dully in the unwavering light of the candles.

A greater will than my own now took command of my body and drew my gaze to the wall at the end of the hallway. It was a short distance away now, and I could see that it bore a mirror with an unadorned, jet-black frame. The surface of the glass was not silver, but black, like a gaping hole into some nether hell. I suddenly realized that my feet were already shuffling me forward. I tried to force my unresponsive body to halt and turn the other way, but that last fateful mirror drew ever nearer.

I clenched my eyes shut against the sight I feared awaited me within the ebon depths of that glass. Slowly, my eyelids lifted of their own volition and I beheld a sight that no man was ever meant to see, for our eyes are mercifully blinded by death. Madness overcame the paralysis that gripped me: with a violent motion, I shattered that evil glass with the pommel of my dagger.

The room was plunged into chaos. I. was thrown to the floor by some unseen force and the air erupted with the sound of bells—as though all the clock towers in the world had struck the hour at once. Clawing at the smooth, wooden floor, r began to drag myself, whimpering with terror, back the way I had come. As I passed each of the mirrors, they burst in a shower of glass, and the sound of bells grew louder. As I advanced, however, my strength slowly returned and when I reached the end of the hall I leapt to my feet and ran through the doorway. I entered the white-sphere room and halted abruptly. Standing there before me was a duplicate of myself, motionless but alive. I shook it by the shoulders in order to dispel the trance that was upon it—to no avail. Then I realized that I was seeing myself on my way into the castle. Somehow, past and present had met.

I remembered the blur that had shot by me when I first entered this room; it must have been my future-self on the way out. My shattered senses could take no more of this madness. The memory of what I had seen in the final mirror haunted me-I fled screaming from that accursed castle.

A long while later, when I could run no more, I collapsed beside a small pool. I bent over the glassy surface of the water and scooped up a refreshing draught in my cupped hands. As the last ripples slipped away and the pool wobbled back to its former stillness, I became aware for the first time of my reflection therein. I gasped to see that the hair at my temples was white and my face deeply lined, I had entered the Fortress of Time a young man in his prime, but I came away an ageing man in his middle years. The fires of madness leaped higher in those frenzied eyes that peered back at me from the shadowy depths of the pool.

Crashing through the undergrowth, I fled wildly across the Edge, back to the Lands of Men, my witless, mournful cries merging with those of the qualu.

# Epilogue: Time's Victory

Coming out of his trance as his story ended, the Jester experienced a moment of lucidity and looked about him with clear eyes, his voice still trailing on, "...and so, knowing I could never face what awaited me at the end of my days, I sought out this Court, where Time may never come."

He fell silent and stared at the Crimson King, the Fire-Witch and the Juggler. A look of confusion and horror crossed his face. He pointed at the three, and sputtered, "But, but you're all old! Look at you! Where is your brazen glory, my king? Who is this old man I see upon the throne? And you, Witch: where is your fire, your vitality?" he turned to the Juggler, "And you—however shall you juggle your hopes and dreams with hands so palsied and joints so stiff? How has this come to pass? Time has come to the Court of the Crimson King!" His eyes became suddenly wild once more, like those of a cornered beast.

The Jester glanced at the bodies of the three wisemen, which had already putrefied and turned to dust. With a violent gesture that made his bells sing out, the Jester stabbed an accusing finger at the Wanderer. "You! You did it! You have brought Time here with your accursed stories—you mean to kill us all! Murderer! Assassin!" With that, he dashed over to the wisemen's table, snatched up a knife that was lying there, and plunged toward the Wanderer. But time and age had gnawed the Jester's bony frame like ravenous worms; his arthritic joints and tired muscles seized up suddenly and he was sent sprawling face-forward to the floor.

The blade twisted insidiously in his feeble grip as he fell, and was rammed upwards, between his ribs. With a liquid, gurgling cry, the Jester lay twitching in a widening pool of blood.

The Wanderer had not moved.

Somehow, with incredible effort, the aged King had risen to his feet. His sword was drawn and pointed threateningly towards the Wanderer. The blade wavered impotently in the King's weakening grasp. "Who ... who are you?" he rasped, "Why have you come? What have you done to us?"

