QUAG KEEP

by Andre Norton

The author wishes to express apprecia-

tion for the invaluable aid of E. Gary

Gygax of TSR, expert player and creator

of the war game, DUNGEONS AND DRAGONS,

on which the background of QUAG KEEP is

based. I wish also to acknowledge the kind

assistance of Donald Wollheim, an author-

ity and collector of military miniatures,

whose special interest was so valuable for

my research.

OF DRAGONS

AND DUNGEONS

"We have discovered that it may be entirely

possible that what a man dreams in one world

may be created and given substance in another.

And if more than one dream the same dreams,

strive to bring them to life, then the more solid

and permanent becomes that other world. Also

dreams seep from one space-time level of a world

to another, taking root in new soil and there

growing-perhaps even to great permanence.

"You have all played what you call a war

game, building a world you believe imaginary in

which to stage your adventures and exploits.

Well enough, you gay, what harm lies in that?

Only-what if the first dreamer, who 'invented'

this world according to your conception, gath-

ered, unknowingly, dream knowledge of one that

did and does exist in another time and space?

Have you ever thought of that-ha?"

Contents

1 Greyhawk

2 Wizard's Wiles

3 Geas Bound

4 Out of Greyhawk

5 Ring of Forgotten Power

6 Those Who Follow-

7 Ambush

8 Black Death Defied

9 Harp Magic

10 The Domain of Lichis

11 Lichis the Golden

12 The Sea of Dust

13 The Liche Ship

14 Rockna the Brazen

15 Singing Shadow

16 Into the Quagmire

17 Quag Heart

18 Roll the Dice

1

Greyhawk

Eckstern produced the package with an exaggerated flourish

and lifted the lid of the box to pluck out shredded packing

with as much care as if he were about to display the crown

jewels of some long-forgotten kingdom. His showmanship

brought the others all closer. Eckstem liked such chances to

focus attention, and tonight, as the referee chosen to set up

the war game, his actions were backed with special authority.

He unwrapped a length of cotton and set out on the table,

between the waiting game sheets, a two-inch figure, larger

than any they habitually played with. It was, indeed, a

treasure. A swordsman-complete with shield on which a

nearly microscopic heraldic design blazed forth in brilliant

enamel paints. The tiny face of the figure was sternly set

above the rim of the shield, shadowed by a helmet with a

small twist of spike rising from it. There was an indication of

mail on the body which had been modeled as if the figure

were advancing a step in grim determination. The sword in

the hand was a length of glittering metal, more like well-pol-

ished steel than lead which was the usual material for playing

figures.

Martin stared at it in fascination. He had seen many ex-

pertly painted and well-positioned war-game figures but

this-this gave him a queer feeling, as if it had not been

turned out of a mold, but rather had been designed by a

sculptor in the form of a man who once had lived.

"Where-where did you get that?" Harry Conden's slight

hesitation of speech was more pronounced than usual.

"A beauty, isn't it?" Eckstern purred. "A new company-

Q K Productions-and you wouldn't believe the price either.

They sent a letter and a list-want to introduce their pieces

to 'well-known' players. After we won those two games at the

last convention, I guess they had us near the top of their

list. . ."

To Martin, Eckstern's explanation was only a meaningless

babble. His hand had gone out without his conscious willing,

to touch fingertip on that shield, make sure it did exist. It was

true that the makers of playing pieces for the fantasy war

games were starting to try to outdo each other in the produc-

tion of unusual monsters, noble fighters, astute elves, power-

ful dwarves, and all the other characters a player might call

for, identify with while playing, even keep on display like

some fabulous antique chessmen between games. Martin had

envied those able to equip themselves with the more ornate

and detailed figures. But the best he had seen in displays

could not compare to this. Within him came a sudden com-

pulsion; he must have this one. It was beyond any doubt

meant for him.

Eckstem was still talking as he unwrapped other figures,

set them out, his elbow firmly planted meanwhile on the

referee notes for the coming game. But Martin's attention

never Wavered from the swordsman. This was his! He

grasped it lovingly.

There were good smells and stale ones fighting for domi-

nance in a room lit only by baskets of fire wasps, one of

which was close enough so that he could see every old

stain on the table at which he sat. By his right hand stood a

drinking hom mounted on a base of dull metal. His right

hand...

He stared at both hands, the fists lightly clenched and lying

on the scored board. This was (it seemed that his mind had

skipped something of importance as a heart might skip a

beat), this was, of course, the Sign of Harvel's Axe, a dubi-

ous inn on the edge of the Thieves' Quarter in the city of

Greyhawk. He frowned, troubled. But there had been some-

thing else-something of importance-of which only a hint

slithered so swiftly through his brain that he could not fasten

on it quickly enough.

His name was Milo Jagon, a swordsman of some experi-

ence, now unemployed. That much was'.-clear. And the hands

before him were bare below sleeves of very supple, dark-

colored mail which had a hint of copper in it, yet was darker

brown. Turned back against his wrists were mitts fastened to

the sleeves. And about each of his thumbs was the wide band

of a ring. The one to the right was set with an oblong stone

of dull green, across which, in no discernible pattern, wand-

ered tiny red veins and dots. The setting on the left was even

more extraordinary-an oval crystal of gray, clouded and

filmed.

On the right wrist there was a glint of something else;

again that faintest hint of other memory-even of alarm-

touched Milo's mind. He jerked down the right mitt and saw,

banded over the mail itself, a wide bracelet of a metal as

richly bright as newly polished copper. It was made of two

bands between which, swung on hardly visible gimbals, were

a series of dice-three-sided, four-sided, eight-sided, six-sided.

They were of the same bright metal as the bracelet that sup-

ported them. But the numbers on them were wrought in glis-

tening bits of gemstones, so tiny he did not see how any gem

smith could have set them in so accurately.

This-with his left hand he touched that bracelet, finding

the metal warm to his fingertips-this was important! His

scowl grew deeper. But why and how?

And he could not remember having come here. Also-he

raised his head to stare about uneasily-he sensed that he

was watched. Yet there were none in that murky room he

Was quick enough to catch eyeing him.

The nearest table to his own was also occupied by a single

man. He had the bulk, the wide shoulders and thick, mail-

covered forearms, of a man who would be formidable in a

fight. Milo assessed him, only half-consciously, with the ex-

perienced eye of one who had needed many times in the past

to know the nature of an enemy, and that quickly.

The cloak the other man had tossed to the bench beside

him was of hide covered with horny bristles. And his helmet

was surmounted with a realistic and daunting representation

of a snarling boar brought dangerously to bay. Beneath the

edge of it, his face was wide of the cheekbone and square of

jaw, and he was staring, as Milo had been, at his hands on

the tabletop before him. Between them crouched a bright,

green-blue pseudo-dragon, its small wings fluttering, its

arrow-pointed tongue darting in and out.

And on his right wrist-Milo drew a deep breath-this

stranger wore a bracelet twin to his own, as far as the

swordsman could see without truly examining it.

Boar helm, boar cloak-memories and knowledge Milo did

not consciously search for arose. This other was a berserker,

and one with skill enough to turn were-boar if he so desired.

Such were chancy companions at the best, and the swords-

man did not wonder now that their two tables, so close to-

gether, were theirs alone, that the rest of the patrons, eating

and drinking, had sought the other side of the long room.

Nor was he surprised that the stranger should have the

pseudo-dragon as a traveling companion or pet, whichever

their relationship might be. For the weres, like the elves and

some others, could communicate with animals at will.

Once more Milo gave a searching, very steady survey of

the others in the room. There were several thieves, he

guessed, and one or two foreigners, who, he hoped for their

own sakes, were tough enough to defend themselves if they

had wandered into Harvel's Axe without due warning. A

cloaked man who, he thought, might be a druid (of low

rank) was spooning up stew with such avidity that spattering

drops formed gobbets of grease on his clothing. Milo was

paying particular attention to right wrists. Those he could see

were certainly innocently bare of any such banding as he and

the berserker wore. At the same time, the impression that he

was being watched (and not with any kindness) grew in him.

He dropped hand to sword hilt and, for the first time, noted

that a shield leaned against the table. On it was emblazoned

an intricate pattern which, though dented in places and

plainly weatherworn, had once been skillfully done. And he

had seen that... where?

The vagrant curl of memory grew no stronger for his try-

ing to grasp it. He grinned sourly. Of course he had seen it

many times over-the thing was his, wasn't it? And he had

callouses from its weight along his arm to prove that

At least he had had the wisdom to pick a table where he

sat with his back to the wall. Now there flowed through his

mind half memories of other times when he had been in just

such uncertain lodgings. A table swung up and forward could

serve as a barrier to deter a rush. And the outer door? . . .

There were two doors in the room. One led, uncurtained,

to the inner part of the inn. The other had a heavy leather

drape over it. Unfortunately, that was on the opposite side of

the room. To reach it he would have to pass a group he had

been watching with quick glances, five men gathered close to-

gether whispering. They had seemed to show no interest in

him, but Milo did not depend on such uncertain reassurance

of innocence.

The eternal war between Law and Chaos flared often in

Greyhawk. It was in a manner of speaking a "free

city"-since it had no one overlord to hold it firmly to his

will. For that reason it had become a city of masterless men,

a point from which many expeditions, privately conceived

and planned for the despoiling of ancient treasures, would set

out, having recruited the members from just such masterless

men as Milo himself, or perhaps the berserker only an arm's

length away.

But if those on the side of Law recruited here, so did the

followers of Chaos. There were neutrals also, willing to join

with either side for the sake of payment. But they were never

to be wholly depended upon by any man who had intelli-

gence, for they might betray one at the flip of a coin or the

change of the wind itself.

As a swordsman Milo was vowed to Law. The berserker

had more choice in such matters. But this place, under its

odors of fresh and stale food, stank to Milo of Chaos. What

had brought him here? If he could only remember! Was he

spell-struck in some fashion? That idea caught and held in his

mind to worry him even more. No man, unless he had won

to high adeptship and therefore was no longer entirely hu-

man, could even begin to reckon the kinds and numbers of

spells that might be set to entangle the unwary. But he knew

that he was waiting-and he again tested the looseness of his

sword within its sheath, keeping his other hand close to the

edge of the table, tense as a man may be before he reaches a

position he has chosen for his own defense.

Then-in the light of the fire wasps he caught the flashes

from his wrist. Dice-moving! Again he half remembered a

fast, fleeting wisp of some other knowledge he should have

and did not-to his own danger.

But it was not the suspected men in the corner who were a

threat. Instead the berserker got to his feet. Up the mighty

thickness of his mailed arm fluttered the pseudo-dragon, to

perch upon his shoulder, its spear tongue darting against the

cheekpiece of his heavy helmet. He had caught up his cloak

but he did not turn to the leather curtain of the outer door.

Instead he took two strides and stood towering over Milo.

Under the brush of his brows his eyes held a red glint like

those of an angry boar, and he thrust out his hand and wrist

to match Mile's. There, too, showed the glint of the dice,

turning by themselves on their almost invisible gimbals.

"I am Naile Fangtooth." His voice was close to a low

grunting. And, as his lips moved to form the words, they be-

trayed the reason for his self-naming-two teeth as great as

tusks set on either side of his lower jaw. He spoke as if com-

pelled to, and Milo found that he answered as if he must of-

fer some password, lest the danger that made his flesh crawl

break forth. Yet at the same moment he knew that his sensed

danger did not come from this mighty fighting machine.

"I am Milo Jagon. Sit you down, fighting man." He moved

his shield, slid farther along the bench to make room for the

other.

"I do not know why, but-" Fangtooth's eyes no longer

held those of the swordsman. Rather he was looking with an

open expression of perplexity at their bracelets. "But," he

continued after a moment's pause, "this is what I must do:

join with you. And this"-he attempted to slip the bracelet

from his thick wrist but could not move it-"is what com-

mands me-after some fashion of its own."

"We must be bespelled." Milo returned frankness with

frankness. Berserkers seldom sought out any but their own

kind. Among their fellows, they had comradeships that lasted

to the shores of death and beyond, for the survivor of a fatal

encounter was then aware always of only one driving force,

the need for revenge upon those who had slain his other self

in battle-kinship.

The berserker scowled. "Spells-they have a stink to 'em.

And, yes, swordsman, I can pick up that stink a little.

Afreeta"-the pseudo-dragon flickered its thread of tongue

like a signal-"has already sniffed it. Yet it is not, I think,

one sent by a dark-loving devil." He had kept his voice low

with a visible effort as if his natural tone was more of a full-

throated roar.

Milo noted that the eyes beneath those heavy brows were

never still, that Naile Fangtooth watched the company in the

room with as keen an eye for trouble as he himself had ear-

lier. Those who whispered together had not once made any

move to suggest that the two were of interest to them. The

shabby druid licked his spoon, then raised the bowl to his lips

to sup down the last of the broth it contained. And two men

wearing the shoulder badges of some merchant's escort kept

drinking steadily as if their one purpose in life was to see

which first would get enough of a skinful to subside to the

rush-strewn, ill-swept floor.

"They-none of them-wear these." Milo indicated the

bracelet on his own wrist. The dice were now quiet on their

gimbals. In fact when he tried to swing one with his finger-

nail, it remained as fixed as if it could never move, yet it was

the same one he had seen turn just before Naile had joined him.

"No." The berserker blinked. "There is something-some-

thing that nibbles at my mind as a squirrel worries away at a

nut. I should know, but I do not. And you, swordsman?" His

scowl did not lighten as he looked directly at Milo. There was

accusation in it, as if he believed the swordsman knew the

secret of this strange meeting but was purposefully keeping it

to himself.

