Songs of the Dying Earth

Paula Volsky THE TRADITIONS OF KARZH

Dhruzen of Karzh, longtime acting master of the manse, surveyed his nephew at length. He beheld a spare and elegantly-clad young man, with black hair framing a pale, lean face, and dark eyes heedlessly content. The sight appeared to please him. His round face pinkened with gratification, his round eyes beamed benevolence.

“Nephew Farnol,” Dhruzen observed, “I wish you a happy birthday. Today you attain the age of one-and-twenty. Let us drink to that accomplishment.”

“Gladly, Uncle.” Farnol of Karzh angled a dutiful inclination of the head.

The two kinsmen touched goblets and drank.

“The wine is to your liking?” Dhruzen inquired with solicitude.

“Excellent.”

“I am glad, for it is yours, as of this day. Indeed, the manse and all of its contents are yours, now that you have come of age. Tell me, Nephew — now that you are master here, what do you intend to do?”

“Do? Why, busy myself with management of the estate, I suppose, and other pursuits. Kaiin offers no end of occupation. My swordplay falls short of perfection; I shall continue the practice bouts. There is the theatre, always in want of patrons; the declamatory competitions, the Vringel Attitudes, the Perambulating Rocks, the Scaum Scullers, the quest to replicate the ancient Golden Light of the Sun—”

“Occupation?” Dhruzen’s lids drooped. “Say rather, diversions, frivolities. Nephew, you squander your force upon trifles. Always you evade the issue of true importance. You speak nothing of magic, whose power measures the eminence of our line. The patriarchs of Karzh all possess some measure of magic. Where is yours?”

“Oh, I have not the aptitude. I cannot hold the simplest of spells in my head, they fly from me like timid birds.” Farnol flexed a careless shrug. “What matter? There are other pursuits equally meritorious.”

“Oh, Nephew — Nephew — Nephew.” Dhruzen shook his curled head in smiling sorrow. “Far be it from me to criticize, but you refuse to acknowledge the essential verity. The master of this manse must possess some measure of thaumaturgical skill. It is a tradition of Karzh. For years, you have neglected your studies, and I — shame upon me — I have indulged your idleness. Now that you have come of age, matters must alter.”

“It is a little late for alteration. Uncle, pray do not trouble yourself,” Farnol counseled easily. “I have not turned out so badly, and no doubt all is for the best.”

“Brave philosophy. I am not without hope, however, that I may yet persuade you to my point of view.” So saying, Dhruzen struck the small gong on the table beside him, and a brazen note resounded.

Into the chamber stepped Gwyllis, household fixture for years beyond count, dry and brittle as an abandoned chrysalis.

“Bring it in,” commanded Dhruzen.

Gwyllis bowed and retired. Moments later, he was back, tottering beneath the weight of a sizable object that he placed with care at the center of the table.

Farnol leaned forward in his chair. He beheld a swirling complexity of interlaced vitreous coils, colorless for the most part, but marked with occasional touches of crimson. At first, the great glass knot appeared randomly formed, but closer inspection revealed elements of structure and design. Here, a subtle pattern of glinting scales. There, the suggestion of a talon. The hint of a snout, the wink of a fang. And visible at the center of the gleaming mass, a compact dark heart, its nature open to conjecture.

“Beguiling, is it not?”

“Indeed.” Farnol looked up to meet his uncle’s happy gaze. A nameless pang assailed him.

“Nephew, you will observe the small leaden casket reposing at the center of the glass knot. Its contents are not without interest to you, but will not be reached save by way of sorcerous art. I invite you to open the casket.”

“Sorcery is quite beyond me. An iron hammer of good weight, fit to shatter the glass impedimenta, should serve just as well.” Farnol spoke with a lighthearted air designed to conceal growing uneasiness.

“Impractical. The importunate blows of a hammer would serve only to reinforce the resolve of the defenders.”

“Defenders?”

“The glass reptiles, Nephew. They appear lifeless, but do not deceive yourself. They brim with righteous defensive zeal. Once roused, their tempers are short and their venom swift.”

“Indeed?” Farnol took a closer look, and now discerned the intricately interlaced, transparent saurians. Crimson color marked their eyes, their claws, and their bulging poison ampoules. Their number was impossible to gauge. “Well. They seem stout guardians. Let them protect their treasure, whatever it may be. I will not disturb them.”

“I urge you to reconsider. The casket at the center of the reptilian knot recommends itself to your attention, for it contains the sole known antidote.”

“Antidote?”

“To the bane that you have just swallowed. It was in the excellent wine. I had feared that you might note the addition of a foreign substance, but your mind seemed set on other things. Perambulating Rocks, perhaps. Or Vringel Attitudes.”

“Poison! Then you have murdered me, Uncle?”

“My dear lad, you must not think it. Do you take me for an ogre? What I have done reflects pure avuncular affection. I offer you an opportunity to honor the traditions of Karzh. If the conditions I impose appear extreme, you may take it as an expression of my absolute confidence in your abilities. Now attend, if you please. The draft that you have swallowed is trifling in its effect, scarcely more than an inconvenience. Three or four days must elapse before internal desiccation occasions anything beyond passing discomfort. Another two or three before desiccation gives way to conflagration, and a full ten days before the inner fires consume heart, mind, and life. But why speak of such unpleasantness? Surely it is irrelevant. You need only apply the most rudimentary of magical spells to loosen the knot, open the casket, and swallow the antidote. No doubt you will complete the task within hours, if not minutes, for how could the legitimate master of the manse fail? Nephew, I know that you will make me proud.” Rising from his chair, Dhruzen clapped his kinsman’s shoulder, and departed.

For some seconds, Farnol of Karzh sat motionless, studying the tangle, then spoke without turning his head. “Gwyllis. Fetch me a hammer, an ax, or a crowbar.”

“Useless, Master Farnol,” returned the ancient servant, in tones treble and tweetling. “Be certain that it is magic alone will serve your purpose. Master Dhruzen has ordered it so.”

“I shall summon a magician from the city.”

“The adept will not be admitted. Master Dhruzen has ordered it so.”

“I shall carry the glass knot into Kaiin, then.”

“The knot may not leave the manse. Master Dhruzen—”

“I shall order otherwise, and the servants must obey. I have come of age.”

“An alteration in status perhaps unrecognized by the duller among the household menials.”

“Ah, Gwyllis — my uncle has planned it well. I fear I am a dead man. There is but one course left. I must kill Dhruzen before the poison takes me. It is a small consolation, but it is better than nothing.”

“Permit me to suggest an alternative. While it is true that your uncle’s methods and motives appear questionable, there can be no denying the validity of his argument. It is more than probable that you possess a certain measure of sorcerous ability. You have been given considerable incentive to discover it. You must now apply yourself.”

“Impractical. My mind is not constructed to encompass magical spells. My measure of natural ability expresses itself as a negativity.”

“Here is neither the time nor place for negativity. As for the construction of your mind and the quality or quantity of your abilities, such things are perhaps less immutable than you imagine. Tcheruke the Vivisectionist, who dwells among the hives at the edge of Xence Moraine, is just the man to sift your brain for hidden talent.”

“Vivisectionist?”

“A courtesy title, I believe. Tcheruke is a magician of much erudition, paired with intermittent and unpredictable philanthropy. If your plight interests him — and I would advise you to make certain that it does — then he may undertake to repair all deficiencies. Seek out Tcheruke, and do so without delay.”

Farnol nodded. Deep inside him, a point of heat glowed into being.

The sun stood near its low zenith when Farnol rode away from Manse Karzh. The weary star glowed through a veil of purple haze. The warmer tones faded out of existence at the horizon, where the indigo skies deepened to the color of ink. To the south rose Kaiin, its white walls reflecting faintly violet light. The burnished dome of Prince Kandive the Golden’s palace dominated the skyline, and beyond glinted the waters of the Bay of Sanreale. The narrow track before him circled the northern extremity of the city, winding through the quiet hamlets and leading by leisurely degrees to the Old Town, a silent wilderness of tumbled ruins, broken walls and prostrate columns, fallen turrets and shattered towers, all worn smooth and rounded of contour by the passage of uncounted ages. Past a broken obelisk he rode, beyond which spread a wide court, and now he found his way littered with eyeless corpses — here a great warrior in cloison armor, there a young man in a green cloak, and others, many others. Their cavernous regard chilled him to the heart, but could not extinguish the little fire burning hot at the pit of his stomach. He nudged his horse and rode on.