There was a piteous cry and a crash as the Juggler collapsed amidst his shattered hopes and dreams, his aged heart going through its final convulsions.

The Wanderer calmly folded his hands and spoke in a different voice: a deep one which echoed with Power throughout the Court. "Mortal, your end is nigh—as it should have been many eons ago. In your impudence you and your subjects have long escaped the jurisdiction of Time, but now that must end. Know me for what I am, mortal: a minion of Time sent to do Its bidding and bring Its element to Its truant children." From out of the voluminous folds of his cloak, the Wanderer drew a golden hourglass, whose upper hemisphere was now nearly emptied of sand.

Once more, he spoke, "As each tale was told, the years you owed rolled through this Court like waves upon the shore...and now the tide is almost full." He replaced the hourglass beneath his cloak.

The sword of the Crimson King fell clattering to the floor as he sank slowly to his knees with a dying groan. The Fire-Witch slipped like ashes from her chair and settled in a heap upon the cold marble. Smiling with grim satisfaction, the Wanderer rose from his chair and stood surveying his handiwork for a moment. Then, with an efficient click of his silvery, metallic boots, he turned and began his journey back to the Land of Dream.

While the Fire-Witch lay gasping her last breaths, she noticed for the first time that the sound of the Wanderer's footsteps, as he strode away down the stone hallway, was distinctly like the inexorable ticking of a clock.

The End

# BONUS STORY:

A second tale of the Fire-Witch

## Soul Chaser

Abide awhile in Shadow

Sweet spirit.

Linger briefly amongst the memories

Of a life too quickly spent.

Savor crystal moments of half-forgotten tears

And those that burn like fire, even now.

Then set them free.

Cast them to the raging winds

That blow between the worlds.

At last, with clearer understanding

And a heart made pure by trials

Rise up to meet your destiny

And onward, to the stars.

-prayer from the Merulian Book of the Dead

The Fire-Witch awakened to the subdued roar of combustion and a scream. She grimaced: apparently one of the desert raiders had attempted to cross the firetrap she had placed around the encampment. With one deft movement, she rolled off the bedroll and sprang to her feet, picking up her staff as she did. There was a similar flurry of motion beside her as Aramir, her lover and travelling companion, leapt up, rapier in hand. He glanced at her in concern, then brushed his tousled brown hair from his eyes as he scanned the darkness beyond the campfire.

The intruder was silent now. He lay a short distance away: strange, blue fires still dancing along his lifeless form. Beyond, the night loomed: ominous and inscrutable. The Fire-Witch sensed eyes out there, watching her...waiting. She shivered.

A bowstring sang out on the left; from the corner of her eye, the Fire-Witch saw Aramir's blade dart sideways and knock the arrow aside. He executed a complicated flourish with the sword before returning to the guard position. She sighed and allowed herself a small, inward smile at her lover's bravado.

There was the sound of another release, this time to the right. The Fire-Witch's head snapped toward it, her left hand coming up open-palmed, and glowing with a faint, red luminance. A small explosion of flame erupted in the air before her as the approaching arrow ignited in mid-flight and was incinerated into a harmless burst of sparks.

"Very pretty!" came Aramir's comment. She frowned at his glibness.

They positioned themselves back-to-back and waited, their witch-senses straining for some indication of their enemies' positions. The Fire-Witch felt certain the raiders would abandon the attack in the face of such formidable resistance.

Her hopes were proved groundless when battle-cries rang out and several robed figures charged forward into the firelight, scimitars raised to strike. They were gaunt, weathered-looking men with feverish eyes. Their lips and teeth were stained purple by the chenga root, chewed for its hallucinogenic properties. A combination of this, and starvation brought on by loss of their herd-beasts to disease, had driven them to such a desperate attack.

With a resigned sigh, the Fire-Witch moved her hand in a sharp, casting motion toward the nearest man.