"It is the same," Milo admitted. "I feel I must remember

something-yet it is as if I beat against a locked door in my

mind and cannot win through that to the truth."

"I am Naile Fangtooth." The berserker was not speaking to

Milo now, but rather affirming his identity as if he needed

such assurance. "I was with the Brethem when they took the

Mirror of Loice and the Standard of King Everon. It was

then that my shield brother, Engul Wideband, was cut down

by the snake-skins. Also it was there later that I picked

Afreeta from a cage so she joined with me." He raised a big

hand and gently stroked the back of the dragon at a spot be-

tween its continually fluttering wings. "These things I remem-

ber-yet-there was more. .. ."

"The Mirror of Loice . . ." Milo repeated. Where had he

heard of that before? He raised both fists and pressed them

against his forehead, pushing up the edge of the helmet he

wore. The edges of the two thumb rings pressed against his

skin, giving hitn a slight twinge of pain. But nothing an-

swered in his memory.

"Yes." There was pride now in his companion's voice.

"That was a mighty hosting. Ores, even the Spectre of Loice

herself, stood against us. But we had the luck of the throws

with us for that night. The luck of the throws-!" Now it was

Fangtooth's turn to look at the bracelets on his own wrist.

"The throws-" he repeated for the second time. "It means

... it means...!"

His face twisted and he beat upon the table board with one

calloused fist, so mighty a blow that the hom cup leaped

though it did not overturn. "What throws?" The scowl he

turned upon Milo now was as grim as a battle face.

"I don't know." Milo wet his lips with his tongue. He had

no fear of the berserker even though the huge man might

well be deliberately working himself into one of those rages

that transcended intelligence and made such a fighter imper-

vious to weapons and some spells.

Once more he struggled to turn the dice on the bracelet.

Far back in his mind he knew them. They had a very definite

purpose. Only here and now he was like a man set down be-

fore some ancient roll of knowledge that he could not read

and yet knew that his life perhaps depended upon translating

it. "These," he said slowly. "One turned just before you

joined me. They are like gamers' dice, save that there are too

many shapes among them to be ordinary."

"Yes." Naile's voice had fallen again. "Still I have thrown

such-and for a reason, or reasons. But why or where I can-

not remember. I think, swordsman, that someone thinks to

play a game with us. If this be so, he shall discover that he

has chosen not tools but men, and therefore will be the worse

for his folly."

"If we are bespelled . . ." Milo began. He wanted to keep

the berserker away from the battle madness of his kind. It

was useful, very useful, that madness, but only in the proper

place and time. And to erupt, not even knowing the nature of

the enemy, was rank folly.

"Then sooner or later we shall meet the spell caster?" To

Milo's relief, Fangtooth seemed well able to control the

power of were-change that was his by right. "Yes, that is

what I believe we wait for now."

The druid, without a single glance in their direction, had

set by his now empty bowl and got to his feet, ringing down

on the table top a small coin. He wore, Milo noted as he

turned and his robe napped up a little, not the sandals

suitable for city streets, but badly cured and clumsily made

hide boots such as a peasant might use for field labor in ill

weather. The bag marked with the runes of his training was a

small one and as shabby as his robe. He gave a jerk to bring

his cowl higher over his head and started for the outer door,

nor did he make any attempt to approach their table. Milo

was glad to see the last of him. Druids were chancy at best,

and there were those who had the brand of Chaos and the

powers of the Outer Dark at their call, though this one was

manifestly lowly placed in that close-knit and secret fra-

ternity.

Fangtooth's lips pursed as if he would spit after the figure

now tugging aside the door curtain.

"Cooker of spells!" he commented.

"But not the one who holds us," Milo said.

'True enough. Tell me, swordsman, does your skin now

prickle, does it seem that, without your helm to hold it down,

your very hair might rise on your head? Whatever has netted

us comes the closer. Yet a man cannot fight what he cannot

see, hear, or know is alive."

The berserker was far more astute than Milo had first

thought him. Because of the very nature of the bestial feroc-

ity such fighters fell into upon occasion, one was apt to forget

that they had their own powers and were moved by intelli-

gence as well as by the superhuman strength they could com-

mand. Fangtooth had the right of it. His own discomfort

had been steadily growing. What they awaited was nearly

here.

Now the five whisperers also arose and passed one by one

beyond the curtain. It was as if someone, or something, were

clearing the stage for a struggle. Yet still Milo could not lo-

cate any of the signs of Chaos. On the berserker's shoulder

the pseudo-dragon chittered, rubbing its head back and forth

on the cheekplate of the boar-crowned helmet.

Milo found himself watching, not the small reptile, but

rather the bracelet on his wrist. It seemed to have loosened

somewhat its grip against his maiL Two of the dice began

slowly to spin.

"Now!"

Naile got to his feet. In his left hand he held a deadly

battle axe of such weight that Milo, trained though he was to

handle many different weapons, thought he could never have

brought to shoulder height. They were alone in the long

room. Even those who had served had gone, as if they had

some private knowledge of ill to come and would not witness

it.

Still, what Milo felt was not the warning prick of normal

fear-rather an excitement, as if he stood on the verge of

learning the answer to all questions.

As Naile had done, he got to his feet, lifted his shield. The

dice on his bracelet wBirred to a stop as the hide door curtain

was drawn aside, letting in a blast of late fall, winter-touched

air. A man, slight and so well cloaked that he seemed merely

some shadow detached from a nearby wall to roam home-

lessly about, came swiftly in.

2

Wizard's Wiles

The newcomer approached them directly. His pale face above

the high-standing collar of his cloak marked him as one who

dwelt much indoors by reason of necessity or choice. And,

though his features were human enough in their cast, still

Milo, seeing their impassivity, the thinness of his bloodless

lips, the sharp-beak curve of his nose, hesitated to claim him

as a brother man. His eyelids were near closed, but, as he

reached the table, he opened them widely and they could see

that his pupils were of no human color, rather dull red like a

smoldering coal.

Save for those eyes, the only color about him was the

badge sewn to the shoulder of his cloak. And that was so in-

tricate that Milo could not read its meaning. It appeared to

be an entwining of a number of wizardly runes. When the

newcomer spoke, his voice was low-pitched and had no more

emotion than the monotone of one who repeated a set

message without personal care for its meaning.

"You are summoned-"

"By whom and where?" Naile growled and spat again, the

flush on his broad face darkening. "I have taken no serv-

ice-"

Milo caught the berserker's arm. "No more have I. But it

would seem that this is what we have awaited." For in him

that expectancy which had been building to a climax now

blended into a compulsion he could not withstand.

For a moment it seemed that the berserker was going to

dispute the summons. Then he swung up his fur cloak and

fastened it with a boar's head buckle at his throat.

"Let us be gone then," he growled. "I would see an end to

this bedazzlement, and that speedily." The pseudo-dragon

chittered shrilly, shooting its tongue at the messenger, as if it

would have enjoyed impaling some part of the stranger on

that spearpoint.

Again Milo felt the nudge of spinning dice at his wrist. If

he could only remember! There was a secret locked in that

armlet and he must learn it soon, for as he stood now, he felt

helplessness like a sharp-set wound.

They came out of Harvel's Axe on the heels of the messen-

ger. Though the upper part of the city was well lighted, this

portion was far too shadowed. Those who dwelt and carried

out their plans here knew shadows as friends and defenses.

However, as three of them strode along, they followed a

crooked alley where the houses leaned above them as if eyes

set in the upper stories would spy on passersby. Milo's

overactive imagination was ready to endow those same

houses, closed and barred against the night and with seldom a

dim glow to mark a small-paned window, with knowledge

greater than his own, as if they snickered slyly as the three

passed.

Before they reached the end of the Thieves' Quarter a dark

form slipped from an arched doorway. Though he had had

no warning from the armlet, Milo's hand instantly sought his

sword hilt. Then the newcomer fell into step with him and

the very dim light showed the green and brown apparel of an

elf. Few, if any, of that blood were ever drawn into the ways

of Chaos. Now better light from a panel above the next door

made it plain that the newcomer was one of the Woods

Rangers. His long bow, unstrung, was at his back and he

bore a quiver full of arrows tight packed. In addition both a

hunter's knife and a sword were sheathed at his belt. But

most noticeable to the swordsman, on his wrist he, too, wore

the same bracelet that marked the berserker and Milo him-

self.

Their guide did not even turn his head to mark the coming

of the elf, but kept ahead "at a gliding walk which Milo found

he must extend his stride to match. Nor did the newcomer of-

fer any greeting to either of the men. Only the pseudo-dragon

turned its gem-point eyes to the newcomer and trilled a thin,

shrill cry.

Elves had the common tongue, though sometimes they dis-

dained to use it unless it was absolutely necessary. However,

besides it and their own speech, they also had mastery over

communication with animals and birds-and, it would seem,

pseudo-dragons. For Naile's pet-or comrade-had shrilled

what must be a greeting. If the elf answered, it was by mind-

talk alone. He made no more sound than the shadows around

them; far less than the hissing slip-slip of their guide's foot-

gear which was oftentimes drowned out by the clack of their

own boot heels on the pavement.

They proceeded into wider and less winding streets,

catching glimpses now and then of some shield above a door

to mark a representative of Blackmer, a merchant of sub-

stance from Urnst, or the lands of the Holy Lords of Faraaz.

So the four came to a narrow way between two towering

walls. At the end of that passage stood a tower. It was not

impressive at first, as were some towers in Greyhawk. The

surface of the stone facing was lumpy and irregular. Those

pocks and rises, Milo noted, when they came to the single

door facing the alley that had brought them and could see

the door light, were carving as intricately enfolded and re-

peated as the patch upon their guide's cloak.

From what he could distinguish, the stone was not the lo-

cal grayish-tan either, but instead a dull green, over which

wandered lines of yellow, adding to the confusion of the car-

ven patterns in a way to make the eyes ache if one tried to

follow either carving or yellow vein.

He whom they followed laid one hand to the door and it

swung immediately open, as if there was no need for bars or

other protection in this place. Light, wan, yet brighter than

they had seen elsewhere, flowed out to engulf them.

Here were no baskets of fire wasps. This light stemmed

from the walls themselves, as if those yellow veins gave off a

sickly radiance. By the glow Milo saw that the faces of his

companions looked as palely ghostlike as those of some liche

serving Chaos. He did not like this place, but his will was

bound as tightly as if fetters enclosed his wrists and chains

pulled him forward.

They passed, still in silence, along a narrow corridor to

come at the end of it to a corkscrew of a stairway. Because

their guide flitted up it, they did likewise. Milo saw an oily

drop of sweat streak down the berserker's nose, drip to his

chin where the bristles of perhaps two days of neglected

beard sprouted vigorously. His own palms were wet and he

had to fight a desire to wipe them on his cloak.

Up they climbed, passing two levels of the tower, coming

at last into a single great room. Here it was stifling hot. A fire

burned upon a hearth in the very middle, smoke trailing up-

ward through an opening in the roof. But the rest of the

room . . . Milo drew a deep breath. This was no lord's audi-

ence chamber. There were tables on which lay piles of books,

some bound in wooden boards eaten by time, until perhaps

only their hinges of metal held them together. There were

canisters of scrolls, all pitted and green with age. Half the

floor their guide stepped confidently out upon was inlaid with

a pentagon and other signs and runes. The sickly light was a

little better here, helped by the natural flames of the fire.

Standing by the fire, as if his paunchy body still craved

heat in spite of the temperature of the chamber, was a man

of perhaps Milo's height, yet stooped a little of shoulder and

completely bald of head. In place of hair, the dome of his

skin-covered skull had been painted or tattooed with the same

unreadable design as marked the cloak patch of his servant.

He wore a gray robe, tied with what looked like a length

of plain yellowish rope, and that robe was marked with no

design or symbol. His right wrist, Milo was quick to look for

that, was bare of any copper, dice-set bracelet. He could have

been any age (wizards were able to control time a little for

their own benefit) and he was plainly in no cheerful mood.

Yet, as the swordsman stepped up beside Naile, the elf

quickly closing in to make a third, Milo for the first time felt

free of compulsion and constant surveillance.

The wizard surveyed them critically-as a buyer in the

slave market might survey proffered wares. Then he gave a

small hacking cough when smoke puffed into his face and

waved a hand to drive away that minor annoyance.

"Naile Fangtooth, Milo Jagon, Ingrge." It was not as if he

meant the listing of names as a greeting, but rather as if he

were reckoning up a sum important to himself. Now he beck-

oned and, from the other side of the fire, four others ad-

vanced.

"I am, of course, Hystaspes. And why the Great Powers

saw fit to draw me into Ihis meeting...." He scowled. "But

if one deals with the Powers it is a two-way matter and one

pays their price in the end. Behold your fellows!"

His wave of the hand was theatrical as he indicated the

four who had come into full sight. As Milo, Naile, and the

elf Ingrge had instinctively moved shoulder to shoulder, so

did these also stand.

"The battlemaid Yevele." Hystaspes indicated a slender fig-

ure in full mail. She had pushed her helmet back a little on

her forehead, and a wisp of red-brown hair showed. For the

rest, her young face was near as impassive as that of their

guide. She wore, however, Milo noticed, what he was begin-

ning to consider the dangerous bracelet.

"Deav Dyne, who puts his faith in the gods men make for

themselves." There was exasperation in the wizard's voice as

he spoke the name of the next.