The senescent red sun limped across the sky, and now the Old Town lay behind him. The grade of the path steepened as the land began to undulate. Shaggy fields of Foun’s dalespread clothed the hillocks and hollows in patinated bronze, sparked with the bright rose-gold of vessileaf. Another hour of riding brought him to the verge of Xence Moraine.

Farnol Drew rein and gazed about him. The land dipped and rolled like the waves of a petrified sea. Everywhere bulked the great boulders and mounds of debris deposited in the lost ages of the past; all of them polished to satiny sheen. The long rays of the westering sun warmed multifarious crowns and summits to crimson. Shadows pooled purple and charcoal in the hollows. Among the hills wound a slow brown stream, its banks lined with tall, narrow, emphatic mounds, whose regularity of size and shape suggested intelligent construction. He studied them for a time, but caught no hint of motion or life. At length, he urged his horse forward at a cautious pace.

The deserted mounds rose twice the height of a man. Closer inspection revealed them to be formed of rock, mortared with glinting crystalline adhesive and plastered over with a black substance whose even luster suggested porcelain. For the most part, the outer coverings were intact and unblemished. Here and there, however, the force of some ancient assault had ripped away chunks of matter to reveal interiors comprising countless compact polyhedral chambers strung like beads upon narrow corridors and galleries. Farnol resisted the impulse to halt and inspect. The sun was sagging toward the horizon, and the shadows rose like spectres from the depths of the ancient earth. He rode on, following the curves of the listless stream until he encountered a gigantic mound, towering above its companions, rising five times the height of a man. The featureless structure communicated nothing beyond assertiveness, yet instinct pushed him toward it. Twice he circled the mound, discerning no gleam of light, no evidence of habitation. Dismounting, he approached and rapped upon the hard surface. No response, but now at last he glimpsed life. A sinuous form slipped along the edge of his vision, and was not there when he turned to look. The wind sighed in regret. His heartbeat quickened, and the spot of heat at the bottom of his stomach seemed to pulse. Farnol drew a deep breath, tried to moisten dry lips, and rapped again.

A nearby tuft of rewswolley shuddered in response. The bristling stalks parted to reveal a hole. A lean figure thrust its head, shoulders, and torso up into the dying light. Farnol glimpsed grey garments; a narrow face partially concealed by a mask fitted with bulging, faceted eyepieces; bony white hands with long, curved fingernails; and a cloak of diaphanous, transparent stuff.

“Well, and what do you seek?” asked the stranger.

“I seek Tcheruke the Vivisectionist.”

“What do you want of Tcheruke?”

“His assistance, for which I am willing to pay well.”

“And what does he care for your terces? Shall he bury them on the Xence Moraine, and wait to see if they sprout?”

“I can offer him an interesting tale — the story of a foolish young heir to a fine estate, a treacherous uncle, and a murder taking place slowly, over the course of ten days.”

“I state with assurance that Tcheruke will hear it, for I am he. Enter.” Head and torso vanished into the hole.

Farnol hesitated. The sinuous form slithered nearly into view for a moment, or he thought that it did. When he turned, there was nothing. Delaying no longer, he tethered his horse, then slid feet first through the rewswolley down into the hole. He found himself in a barrel-vaulted passageway, its curving walls composed of neatly mortared stone, its low arch dictating a crawling progress. For a time, he advanced on hands and knees, his way barely lit by the weak rays trickling into the hole behind him, and a flickering glow somewhere ahead. Then, quite abruptly, he emerged from the passage into a six-walled chamber whose peaked hexagonal ceiling permitted upright posture. The room was austerely furnished with a pallet, low table, mats and floor coverings of woven and twisted grasses. A modest fire crackled on the hearth. An open case of many shelves contained books, folios, scrolls, and assorted small curiosities. Bunches of dried herbs, crystal whorls, and faintly luminescent bone fragments hung suspended from the ceiling.

Tcheruke the Vivisectionist turned to survey his visitor through faceted eyepieces. “Ah, you marvel at the nature of my home,” he observed. “Know that I have built in accordance with the tastes of the Xence Xord, the race inhabiting this locale in ages past. Hybrid of man, shrew, knuve, and winged white ant, the Xence Xord constructed their hives of simple, functional beauty, inscribed verses in praise of Nature’s wonders upon tablets of wax, developed the finest set of aesthetic standards ever known to this world, and at last solved the deepest mysteries of philosophy and morality. Their greatest writings they enclosed in spheres consigned to one of the countless voids between worlds. Then, the Xence Xord died, perhaps unequal to the burden of their own perfection. The wax tablets melted, and the location of the void between worlds was forgotten. But the philosophical treasures yet exist, awaiting rediscovery. To that end, Tcheruke dwells in this place, embracing the ways of the Xence Xord and entreating their small winged ghosts to return and enlighten him.”

“And have they ever done so?”

“Once, ten years ago, a transparent form — something akin to rodent and termite — flitted through this hive, illuminating the recesses with its eer-light. I pursued it with my pleas, but it vanished. I am not without hope that it will one day return, and hold myself in perpetual readiness.”

“A wise precaution.” Farnol nodded gravely.

“I have spoken of myself, and now it is time for you to do likewise. Young man, state your name and tell your story. Should you engage my interest, you may sup here.”

“My name is Farnol of Karzh, and I ask more than a meal of Tcheruke. Here are my circumstances.” Farnol related his story concisely, but with animation.

Tcheruke listened in silence. His expression, if any, vanished behind the mask. The cock of his head communicated attentiveness. When he had heard all, he stood mute and motionless for the space of a meditative minute, then spoke.

“Your story is all that you promised. Were the Xence Xord present to hear it, they would doubtless offer you assistance. In good conscience, I can do no less. What would you have of me?”

“An antidote to the poison presently corroding my internal organs.”

“Easily supplied, once the offending substance has been identified. To the best of my recollection, the world harbors some nine hundred sixty-eight thousand, four hundred seven elements and compounds of proven toxicity. Perhaps nine hundred sixty-eight thousand, four hundred eight, if you count grizamine, but I would regard its inclusion as redundant. Which of these poisons have you ingested?”

“I have no idea.”

“Unfortunate. We shall commence testing without delay, but success is likely to demand some years of continuous effort.”

“I have no more than ten days. No, they have already dwindled to nine and a half. Could you not furnish me with a talisman or rune fit to loosen the knot of glass reptiles?”

“Indeed not. Such intricacies demand recourse to a spell, and my librams contain many. I shall locate the appropriate incantation, you will encompass the syllables of power, and all will be well, as the Xence Xord themselves might desire. Now seat yourself and wait while I consult the writings.”

“I will use the time to tend to my horse.” Farnol crawled back along the low passageway, pushed through the rewswolley, and emerged into the open air.

The sun was setting. The last low rays bled over the quiet land. He cast his eyes this way and that, but caught no sight of his horse. He had left the animal tethered near the hidden entrance to Tcheruke’s hive, reins wrapped about the central stalk of a tall moorsmere. And here was the same moorsmere, which he approached with trepidation. The torn remnants of leather reins wrapped the central stalk. A few long strands of chestnut hair had caught in the branches, and the leaves were spotted with blood.

The air seemed suddenly colder. He went back inside at once, where he found his host seated upon a mat at the low table, perusing a folio bound in moldering maroon leather.

“My horse has been taken,” Farnol reported, “and I suspect the worst.”

“No doubt you are right to do so. The great worms inhabiting this region are voracious of appetite and devoid of morality. Do not mourn the loss, but cultivate a philosophical detachment. It may be justly argued and supported by logic that the missing horse never truly existed. Now attend. You have done well in seeking my counsel. I have already discovered the requisite spell, a verbal concatenate of no great complexity known as the Swift Mutual Revulsion. You need only commit the syllables to memory, loose them at the appropriate moment — taking care to avoid mispronunciation, misplaced emphasis, transposition, inversion of pervulsion, or indelicacy of locution — and your difficulty is resolved. There before you lie the words. Learn them.”