An instant later, flames blossomed upon the raider's chest, spreading rapidly outward. The force of the blast knocked him backwards off his feet. The scimitar spun impotently away into the night. There was no time to see what became of him next; the others had paused only briefly in dismay at the fate of their comrade—now they came on with renewed determination.

The first one to reach the Fire-Witch brought his scimitar down in a hissing arc towards her head. She quickly interposed her stout, ebon-wood staff which was now humming faintly with hidden power. The two weapons met with a crash and a burst of sparks: the scimitar rebounded with such force that the raider's arm was thrown far to one side, leaving him exposed to the Fire-Witch's next stroke. The staff thudded into his ribcage, crushing bones and internal organs with the force that magic lent to the blow. He went down in a crumpled heap.

Aramir, meanwhile, had also eliminated one foe. His rapier now flashed with blue lightning. It wove a glittering web as it darted about, blocking attacks and searching for openings in his opponent's defenses. Though a much lighter blade than the scimitars, the sorcery that Aramir had placed in the rapier enabled it to parry with the strength of a much heavier weapon. A rapid, back-handed slash and the second attacker collapsed with a spouting slit in his throat. Aramir turned to face the third.

The Fire-Witch ducked a powerful swing and countered with a thrust of the staff's head at her opponent's mid-section. The man leaped agilely backward beyond her reach, then renewed his attack with a series of skillful feints and jabs. The Fire-Witch was forced to retreat a few steps under this new onslaught. She began to circle to the right in order to keep the campfire at her back. With a snarl, the raider aimed a slice at her head. She dodged to the side but stumbled against the prone body of the first attacker, temporarily losing her balance. For one critical instant her guard was thrown off; the scimitar crashed into the staff but was only partially deflected. The flat of the blade slammed against the Fire-Witch's head sending her sprawling to the ground, her staff flying from her grasp. Struggling to remain conscious as explosions of color obscured her vision, the Fire-Witch groped for her staff. As the raider stepped forward, a victorious grin on his face, she abandoned the search and attempted to summon magic to her defense. She held her palm up but could only manage the barest ghost of a flame, which promptly flickered and died in a puff of grey smoke. Obviously, she was too shaken by the blow to achieve the concentration necessary for spellcasting. Helpless, the Fire-Witch could only watch her enemy's approach, her lip curled in defiance.

The raider laughed cruelly and raised his weapon for the final blow. A point of brilliant blue light suddenly appeared at the tip of the scimitar, casting cold illumination over the scene. The man stared up in dismay, an expression of horror spreading across his once-triumphant face as the blue light slid, snake-like, in a long spiral down the blade and up his arm. With a cry, he dropped the scimitar and swatted at the light in a futile attempt to dislodge it. The sinuous glow reached his shoulder with purposeful speed and encircled itself around his neck. Then it began to constrict.

Horrible choking sounds bubbled from the raider's mouth as he clawed frantically at the light with both hands. This had no effect, except that the flesh of his throat was soon torn to bloody strips by his own nails. After a moment, his bulging eyes rolled back in his head and he pitched forward onto his face. The blue light vanished.

The Fire-Witch looked over her shoulder to see Aramir standing there, grim and imposing in the firelight, his hand still out-stretched toward the fallen man. About his feet lay the bodies of several others. His eyes met hers with a worried look that quickly turned to relief when he realized that she was all right.

He flashed her a familiar grin.

She started to smile in return, but her mouth fell open in horror as she saw, for the first time, one surviving bowman taking aim at her lover from point-blank range. In the next instant it seemed to her that an impossible number of things happened at once. She raised her arm in warning, unable to utter anything intelligible. Aramir, sensing from her expression that something was wrong, began to pivot around to face the danger. The bowman released his arrow.

Aramir's body jolted as the shaft went home; he stiffened, his back arching sharply. His eyes went wide with shock. There was time for one last sad, questioning look at the Fire-Witch—then he dropped.