By his robe of gray, faced with white, Deav Dyne was a

follower of Landron-of-the-Inner-Light and of the third rank.

But a bracelet encircled his wrist also. He gave a slight nod

to the other three, but there was a frown on his face and he

was plainly uneasy in his present company.

"The bard Wymarc-"

The red-headed man, who wore a skald's field harp in a

bag on his back, smiled as he were playing a part and was

slyly amused at both his own role and the company of his

fellow players.

"And, of course, Gulth." Hystaspes' visible exasperation

came to the surface as he indicated the last of the four.

That introduction was answered by a low growl from Naile

Fangtooth. "What man shares a venture with an eater of car-

rion? Get you out, scale-skin, or I'll have that skin off your

back and ready to make me boots!"

The lizardman's stare was unblinking. He did not open his

fanged jaws to answer-though the lizard people used and

understood the common tongue well enough. But Milo did

not like the way that reptilian gaze swept the berserker from

head to foot and back again. Lizardmen were considered neu-

tral in the eternal struggles and skirmishes of Law and Chaos.

On the other hand a neutral did not awake trust in any man.

Their sense of loyalty seldom could be so firmly engaged that

they would not prove traitors in some moment of danger.

And this specimen of his race was formidable to look upon.

He was fully as tall as Naile, and in addition to the wicked

sword of bone, double-edged with teeth, that he carried, his

natural armament of fang and claw was weaponry even a

hero might consider twice before facing. Yet on his scaled

wrist, as on that of the bard and the cleric, was the same

bracelet.

Now the wizard turned to the fire, pointed a forefinger.

Phrases of a language that meant nothing to Milo came from

his lips in an invoking chant. Out of the heart of the flames

spread more smoke but in no random puff. This was a ser-

pent of white which writhed through the air, reaching out. It

split into two and one loop of it fell about Milo, NaHe and

the elf before they could move, noosing around their heads,

just as the other branch noosed the four facing them.

Milo sputtered and coughed. He could see nothing of the

room now or of those in it. But...

"All right, you play that one then. Now the problem

is..."

A room, misty, only half seen. Sheets of paper. He was

... he was ...

"Who are you?" A voice boomed through the mist with the

resonance of a great bell.

Who was he? What a crazy question. He was Martin Jef-

ferson, of course.

"Who are you?" demanded that voice once more. There

was such urgency in it that he found himself answering it:

"Martin Jefferson."

"What are you doing?"

His bewilderment grew. He was-he was playing a game.

Something Eckstem had suggested that they practice up on

for the convention using the new Q K figures.

That was it-just playing a game)

"No game." The booming voice denied that, leaving him

bewildered, completely puzzled.

"Who are you?"

Martin wet his lips to answer. There was a question of two

of his own for which he wanted an answer. The mist was so

thick he could not see the table. And that was not Eckstem's

voice-it was more powerful. But before he could speak.

again he heard a second voice:

"Nelson Langley."

Nels-that was Nels! But Nels had not come tonight. In

fact he was out of town. He hadn't heard from Nels since

last Saturday.

"What are you doing?" Again that relentless inquiry.

"I'm playing a game . . ." Nels' voice sounded odd-

strong enough and yet as if this unending fog muffled it a

little.

"No game!" For the second time that curt answer was em-

phatic.

Martin tried to move, to break through the fog. This was

like one of those dreams where you could not get away from

an ever-encoaching shadow.

"Who are you?"

"James Ritchie."

Who was James Ritchie? He'd never heard of him before.

What was going on? Martin longed to shout out that question

and discovered that he could not even shape the words. He

was beginning to be frightened now-if this was a dream it

was about time to wake up.

"What are you doing?"

Martin was not in the least surprised to hear the same an-

swer he and Nels had given-the same denial follow.

"Who are you?"

"Susan Spencer." That was a girl's voice, again that of a

stranger.

Then came three other answers: Lloyd Collins, Bill Ford,

Max Stein.

The smoke was at last beginning to thin. Martin's head

hurt. He was Martin Jefferson and he was dreaming. But...

As the smoke drifted away in ragged patches he was-not

back at the table with Eckstern-no! This was-this was the

tower of Hystaspes. He was Milo Jagon, swordsman-but he

was also Martin Jefferson. The warring memories in his skull

seemed enough for a wild moment or two to drive him mad.

"You see." The wizard nodded as his gaze shifted from

one of the faces to the next.

"Masterly-masterly and as evil as the Nine and Ninety

Sins of Salzak, the Spirit Murderer." The wizard seemed di-

vided, too, as if he both hated and feared what he might

have learned from them. Still, a part of him longed for the

control of such a Power as had done this to them.

"I am-Susan." The battlemaid took a step forward. "I

know I am Susan-but I am also Yevele. And these two try

to live within me at once. How can this thing be?" She flung

up her arm as if to ward off some danger and the light

glinted on her bracelet.

"You are not alone," the wizard told her. There was no

warmth of human feeling in his voice. It was brisk in tone as

if he would get on to other things at once, now that he had

learned what he wished of them.

Milo slipped off his helm, let his mail coif fall back against

his shoulders like a hood so he could rub his aching forehead.

"I was playing-playing a game. . . ." He tried to reas-

sure himself that those moments of clear thought within the

circle of the smoke were real, that he would win out of this.

"Games!" spat the wizard. "Yes, it is those games of yours,

fools that you are, that have given the enemy his chance.

Had it not been that I, I who know the Lesser and the Larger

Spells of Ulik and Dom, was searching for an answer to an

archaic formula, you would already be his things. Then you

would play games right enough, his games and for his pur-

pose. This is a land where Law and Chaos are ever struggling

one against each other. But the laws of Chance will let nei-

ther gain full sway. Now this other threat has come to us,

and neither Law nor Chaos are boundaries for him-or

them-for even yet we know not the manner or kind of what

menaces us."

"We are in a game?" Milo rubbed his throbbing head

again. "Is that what you are trying to tell us?"

"Who are you?" snapped the wizard as if he struck with a

war axe and without any warning.

"Martin-Milo Jagon." Already the Milo part of him was

winning command-driving the other memory far back into

his mind, locking and barring doors that meant its freedom.

Hystaspes shrugged. "You see? And that is the badge of

your servitude that you set upon yourselves in your own

sphere of life, with the lack of wit only fools know."

He pointed to the bracelet.

Naile dug at the band on his wrist, using his great strength.

But he could not move it. The elf broke the short silence.

"It would seem. Master Wizard, that you know far more

than we do concerning this matter. And that also you have

some hand in it or we would not be gathered here to be

shown what you deem to be sorcery behind it. If we were

brought to this world to serve your unknown menace, then

you must have some plan-"

"Plan!" The wizard near shouted. "How can a man plan

against that which is not^of his world or time? I learned by

chance what might happen far enough in advance so that I

was able to take precautions against a complete victory for

the enemy. Yes, I gathered you in. He-it-them are so confi-

dent that there was no part ready and waiting for you to

play. The mere fact that you were here perhaps accomplished

the first purpose toward which the enemy strives. By so little

am I in advance of what is to come."

"Tell us then, follower of sorcerous ways," the cleric spoke

up, "what you know, what you expect, and-"

The wizard laughed harshly. "I know as much as those

who serve those faceless gods of yours, Deav Dyne. If there

are any gods, which is problematical, why should they

concern themselves with the fates of men, or even of nations?

But, yet, I will tell you what I know. Chiefly because you are

now tools of mine-minel And you shall be willing tools, for

this has been done to you against your will, and you have

enough of the instincts of lifekind to resent such usage.

"Karl!" He clapped his hands. From the darker end of the

room moved the messenger who had led Milo and his com-

rades. "Bring stools and drink and food-for the night is long

and there is much to be said here."

Only Gulth, the lizardman, disdained a stool, curling up on

the floor, his crocodile-snouted head supported on his hands,

with never a blink of his eyelids, so that he might have been

a grotesque statue. But the rest laid their weapons down and

sat in a semicircle facing the wizard, as if they were a class

of novices about to leam the rudiments of a charm.

Hystaspes settled himself in a chair Karl dragged forward,

to watch as they drank from goblets fashioned in the form of

queer and fabulous beasts and ate a dark, tough bread spread

with strong-smelling, but good-tasting cheese.

Though Mile's head still ached, he had lost that terrible

sense of inner conflict, and for that he was glad. Still he

remembered, as if that were the dream, that once he had

been someone else in another and very different world. Only

that did not matter so much now, for this was Milo's world

and the more he let Milo's memory rule him the safer he

was.

"The dreams of men, some men," the wizard began,

smoothing his robe across his knees, "can be very strong. We

know this, we seekers out of knowledge that has been found,

lost, hidden, and found again, many times over. For man has

always been a dreamer. And it is when he begins to build

upon his dreams that he achieves that which is his greatest of

gifts.

"We have discovered that it may be entirely possible that

what a man dreams in one world may be created and given

substance in another. And if more than one dream the same

dreams, strive to bring them to life, then the more solid and

permanent becomes that other world. Also dreams seep from

one spacetime level of a world to another, taking root in new

soil and there growing-perhaps even to great permanence.

"You have all played what you call a war game, building a

world you believe imaginary in which to stage your adven-

tures and exploits. Well enough, you say, what harm lies in

that? You know it is a game. When it is done, you put aside

your playthings for another time. Only-what if the first

dreamer, who 'invented' this world according to your concep-

tion, gathered, unknowingly, dream knowledge of one that

did and does exist in another time and space? Have you ever

thought of that-ha?" He leaned forward, a fierceness in his

eyes.

"More and more does this dream world enchant you. Why

should it not? If it really is a pale, conscious-filtered bit of

another reality, therefore it gains in substance in your minds

and in a measure is drawn closer to your own world. The

more players who think about it-the stronger the pull be-

tween them will be."

"Do you mean," Yevele asked, "that what we imagine can

become real?"

"Was not playing the game very real to you when you

played it?" countered Hystaspes.

Milo nodded without thought and saw that even the lizard'

head of Gulth echoed that gesture.

"So. But in this there is little harm-for you play but in a

shadow of our world and what you do there does not influ-

ence events that happen. Well and good. But suppose some-

one-something-outside both of our spaces and times sees a

chance to meddle-what then?"

"You tell us," Naile growled. "You tell us! Tell us why we

are here, and what you-or this other thing you do not seem

to know very much about-really wants of us!"

3

Geas Bound

In so far as I have learned, it is simple enough." The wizard

waved his hand in the air. His fingers curved about a slen-

der-stemmed goblet that appeared out of nowhere. "You have

been imported from your own time and space to exist here as

characters out of those games you have delighted in. The why

of your so coming-that is only half clear to me. It would

seem that he-or it-who meddles seeks thus to tie together

our two worlds in some manner. The drawing of you hither

may be the first part of such a uniting-"

Naile snorted. "All this your wizardry has made plain to

you, has it? So we should sit and listen to this-"

Hystaspes stared at him. "Who are you?" His voice

boomed as it had earlier through the smoke. "Give me your

name!" That command carried the crack of an order spoken

by one who was entirely sure of himself.

The berserker's face flushed. "I am-" he began hotly and

then hesitated as if in that very moment some bemusement

confused him. "I am Naile Fangtooth." Now a little of the

force was lost from his deep voice.

"This is the city of Greyhawk," went on the wizard, an al-

most merciless note in his voice. "Do you agree, Naile Fang-

tooth?"

"Yes." The heavy body of the berserker shifted on his

stool. That seat might suddenly become not the most com-

fortable perch in the world.

"Yet, as I have shown you-are you not someone else

also? Have you no memories of a different place and time?"

"Yes . . ." Naile gave this second agreement with obvious

reluctance.

"Therefore you are faced with what seems to be two con-

trary truths. If you are Naile Fangtooth in Greyhawk-how

can you also be this other man in another world? Because

you are prisoner of that!"

His other hand flashed out as he pointed to the bracelet on

the berserker's wrist.

"You, were-boar, fighter, are slave to that!"

"You say we are slaves," Milo cut in as Naile growled and

plucked fruitlessly at his bracelet. "In what manner and

Why?"

"In the manner of the game you chose to play," Hystaspes

answered him. "Those dice shall spin and their readings will

control your movements-even as when you gamed. Your

life, your death, your success, your failure, all shall be gov-

erned by their spin."

"But in the game"-the cleric leaned forward a little, his

gaze intent upon the wizard, as if to compel the complete at-

tention of the other-"we throw the dice. Can we control

these so firmly fixed?"

Hystaspes nodded. "That is the first sensible question," he

commented. "They teach you a bit of logic in those dark,

gloomy abbeys of yours, do they not, after all, priest? It is

true you cannot strip those bits of metal from your wrists and

throw their attachments, leaving to luck, or to your gods,

whichever you believe favor you, the result. But you shall

have a warning an instant or two before they spin. Then-

well, then you must use your wits. Though how much of

those you can summon"-he shot a glance at Naile that was

anything but complimentary-"remains unknown. If you

concentrate on the dice when they begin to spin, it is my be-

lief that you will be able to change the score which will fol-

low-though perhaps only by a fraction."