“I thank you, sir.” Seating himself, Farnol regarded the folio. The yellowing page before him displayed the Swift Mutual Revulsion. The handwriting was faded, but legible, the diacritics plentiful and clear. The lines were ponderous, but not inordinately numerous. Encompassing the whole was no impossible feat. What signified his own unbroken history of failed sorcerous attempts? He had been an inattentive youth, a mere skip-jack. This time, he would apply himself as never before, and this time he would succeed.

Accordingly, he focused his attention and set to work. The silent minutes passed. Deeply immersed in his studies, he failed to note his host’s departure from the table. The syllables of power were bent on defying his efforts. Almost, they seemed to jig and hop on the page, as if to evade his vision — a familiar yet disconcerting manifestation. In the past, such calligraphic acrobatics had defeated him. Today, he persevered, plodding on to capture and store the phrases one by one. Presently, a voice impinged upon his consciousness.

“No doubt you completed your task long ago, and now sit musing. Attention, if you please. It is time to put your knowledge to the test.”

Farnol blinked and looked up. Tcheruke had returned, bearing a fist-sized globular object which he deposited upon the table.

“Observe.” The magician swept an inviting gesture. “I offer you a modest involution, comprising five separate lengths of twine. No doubt you might eventually pick it apart without recourse to magic, but let us imagine for the sake of argument that your time is limited, by something or other. You will employ the Swift Mutual Revulsion, and the five strands, suddenly imbued with intense detestation of one another, will pull apart with great vehemence, thus eliminating the knot. You are ready?”

“I am.” Farnol strove to believe that it was true. He had wrestled long and hard with the lines. Surely they were his. Thus assured, he sang forth the spell. The weight and bulk of the syllables that he had crammed into his mind vanished in an instant, leaving nothing of themselves behind. For a moment, he sat almost bewildered, then recovered and looked to the knot.

It sat before him unchanged, tight and dense as ever. A small chitter of surprise escaped Tcheruke the Vivisectionist, and he shivered his cloak of membranous stuff in the manner of an insect fluttering its wings.

“Remarkable,” observed the magician. “Never have I witnessed such profound inefficacy. I marvel.”

“Ah.” Farnol was sadly conscious of the void in his mind wherein knowledge had lately resided. “Indelicacy?”

“By no means. There is the wonder of it all. Your performance revealed inexperience, but I noted no distinct error, and thus no obvious source of failure. Intriguing. Additional observation is indicated. You must try again.”

“Very well.” Swallowing disappointment, Farnol resumed his studies. This time, memorization came more easily, and at the end of an hour’s effort, he deemed himself master of the Swift Mutual Revulsion. A second attempt to employ the spell revealed the fallacy of this belief. Once again, the tangle of twine proved resistant, lying motionless as befit an inanimate object.

“Again, no apparent error. Interesting. Interesting.” Tcheruke clicked thoughtful fingernails upon his eyepieces. “I must reflect. Set aside the folio, young man — it is useless. Later, perhaps. Well, well, we shall see.” Thereafter the magician fell silent, ignoring all questions and comments.

Farnol followed his host’s advice and set the book aside, but the syllables of the Swift Mutual Revulsion danced maddeningly across his mind. Should Tcheruke the Vivisectionist prove unable to assist him, where then could he go — what could he do? As if in response to a mental poke, the fire inside him flared. Farnol’s lips tightened, and he pressed a hand to his stomach. The syllables of power went up in mental smoke.

The mute minutes expired. At last, his host placed a meal on the table — a simple dinner of stewed roots, spiced seed paste, wild gerufion, and fried grass cakes. Together they ate in silence. Upon finishing the last of his gerufion, Tcheruke finally spoke.

“I have pondered at length and formulated a theory. It is my belief that your difficulty roots itself in some congenital defect.”

“I think not. Prior to my ingestion of an unidentifiable poison, I enjoyed excellent health.”

“An infirmity so subtle in nature may well have escaped your attention. It may be no more than a minute glandular malfunction. An invisible occlusion, a sneaking sclerosis, a dangling ganglion. Once I have discovered the cause, the cure will doubtless suggest itself. To this end, I require the index finger of your right hand for purposes of testing and analysis. Come, let us perform the amputation. You will find that my title is not unearned.”

Farnol blinked. “Does no practical alternative exist?”

Tcheruke considered. “A half gill of your blood might perhaps suffice, but only at cost of efficiency. Confirmation of results is likely to be delayed by the term of two hours, if not more.”

“I will sacrifice the hours.”

“As you will.”

The blood was drawn, and Tcheruke commenced an examination. Farnol withdrew to a sleeping niche no larger than a coffin, where the small internal flame kept him wakeful for hours.

He emerged in the morning to discover his host again or still seated crosslegged at the low table in the main chamber.

“Ah, young man, be happy.” Tcheruke radiated dignified triumph. “I have solved the mystery, and your troubles are at an end.”

“Indeed?” Farnol’s hopes bounded.

“It is as I surmised. A small chemical imbalance of the blood prevents your complete assimilation of sorcerous spells. This matter is easily resolved. Ingestion of a certain elixir corrects the flaw. The elixir is readily prepared, and I am willing to do so, for I tread the Path of the Xence Xord. The only contribution I ask of you is your assistance in obtaining the last of the necessary ingredients. Only one is wanting.”

“Name it. I will supply the lack.”

“You must bring me the headstone of a pelgrane.”

“A pelgrane.” Farnol repressed a shudder. “I see. Where is such an item to be purchased?”

“Nowhere on this earth, so far as I know.”

“It is possible to kill a pelgrane, but scarcely without benefit of magic, or at least a squadron of heavily armed assistants. I have neither.”

“Do not look so chapfallen. There is another possibility. Why think of confronting a live pelgrane, when you need only locate a dead one?”

“Not easily accomplished. If I am not mistaken, the pelgrane are believed to devour their own dead.”

“Unverified, and irrelevant. The pelgrane’s headstone is indigestible. If consumed, it will eventually reappear. There is a beautiful inevitability about it.”

“Then I must discreetly scour the known haunts of these winged gluttons.”

“Very discreetly, I would advise. A modest self-effacement is never inappropriate. To this end, I will invest you with a magical appurtenance whose use requires no skill — the Chameleon Mask, affording matchless excellence in protective coloration.”

“How shall I recognize the headstone that I seek?”

“It is the size of a bean, mottled ultramarine and ocher, marked with points of black glow that drift restlessly about its surface. A colony of pelgrane is known to infest the region north of Porphiron Scar, and it is there I suggest that you search.”

“That is a distance demanding of some time.” Almost unconsciously, as had become his habit of late, Farnol pressed a hand to his stomach, and the heat from within reached his palm.

“Ah.” Tcheruke the Vivisectionist shivered his cloak in sympathy. “There again, I can assist. I will give you a vial of the Stolen Repose. One sip of the soporific oil compresses eight hours of sleep into the space of twenty minutes. Beware, however. Two sips, and you are likely to sleep for a month. In this wise, you may vastly increase your waking hours of travel.”

“But if my body enjoys eight stolen hours of sleep, will not the poison within likewise enjoy eight stolen hours in which to continue its work?”

“That is an interesting question. You must experiment, and inform me of the results. Come, time presses.”

Farnol breakfasted upon boiled pods, leftover grass cakes, and tart stringeberry juice. His host presented him with the promised magical articles, which he placed in his pouch, and a small sack of provisions. There was little else to carry, for the bulk of his belongings, stowed in his saddle bags, had vanished along with his horse. At the last, he paused to address the magician. “I shall return as swiftly as may be. Should I fail in the search, and we do not meet again, allow me to thank you for your hospitality and generosity alike. You have done honor to the Xence Xord.”

“No thanks are necessary. I relish the opportunity to acquire the pelgrane’s headstone. In all truth, I have wanted one for years.”

He crawled along the passageway and up through the rewswolley into the open air. It was dawn. A rim of deepest red, drowning in purple ink, edged above the eastern horizon. The great expanse of dark blue sky overhead verged upon black, but faint ruddy light silhouetted the tall hives of the vanished Xence Xord. Before him dipped and flowed the rounded irregularities of the Xence Moraine; protrusions brushed with reddish haze, the hollows lost in blackness. Beyond them, invisible as yet, loomed the naked bulk of Porphiron Scar.