A throat-searing scream of anguish and denial burst forth from the prone woman. With all the intensity of boundless hate and grief, she focused her will upon the murderer and let loose the magic within her. The air between her fingertips and her victim glowed dull red for an instant before the man exploded into a howling pillar of fire. He managed to stagger a few steps into the darkness before he died, but the Fire-Witch maintained her onslaught until nothing remained but a black, glassy patch of sand where he had lain.

Her rage exhausted, the Fire-Witch leaned heavily on one arm, her head bowed. She had expended more energy than was wise, leaving herself dangerously drained. If there were any more raiders remaining, she would be helpless against them. As soon as she was able to, she began to crawl toward her fallen lover. He lay, unmoving, a short distance beyond the fire. A wicked-looking, black-feathered shaft protruded from his back. At the sight of this, the Fire-Witch began to moan, as part of her tried to deny what she already knew to be true.

She drew herself up beside Aramir, rolled him onto his side and cradled his head in her lap. Her tears splashed amid the dust on his face as she crooned, rocking him gently, as though he were a child. But for all her prayers, his eyes remained closed, and no breath stirred from his lips. How bitter it seemed to her now to have mastery over all manner of fire, except that which was extinguished in Aramir forever. The Fire-Witch threw back her head and wailed her loss to the night.

Many hours later, as the pathetic sliver of a moon slipped behind the mountains in the west, the Fire-Witch stirred from the paralysis that had settled over her. She was quiet now: her tears had subsided long before, leaving her drained of emotion. Her eyes dull, her senses deadened, she was a mere husk of a woman. Life had lost all meaning for her: there seemed little point in carrying on.

Aramir lay beside her in cruel imitation of countless nights before, but now there was no warmth in his flesh, nor gentle strength in his touch; even the sweet-pungent man-smell of him had gone. The thing beside her was no more Aramir than the cold, lifeless sand it lay upon. That which she had loved—still loved—had fled its house of flesh, never to return.

In the east, the faintest roseate hint of approaching dawn could now be discerned: before long the desert would once again become the inferno it normally was by day. The Fire-Witch struggled to her feet and stood weaving unsteadily for a moment. Sensation gradually returned to her cramped legs and her head began to clear. Brushing back long hair the color of shadows, she peered into the darkness around the camp for any flammable objects. She quickly gathered up the remains of the campfire, along with Aramir's few belongings. Of these, one thing alone did she spare: a many-faceted crystal pendant suspended from a silver chain. It was a gift she had given him shortly after they first met in the marketplace of the coastal city of Chalkeesh.

She had been posing as a fortune-teller, with a small tent set up in a prime location near the wine-merchants. Business had been good, and she was just about to close up for the day, when a tall figure stepped into the tent. She sensed immediately that this was not another of the simple marketgoers that she had dealt with all day; there was something about this man—a subtle aura hinting at unseen power.

The Fire-Witch's troubled, and unusual, up-bringing had left her with a certain bitter disdain towards men. She found them, on the whole, to be an insensitive, self-centered lot, best avoided whenever possible, and tolerated only out of necessity. Her few, ill-starred relationships had only served to reinforce this opinion; she had long since abandoned hope of ever encountering a suitable consort. But the moment the stranger smiled and met her gaze with his own haunting, blue eyes, she knew at once that here was a man very unlike the rest—here was one she could love.

The poignancy of the memory caused the Fire-Witch a pang; she found herself blinking away tears in order to continue her search for combustibles. There was little in the way of plant-life to be had in the desert; the most she could locate were some clumps of bristly, dried-up brush. These she gathered and placed in a pile along with the other things she had collected. Once this was done, she lay poor Aramir's body upon the prickly bed, placed his sword beside him, and kissed him one last time.

She stood back and caused the pyre to ignite. Ravenous orange flames sprang into being and spread rapidly outward. Because of the lack of fuel, however, the Fire-Witch was forced to supplement the burning with her own, rapidly diminishing, energy. The flames surged higher, pushing back the night with pulsing radiance. The Fire-Witch sustained the effort as long as she could: droplets of sweat stood out on her brow and she began to tremble. Waves of darkness swam across her vision as her legs began to buckle beneath her. The song of the flames faded from her ears, and she sank to the sand in a heap.