Milo glanced about the half-circle of his unsought compan-

ions in this unbelievable venture. Ingrge's face was impassive,

his eyes veiled. The elf stared down, if he were not looking

outward at all. at the Band resting on his knee, the bracelet

just above that. Naile scowled blackly, still pulling at his

band as if strength and will could loose it,

Gulth bad not moved and who could read any emotion on

a face so alien to humankind? Yevele was not frowning, her

gaze was centered thoughtfully on the wizard. She had raised

one hand and was running the nail of her thumb along to

trace the outline of her lower lip, a gesture Milo guessed she

was not even aware she made. Her features were good, and

the escaped tress of hair above her sun-browned forehead

seemed to give her a kind of natural aliveness that stirred

something in him, though this was certainly neither the time

nor place to allow his attention to wander in that direction.

The cleric had pinched his lips together. Now he shook his

head a little, more in time, Milo decided, to his own thoughts

than to what the wizard was saying. The bard was the only

one who smiled. As he caught Milo's wandering eyes, the

smile became an open grin-as if he might be hugely enjoy-

ing all of this.

"We have been taught many things," the cleric replied with

a faint repugnance. He had the countenance of one forced

into speaking against his will. "We have been taught that

mind can control matter. You have your spells, wizard, we

have our prayers." He drew forth from the bosom of his robe

a round of chain on which dull silver beads were set in pat-

terns of two or three together.

"Spells and prayers," Hystaspes returned, "are not what I

Speak of-rather of such power of mind as is lying dormant

within each of you and which you must cultivate for your-

selves."

"Just when and how do we use this power?" For the first

time, the bard Wymarc broke "in. "You would not have sum-

moned us here. Your Power-in-Possession," (he gave that

title a twist which hinted at more than common civility, per-

haps satire) "unless we were to be of use to you in some.

manner."

For the first time the wizard did not reply at once. Instead

he gazed down into the goblet he held, as if the dregs of the

liquid it now contained could be used as the far-seeing mirror

of his craft.

"There is only one use for you," he stated dryly after a

long moment.

"That being?" Wymarc persisted when Hystaspes did not at

once continue.

"You must seek out the source of that which had drawn

you hither and destroy it-if you can."

"For what reason-save that you find it alarming?"

Wymarc wanted to know.

"Alarming?" Hystaspes echoed. Now his voice once more

held arrogance. "I tell you, this-this alien being strives to

bring together our two worlds. For what purpose he desires

that, I cannot say. But should they so coincide-"

"Yes? What will happen then?" Ingrge took up the ques-

tioning. His compelling elf stare unleashed at the wizard as

he might have aimed one of the deadly arrows of his race.

Hystaspes blinked. "That I cannot tell."

"No?" Yevele broke in. "With all your powers you cannot

foresee what will come then?"

He flashed a quelling look at the girl, but she met that as

she might a sword in the hands of a known enemy. "Such has

never happened-in all the records known to me. But that it

will be far more evil than the worst foray which Chaos has

directed, that I can answer to."

There was complete truth in that statement, Milo thought.

"I believe something else, wizard," Deav Dyne commented

dryly. "I think that even as you had us brought here to you,

you have wrought what shall bind us to your will, we having

no choice in the matter." Though his eyes were on the

wizard, his hands were busy, slipping the beads of his prayer

string between his fingers.

Ingrge, not their captor-host, replied to that. "A geas,

then," he said in a soft voice, but a voice that carried chill.

Hystaspes made no attempt to deny that accusation.

"A geas, yes. Do you doubt that I would do everything

within my power to make sure you seek out the source of this

contamination and destroy it?"

"Destroy it?" Wymarc took up the challenge now. "Look

at us, wizard. Here stands an oddly mixed company with

perhaps a few minor arts, spells, and skills. We are not

adepts-"

"You are not of this world," Hystaspes interrupted.

'Therefore, you are an irritant here. To pit you against an-

other irritant is the only plausible move. And remember

this--only he, or it, who brought you here knows the way by

which you may return. Also, it is not this world only that is

menaced. You pride yourself enough upon your imaginations

used to play your game of risk and fortune-use that imag-

ination now. Would Greyhawk-would all the lands known

to us-be the same if they were intermingled with your own

space-time? And how would your space-time suffer?"

"Distinctly a point," the bard admitted. "Save that we may

not have the self-sacrificing temperament to rush forth to

save our world. What I remember of it, which seems to grow

less by the second, oddly enough, does not now awake in me

great ardor to fight for it."

"Fight for yourself then," snapped the wizard. "In the end,

with most men, it comes to self-preservation. You are com-

mitted anyway to action under the geas." He arose, his robe

swirling about him.

"Just who stands against us, save this mysterious menace?"

For the first time Milo dropped his role of onlooker. The in-

stincts that were a part of the man he had now become were

awake. Know the strength of your opposition, as well as the

referee might allow, that was the rule of the game. It might

be that this wizard was the referee. But Milo had a growing

suspicion that the opposition more likely played that role

"What of Chaos?"

Hystaspes frowned. "I do not know. Save it is my belief

that they may also be aware of what is happening. There are

adepts enough on the Dark Road to have picked up as much

as if not more than I know now."

"What of the players?" Yevele wanted to know. "Are there

dark players also?"

A very faint shadow showed for an instant on the wizard's

face. Then he spoke, so slowly that the words might have

been forcably dragged from his lips one by one.

"I do not know. Nor have I been able to discover any

such."

"Which does not mean," Wymarc remarked, "that they do

not exist. A pleasant prospect. All you can give us is some

slight assurance that we may leam to control the roll of

these"-he shook his hand a little so that the dice trembled

on their gimbals but did not move-"to our advantage."

"It is wrong!" Naile's deep voice rang out. "You have laid

a geas on us, wizard. Therefore give us what assistance you

can-by the rule of Law, which you purport to follow, that is

our right to claim!"

For a moment Hystaspes glared back at the berserker as if

the other's defiant speech offered insult. Visibly he mastered a

first, temper-born response.

"I cannot tell you much, berserker. But, yes, what I have

learned is at your service now." He arose and went to one of

the tables on which were piled helter-skelter the ancient

books and scrolls. Among these he made a quick search until

he located a strip of parchment perhaps a yard long that he

flipped open, to drop upon the floor before their half-circle of

stools. It was clearly a sketchy map, as Milo began to recog-

nize by that queer mixture of two memories to which he pri-

vately wondered if he would ever become accustomed.

To the north lay the Grand Duchy of Urnst, for Greyhawk

was clearly marked nearly at the edge of the sheet to his

right. Beyond that swelled the Great Kingdom of Blackmoor.

To the left, or west, were mountains scattered in broken

chains, dividing smaller kingdoms one from the other. Rivers,

fed by tributaries, formed boundaries for many of these. This

cluster of nations ended in such unknown territories as the Dry

Steppes which only the Nomad Raiders of Lar dared venture

out upon (the few watering places therein being hereditary

possessions of those clans). Farther south was that awesome

Sea of Dust from which it was said no expedition, no matter

how well equipped, had ever returned, though there were

legends concerning its lost and buried ships and the treasures

that still might exist within their petrified cargo holds.

The map brought them all edging forward. Leaning over

the parchment, Milo sensed that perhaps some of this com-

pany recognized the faded lines, could identify features that

to him were but names, but that existed for them in the

grafted-on memories of those they had become.

"North, east, south, west!" exploded Naile. "Where does

your delving into the Old Knowledge suggest we begin,

wizard? Must we wander over half the world, perhaps, to find

this menace of yours in whatever fortress it has made for it-

self?"

The wizard produced a staff of ivory so old that it was a

dull yellow and the carving on it worn by much handling to

unidentifiable indentations. With its point he indicated the

map.

"I have those who supply me with information," he re-

turned. "It is only when there is silence from some such that

I turn to other methods. Here-" The point of the staff aimed

a quick, vicious thrust at the southwestern portion of the

map, beyond the last trace of civilization (if one might term

it that) represented by the Grand Duchy of Geofp, a place

the prudent avoided since civil warfare between two rivals for

the rule had been going on now for more than a year, and

both lords were well known to have formally accepted the

rulership of Chaos.

The Duchy lay in the foothills of the mountain chain and

from its borders, always providing one could find the proper

passes, one might emerge either into the Dry Steppes or the

Sea of Dust, depending upon whether one turned either north

or south.

"Geofp?" Deav Dyne spat it out as if he found the very

name vile, as indeed he must since it was a stronghold of

Chaos.

"Chaos rules there, yes. But this is not of Chaos. Or at

least such an alliance has not yet come into being. . . ."

Hystaspes moved the pointer to the south. "I have some skill,

cleric, in my own learning. What I have found is literally-

nothing."

"Nothing?" Ingrge glanced up sharply. "So, you mean a

void." The elf's nostrils expanded as if, like any animal of

those woods his people knew better than Hystaspes might

know his spells, he scented something.

"Yes, nothing. My seekings meet with only a befogged

nothingness. The enemy has screens and protections that an-

swer with a barrier not even a geas-burdened demon of the

Fourth Leyel can penetrate."

Deav Dyne spun his chain of prayer beads more swiftly,

muttering as he did so. The wizard served Law, but he was

certainly admitting now to using demons in his service, which

made that claim a little equivocal.

Hystaspes was swift to catch the cleric's reaction and

shrugged as he replied. "In a time of stress one uses the

weapon to hand and the best weapon for the battle that one

can produce, is that not so? Yes, I have called upon certain

ones whose very breath is a pollution in this room-because I

feared. Do you understand that?" He thumped the point of

his staff on the map. "I feared! That which is native to this

world I can understand, this menace I cannot. All non-

knowledge brings with it an aura of fear.

"The thing you seek was a little careless at first. The un-

known powers it called upon troubled the ways of the Great

Knowledge, enough for me to learn what I have already told

you. But when I went searching for it, defenses had been

erected. I think, though this is supposition only, that it did

not expect to find those here who could detect its influences.

I have but recently come into possession of certain scrolls,

rumored to have once been in the hands of Han-gra-dan-"

There was an exclamation from both the elf and the cleric

at that name.

"A thousand years gone!" Deav Dyne spoke as if he

doubted such a find.

Hystaspes nodded. "More or less. I know not if these came

directly from a cache left by that mightiest of the northern

adepts. But they are indeed redolent of power and, taking

such precautions as I might, I used one of the formulas. The

result"-his rod stabbed again on the map-"being that I

learned what I learned. Now this much I can tell you: there

is a barrier existing somewhere here, in or about the Sea of

Dust."

For the first time the lizardman croaked out barely under-

standable words in the common tongue.

"Desert-a desert ready to swallow any venturing into it."

His expression could not change, but there was a certain tone

in his croaking which suggested that he repudiated any plan

that would send them into that fatal, trackless wilderness.

Hystaspes frowned at the map. "We cannot be sure. There

is only one who might hold the answer, for these mountains

are his fortress and his range. Whether he will treat with

you-that will depend upon your skill of persuasion. I speak

of Lichis, the Golden Dragon."

Memory, the new memory, supplied Milo with identifica-

tion. Dragons could be of Chaos. Such ones hunted men as

men might hunt a deer or a forest boar. But Lichis, who was

known to have supported Law during thousands of years of

such struggles (for the dragons were the longest lived of all

creatures) must have a command of history that had become

only thin legend as far as men were concerned. He was, in

fact, the great lord of his kind, though he was seldom seen

now and had not for years taken any part in the struggles

that swept this world. Perhaps the doings of lesser beings (or

so most human kind would seem to him) bad come to bore

him.

Wymarc hummed and Milo caught a fragment of the tune.

"The Harrowing of Ironnose," a saga or legend of men, once

might have been true history of a world crumbled now into

dust and complete forgetfulness. Ironnose was the Great

Demon, called into being by early adepts of Chaos, laboring

for half a lifetime together. He was intended to break the

Law forever. It was Lichis who roused and did battle. The

battle had raged from Blackmoor, out over Great Bay, down

to the Wild Coast, ending in a steaming, boiling sea from

which only Lichis had emerged.

The Golden Dragon had not come unwounded from that

encounter. For a long time he had disappeared from the sight

of men, though before that disappearance, he had visited the

adepts who had given Ironnose being. Of them and their

castle was left thereafter only a few fire-scorched stones and

an evil aura that had kept even the most hardy of adven-

turers out of that particular part of the land to this very day.

"So we seek out Lichis," Ingrge remarked. "What if he will

have no word with us?"

"You"-Hystaspes swung to Naile-"that creature of

yours." Now he pointed the staff at the pseudo-dragon curled

against the berserker's thick neck just above the edging of his

mail, as if it had turned into a torque, no longer a living

thing. Its eyes were mere slits showing between scaled lids.

And its jaws were now firmly closed upon that spear-pointed

tongue. "In that creature you may have a key to Lichis. They

are of one blood, though near as far apart in line as a snake

and Lichis himself. However-" Now he shrugged and tossed

the ivory rod behind him, not watching, as it landed neatly

on a tabletop. "I have told you all I can."

"We shall need provisions, mounts." Yevele's thumb again

caressed her lower lip.

Hystaspes' lips twisted. Perhaps the resulting grimace

served the wizard for a smile of superiority.

The elf nodded, briskly. "We can take nothing from you,

save that which you have laid upon us-the geas." With that

part of Power Lore born into his kind, he appeared to per-

ceive more than the rest of their company.

"All I might give would bear the scent of wizardry."

Hystaspes agreed.

"So be it." Milo held out his hand and looked down at the'

bracelet. "It would seem that it is now time for us to test the

worth of these and see how well they can serve us." He did

not try to turn any of the dice manually. Instead he stared at

them, seeking to channel all his thought into one command.

Once, in that other time and worid, he had thrown just such

dice for a similar purpose.

The sparks which marked their value began to glow. He

did not try to command any set sum from such dealing, only

sent a wordless order to produce the largest amount the dice

might yield.