He cast a wary glance around him, but glimpsed no undulant forms. The giant worms of the vicinity had presumably fled the rising sun. Drawing a deep draft of chill morning air, Farnol set off across the Xence Moraine.

For hours he hiked north, pausing briefly at midday to consume a lunch of grasscake, dried stringeberries, and black sausage skinny and shriveled as a mummy’s finger. He encountered no man, no predatory beast, hardly a sign of animal life beyond the occasional bird or winged reptile gliding overhead. Neither incident nor recognizable landmark marked his progress across the Moraine, but certain interior changes signaled the passage of time. The warmth in his belly was spreading. As the hours and miles passed, the formerly compact spark expanded, infusing his core with heat too pronounced for comfort, but as yet no source of real pain; less disturbing for what it was than for what it promised.

There was little profit in the contemplation of imperiled viscera. He fixed his attention instead upon the surrounding terrain, with its soft swells and dips, its rocky debris lustrous as palace statuary, its subtly-shaded mantle of grey-green scourvale. Before him the land ascended by degrees to a distant ridge crowned with thick vegetation, black against the indigo sky. There rose the High Boscage that clothed the steep bluffs overlooking the River Derna, and toward the forest Farnol directed his steps.

He walked on for the rest of the day, pausing along the way only as often as need dictated. By sunset, the High Boscage had drawn appreciably nearer. Darkness fell, and progress halted. He ate, allowing his thoughts to dwell upon the lost pleasures of Kaiin, while devoting a corner of his mind and a measure of his senses to vigilance. No sinister presence made itself known, but for safety’s sake, he donned the Chameleon Mask. The heavy fabric of the magical appurtenance wafted an evocative odor. A sense of powerful alteration rippled his perceptions. The world about him vanished in darkness, but he sensed a twisting of reality, and knew upon instinct that he was well hidden. He slept.

In the morning, the ineffably alien weight of the Chameleon Mask woke him. He rose and gazed about. Early light played dim and tranquil upon the Xence Moraine. No danger manifested itself, and he stripped the mask away with a sense of relief. His journey resumed.

Afternoon, and he walked the quiet shade of the High Boscage. Presently, he came to the summit of a steep bluff, where he stood gazing down upon the River Derna, its impetuous waters the rich color of rusted iron. Then on along the bluff, following the course of the river channel, until the tingling of his nerves told him that he was nearing his destination. A colony of pelgrane is known to infest the region north of Porphiron Scar, Tcheruke had told him, and the creatures might be anywhere. He kept a wary eye on the sky as he walked, while often scanning the ground for bones or remnants capable of housing the headstone that he sought.

Hours devoid of discovery passed until, at the close of the day, the sight of an airborne form threw him to the ground. There he crouched motionless, jaw clenched. From that vantage point, he studied the winged creature above, noting the batlike form, the curved snout, the ponderously adroit flight; a pelgrane, unmistakably. Fear welled, its ice momentarily quelling the heat of Uncle Dhruzen’s poison.

The pelgrane passed across the face of the sun and vanished. Farnol’s breath eased, and his hopes stirred. He had come to the right place. Here the pelgrane lived, and here presumably died. Where they died, their headstones must lie.

He searched the forest floor without success until darkness fell. He slept masked beneath the trees, and the weight upon his face, together with the smoldering heat in his vitals, woke him to a dawn sky alive with soaring pelgrane. He watched, fascinated and fearful, until the black company dispersed. Then he moved on through the forest, footsteps careful, eyes darting everywhere. Once, he caught a gleam of ultramarine under a bush, but found there nothing more than an ancient glazed sherd. Later, he discovered a spread of old bones moldering amid the shadows, but the horned tri-lobed skull did not belong to the species that he sought. Along a faint trail he wandered, and, as he went, the heat in his belly sharpened and expanded to fill assorted organs.

At last, he came upon a corpse — putrescent, half devoured — and his pulses quickened. Approaching with caution, he spied great leathern wings, an elongated head of black horn, fanged snout, gargoyle face. A dead pelgrane — potential key to his salvation. Drawing the knife from his belt, he knelt beside the corpse. The tough black substance of the head was resistant, but the eyes might offer ingress, or perhaps a rock would serve to crush the skull. Farnol sawed away with a will. So absorbed was he in his work that he failed to note a shifting shadow, a puff of breeze. A voice rasped at his back.

“My mate, my meat.”

He twisted in time to meet the leering eyes of a second pelgrane. The hook of a black wing slammed his head, and the world went dim. He did not entirely lose consciousness. He was aware but unable to resist as he felt himself seized and borne aloft. The cold wind on his face revived him. He heard the rusty creak of the pelgrane’s wings, he saw the woods and the river far below, his last sight of the world. Presently his captor would let him fall upon some rocky outcropping, and then devour him at leisure.

The pelgrane did not drop him. On it flew along the Derna, until the bluffs heightened and steepened, and the vegetation clothing their rock dwindled. The bare shelves and ledges were dotted with massive nests of wood, river reed, and bone, cemented with clay. Toward one such spiky haven, Farnol was borne, and deposited on the shelf beside it. Over his protests, his captor deftly stripped the garments from his body, then tossed him into the nest. He shared the space with three hideous infant pelgrane, all of them asleep. At once, he attempted to climb out, and the powerful thrust of a great hatchet beak propelled him backward.

“Stay.” The pelgrane’s voice, while deep and harsh, was recognizably female.

“Madam, do your worst. I defy you.”

“Ah, the meat is well spiced.” She cocked her misshapen head. “Just as I would have it.”

“Allow me to depart unharmed, else I visit destruction upon your young.”

“Excellent. I encourage you to try.” The pelgrane uttered a distinctive croak, and her repulsive progeny awoke.

Three sets of leathern wings unfurled. Three pairs of reddish eyes opened to fasten upon Farnol of Karzh.

“Observe, my little ones,” the mother instructed. “I have brought you a specimen upon which to sharpen your skills. This creature is known as a man. Repeat after me. Man.”

“Man,” the nestlings squeaked in unison.

“Do not be lulled into carelessness by the comical appearance. These bipeds display a certain low cunning, and some of them possess magic. Now, then. Who will show us how to bring him down?”

“I! I! I!” offered the nestlings.

“You, then.” The mother gestured.

Wings spread eagerly wide, the designated infant hurled itself across the nest, half hopping, half gliding. Farnol deflected the attack with a blow of his fist. The pelgrane bounced off the wall and hit the floor, to the tootling merriment of its siblings and the full-bellied mirth of its dam.

“Can you do better?” Another winged gesture.

A second juvenile launched itself at Farnol’s legs. He kicked it aside, and fresh guffaws arose around him. A third flapping attempt was similarly thwarted.

“Children, I am saddened,” the mother pelgrane observed with patent untruth, for she still shook with laughter. “Your predatory performance leaves much to be desired. Now, attend. It is always best to take the prey unawares, but when that is impossible, you must take care to seek the points of vulnerability.” Perching herself upon the edge of the nest, she leaned forward to point a precise wing tip. “Here — the neck. Here — the belly. The groin. And finally, never underestimate the utility of the knees, when approached from the rear. Thus and so.” Her powerful wing smote the specified joints, buckling Farnol’s legs. A shrewdly angled shove toppled him onto his back.

At once, the three nestlings were upon him, their combined weight pinning him to the floor, their abominable odor foul in his nostrils. In vain he struggled to dislodge them. Their baby fangs scored his limbs, and he felt the wet warmth of blood. Little squeals of joy escaped the infant pelgrane.

Farnol’s desperate eyes sought out the mother, who sat watching with an air of serene domestic contentment. “A warning, madam!” he exclaimed. “Know that I have swallowed a potent bane, no doubt deadly to your kind as it is to my own. Would you allow your offspring to gorge upon poisonous provender? Think well!”