When she awoke, the Fire-Witch experienced a moment of confusion; the sun was just creeping over the horizon, but the pyre was now a cold bed of ashes, sifting away across the desert in the wind. She wondered how this could be so—and then it came to her: she had slept right through one day and into another. That would explain the terrible thirst that now plagued her, and the gnawing in her stomach. Except for these discomforts, though, she felt much better: completely invigorated. The unprotected exposure to the desert heat that would have killed an ordinary person had only served to revitalize her energy levels. She took some food and water from her pack and set about to satisfy her human needs.

She sat there in the sand as she ate and contemplated her situation. Now, where there had been only emptiness the day before, the Fire-Witch felt seething resentment and anger. She could not bring herself to accept Aramir's death. It was the suddenness of it, especially, that offended her; after five intimate years together, for him to be snatched away without even so much as a farewell—it was insufferable. Whenever she had thought about one of them dying—and it had been often, given the nature of the lives they led—she had always pictured a slow, dramatic exit filled with tears and bittersweet endearments. She had mentioned her fears to him once, but he had only laughed in the usual way, and kissed her fiercely, saying, "My sweet, sad, Shandrilor," for that was what he had named her: 'dark-flame' in the Old Tongue, "If you spend so much time worrying about dying, what is the point of life?" She had tried to argue, but he would have none of it so, in the end, she gave in and kept her morbid thoughts to herself from then on.

And now her greatest fear was a reality: Aramir was gone and she was alone in the world. It was simply not acceptable, she thought, as she rose determinedly to her feet.

There were legends, she had heard, that told of the soul's final journey after death. We come into this world, so they said, from the Land of Light in the West, and leave it via the Realms of Chaos in the East. According to the storytellers, the newly arrived soul must linger there at the Edge of the World to reflect upon its past life before it may complete its journey by being re-absorbed into the Oneness of the universe. If this were so, then the Fire-Witch might still be reunited with her lover before he was lost to her forever. In an instant, she decided that this was what she must do.

The Fire-Witch gathered up her few belongings: her staff, bedroll, and her satchel. Without a further glance at the blackened patch of sand, she struck out towards the east, where the raging sun was already high. Over-head, the black shapes of vultures circled slowly, drawn by the decaying corpses of the desert raiders. Nothing else moved in that blasted landscape save the searing wind that swept across the dunes. Once, as she went, she became obsessed with the notion that she was being followed; she was not often wrong about such things. Her patience grew thinner until at last, without warning, she spun around and sent a jet of flame crackling over the top of the nearest ridge. The warning proved sufficient, however: after that she was no longer bothered by any sense of pursuit.

By nightfall she had reached the eastern fringes of the desert, where the sand gave way to barren rock and, gradually, grasslands. In the distance a darker smudge against the night-sky showed where the great forest began.

The Fire-Witch continued to walk without pausing, periodically sipping on her water-skin and dining lightly on dried fruit as she went. Extraordinary endurance, as well as her sorcery, had been granted to her by supernatural means during her childhood. She used the energy that she had stored all day to keep her going even after dark, though she did rest briefly in the dead hours before dawn.

The next day she made even better time; the going was easy now as she left the tall-grass plains behind and entered the outskirts of the forest. The leaves formed a brilliant green canopy above her, in which numerous birds and small animals flitted. Under different circumstances she would have taken the time to appreciate their simple activities, but at the moment only one thing concerned her; she was oblivious to everything else.

Late afternoon found her deep in the woods in a landscape growing hilly. Periodically, through gaps in the trees, she caught glimpses of the way she had come: the grasslands and the desert beyond. Not a single other person did she see, for few indeed are those who wander the Pathless Ways.

As another evening drew on, the Fire-Witch emerged from the trees into an alpine meadow. The intoxicating scent of countless blooms told her what beauty lay hidden there in the twilight. She inhaled deeply of the sharp, clear, mountain air, and was at least partially refreshed. Above her stretched steep slopes of shattered rock and suspended cornices of ice. Fortunately, her path lay along an easier route: a narrow pass between the peaks, somewhere in the darkness ahead. She resumed her climb.