Dice spun-glowed. As they became again immobile, a

drawstring money bag lay at the swordsman's feet. For a mo-

ment or two the strangeness, the fact that he had been able

to command the dice by thought alone, possessed him. Then

he went down on one knee, jerked loose a knotting of strings,

to turn out on the floor what luck had provided. Here was a

mixture of coins, much the same as any fighter might possess

by normal means. There were five gold pieces from the Great

Kingdom, bearing the high-nosed, haughty faces of two re-

cent kings; some cross-shaped trading tokens from the Land

of the Holy Lords struck out in copper but still well able to

pass freely in Greyhawk where so many kinds of men,

dwarves, elves, and others traveled. In addition he saw a

dozen of those silver, half-moon circles coined in Paraaz, and

two of the mother-of-pearl disks incised with the fierce head

of a sea-serpent which came from the island Duchy of

Maritiz.

Yevele, having witnessed his luck, was the next to concen-

trate on her own bracelet, producing another such purse. The

coins varied, but Milo thought that approximately in value:

they added up to the same amount as his own effort had pro-

cured. Now the others became busy. It was Deav Dyne, who

through his training as a clerk was best able to judge the?

rightful value of unusual pieces (Gulth had two hexagons of

gold bearing a flaming torch in high relief-these Milo could

not identify at all) and tallied their combined wealth.

"I would say," he said slowly, after he had separated the

pieces into piles, counted and examined those that were more

uncommon, "we have enough, if we bargain skillfully.

Mounts can be gotten at the market in the foreign quarter.

Our provisions-perhaps best value is found at the Sign of

the Pea Stalk. We should separate and buy discreetly. Milo-

and-shall we say you, Ingrge, and Naile-to the horso

dealers, for with you lies more knowledge of what we need.

Gulth must have his own supplies-" He looked to the lizard-

man. "Have you an idea where to go?"

The snouted head moved assent as the long clawed hand

picked up coins Deav Dyne swept in his direction, putting

them back into the pouch that had appeared before him. Un-

like those of the others it was not leather, but fashioned of a

fish that had been dried, its head removed, and a dull metal

cap put in its place.

Milo hesitated. He was armed well enough-a sword, his

shield, a belt knife with a long and dangerous blade. But he

thought of a crossbow. And how about spells? Surely they

had a right to throw also for those?

When he made his'suggestion Deav Dyne nodded. "For

myself, I am permitted nothing more than the knife of my

calling. But for the rest of you-"

Again Milo was the first to try. He concentrated on the

bracelet. Striving to bring to the fore of his mind a picture of

the crossbow, together with a quota of bolts. However, the

dice did not fire with life and spin. And, one after another,

saving only Wymarc and Deav Dyne-the bard apparently

already satisfied with what he had-they tried, to gain noth-

ing.

The wizard once more favored them with grimace of a

smile. "Perhaps you had already equipped yourselves by

chance before that summoned you," he remarked. "I would

not waste more time. By daylight it would be well for you to

be out of Greyhawk. We do not know what watch Chaos

may have kept on this tower tonight, nor the relation of the

Dark Ones to our enemy."

"Our enemy-" snorted Naile, swinging around to turn his

back on the wizard with a certain measure of scorn. "Men

under a geas have one enemy already, wizard. You have

made us your weapons. I would take care, weapons have

been known to turn against those who use them." He strode

toward the door without looking back. His mighty shoulders,

with the boar helm riding above, expressed more than his

words. Naile Fangtooth was plainly beset by such a temper as

made his kind deadly enemies.

4

Out of Greyhawk

Parts of Greyhawk never slept. The great market of the mer-

chants, edging both the Thieves' Quarter and the foreign sec-

tion of the free city, was bright with the flares of torches and

oil lanterns. People moved about the stalls, a steady din of

voices arose. You could bargain here for a bundle of noisome

rags, or for a jewel that once topped some forgotten king's

crown of state. To Greyhawk came the adventurers of the

world. The successful brought things that they showed only

behind the dropped curtains of certain booths. The prospec-

tive buyers could be human, elvish, dwarf-even ore or other

followers of Chaos as well as of Law. In a free city the bal-

ance stood straight-lined between Dark and Light

There were guards who threaded among the narrow lanes

of the stalls. But quarrels were settled steel to steel. In those

they did not meddle, save to make sure riot did not spring

full bom from some scuffle. A wayfarer here depended upon

his own weapons and wits, not upon any aid from those

guardians of the city.

Naile muttered to himself in such a low whisper that the

words did not reach Milo through the subdued night roar of

the market. Perhaps the swordsman would not have under-

stood them even if he had heard, for to a berserker the

tongues of beasts were as open as the communication of hu-

mankind. They had gone but a short way into the garish,

well-lighted lines of booths, when Fangtooth stopped, waiting

for the other two, swordsman and elf, to come up with him.

The pseudo-dragon still lay, perhaps sleeping, curled about

the massive lift of his throat. Under his ornately crowned hel-

met his own face was flushed, and Milo could sense the heat

of anger still building in the other. As yet that emotion was

under iron control. Should it burst the dam, Naile might well

embroil them all in quick battle, picking some quarrel with a

stranger to vent his rage against the wizard.

"Do you smell it?" The berserker's voice sounded thick, as

if his words must fight hard to win through that strangling

anger. Under the rim of his helmet, his eyes swept back and

forth, not to touch upon either of his companions, but rather

as if in that crowd he sought to pick out some one his axe

could bring down.

There were smells in plenty here, mainly strong, and more

than half-bordering on the foul. Ingrge's head was up, his

nostrils expanded. The elf did not look about him. Rather he

tested the steamy air as if he might separate one odor from

all the rest, identify it, lay it aside, and try again.

To Milo the slight warning came last. Perhaps because he

had been too caught up in the constant flow of the scene

about them. His sense for such was, of course, far less acute

than that of either of his companions. But now he felt the

same uneasiness that had ridden him in the inn, as well as

along the way the wizard's guide had taken them. Somewhere

in this crowd there existed interest in-them!

"Chaos," Ingrge said, and then qualified that identification.

"With something else. It is clouded."

Naile snorted. "It is of the Dark and it watches," he re-

turned. "While we walk under a geas! I wish I had that damn

wizard's throat between my two hands, to alter the shape of

it-for good! It would be an act of impiety to foul my good

skullsplitter"-he touched his axe where it hung at his belt-

"with his thin and treacherous blood!"

"We are watched." Milo did not address that as a question

to either elf or berserker. "But will it come to more than

watching?" He surveyed the crowd, now not seeking the iden-

tity of the foe (for unless the enemy made an overt move he

knew his skills could not detect the source of danger) but

rather noting those places where they might set their backs to

a solid wall and face a rush-should that materialize.

"Not here-or yet." There was firm confidence ia Ingrge's

answer.

Seconds later the berserker grunted an assent to that.

"The sooner that we ride out of this trap of a city," he

added, "the better." His hand rose and he touched with a

gentleness that seemed totally alien to his shaggy and brutal

strength the head of the pseudo-dragon. "I do not like cities

and this one stinks!"

The elf was already on the move, threading a way through

the market crowd. Milo had an odd feeling that the three of

them were nearly invisible. No hawker or merchant called

them to look at his wares, though those about them were

sometimes even seized by the cloak edges and urged to view

this or that marvel so cheaply offered that no man could

resist.

He would have liked to linger by one display where the sel-

ler did not raise his head from his work as they pushed past.

Here were dwarf-wrought arms-swords, throwing knives,

daggers, a mace or two-one large enough even to fit into

Naile's paw. The owner stood with his back to them, his

forge fire glowing so that the heat reached out as his hammer

rose and fell in a steady beat upon metal.

If what Hystaspes had said was true (and Milo felt it

was), even if he had carried twice as heavy a purse as that

which the bracelet had brought him, he could not have spent

a single piece at this booth. Those rules, dim and befogged,

but still available in part to his memory, told Milo that he

was already equipped with all that fate-or the sorcery -of

this world-would allow him.

"This way." Just a little past the temptation of the sword-

smith's forge, the elf took a sharp turn to the right. After

passing between two more rows of booths (these smaller, less

imposing than those they had earlier viewed), they came

upon the far side of the market itself where there were no

more stalls, rather rope-walled corrals and picket lines and

some cages set as a final wall. Here the live merchandise was

on view.

Camels, kneeling and complaining (placed -by market regu-

lation as far from the horse lines as possible), puffed out

their foul breath at passersby. Beyond them was a small flock

of oriths, their mighty wings pinned tight up their feathered

sides by well-secured restraints. Oriths were hard to handle

and must be eternally watched. They just might answer to an

elf's commands but for a man to attempt to ride these winged

steeds was folly.

There were hounds, their leashes made fast to stakes driven

deeply into the ground. They raised snarling lips as Naile

passed, but backed away and whimpered when he looked

upon them. A berserker was not their meat for the hunt, their

instinct told them that.

Some feline squalled from a cage but kept to the shadows

so only a dusky outline of its crouched body could be seen.

It was onto the horses that Milo, now in the lead, moved ea-

gerly. He began at once to study the mounts, which ranged

from a trained war steed, its front hooves already shod with

knife-edged battle shoes, to ponies, whose ungroomed hides

were matted with mountain weeds and who rolled their eyes

and tried to strike out with their hind feet at anyone reckless

enough to approach them unwarily. To tame such as "those

was a thankless task.

Milo wanted the war horse. It was seldom one of those

came into the open marketplace for sale, unless some engage-

ment had left an army or a raiding party so bloated with loot

they could afford to cull captured animals. But for such an

expedition as faced them now-no, that fighting-trained stal-

lion could not last in a long wilderness or mountain haul.

They were not even ridden, except in a battle, their owners

having them led instead, while riding a smaller breed until

the trumpets sounded.

Resolutely Milo turned from that prize, began eyeing criti-

cally the animals on a middle line. Beyond was thick-legged,

uncurried farm stock-some already worn out and useless,

better put out of their misery by a quick knock on the head.

But on the outer line he spotted about a dozen ragged-maned,

dark grays. Steppe mounts! What chance had brought those

here? They were raider-taken probably, passed along across

the more civilized country because they had long-use stamina.

They would be considered too light for battle except for ir-

regular calvary and too hard to control for farm service. Add

to a careful choice from among them some of the better-tem-

pered of the mountain ponies for packing....

Ingrge had already moved forward toward the very horses

Milo had marked down. Elves had the animal speech, he

could be communicating with the Steppe mounts.

"Those?" Naile asked. There was a dubious note in his

voice and Milo could understand why. In the first place the

berserker was the heaviest of their company. There was need

for a powerful horse, one used to the weight of a large man,

to carry him. Second, allied though such as Naile were,

through their own particular magic, to the animal worlds,

some horse would not accept a were near them at all-going

mad at the scent which no human nose could pick up until

the Change-but which seemed always present to animals.

There was swift movement at Naile's throat. The pseudo-

dragon uncoiled with one lithe snap of her slender body.

Spreading her nearly transparent wings, she took off before

the berserker could reach her with a futile grab, to sail with

lazy wing beats through the air toward the horses. She hov-

ered over and between two of the largest. Suddenly, as she

had taken to flight, she folded wings again, settling on the

back of the mount to the right.

The horse flung up its head with a loud whinny, jerked

against the lead rope and turned its head as far as it could,

endeavoring to see what had alighted. Then the mount stood

still, its wild roll of eye stopped.

Naile laughed. "Afreeta has chosen for me."

"Your servant, sirs. You would deal?"

Ingrge passed among the horses, slipping his hand lightly

over haunch, down shoulder. Those he touched nickered.

Milo looked to the speaker.

The man wore leather, with an over-jacket of spotted black

and white pony hide. A piece of his long, tousled hair flopped

down on his forehead like a ragged forelock, and his teeth

showed large and yellowish in a wide grin.

"Prime stock, warriors." He waved a hand at the house

lines.

"Steppe stock," Milo answered neutrally. 'Trained to a

single rider's call-"

"True enough," the trader conceded without losing his grin.

"Brought them out of Geofp. There was a manhood raid over

the border. But the young whelps who tried that had no luck.

Forstyn of Narm was doing a little raiding himself along the

same general strip. He got some Nomad skins to cover his

storage chests and I got the horses. Forstyn heard the old

tales, too-'bout a Steppe man and his chosen horse. But

you've an elf with you. Never heard tell that any one of them

couldn't get into the skulls of anything that flew, crawled, or

trotted, always supposing they were both of the Law. And the

Nomads-they give lip service to Thera. Not since I heard

tell has the Maned Lady ever bowed head to Chaos."

"How much?" Milo came directly to the point.

"For how many, warrior?"

An old trick of the mountain country, again a memory

that was only a part of him, took over Milo's mind. There

were seven of them, a dozen of the Steppe mounts. For two

reasons it might be well to buy them all. First, it might pos-

sibly confuse that watcher or watchers, whom they all sensed,

about the eventual size of their own party, though that, Milo

decided, was probably a very faint hope. Second, once out in

the wilderness, the loss of a single horse might mean disaster

unless they had a spare, for none of them, even the cleric

who wore no armor, could be mounted on a pack pony.

"For the lot," Ingrge, back from his inspection, returned

quietly.

Naile stood to one side, it would seem that they were

willing to leave this bargaining to the swordsman.