“Indeed. I think that I have never before heard this particular tale, and be certain that I have heard many. How gratifying to discover this old world offering fresh experience. You are correct, however, in noting the children’s need of guidance.” She raised her rasping voice. “Little ones, desist! Do not consume the man before you have had full use of him. Further practice is indicated. Desist, I say.”

A protesting din arose. Oh, Mother, the savor! The maternal pelgrane remained obdurate, and the three nestlings withdrew, grumbling. The weight pressing Farnol’s body vanished. His breath eased, and he sat up slowly. His flesh was crisscrossed with scratches and blotched with punctures. Fire licked his vitals, and fear chilled his mind.

“Again,” said Mother.

This time, the three of them worked together, launching themselves simultaneously at his face, his abdomen, and the back of his neck. He beat them off at the cost of much effort and considerable blood, then slumped against the wall, exhausted. When the energetic youngsters launched a renewed, well-coordinated attack seconds later, they pulled him down with ease, and would surely have devoured him then and there, but for their mother’s intervention.

“Not yet, children,” she admonished. “But it should not be long. Your progress is noteworthy, and you have made your mother proud!”

Night fell, and the nestlings composed themselves for slumber, huddled in a malodorous heap. Mother seemed likewise to sleep, but evidently retained some awareness. Three times during the course of the night, Farnol attempted to climb from the nest, and each time she roused herself to forestall him. At last, he fell into a miserable, fitful slumber, filled with dreams of inner fire. He woke at dawn to find that his dreams reflected reality. The heat had spread from his midsection to scorch its way along his limbs.

The pelgrane were awake, infants bouncing, mother flexing her great wings.

“I go forth to forage,” she informed her brood. “Today, it is easy. There is still plenty of meat left on your good father.”

“Meat! Meat! Meat!” the gleeful infants shrieked.

“What — you feed upon the flesh of your own family?” asked Farnol, startled into speech.

“It would be a pity to let it go to waste. What, shall I demonstrate ingratitude, even incivility, in refusing the most beautiful sacrifice that any male can offer on behalf of his mate and his children?”

“And this beautiful sacrifice — was it altogether voluntary in nature?”

“Such a query can only be regarded as unseemly.” Mother reproved. Her attention returned to her young. “For now, I leave you alone with the — what, sweet ones?”

“MAN!” chorused the nestlings.

“Just so. You may play with him, but take care, for he is not readily replaced. When I return, I expect to find the—”

“MAN!”

“Alive and free of major damage. Otherwise, I shall be cross.” So saying, she launched herself into the air and flapped away, wings creaking.

No sooner was she out of sight than Farnol commenced climbing the nest wall. When one of the juveniles seized his ankle, he kicked the creature aside and hoisted himself to the rim, whence he caught sight of his belongings — garments, pouch, sword and scabbard — scattered about the ledge. As he swung one leg over the edge, the three small pelgrane set upon him. Their skills and coordination were improving by the hour. Farnol resisted with vigor, but they swiftly dragged him back, threw him down, and seated themselves respectively upon his chest, his stomach, and his thighs.

One of them took a small nip out of his shoulder, swallowed, and squeaked in pleasure. Another bit a similar morsel out of his leg.

“Enough, pernicious vermin!” Farnol cried out in desperation. “Devour me at your own peril — my flesh is toxic.”

“Pah, we are not afraid!”

“We are pelgrane, we can digest anything!”

“You will see!” The speaker tore a small shred of skin from his back.

“Your mother will be cross,” Farnol essayed between gasps of pain.

This consideration gave the infants pause. A doubtful colloquy ensued, at the close of which, the largest of them decreed, “Play now, eat later. The Man will run to and fro, and we shall bring him down.”

“Play, play!”

The nestlings hopped from Farnol’s body. He lay motionless.

“Come, get up and run about!” they exhorted.

“No.” He did not stir. “The three of you will only knock me down again.”

“Yes, that is what we intend. Come, play!”

“I will not. Shall I tell you the reason? Your game is too easy, fit only for feeble babes. It presents no challenge to fine, well-grown youngsters such as yourselves. Would you like to play a game demanding of skill, a game worthy of future hunters? One of the most prized accomplishments of the adult pelgrane resides in his ability to drop rocks, clods, bricks, and the like upon his quarry from above, stunning the prey at a distance and thus facilitating capture. It requires a keen eye, a steady talon, coolness, and precision. I wonder if you three are ready?”

“Ready, ready, READY!”

“Very well, then. You will drop or fling objects, while I seek to evade. The items must be light in weight, however, lest I be crushed, and your lady mother correspondingly vexed. I noted a number of suitable items lying scattered about the ledge, outside of the nest.”

“We shall secure them — make ready to commence fruitless evasive action!”

The infants were capable of brief, low flight. They flapped and glided from nest to ledge with ease. For some moments, Farnol heard their voices racketing on the other side of the wall, and then they were back, clutching assorted objects; a stone, one of his shoes, his pouch. Briefly they swooped overhead, then simultaneously released their burdens. He took particular care to dodge the stone. The shoe grazed his shoulder in falling, and the pouch hit his head squarely.

“I win, I win!” One of the nestlings squalled in triumph.

“I shall win next time!”

“No, I!”

They vanished, and reappeared moments later. Two rocks and his other shoe rained down upon him. He evaded all. Clods of comparatively soft mud followed, and now he judged it wise to let them hit. Mud spattered his shoulders, face, and hair. High-pitched squawks of victory resounded.

“I concede.” Farnol lifted both hands in good-humored defeat. “Had they been rocks, I must have succumbed. You have demonstrated your prowess.” Retrieving his pouch, he opened it and found Tcheruke the Vivisectionist’s vial of Stolen Repose intact. He pulled the cork and applied the oily contents to his naked body.

“What do you do?” The juveniles, perched on the rim of the nest, watched bright-eyed.

“I prepare a new game. I shall run to and fro, you will try to take me down. But it will not be so easy, this time. Observe, I anoint my flesh with an oleaginous substance, allowing me to slide from your grasp as terces slip through the fingers of a profligate. You will not hold me.”

“Yes we will, yes we will!”

“Prove it.”

They flung themselves at him. Farnol jigged and dodged with vigor, eluding them for a time, but presently found himself prone, the nestlings perched on his back.

“We have won again!” A razor nip underscored the announcement.

Four or five nips followed, and a happy gabble arose among the pelgrane.

“The meat is sweet!”

“The new sauce is to my liking!”

“The sauce is tasty and delicious!”

He felt their avid tongues upon him; another bite or two, and then the animated voices slowed and slurred as the Stolen Repose took effect. The nestlings fell silent. One by one, they slumped to the floor and slept.

Farnol stood up, mind racing. He tossed his shoes and pouch from nest. Turning to the nearest infant, he stooped, strained, and succeeded in slinging the limp creature over his shoulder. Thus encumbered, he climbed the nest wall, tumbled the pelgrane out onto the rocky shelf, and jumped down, landing safely. His belongings still littered the shelf. Locating his sword, he drew the blade, and, with a sense of simple satisfaction, sliced off the slumbering infant’s head.

The skull had not yet acquired the firmness of maturity. A few blows of a rock sufficed to smash it open. Investigation of the wreckage proved distasteful, but rewarding. At the base of the brain he discovered the headstone that he sought; an object no larger than a pea, hard as a pebble, pied blue and ocher, dusted with wandering motes of black glow. He wiped the headstone clean and placed it in his pouch, then dressed himself with all haste, for instinct warned him that Mother’s return was imminent.

Quitting the ledge, he hurried away across the stony slopes, making for the shelter of the High Boscage. He took great care to skirt the numerous nests dotting the region, and as he went, he frequently looked to the sky. The thickets appeared immeasurably distant. Centuries seemed to elapse before he slipped into the welcoming gloom beneath the aged trees. From that shaded refuge, he cast another glance skyward, and now spied a winged form swooping low over the nest on the ledge.

Mother had come home to her abbreviated brood.

She alighted. Some moments of silence ensued. Then a scream rang forth, perhaps the most terrible cry ever to echo among those bluffs; an elemental blast of grief and ultimate rage. Farnol of Karzh cringed at the sound. Without conscious thought, he pressed the Chameleon Mask to his face, froze into immobility, and blended with his surroundings.