The moon crept out from hiding, its sterile light casting harsh shadows across the way. In the distance a wolf howled hauntingly into the silence. Touched by a feeling of kinship, the Fire-Witch paused on a knife-sharp ridge, threw her head back, and cast her own cry of desolation back into the night. She stood there a long time with the wind slicing past her, waiting for a reply, but none came. With a sigh, she turned and marched onward.

Sometime later, she paused beneath a granite over-hang that offered some protection from the chilling wind. She huddled there in the dark and partook sparingly of her dwindling supplies. Her hunger partially satisfied; she turned her attention to the discomfort of the bitter cold. Her feet and hands were numb, as were the unprotected portions of her face. With no wood at hand, she was forced to generate her own source of heat; she closed her eyes and willed her magic into action. Up and down the length of her body small, orange flames began to crawl—warming, but not consuming. She smiled and relaxed tired muscles as the warmth slowly restored feeling to her limbs. The flames gradually subsided to a bare flicker against the darkness. Unperturbed by the fine flakes that had begun to fall, the Fire-Witch slept.

She awoke from dreams of Aramir, her eyes damp. The snow had stopped, but not before it had settled into icy, knee-high drifts along the pass. Blinking, she wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, then gathered up her things. She was glad of the staff: aside from its magical properties, it was an invaluable support under such icy conditions. With a sigh, she strode onward through the snow, her eyes as grey and ominous as the sky above.

When she reached the other side of the mountains it was about mid-day, though she couldn't tell for sure because of the heavy overcast. She emerged from the pass high above the Eastern Wastes, which stretched away, dull and featureless, right to the Edge of the World. She could see the Edge—with the aid of her witch-sight—hanging like a vast shadowy curtain across the horizon. This was her goal, where she would be reunited with Aramir—the gods willing. She began the long descent that was the first step in the final stage of her journey.

The day remained dismal; now and then the clouds managed a minor downpour, dampening the Fire-Witch's cloak and hair, but not her determination. Her soft leather boots were worn through in places; the jagged rocks exacted a painful toll upon her feet. Her step was light and swift, however; she had more important things to think about than pain.

The flat wastelands were a welcome relief from the mountains, but the dreary landscape was much less pleasant to look at. Even the air here was stale and lifeless; it stank, too, of mold and death. Something had happened to the Fire-Witch's perception of time, as well; everything seemed to happen so slowly, and the least activity required great effort. The Edge was only a short distance away now, and yet it was taking an abnormally long time to reach it.

Gradually, the rock wasteland gave way to moors of heather and peat. Sickly, stunted plants drooped beside unclean pools, dripping slowly. The Fire-Witch thought she saw something stir sluggishly in one of those pools once, when she ventured too near, but it might only have been a trick of the light. No birds flew in that poisoned sky, and no creature moved upon the land—except the Fire-Witch. An oppressive silence hung overall, broken only by the ever-present dripping of water.

At last she reached the Edge. She gazed up in awe at the shifting curtain of twilight that stretched as far as she could see, upwards and outwards. Beyond, she knew, lay the Realms of Chaos, where roamed dead spirits and other, even less pleasant, things. But there too, she hoped, waited the spirit of Aramir, her lost lover.

Cautiously, she stepped forward and reached out a hand to touch the greyness. There was a sensation of cold and a faint tingle as her hand passed through the frontier of mist. It seemed that her flesh became translucent as it went. She took one last, deep breath and stepped across the Border.

Dark, star-less night engulfed her. She felt ground beneath her feet but could not see it. There was no sound, no smell, and not a breath of wind. For the first time, the Fire-Witch felt a touch of doubt about her mission and the wisdom of it. Shrugging off her misgivings, she proceeded with her plan; it was necessary, now, to summon the spirit of Aramir to her. To this end she raised her hands, palms inward, and closed her eyes. Envisioning Aramir's face in her mind's eye, carefully recreating every detail from long, loving study, she summoned her unearthly powers, imbuing them with love. Through closed eyelids she saw the golden glow that swelled into being before her and felt its reassuring warmth. She doubled her effort: the glow leaped towards blinding intensity. Then she called out in the loudest voice she could muster, "Aramir!"