"Well, now . . ." There was a slyness near open malice in

the dealer's never-ending grin. "These are seasoned stock,

good for open country traveling. Also, this is a town where

there are a-many who come to outfit a company-"

"Steppe stock," repeated Milo stolidly. "Are all your

buyers then elves-or dwarves, perhaps?"

The trader laughed. "Now you think you got me by the

short hairs with that one, warrior? Maybe, just maybe. I say

ten gold for each; you won't find their like this far east. Of

course, if you plan to take them west-I'd go south of the

Steppes. The Nomads are blood feuding and won't take

kindly to see a kinsman's mount carrying a stranger."

"Five pieces," Milo returned. "You've just talked yourself

into another ill thought with that warning, trader. The No-

mads may have already taken sword oath for the trail. Keep

these and they could be willing to hunt the new riders down

to meet Thera's Maidens."

"Not even sword oaths are going to bring them to Grey-

hawk, warrior. And I don't propose to ride west again nei-

ther. But you've a tongue on you, that's true. Say eight pieces

and I am out of purse in this bargain."

In the end Milo got the mounts for six. He had a suspicion

that he could have beaten that price lower, but the uneasiness

that was growing in him (until it was all he could do to not

look over one shoulder or the other for that watcher or

watchers) weakened his resolve to prolong the bargaining. He

also bought five pack ponies, those Ingrge methodically

selected, counting upon the elfs skill to control that wilder,

mountain-born stock.

Naile's Afreeta returned to sit on his shoulder, crouching

there alert, her bright beads of eyes missing nothing. Ingrge

had indicated his choices and Milo was counting out a mix-

ture of strange coins to equal the price of their purchases,

when the elf's head swung left, his large green eyes set

aslant in his narrow face opened wide, his nostrils flared.

There had been other men, among them a dwarf and a

cloaked figure, whose species was well concealed by his body

covering, drifting or walking with purpose through the animal

lines. Neither Ingrge nor Naile had shown any interest in

these. Now a man approached them directly, and it was plain

he was seeking them in particular.

His clothing was made of supple leather, not unlike that

worn by the elf. However, it was not dyed green or dull

gray-brown such as became a ranger. Rather it was a shiny,

glossy black from the high boots on his feet to a tunic which

had a flaring collar standing up so high about the back of his

head as to form a dark frame for his weather-browned face.

Over those garments (which reminded Milo of the shiny

body casing of some great insect and might have been fash-

ioned from such, as far as the swordsman knew) he wore a

single splash of vivid color-a sleeveless thigh-length vest,

clipped together slightly below the throat with a round metal

clasp, and made of short, plushy fur of a bright orange-red.

A skull cap of the same fur covered the crown of his head,

allowing to escape below its edging oily strands of hair as

dark as his jerkin.

There was an odd cast to his features, something that

hinted of mixed blood, perhaps of the elven kind. Yet his

eyes were not green but dark, and he wore a half-smile as he

came up to them with the assurance of one certain of wel-

come.

Milo glanced at Ingrge. The elf presented his usual im-

passive countenance. Yet even without the use of any recogni-

tion spell, Milo knew (just as he had been able to sense the

watchful waiting that had dogged them through the market)

that this newcomer did not have elf favor.

The stranger sketched a gesture of peace-his open palm

out. He wore weapons-a blade, which was not quite as long

as a fighting sword nor short as a dagger, but somewhat be-

tween the two, and a throwing axe, both sheathed at his belt.

Coiled on his right hip, diowing only when his vest swung

open a bit, was something else, a long-lashed whip.

"Greetings, warriors." He spoke with an assurance that

matched his open approach. "I am Helagret, one who deals

in rare beasts .. ."

He paused as if awaiting introductions from the three in

turn. Naile grunted, his big hand had gone up to stroke

Afreeta, and there was certainly no welcome in. his lowering

scowl.

Milo tried to sharpen his sense of uneasiness. Was this

their watcher come at last into the open? He glanced at

Ingrge. From a fleeting change of expression on the elfs face,

the swordsman knew that this was not the enemy.

The swordsman dropped the last counted piece into the

trader's grimy palm. Then he answered, since it would seem

that the others left reply to him.

"Master Helagret, we have no interest in aught here save

mounts."

"True," the other nodded. "But I have an interest in what

your comrade has, swordsman," He raised his hand, gaunt-

leted in the same glossy leather, to point a forefinger at

Afreeta. "I am gathering specimens for my Lord Fon-du-Ling

of Faraaz. He would have in his out-garden the rarest of

beasts. Already"-now he waved towards the line of cages

-"I have managed to find a griff-cat, a prim lizard, even

a white sand serpent. Warrior." Now he addressed Naile

directly. "To my Lord, money is nothing. A year ago he

found the hidden Temple of Tung and all its once-locked

treasures are under his hand. I am empowered to draw upon

them to secure any rarity. What say you to a sword of seven

spells, a never-f ail shield, a necklet of lyra gems such as not

even the king of the Great Kingdom can hope to hold, a-"

Naile's hand swept from cupping Afreeta to the haft of his

axe. The pseudo-dragon flickered out of sight within the col-

lar of his boar-skin cape.

"I say, trapper of beasts, shut your mouth, lest you find

steel renders it unshutable for all time!" There were red

sparks in the berserker's deep-set eyes. His own lips pulled

back, showing fangs that had given him his war name.

Helagret laughed lightly. "Temper your wrath, were-man. I

shall not try to wrest your treasure from you. But since this is

my mission there lies no great harm in my asking, does

there?" His tone was faintly derisive, suggesting that Naile

was too closely akin to those bristled and tusked beasts,

whose fury he could share, to be treated with on the true hu-

man level.

"If you will not deal with me on one matter, warriors, per-

haps we can bargain on another. I must transport my animals

to Faraaz. Unfortunately, my hired guards indulged too

deeply in the wine the Two Harpies is so noted for. They

now rest in the Strangers' Tower where they have been given

a period to reflect upon their sin of indulgence. I have cart

men, but they are no fighters. If your passage is westward I

can pay fighting wages until we reach the castle of my lord.

Then he may well be so delighted with what I bring him that

he will be even more open-handed."

He smiled, looking from one to another of them. Milo

smiled in return. What game the other might be playing he

had no guess, but no one could possibly be as stupid as this

beast trainer presented himself. Though Ingrge had passed the

sign that this was not their watcher, yet the very way he at-

tempted to force himself upon their company was out of

character.

"We do not ride to Faraaz." Milo tried to make his voice

as guilelessly open as the other's.

Helagret shrugged. "It is a pity, warriors. My lord has had

unusual luck in two of his recent quests. It is said that he is

preparing for a third. He has been given a certain map-a

southward map .. ."

"I wish him luck for the third time then," Milo returned.

"We go our own way. Master Trainer. As for your guards-

there are those in plenty here who need fill for their purses

and are willing to take sword oath for the road."

"A pity," Helagret shook his head. "It is in my mind we

might have dealt well together, swordsman. You may dis-

cover that pushing away the open hand of Fortune may bring

ill in return."

"You threaten-beast chaser?" Naile took a step forward.

"Threaten? Why should I threaten? What have you to fear

from me?" Helagret moved both his hands wide apart as if

displaying that he was not in the least challenging a short-

tempered berserker.

"What indeed." Ingrge spoke for the first time. "Man of

Hither Hill."

For the first time that smile was lost. There was a spark

for a second in the dark eyes-quickly gone. Then Helagret

nodded as one who has solved a problem.

"I am not ashamed of my blood, elf. Are you of yours?"

Yet he did not wait for any answer but tamed abruptly and

moved away.

Milo felt a faint warmth at his wrist and looked hurriedly

to the bracelet. It was glowing a little but none of the dice

swung. An exclamation from Naile brought his attention else-

where. Ingrge held out his hand. There was a bright blaze of

color and he was staring hard at the dice which were awhirl

for him, using, Milo guessed, every fraction of control he

could summon to aid in their spin.

The glow flashed off, yet Ingrge continued for a long mo-

ment to watch the dice. Then he raised his head.

"The half-blood did not succeed-in so much is the wizard

right."

"What was it?" Milo was irritated at his own ignorance. It

was plain that Ingrge had encountered, or perhaps they had

all faced, some unknown danger. But the nature of it-

"He keeps company." Naile had softened his usual heavy

growl to a mutter. From under the shadow of his helm he

stared across the length of the market. There the circle of

flares and lanterns gave a wavering light-perhaps not

enough to betray some lurkers. But the burnished shine of

Helagret's clothing had caught a gleam. He must have re-

treated very quickly to reach that distance. He stood before

another now, who wore a loose robe that was nearly the same

color as the drab shadows. Since the hood of the robe was

pulled well forward, he was only a half visible form.

"He speaks with a druid," Ingrge returned. "As to what he

tried-he is of the half-blood from the Hither Hills." The

cold note of repudiation in that was plain enough to hear.

"He sought to lay upon us a sending-perhaps to bend us to

his will. But not even the full-blood can work such alone.

There must be a uniting of power. Therefore, this Helagret

merely furnished a channel through which some other power

was meant to flow. He established eye contact, voice con-

tact-then he struck!"

"What power? The druid?" hazarded Milo. "Chaos?"

Slowly Ingrge shook hts head. "The druid-perhaps. But

this was no spelling I have ever heard of. He carried on him

some talisman which had its own smell, and that was alien.

However," once more the elf regarded his wrist and the

bracelet on it, "alien though that was-I could defeat it. Yes,

the wizard was right. Brothers"-there was more animation

in his usually calm voice than Milo had heard before-"we

must hone and sharpen our minds, even as the dwarf sword-

smiths hone and sharpen their best of blades. For it is that

power which may be both shield and weapon to us, past our

present knowing!"

"Well enough," Naile said. He clenched his huge fist "With

my hand-thus-or with the axe or with the likeness I have

won to"-now he raised his fist to strike lightly against his

helmet with its crowning boar-"there are few who dare face

me. Yet to use the mind so-that will be a new experience."

"They have gone." Milo had been watching Helagret and

the shadowy figure beyond him. "I think it is well we follow

their example and that speedily."

Ingrge was already moving toward the horses the trader

had loosed from his picket lines, stringing halter ropes to-

gether. It was apparent that the elf was of a similar mind to

the swordsman.

5

Ring of Forgotten Power

Dawn was more than just a strip of cold gray across the sky

when they at last rode out of the maingate southward. Milo,

knowing that wastes and mountains lay before them, had

bought light saddles that were hardly more than pads

equipped with loop stirrups and various straps to which were

attached their small bundles of personal clothing and the

Water bottles needed in the wilderness. He had questioned

Ingrge carefully as to the countryside before them, though

the elf, for all his woodcraft and ranger-scout training, admit-

ted freely that what little he knew of the territory came

through the rumors and accounts of others. Once they were

across the river and into the plains of Koeland he must de-

pend largely upon his own special senses.

They strung out the extra mounts on leads, Weymarc vol-

unteering to manage them, while their four pack ponies

snorted and whinnied in usual complaint under burdens that

had been most carefully divided among them.

Having splashed across at an upper ford, they angled due

south. Mainly because, now very easy to see, stood the dark

stronghold of the Wizard Kyark apart from Greyhawk's

walls, a place all men with their wits about them knew well

to avoid. As long as it was in sight Deav Dyne told his prayer

beads with energy and even the elf avoided any glance in that

direction.

Not all their company were at ease mounted. Gulth did

not croak out any complaint, but Ingrge had had to work his

own magic on the steadiest of the mounts before the lizard-

man could climb on the back of the sweating, fearful horse.

Once in the saddle he dropped behind, since the other horses

were plainly upset by his close presence. Perhaps that was an

advantage, for the ponies crowded head of him, keeping close

to the human members of the company.

Milo wondered a little at the past of the scale-skinned

fighter. They had all been caught in or by a game. But why

had the role of a scale-skinned fighter been chosen by the one

who had become Gulth? If Gulth had not been shackled to

them by the common factor of the bracelet, Milo would have

questioned that he belonged in their party at all.

Naile Fangtooth made no secret of the fact he both

loathed and mistrusted the entirely alien fighter. He rode as

far from Gulth as he could, pushing up to the fore but a

short distance behind Ingrge. None of the other oddly as-

sorted adventurers made any attempt to address the lizard-

man except when it was absolutely necessary.

Gray-brown grass of the plain grew tall enough to brush

their shins as they rode. Milo did not like crossing this open

land where there was not even a clump of trees or taller

brush to offer shelter. By the Fore-Teeth of Gar-they could

be plainly marked from the walls of Greyhawk itself did any

with some interest in them stand there now.

Without thinking he said as much aloud.

"I wonder-"

Startled out of his apprehensive thoughts, the swordsman

turned his head. Yevele was not looking at him. Rather her

gaze slanted back toward the river and the rise of the city be-

yond it.

"We ride geas-bound," she commented, now meeting his

eyes. "What would it profit the wizard if we were picked up

before we were even one day on our journey? Look there,

swordsman-"

Her fingers were as brown as her face, but the fore one

was abnormally long, and that now pointed to the grass a

short distance beyond their line of march.

Milo was startled, angry with himself at his own inatten-

tion. To go into this land "without one's senses always alert

was worse than folly and to have betrayed his carelessness

shamed him.

For what he saw proved that Yevele might well be right in

her opinion that they were not naked to the sight of an en-

emy. The grass (which was so tough that it stung if one

pulled at it) quivered along a narrow line that exactly

matched their own line of march.

He did not doubt that quiver marked a slight distortion,

only visible to them in this fashion, masking them from aught

but a counter-spell strong enough to break it.