The scream resounded far and wide, carrying passionate promises along the River Derna. Its last reverberations died away, and its author took to the air, sailing in widening circles characteristic of a methodical hunt.

For some moments, Farnol stood petrified. Eventually, a sense of purpose heightened by inner heat set him in motion again. He looked up into an empty purpling sky. For now, Mother was nowhere in evidence. He removed the mask. Its tingle was maddening and its benefits belonged solely to a stationary wearer. He walked on beneath the concealing boughs.

The forest was quiet and dim, the path clear and firm, but his way was far from easy. Internal disruptions had become impossible to ignore. The toxic heat burned along every nerve, insolently proclaiming its own advance. It worsened by the day, in accordance with Uncle Dhruzen’s predictions.

Some distraction from poisonous progress was furnished by hunger, for the provisions donated by Tcheruke the Vivisectionist had been lost, and the High Boscage offered little refreshment. More compelling yet was the distraction afforded by the dark figure periodically glimpsed patrolling the skies overhead. The broad wings, globular abdomen, and hatchet profile were unmistakable. Mother continued the hunt.

He pushed on at his best speed across a stretch of woodland entirely unfamiliar; he must have been carried high above it upon the occasion of his previous passage. Here, the tree trunks were curved like bows and crowned with tufts of long, transparent, membranous leaves. Rich growths of black renullta blanketed the ground, nourished by the tears of the Puling Jinnarool. The branches of the Puling Jinnarool supported a population of iridescent, large-headed insects with the sweet voices of grieving women. The air trembled with whispering plaints and reproaches.

Driven by hunger, Farnol plucked an insect from a branch and examined it closely. The creature possessed an exaggerated hammer head graced with feathery antennae, bulging purple eyes, and a meager tripartite body sheathed in chitin. Its appearance was not appetizing, but his need was great.

As if it divined his intent, the captive insect lifted its melodious voice in mournfully unintelligible plea. Its companions took up the cry, and a sorrowing, faintly accusing chorus arose, accompanied by a vast, urgent fluttering of countless wings. The trees and bushes quivered. The tiny voices harmonized. The uproar drew the attention of a dark figure wheeling above upon outstretched wing.

A rush of displaced air, a swift shadow, and Mother descended. There was time only to grab for the Chameleon Mask, to clap it across his face, and then she was there.

Farnol lay motionless under the trees. The ground was wet and black beneath him, springy with renullta and glinting with fallen leaves. Presumably, his own form appeared equally black, springy, and glinting. Before him, Mother paced the grove, long head turning from side to side, red eyes stabbing everywhere. He dared not gaze directly upon her lest she sense the pressure of his regard, and therefore kept his eyes low, watching her feet pass back and forth. Her burning glances discovered nothing, and the fervent vociferation of the insects was evidently incomprehensible. Thrice, she paused to sort odors, but the fragrance of the Puling Jinnarool masked all, and she clashed her fangs in frustration. A bitter hoot escaped her, and she took wing.

Farnol lay still for some minutes following her departure. When he judged the sky thoroughly clear, he rose and went his way. As he walked, he scanned the sky, and for an hour or more spied nothing untoward. Then she was back, skimming low over the trees, so close that he caught the wink of a jeweled ornament upon her crest; so close that she might easily have glimpsed motion. Perhaps she had done so, for she glided in tightening loops above his hiding place, passing close over his head half a dozen times before veering off with a petulant hitch of her wing.

Mother disappeared into the sun, and Farnol’s trek resumed. For hours, he advanced slowly, his progress retarded by hunger, thirst, and internal conflagration. Around midday, he paused to feed upon handfuls of pearly fungi ripped from a fallen tree. Thereafter, the fire in his belly seemed to intensify, perhaps stoked by inedible fare.

An hour later, he reached a gap in the High Boscage; a broad, bare swath of ground, devoid of vegetation, black with the ancient marks of some forgotten disaster. At its center rose a polished dome, its walls a gleaming black touched with the polychrome highlights of a soap bubble. Prudence would ordinarily have dictated discretion. Today, hunger drove him.

A quick glance skyward detected no threat. Stepping forth from the shelter of the trees, Farnol made for the dome at a smart pace. He had not covered more than half the distance before a black form materialized overhead. No time for the mask; Mother had spied him. Down she came like a well-aimed cannonball.

The buffet of a leathern wing slammed him to the ground. Mother alighted beside him.

“Now, monstrous infanticide, my vengeance finds you!” the pelgrane declared.

“Not so, omnivorous hag!” Farnol dodged the stab of a lethal beak. Drawing his sword, he thrust, and a spot of blood splotched the other’s breast. She fell back with a plangent cry. Springing to his feet, he fled for the dome. Mother followed.

He reached the glinting structure. A barely visible seam in its otherwise flawless surface suggested a doorway, upon which he pounded hard. A rounded entry presented itself, and he slid through. Behind him rose a scream of furious frustration, sharply diminished as the door closed.

Farnol blinked. He stood in utter darkness and bitter cold. Sheathing his sword, he stood listening, but heard nothing. At length, he inquired in civil tones, “Is anyone present? Or do I address myself alone?”

“You are not alone,” spoke a soft, slow voice near at hand, its owner’s gender and species impossible to judge. “No one need be alone. We are a family. I am Nefune. You are welcome among us.”

“I thank you. I am Farnol of Karzh, a traveler. I come here pursued by the pelgrane, and the shelter that you offer is most welcome.”

“The pelgrane is misguided. Its transgressions reflect simple ignorance. Perhaps, at some point in the future, great Vusq will be moved to vouchsafe insight.”

“Great Vusq?”

“Our deity, the blind god of future things, who teaches His worshippers how to live in the world that is coming, the world that is ours when the sun embraces death. It will be an abode of illimitable darkness,” Nefune continued in tones of intense fervor touched with exaltation, “of darkness without end, and immeasurable chill. We, the children of Vusq, prepare ourselves for the future reality. To this end, we live without light. The substance of our home excludes the vulgar rays and transient warmth of the doomed sun. When we must venture forth, we go blindfolded and sightless, in accordance with the will of Vusq. The more devout among us excise our eyeballs, and crush them to jelly upon the altar of Vusq. Those who perform this sacrifice are deemed blessed.”

“Admirable.” Farnol nodded invisibly. “Thus your sightlessness embodies foresight. A pretty paradox, but perhaps—”

His remark was interrupted by a ferocious thud that rocked the dome. A series of violent blows followed, punctuated by savage cries.

“It is the pelgrane,” Farnol observed uneasily. “She tries her strength upon your house.”

“Unhappy, benighted creature. She squanders time and vitality. The substance of our dome enjoys Vusq’s blessing. You are safe here, Farnol of Karzh. You may stay as long as you wish. In fact, I urge you to abide here among us, and learn the ways of Vusq.”

“Stay. Stay. Stay.”

The voices — multiple voices, their number indeterminate — hissed softly in the dark. Unseen hands patted his shoulders, his back. The light, corpse-cold, almost caressing touches raised gooseflesh along his forearms. He did not allow himself to recoil.

“But stay, we fail in hospitality,” came the voice of Nefune. “No doubt you are hungry and weary, Farnol of Karzh. Will it please you to share our meal?”

“It will, and I thank you,” returned Farnol, with feeling.

“Let us then repair to table, where we shall refresh ourselves and extol the greatness of Vusq. This way.”

Nefune took his arm and led him forward. He saw nothing, but heard the light footsteps of others clustering close about him, and often he felt their icy hands patting his limbs and face. They seemed to walk a considerable distance, their path winding and twisting through a frigid void.

“Your home is remarkably generous in extent,” observed Farnol.

“Ah, the darkness has a way of expanding space. It is a glorious thing, the darkness — comforting, profound, and holy. Those who seek the way of the future soon recognize the beauty of their chosen existence.”

“A glorious thing,” whispered the unseen faithful.

“Those who tender the greatest gift in turn receive the greatest reward,” Nefune continued. “Great Vusq delights in the sacrifice of devoted eyes. It is a matter worthy of thought, Farnol of Karzh. Here is our table. You may seat yourself.”

Farnol obeyed. Exploratory groping soon taught him that the table consisted of nothing more than a mat of rough woven stuff spread out on the floor. He detected neither plate nor utensil.