She paused, then again, "Aramir! My love! Come to me!"

A human beacon, she stood there, just beyond the Edge of the World, and cried out from the depths of her longing and despair.

And he came.

"Shandrilor? Is it you?" His voice had a distant, hollow sound to it, like a man speaking from the bottom of a well.

The Fire-Witch's eyes snapped open and she peered into the gloom for the source of the voice. The radiance of her beacon dazzled her: it took a moment of squinting before she could make out the glowing figure that approached. When she finally saw who it was, she grew speechless with joy and excitement. He looked the same as ever—he was even wearing the crystal pendant that she knew was safely stowed in her bag.

He stopped a few paces away from her, his expression one of sadness and puzzlement. "Alas, Dark Flame, have they slain you, too? I'd hoped not to see you wandering in Shadow so soon."

"Aramir...!" she began, then felt a twinge of hurt and snapped defensively, "You're not happy to see me?"

A smile came to him then, and he began to look more like his former self. "Of course, I'm happy to see you, but not at the expense of your life."

She accepted this but tilted her nose petulantly. "Well, I'm not dead. And if you had stayed around longer you would have seen that."

"Believe me, I had little choice in the matter. But if you're not dead, then what, by the gods, are you doing here?"

"I've come to be with you, of course," she said simply.

The faint nimbus around his body dimmed slightly and his expression became wistful.

"I only wish it could be so...," he replied.

"But it can—it is!" she protested.

He shook his head sadly. "No, my dear Shandrilor, you don't understand. You are flesh: you cannot linger here, or soon you really will be dead. This place was not meant for the living."

"Then you must return with me to the Lands of Men."

"It cannot be...I am not part of that world anymore. I have been Summoned, and soon I must answer that call."

"No!" The Fire-Witch slammed the butt of her staff down in frustration. Aramir smiled at her tolerantly. She thought hard for a moment, then said, "Very well, if we can't both be alive, then let us both be dead!"

The response was startling; his expression turned gravely intense; his aura flared angrily. "Never speak that way! You are above such foolish talk."

"But I can't bear to be parted from you!" she pleaded.

"You are not parted from me, only from my physical self, and that is but a trifling thing."

She continued to stare at him, bewildered.

"Don't you see," he continued, "You are all that's left of me in the World. I live on in your memories: my face, my voice, my habits—all are there inside of you."

"But..." she began.

"While you live, I live!" he shouted. "When you die then I, too, will truly be dead." His voice trailed off; his head drooped.

The Fire-Witch gulped as understanding dawned. For the first time she realized what a treasure she carried within her, and what a responsibility she now had to preserve it.

"So, we can never be reunited...?" she asked tentatively.

He raised dark eyes to hers. "Who can say? Soon I must go to whatever destiny awaits me. One day you will follow. Only then will we know for sure."

"I see," she said, biting her lower lip. "Then it must be farewell?"

"It must be farewell."

"I suppose I should be thankful for that much, at least."

"Indeed."

She stepped forward to embrace him and was startled to find that their ghostly limbs simply passed through one another without making contact. She gasped and gave him a questioning look.

Aramir shrugged regretfully.

Self-consciously, the Fire-Witch let her arms drop to her sides and stared longingly at him, one last time. A single tear wandered down her cheek.

"Goodbye...," she said, breathlessly.

"Goodbye." Smiling bravely, he turned and left.

She watched him go, stifling the cry that welled up inside of her. Suddenly he paused and looked back over one shoulder.

"By the way...," he said, "Did you get the bastard?"

She nodded.

The old, familiar grin appeared on his face. "Good."

With that he turned and strode away into the darkness.

She stood there for a long time after he had vanished from sight, acquiescent flames flickering along her staff. Finally, remembering his warning, she turned back from the Edge, taking herself and her precious burden back to the Lands of Men, and life.

The End