"It cannot last too long, of course," the battlemaid contin-

ued. "I know not how strong a power-worker this Hystaspes

may be-but if he can hold our cover so until we gain the

tributary of the Void, the land beyond is less of an open

plain."

"You have ridden this way before?" Milo asked. If the girl

knew these southwest lands why had she not said so? Here,

they depended upon Ingrge as a guide when the elf had ad-

mitted he used instinct alone.

She did not answer him directly, only asked a question of

her own.

"You have heard of the Rieving of Keo the Less?"

For a moment he sought a way into his memory which had

so many strange things hidden in it. Then he drew a deep

breath. The answer to the name she spoke-it was something

out of the darkness that ever lurked menacingly at the heels

of any who swore by Law. It was treachery so black that it

blotted the dark pages of Chaos's own accounting-death so

hideous a man might retch out his guts if he thought too long

upon it.

"But that--"

"Lies years behind us, yes." Her voice was as even and

controlled as Ingrge's ever was. "And why should such as I

think upon that horror? I am one born to the sword way, you

know the practice of the Northern Bands. Those who ride un-

der the Unicorn have a choice after their thirtieth year-they

may then wish a union, to become a mother, if the High

Homed Lady favors an enlargement of her followers. Then

the child, being always a girl, is trained from birth in the

ways of the One Clan of her heritage.

"My mother, having put aside the Unicorn and followed

her will of union, became swordmistress and teacher. But our

clan fell into hard days and there were three harvests that

were too thin to support any but the old and the very young.

Therefore, those who were still hearty of arm, who could ride

and fight-and my mother was a Valkyrie"-Yevele's head

lifted proudly,-"took council together. They were, by cus-

tom, unable to join the companies again, but they had such

skills as were valuable in the open market wherein sword and

spear may be lawfully sold. My clan-there were twenty-five

who swore leadership to my mother. They came then to

Greyhawk to bargain-settling for their pay in advance so

that they might send back to the clan hold enough to keep

life in the bodies of those they cherished. Then, under my

mother's command, they took service with Regor of Var-

Milo's memory flinched away from what that name sum-

moned.

"Those who were lucky died," Yevele continued dispas-

sionately. "My mother was not lucky. When they were

through with her. . . . But no matter. I have settled two

debts for that and the settlement hangs at the Moon shrine of

the clan. I took blood oath when I took the sword of a full

clan sister. That is why I do not ride with any Band, but am

a Seeker."

"And why you came to Greyhawk," he said slowly. "But

you are not-not Yevele-remember? We are entrapped in

others ..."

She shook her head slowly. "I am Yevele-who I might

have been in that other time and place which the wizard sum-

moned for us to look upon does not matter. Do you not feel

this also, swordsman?" For the first time she turned to look

squarely into his eyes. "I am Yevele, and all that Yevele is

and was is now in command. Unless this Hystaspes plays

some tricks with us again, that is how it will remain. He has

laid a geas on us and that I cannot break. But when this ven-

ture lies behind us-if it ever will-then my blood oath will

bind me once more. Two offerings I have made to the

Horned Lady-there are two more to follow-if I live."

He was chilled. That about her which had attracted his no-

tice had been but a veil hiding an iced inner part at which no

man could ever warm himself. His wonder at their first en-

trapment grew. Was it some quirk of their own original char-

acters that had determined the roles they now assumed?

Desperately he tried now to remember the Game. Only it

was so blank in his mind that he wondered, for a moment of

chill, if all Hystaspes's story had been illusion and lies. But

the band on his wrist remained: that encirclement of jewel-

pointed dice was proof in part of the wizard's story.

They spoke no more. In fact, there was very little sound

from the whole party, merely the thud of hooves and, now

and then, a sneeze or cough as some of the chaff from the

crushed, dead grass arose to tickle nose or throat.

The sky was filled with a sullen haze to veil the sun. When

they were well out on the plains Milo called a halt. They fed

their animals from handsful of grain but did not let them

graze, watering each from liquid poured into their helrr°ts,

before they ate the tough bread of which a man must chew a

mouthful a long time before he swallowed. Gulth brought out

of a pouch of his own some small, hard-dried fish and ground

them into swallowable powder with his formidable array of

fangs.

Milo noted that those lines in the grass had halted with

them, even joined before and behind the massing of their

company, as if to enclose them in a wall. He pointed them

out. Both the elf and Deav Dyne nodded.

"Illusion," Ingrge said indifferently.

But the cleric had another term. "Magic. Which means we

cannot tell how long it will provide us with cover." He re-

peated Yevele's warning.

"The river has some cover." The girl brushed crumbs of

bread carefully into one palm, cupping them there prepara-

tory to finishing off her meal. "There are rocks there-"

Ingrge turned his head sharply, his slanted eyes searching

her face, as if he demanded access to her thought. Yevele

licked up the crumbs, got to her feet. Her expression was as

stolid and remote as Ingrge's own.

"No, comrade elf," she said, answering the question he had

not asked, "this road has not been mine before. But I have

good reason to know it. My kin died in the Rieving of Keo

the Less."

Ingrge's narrow, long-fingered hand moved in a swift ges-

ture. The heads of the other three men turned quickly in her

direction. It was Naile who spoke. "That was a vile business."

Deav Dyne muttered over his beads and Wymarc nodded

emphatic agreement to the berserker's comment. If Gulth

knew of what they spoke he gave no sign, his reptilian eyes

were nearly closed. However, a moment later his croaking

voice jerked them all out of terrible memory.

"The spell fades." He waved a clawed forefinger at those

lines.

Ingrge agreed. "There is always a time and distance limit

on such. We had better ride on-I do not like this open

land." Nor would he, for those of his race- preferred woods

and heights.

Gulth was right. That line in the grass was different. Now

it flickered in and out, being sometimes clearly visible, some-

times so faint Milo thought it vanished altogether. They

mounted in some speed and headed on.

The drabness of the sky overhead, the faded grass under-

foot; mingled into a single hue. None spoke, though they

stepped up their pace, since to reach water by nightfall was

important. There were flattened water skins on one of the

pack ponies. They had thought it better not to fill them in

Greyhawk. Such action would have informed any watcher

that they headed into the plains. They depended upon the

fact that Keoland did have three tributaries of size feeding

the main stream, which finally angled north to become a

mighty river.

As they went now Milo kept an eye on the line of distor-

tion. When it at last winked out he felt far more naked and

uneasy than he had in the streets of Greyhawk itself.

Ingrge reined in.

"There is water, not too far ahead. They can smell it even

as I-" He indicated the horses and ponies that were pushing

forward eagerly. "But water in such a barren land is a lode-

stone for all life. Advance slowly while I scout ahead."

There was some difficulty in restraining the animals. How-

ever, they slowed as best they could as Ingrge loosed his own

mount in a gallop.

The elf knew very well what he was about. He found them

shelter snug against detection. Visual detection, that was, for

one could never be sure if someone of the Power were

screening or casting about to pick up intimations of life. It

was beyond the skill of all save a near adept to hide from such

discovery.

Rocks by the river had been something of an understate-

ment. Here the stream, shrunken in this season before the

coming of the late fall rains, had its bed some distance below

the surface of the plain. There was a lot of tough brush and

small trees to mark its length, and, at the point where Ingrge

had led them, something else. Water running wild, in some

previous season, had bitten out a large section of the bank.

below a projection of rock, forming a cave, open-ended to ba

sure, but piling up brush would suffice to mask that.

In such a place they might dare a fire. The thought of that

normal and satisfying heat and light somehow was soothing

to the uneasiness Milo was sure they all shared, though they

had not discussed it. They watered the animals, after strip-

ping them of their saddles and packs, and put them on picket

ropes, to graze the scanty grass along the shrunken lip of the

stream.

Milo, Naile, Yevele, and Wymarc used their swords to

chop brush, bringing the larger pieces to form a wall against

the night, shorter lengths to provide them with some bedding,

though the soil and sand beneath that overhang were not too

unyielding.

Deav Dyne busied himself with arranging the armloads

they dragged in, while Ingrge had prowled off on foot, head-

ing along the water, both his nose and his eyes alert. He had

found them this temporary camp, but his instincts to prepare

against surprise must be satisfied.

Gulth squatted in the water, prying up small stones, his

talons stabbing downward now and then to transfer a wrig-

gling catch to his mouth. Milo, watching, schooled himself

against revulsion. If the lizardman could so feed himself, it

would mean that there would be lesser inroads on the provi-

sions later. But he wanted no closer glimpse of what the other

was catching.

They did have their fire, a small one, fed by dried drift,

near smokeless. Though the lizardman appeared to have little.

liking for it, (or perhaps for closer company with these of

human and elfin kind) the rest sat in a half-circle near it.

They would have a night guard, but as yet it was only twi-

light and they need not set up such a patrol. Milo stretched

out his hands to the flames. It was not that he was really

chilled in body-it was the strangeness of this all that gnawed

upon him now. Though Milo Jagon had camped in a like

manner many times before, the vestiges of that other memory

returned to haunt him.

"Swordsman!"

He was startled out of his thoughts by the urgency of that

voice-so much so his hand went to his sword hilt as he

quickly glanced up, expecting to see some enemy that had

crept past the elf by some trick.

Only it was not Ingrge who had spoken. Rather Deav

Dyne leaned forward, his attention centered on Milo's hands.

"Swordsman-those rings ..."

Rings? Milo once again extended his hands into the fire-

light. His attention had been so centered on the bracelet and

what power it might have over him (or how he might pos-

sibly bend it to his will) that he had forgotten the massive

thumb rings. Apparently they were so much a part of the

man he had become that he was not even aware of their

weight.

One oval and cloudy, one oblong green veined with red,

neither seemed to be any gem of sure price, while the settings

of both were only plain bands of a very pale gold.

"What of them?" he asked.

"Where did you get them?" Deav Dyne demanded, a kind

of hunger in his face. He pushed past Yevele as if he did not

see her and, before Milo could move, he squatted down and

seized both the swordsman's wrists in a tight grasp, raising

those captive hands closer to his eyes, peering avidly first at

one of the stones and then the other.

"Where did you get them?" he demanded the second time.

"I do not know-"

"Not know? How can you not know?" The cleric sounded

angry.

"Do you forget who we are?" Yevele moved closer. "He is

Milo Jagon, swordsman-just as you are Deav Dyne, cleric.

But our memories are not complete-"

"You tell me what they are!" Milo's own voice rang out.

"What value do they have? Is your memory clear on that?"

He did not struggle to free himself of the cleric's grip. The

rings were queer, and if they carried with them something

either helpful or harmful, and this recorder and treasurer of

strange knowledge knew it, the quicker he himself learned,

too, the better.

"They are things of power." Deav Dyne never glanced up

from his continued scrutiny of the two stones. "That much I

know-even with my halved memory. This one"-he drew

the hand with the green stone a fraction closer to the fire-

light-"do you not see something about it to remind you of

another thing?"

Now Milo himself studied the stone. All he could pick out

was a meaningless wandering of thread-thin lines with a pin-

point dot, near too small to distinguish with the naked eye,

here and there.

"What do you see then?" He did not want to confess his

own ignorance, but rather pry out what the cleric found so

unusual. .

"It is a map!" There was such certainty in fhat answer

that Milo knew Deav Dyne was convinced.

"A map." Now Naile and Ingrge moved closer.

"It is too small, too confused." The berserker shook his

head.

But the elf, inspecting the ring closely, reached for a small

stick of the drift they had piled up to feed the fire and with

his other hand smoothed a patch of the earth in the best

light those flames afforded. "Hold stilll" he commanded.

"Now, let us see-"

Looking from stone to ground and back again he put the

point of his stick to the earth and there inscribed a squiggle

of line or a dot. The pattern he produced showed nothing

that made sense as far as Milo was concerned, but the cleric

studied the drawing with deep interest.

"Yes, yes, that is it!" he cried triumphantly as Ingrge

added a last dot and sat back on his heels to survey his own

handiwork critically. However, nothing in that drawing

awoke any spark of memory in Milo. If it had been of some

value to the swordsman part of him, that particular memory

was too deeply buried now.

"Nothing I've ever seen." Naile delivered his verdict first

It was the bard who laughed.

"And, judging by the expression on our comrade's face,"

he nodded to Milo, "he is as baffled as you berserker, even

though he seems to be in full possession. Well, will your

prayers"-now he turned to Deav Dyne-"or your scout

eye," he addressed Ingrge, "provide us with an answer? As a

bard I am a far wanderer, but these lines mean naught to me.

Or can the battlemaiden find us an answer?"

There was a moment of silence and then all answered at

once, denying any recognition. Milo twisted free from Deav

Dyne's hold.

"It would seem that this is a mystery past our solving-"

"But why do you wear it?" persisted the cleric. "It is my

belief that you would have neither of those on you"-he

pointed to the rings-"unless there is a reason. You are a

swordsman, your trade lies with weapons, perhaps one or two

simple spells. But these are things of true Power-"

"Which Power?" Yevele broke in.

"Not that of Chaos." Deav Dyne made prompt answer.

"Were that so, Ingrge and I, and even the skald, would sense

that much."

"Well, if we have in this a map which leads nowhere,"

Milo shook his right thumb, "then what lies within the

other?" He stuck out the other thumb with the dull and life-

less stone.

Deav Dyne shook his head. "I cannot even begin to guess.

But there is one thing, swordsman. If you are willing, I can

try a small prayer spell and see if thus we can leam what you

carry. Things of Power are never to be disregarded. Men

must go armed against them for, if they are used by the igno-

rant, then dire may be the result."