“Reach out and avail yourself of Vusq’s bounty,” Nefune urged. “It is His gift to His servants.”

Extending his hand, Farnol encountered the lip of a metal trough containing quantities of heavy, chilly porridge or gruel. Tentatively he tasted, and found the porridge innocent of flavor. It possessed weight, volume, exceptional density, and coldness; nothing more. Such was his hunger that he wolfed handful after handful; and such the cold mudslide power of the meal that the fires within were quelled, for the moment.

All around him in the dark, he heard the discreet sucking and smacking of polite ingestion. He heard too a plenitude of prayers, praise, invocations, and intense exhortations, the last of which he deflected as gracefully as he knew how.

The meal concluded, and Nefune spoke again. “Farnol of Karzh, the devout among us go now to the altar, there to perform our ritual ablutions and tender our offerings to Vusq. For all his greatness, the Lord of the Dark Future despises not the heartfelt gifts of His servants. Will you come now to the altar? There you may learn its size, contour, and feel, and thus grow accustomed.”

“I thank you, but no,” Farnol returned politely. “You have offered me every kindness, but it is time for me to take my leave. I’ve a task to complete, and time presses.”

“Leave? By no means!” Nefune’s hushed tones conveyed exclamatory ardor. “Come, reflect. Doubtless the pelgrane awaits without. Will you deliver yourself freely unto her hunger?”

Farnol had no answer.

“Better by far to tarry among us. Come, it is time for the evening rest. Sleep here tonight, and perhaps the dreams that Vusq sends will touch your heart.”

“Here tonight.” The whispers shivered through the black air.

“Very well. Here tonight.” He strove to conceal his reluctance. “Great Vusq’s devotees are generous.” Cold, weightless hands upon him again, and they conducted him to a sleeping mat too flat and thin to be called a pallet. He stretched himself out upon the mat, fully expecting to lie awake for comfortless hours, but sleep found him at once.

He woke blind and chilled to the bone. He had no idea how long he had slept, no idea whether it was day or night in the world outside the dome; the darkness confused such issues. The cold space around him was quiet. He caught a faint hiss of breathing, a soft rustle of movement, an unidentifiable vibration, nothing more. Very carefully, in nearly perfect silence, he rose to his feet. Arms outstretched before him, advancing with hesitant steps, he groped in search of the curving exterior wall. When he found it, he would feel his way along the circumference until he located the exit. The pelgrane might or might not await him; at that moment, he did not care. Every instinct bade him depart the house of Vusq’s faithful without delay.

Once his foot encountered a hard object that thrummed under the impact. Once he felt a slippery surface beneath him, and once he brushed something flabby and yielding that gurgled softly. Then his palm met a very smooth, seemingly glasslike barrier, and he knew that he had found the wall. Noiselessly he followed its curving course, fingers questing for a seam or indentation disclosing the location of a door.

The darkness breathed, and dozens of light, cold hands closed upon him. Soft voices spoke.

“Ah, it is our new brother, Farnol of Karzh.”

“He has not yet acquired the ways of darkness. He is confused.”

“Perhaps he wishes to tender an offering unto divine Vusq. He seeks the altar, but cannot find his way.”

“Let us guide him. Fear not, Farnol of Karzh. We shall lead you to the altar, where change awaits. We are happy to assist a convert.”

“You misunderstand,” Farnol informed them. “I seek only the exit. I wish to resume my journey.”

“We go now to the altar.”

In vain Farnol argued and struggled. They lovingly dragged and propelled him through the dark until his knees bumped a solid, flat-sided structure, and his palm descended upon a level surface caked with some substance suggestive of desiccated jelly. Jerking his hand back, he exclaimed, “Understand that I am not temperamentally suited to the monastic life, and release me!”

“Peace, Farnol of Karzh. Know that divine Vusq cherishes you.”

Farnol’s desperate reply was lost. A great crash resounded overhead, and the dome shuddered. He looked up to behold a sliver of warm-colored light, visible through a freshly formed crack in the ceiling. As he watched, the crack widened to a fissure, the light strengthened, and chirping cries of consternation arose on all sides. A series of violent blows battered the roof, and a great rent opened, through which was visible the form of a pelgrane, assaulting the structure with a sharp-edged rock of estimable size.

Wrenching himself free of the astounded faithful, Farnol cast a quick glance around him. He beheld a company of fungus-white, hairless beings, with tiny countenances dominated by the enormous, palely protuberant eyes of night creatures. Many of the peaked little faces offered empty sockets. All seemed paralyzed, incredulous attention fixed on the crumbling ceiling. His glance traveled the curving wall, to fasten upon the outline of a rounded door. Dodging hairless white obstacles, he made for the exit. As he reached it, a broad section of the ceiling fell away, and Mother descended screeching into the dome.

Through the door and into the ruddy light of morning, dazzling for a moment or two, and then indescribably welcome. Farnol sprinted for the far edge of the clearing. As he ran, he cast a glance behind him, to see a trickle of demoralized faithful staggering out of the dome. Behind them, audible through the open door, arose the sounds of carnage.

He reached the shelter of the trees. The screaming died away behind him, and presently he heard it no more.

Hours of hiking brought him back to the bluffs that he remembered wandering days earlier. His way now led him downhill, and he made good progress despite a sense of scorching, shriveling internal activity, accompanied by growing weakness. He walked all day, and sunset found him back upon the Xence Moraine. He slept in the open, the Chameleon Mask heavy on his face. The night was cool, but he burned. He had not supped, there was nothing to eat, but he suffered little hunger.

Throughout the following day, he plodded the hills and hollows. His steps lagged, and his mind seemed similarly slow. He took little note of his surroundings, but managed to maintain awareness of the sky and its potential peril. Twice he spied a black, high-flying form, and each time hid behind the Chameleon Mask until the danger passed.

As the sun collapsed toward the horizon, he was dully surprised to find himself walking beside a listless stream, among familiar hives. An anomalously lofty structure reared itself before him — the hive of Tcheruke the Vivisectionist. The sight drove the mists from his mind. Recalling the location of the hidden entrance, he hastened to the tuft of rewswolley that concealed the passageway, and there found the way blocked by an immovable stone barrier.

Perhaps Tcheruke had departed. Perhaps Tcheruke was dead. Alarm filled Farnol. Striding to the silent hive, he pounded the wall with his clenched fist, while calling aloud, “Tcheruke, come forth! Farnol of Karzh has returned, bearing the pelgrane’s headstone, obtained at no little cost! Come forth!”

He heard the snap of a lock behind him, a whimper of hinges, and turned to behold the hooded head and skinny grey figure of the magician emerging from the hole.

“Who calls so peremptorily?” Tcheruke’s faceted eyepieces glinted in the low red rays of the sinking sun. “Is it you, Farnol of Karzh? Welcome, welcome! You do not look well.”

“My uncle’s poison advances and my time dwindles, but I have not abandoned hope.”

“Abandon it now.” A flutter of leathern wings, and Mother alighted before them. Her glowing gaze shifted from face to face. “Ah, a double prize.”

At once Tcheruke the Vivisectionist began to chant the syllables of that formidable spell known as the Excellent Prismatic Spray. Without undue haste or apparent effort, the pelgrane struck the magician to the ground and placed her clawed foot on the back of his neck, pressing his face into the dirt and stifling his utterance.

“You may wait your turn and watch as I kill him,” Mother advised Farnol. “Or you may attempt an entertaining flight. Such are your two choices.”

“There is a third, madam.” Drawing his sword, Farnol lunged.

Almost casually, she deflected the thrust. Catching the blade in her beak, she tore it from his hand and tossed it aside.

“My surviving young conceived a keen appetite for your flesh,” she confided. “They have been clamoring for it. This evening, they will relish their dinner.”

Farnol stared at her, aghast. Flight and resistance were equally hopeless. He might perhaps seek refuge in the hive while she busied herself with Tcheruke — there to wait for Uncle Dhruzen’s poison to finish its work. No alternative possibilities presented themselves.

Pinned beneath the pelgrane’s foot, Tcheruke wriggled uselessly. Deprived of coherent speech, he could express himself only by means of a thin, almost insectile shrilling. The razor notes seemed to carry a note of plea. Mother was little susceptible to emotional appeals, yet the plea did not go unanswered.

The dimming twilight air sang, and a band of ghostly winged visitants glimmered into being. They were small, reminiscent at once of rodent and termite; transparent, weightless, and glowing with eer-light.

Humming and chittering in tiny voices, the winged beings dove and darted about Mother’s head. Affronted, she snapped her great beak, which passed harmlessly through luminous insubstantiality. Loosing an irritable hoot, she advanced a pace or two, crested head turning this way and that, fangs clashing. Relieved of her weight, Tcheruke sat up, rubbing the back of his neck. He caught sight of the ghostly troupe, and his face lit with a wondering rapture.

“The spell!” Farnol urged.

Tcheruke seemed not to hear. His ecstatic faceted gaze anchored upon the flitting ghosts. One hand rose, reaching out to them.

Despite their apparent ethereality, the visitants possessed a measure of force. Such revealed itself as the band clustered about the pelgrane, pressing so thick and close that she seemed clothed from head to foot in a lambent garment. For a moment, they hovered there, light pulsing, then the glow intensified to a blast of brilliance too great to endure.

Farnol threw an arm across his eyes. When he lowered it, the light had faded, and the pelgrane was nowhere to be seen. He blinked, and surveyed his surroundings swiftly. Mother was gone.

For a few seconds longer, the small ghosts hovered, humming, their cool eer-light playing upon the rapt face of Tcheruke the Vivisectionist. Then the transparent winged forms retreated, lost themselves among the hives, and so passed from view.

“Ah — the Xence Xord have recognized my existence!” Tcheruke rose to his feet, glowing with an internal light of his own. “I have beheld them in their perfection, and the hope of a lifetime is fulfilled!”

“Perhaps they will come back to you, and reveal the location of the void between worlds.”

“I will entreat them incessantly. Their condescension upon this occasion renews my resolve. They have not heard the last of me! But come, young Farnol, come inside. The sun sets, and the worms will soon be crawling!”

Tcheruke vanished into his hole, and Farnol followed. Once within, he handed the pelgrane’s headstone over to his host, who immediately commenced grinding, measuring, and mixing. While the magician labored, Farnol gulped beaker after beaker of cool bitterrush tea, in a vain effort to quench the inner fires that now roared. He consumed nothing solid. The mere thought of food now revolted him. Time passed. At length, Tcheruke handed him a cup containing a concoction of evil appearance and vile odor, its surface dented with small whirlpools. He drank without hesitation, felt his nerves twist and his veins scream, and then lost consciousness.

In the morning, he woke sick and languid, but clear-headed. He drank cool tea, and refused food.

“And now, young Farnol, it is time to exert your mind,” Tcheruke the Vivisectionist advised.

“Has your elixir transformed me? Have I now the power to assimilate?”

“We shall see. My folio lies upon the table, open to the Swift Mutual Revulsion. Apply yourself.”

Farnol obeyed. Inner miseries impeded study, but he persevered, and presently encompassed the syllables, which settled into his brain with a conclusive mental click.

“And now, the knot?” he inquired, ready to test the efficacy of the magician’s nauseous remedy.

“No. Forgive what may appear as a poor-spirited dearth of optimism, but I must observe that your present wretched condition admits of no delay. In short, you cannot afford time to experiment. You must proceed to Karzh with all alacrity, there to claim the antidote, which may or may not prove effective. To this end, I am prepared to transfer you, in token of my appreciation of the role you have played in securing my encounter with the Xence Xord. So, then!” Tcheruke clapped his hands briskly. “Stand here upon the clay square. Hold out your hands. Draw a deep breath, and hold it. Young man, I bid you farewell, and wish you fair fortune.”

Tcheruke drew back and sang out a spell. Farnol was jerked up in a rush of whirling ether. An instant later, his feet touched the ground. He staggered, but retained his balance. Before him rose Manse Karzh, its ancient walls of pale stone draped in lush blue-green climber, its gables and turrets peak-roofed in tile weathered to a soft umber hue. For a moment, he stood staring as if amazed; then rubbed a recently-acquired reddish rheum from his stinging eyes, and advanced upon unsteady legs to enter his house.

A concerned-looking household servant intercepted him.

“Bid my uncle meet me at once in the dining hall,” he commanded. The servant bowed and retired.

Farnol tottered through fire to reach the dining hall. The great glass knot still sat on the table. At its center, the leaden casket offering life — provided his uncle had spoken the truth; with Uncle Dhruzen, always open to question.

As if on cue, Dhruzen of Karzh walked into the room, closely attended by old Gwyllis. He checked at sight of his nephew, and a smirk of soft benevolence creased his face.

“My dear lad, such a joyous happening! Here you are, back home again, and looking so well!”

A grim smile twisted Farnol’s lips. He said nothing.

“You have come home, no doubt, fully prepared to honor the sorcerous traditions of House Karzh. Eh, Nephew?”

“Yes,” said Farnol.

“Really.” Unpleasant surprise flashed across Dhruzen’s countenance, dissolving swiftly into avuncular affection. “Well. I expected no less. Justify my confidence in you, Nephew. Display your sorcerous mastery.”

“I will,” returned Farnol, with some persistent hope that he spoke the truth. Marshalling the last of his strength, he breathed deep and called out the Swift Mutual Revulsion. The syllables flew like arrows, and an inner certainty that he had never before experienced dawned. Expectantly, he regarded the knot.

The glassy coils began to writhe. A hissing chorus of inexpressible detestation arose. The undulations waxed in vigor, the hissing swelled to a hysterical crescendo, and the knot tore itself apart, its five component glass reptiles flinging themselves from the table top and shooting off in all directions. Farnol scarcely noted the vitreous lizards. Their disengagement exposed a small leaden casket. He opened it and discovered a flask. Drawing the cork, he drained the contents at a gulp. Dizziness assailed him, a weakness in his limbs, and a profound internal chill. Shuddering, he dropped into the nearest chair. He could hardly stir, and his vision was clouded, but not extinguished. He could watch.

The five glass reptiles, desperate to flee one another, were hurling themselves about the dining hall in mounting frenzy. Overturning furniture, caroming off walls, clawing woodwork, spraying venom, and hissing wildly, they had transformed the room into an arena. With a spryness exceptional in one of his years, Gwyllis had sought refuge atop the table. Dhruzen of Karzh’s corpulence precluded similar prudence. As one of the lizards sped straight toward him, crimson eyes glittering and tail lashing, Dhruzen seized the nearest chair, raised it, and brought it down with force. Easily evading the blow, the lizard launched itself in a prodigious spring, struck Dhruzen’s chest like a missile from a catapult, knocked him to the floor, and drove little venomous fangs into his neck.

Dhruzen of Karzh commenced to jerk, twitch, and spasm. His back arched, his slippered heels drummed the floor, a froth bubbled upon his lips. His face turned an ominous shade of green, and presently he expired. All this Farnol watched with interest and mild compunction.

His own internal fires were abating. The heat and pain were dwindling, and a cool, fresh sense of renewal was stealing along his veins. He felt his strength returning, and he managed to rise from his chair. Catching Gwyllis’ eye, he gestured, and the old servant understood at once. Gwyllis gingerly climbed down from the table. Together, the two of them flung the dining hall casements wide.

Perceiving escape from intolerable propinquity, the glass reptiles sprinted for the open windows. One after another, they leaped from the second story, shattering themselves to fragments upon the marble terrace below.

“You have recovered, Master Farnol?” Gwyllis tweetled.

Farnol considered. “Yes,” he decided, “I believe I have. It would seem that Uncle Dhruzen spoke truly of that antidote. When you have fully recovered your own equanimity, Gwyllis, please effect Uncle Dhruzen’s removal.”

“Gladly. And then, sir? May I take the liberty of asking what you will do next?”

“Do?” The answer came with ease, as if it had been waiting a lifetime. “I shall continue working to build my sorcerous knowledge. I seem to have acquired the knack, and it is, after all, a tradition of Karzh.”

“Welcome home, Master Farnol.”

“Thank you, Gwyllis.”