Milo hesitated. Maybe if he took the rings off-he had no

desire to be wearing them while Deav Dyne experimented.

Only, when he endeavored to slip either from its resting place

he found they were as firmly fixed as the bracelet The cleric,

witnessing his efforts, did not seem surprised.

"It is even as I have thought-they are set upon you, ]ust

as the geas was set upon us all."

"Then what do I do?" Milo stared at the bands. Suddenly

they had changed into visible threats. He shrank from Things

of Power, which he did not in the least understand, and

which, as Deav Dyne had pointed out, might even choose

somehow to act, or make him act, by another's control.

"Do you wish me to try a Seeing?"

Milo frowned. He did not want to be the focus of any

magic. But, on the other hand, if these held any danger, he

needed to know as soon as possible.

"All right-" he replied with the greatest reluctance.

6

Those Who Follow-

Twilight dim drew a dark curtain without. Now Gulth heaved

up from his place a little behind the rest of the company. His

claws settled his belt, the only clothing that he wore, more

firmly about him. From it hung a sword, not of steel, which

in the dankness of his homeland might speedily rust away,

but a weapon far more wicked looking-a length of heavy

bone into the sides of which had been inserted ripping teeth

of glinting, opaline spikes. He had also a dagger nearly as

long as his own forearm, more slender than the sword,

sheathed in scaled skin. But his own natural armament of

fang and claw were enough to make any foeman walk warily.

Now he hissed out in the common speech, "I guard."

Naile half heaved himself up as if to protest the lizard-

man's calm assumption of that duty. His scowl was as quick

as it always was whenever he chanced to glance at Gulth.

Wymarc had risen, too, his shoulder so forming a barrier be-

fore the berserker. Even though the bard was by far the

slighter man, yet the move was so deftly done that Gulth had

become one with the twilight before Naile could intercept

him.

"Snake-skin?" Naile spat out. "He has no right to ride with

real men!"

Afreeta wreathed about the berserker's throat, where her

bead had been tucked comfortably under his chin, swung out

her snout, opened slits of eyes, and hissed. Straightway,

Naile's big hand arose to scratch, with a gentleness foreign to

his thick, calloused fingers, the silvery underpart of her tiny

jaw.

"Gulth wears the bracelet," Milo pointed out. "It could

well be also that he likes us and our company as little as you

appear to care for him."

"Care for him!" exploded Naile. 'Tarred with the filth of

Chaos they are, most of his kind. My shield brother was

dragged down and torn to pieces by such half a year gone

when we ventured into the Troilan Swamps. That was a bad

business and I am like never to forget the stink of it! What if

he does wear the bracelet-the lizardfolk claim to be neutral,

but it is well known they incline to Chaos rather than the

Law."

"Perhaps," Yevele said, "they find their species do not get

an open-handed reception from us. However, Milo is right-

Gulth wears the bracelet. Through that he is one with us.

Also the geas holds him."

"I do not like that-or him," Naile grumbled. Wymarc

laughed.

"As you have made quite plain, berserker. Yet you are not

wholly adverse to all of the scaled kind or you would not

have Afreeta with you."

Naile's big hand covered part of the small flying reptile as

if the bard had threatened her in some manner.

"That is different. Afreeta-you do not yet know how well

she can be eyes, yes, and ears for any man."

"Then, if you trust her, but not Gulth," Milo suggested,

"why not set her also to watch? Let the guard have a guard."

Wymarc's laugh was hearty. "Common logic well stated,

comrade. I would suggest we cease to exercise our smaller

fears and suspicions and let Deav Dyne get on with what he

would do-the learning of what kind of force our comrade

here has wedded to his hands."

Milo felt that Naile wanted to refuse. Reluctantly the ber-

serker held out his hand and Afreeta released her hold about

his throat to step upon his flattened palm, her wings already

spreading and a-flutter. She took a small leap into the air,

soared nearly to the roof of the rock over their heads, then

was gone after Gulth.

The cleric had paid no attention to them. Instead he knelt

by that same patch of earth on which Ingrge had drawn the

map and was now busy emptying out the contents of the

overlarge belt pouch that be wore.

He did not erase the crude markings the elf had made, but

around them, using a slender wand about the length of palm

and oustretched midfinger, he began to sketch runes. Though

Milo found stirring in his mind knowledge of at least two

written scripts, these resembled neither.

As he worked Deav Dyne, using the dry and authoritative

tone of a master trying to beat some small elements of

knowledge into the heads of rather stupid and inattentive pu-

pils, explained what he did.

"The Word of Him Who Knows-this set about an un-

known, draws His attention to it If He chooses to enlighten

our ignorance, then such enlightenment is His choice alone.

Now-at least this is not of Chaos, or the Word could not

contain it intact, the markings would be wiped away. So-let

the rings now approach the Word, swordsman!"

His command was so sharply uttered Milo obeyed without

question.

He held his two thumbs in the air above those scrawls on

the earth, feeling slightly foolish, yet apprehensive. Deav

Dyne was certainly not a wizard, but it was well known that

those who did serve their chosen gods with an undivided

heart and mind could control Power, different of course from

that which Hystaspes and the rest of the adepts and wizards

tapped, but no less because of that difference.

Running his prayer beads through his fingers, the cleric be-

gan to chant. Like the symbols he had drawn which were

without meaning to Milo, so were the words Milo was able to

distinguish, slurred and affected as they were by the intona-

tion Deav Dyne gave them. But then the ritual the cleric used

might be so old that even those who recited such words to

heighten their own trained power of projection and under-

standing did not know the original meaning either.

Having made the complete circuit of the beads on his

chain, Deav Dyne slipped it back over his wrist, and picked

up from where it lay by his knee the same rod with which he

had drawn the patterns. Leaning forward, he touched the tip

of it to the map ring.

Milo heard Yevele give a gasp. The rod took on a life of

its own, spinning in Deav Dyne's hold until he nearly lost it.

Quickly he withdrew. There were drops of sweat beading his

high forehead, rising on the shaven crown of his head from

which his cowl had fallen.

Mastering quickly whatever emotion had struck at him, he

advanced the rod a second time to touch the oval. The re-

sponse this time was less startling, though the rod did quiver

and jerk. Milo had expected some blacklash to himself but

none came. Whatever power the cleric had tapped by his rit-

ual had reacted on him alone.

Now Deav Dyne settled back, returning the rod to his bag.

Then he caught up a branch, using it to wipe away the draw-

ing.

"Well?" Milo asked. "What do I wear then?"

There was a glazed look in Deav Dyne's eyes. "I-do-

not-know-" His words came as if he spoke with great ef-

fort and only because he must force himself to utter them.

"But-these are old, old. Walk with care, swordsman, while

you wear them. There is nothing of evil in them-nor do

they incline to the Law as I know and practice it."

"Another gift from our bracelet-bestowing friend perhaps?"

Wymarc asked.

"No. If Hystaspes spoke true (and by my instincts he did)

that which has brought us here is alien. These rings are of

this space, but not this time. Knowledge is discovered, lost

through centuries, found again. What do we know of those

who built the Five Cities in the Great Kingdom? Or who

worshipped once in the Fane of Wings? Do not men ever

search for the treasures of these forgotten peoples? It would

seem, swordsman, that this Milo Jagon, who is now you, was

successful in some such questing. The ill part is that you do

not know the use of what you wear. But be careful of them, I

pray you."

"I would be better, I think," Milo returned., "to shed them

into this fire, were I only able to get them off. But that

freedom seems to be denied me." Once more he had pulled at

the bands but they were as tight fixed as if they were indeed

a part of his flesh.

Wymarc laughed for the third time. "Comrade, look upon

the face of our friend here and see what blasphemy you have

mouthed! Do you not know that to one of his calling the

seeking out of ancient knowledge is necessary to maintain

his very life, lest he fade away like a leaf in winter, having

nothing to sharpen his wits upon? Such a puzzle is his meat

and drink-"

"And what is yours, bard?" snapped Deav Dyne waspishly.

"The playing with words mated to the strumming of that

harp of yours? Do you claim that of any great moment in

adding to the knowledge of men?"

Wymarc lost none of his easy smile. "Do not disdain the

art of any man, cleric, until you are sure what it may be.

But, in turn, I have another puzzle for you. What do you see

in the flames, Deav Dyne?"

Milo guessed that was no idle question, rather it carried

import unknown to him. The irritation that had tightened the

cleric's mouth for an instant or two vanished. He turned his

head, his hand once more swinging the chain of his prayer

beads. Now he was staring into the fire. Ingrge, who had

drawn a little apart during their delving into the mystery of

the rings, came closer. It was to him that Naile addressed an-

other question.

"What of it, ranger? You have certain powers also-this

shaven addresser of gods is not alone in that,"

"I do not rule fire. It is a destroyer of all that my kind

holds dearest. For those of your kin, were, can flee when

such destruction eats upon their homes and trails. Trees es-

cape not . . ." He stared also at the leaping of the flames, as

if they were enemies against which he had no power of arrow

shot or chanted spell.

Deav Dyne continued to stare at the flames as intent as he

had been moments earlier when he had attempted to use his

knowledge of wand and rune.

"What-?" began Milo, at a loss. Wymarc raised a finger

to his lips in warning to be silent.

"They come." Deav Dyne's tone was hardly above a mut-

ter.

"How many?" Wymarc subdued his own voice. His smile

vanished, there was an alertness about him, no kin to his

usual lazy acceptance of life.

"Three-two only who can be read, for they have with

them a worker of power. Him I perceive only as a

blankness."

"They are of Chaos?" Wymarc asked.

A shadow of impatience crept back into the cleric's voice.

"They are of those who can be either. But I do not see any

familiar dark cloaking them."

"How far behind?" Milo tried to keep his voice as low and

toneless as Wymarc's. His body was tense. Their mounts

along the river-Gulth-Was the lizardman a good guard?

"A day-maybe a little less-to measure the march be-

tween us. They travel light-no extra mounts."

Milo's first thought was to break camp, ride on at the best

pace they could make in the dark. Then better judgment took

command. Ahead lay another stretch of plain, perhaps a

day's journey, if they pushed. Then came a tributary flowing

north. There was a second dry march after that, before the

third stream, which was the one they sought, leading as it did

into the mountains, enough below Geofp so that they might

avoid any brush with the fighting there.

That particular stream was born of a lake in the mountains

which cupped the Sea of Dust itself. They had decided earlier

that it would be their guide in among the peaks where they

might or might not be able to discover Lichis's legendary

lair.

But the marches from one river to the next, those were the

problem. Deav Dyne blinked, passed his hand across his

sweating forehead and moved away from the fire. He reached

for his bottle of water newly filled from the river, took a long

swallow. When he looked up again his face was gaunt and

drawn.

"Once only-"

"Once only what?" Milo wanted to know.

"Once only can he scry so for us," Wymarc explained.

"Perhaps it was foolish to waste . . . No, I do not believe it

is wasted! Our protecting wall of illusion is exhausted. Now

we know that there are those who sniff behind us, we can

well take precautions."

"Three of them-seven of us," Naille stretched. "I see no

problem. We have but to wait and lay a trap-"

"One of them possesses true power," the cleric reminded

them. "Enough to mask himself completely. Perhaps enough

to provide them all with just a screen as has encompassed us

through this day."

"But he cannot draw upon that forever." Yevele spoke for

the first time. "There is a limit to all but what a true adept

can accomplish. Is he an adept?"

"Had he been an adept," Deav Dyne returned, "they

would not need to cover the ground physically at all. And

yes, the constant maintenance of any spell (especially if the

worker has not all his tools close to hand, as did the wizard

who drew us into this misbegotten venture) is not possible.

But he will be gifted enough to smell out any ambush."

"Unless," the girl pressed on, "it takes all his concentration

and strength to hold the spell of an illusion."

For the first time Naile looked at her as if he really saw

her. Though he had showed antagonism toward Gulth, he

had refused to notice Yevele at all. Perhaps the near-giant

berserker held also a dislike for Amazon clan forces.

"How much truth in that?" he now rumbled, speaking at

large as if he did not quite know to whom of their party he

should best address his demand.

"It could be so," acknowledged the cleric. "To maintain a

blockage illusion is a steady drain on any spell caster."

"With our illusion in turn broken, we should be easy

meat," Milo pointed out, "not only for an open attack, but

for some spell cast. The way before us is open country.

Therefore, we must make some move to halt pursuit. Let

Ingrge in the morning lead on with Deav Dyne, Wymarc,

Gulth-"

"And we of the sword wait?" Yevele nodded. "There are

excellent places hereabouts to set an ambush."

Milo's protest against her being a part of it was on his lips,

but died away before he betrayed himself. Yevele might be a

girl but she was a trained warrior, even as were he and the

berserker. Though he did not deny that the other four of

their party each had their own skills, he was uncertain as to

how much those would matter in a business that was a well-

known part of the battles he had been bred and trained to.

"Good enough," Naile responded heartily. "Tonight w(r)

shall divide the watch. I go now to relieve snake-skin-"

Milo would have objected, but the berserker had already

left their improvised shelter. Ingrge raised his head as the

swordsman moved to follow Naile.

"Words do not mean acts, comrade," the elf said. "There is

flcr ibver r&r- iSlnttr iir Aisp-ihil1 iitaitfer" wril1 ihr iTaiv ibaas'

against him."

Wymarc nodded in turn. Deav Dyne seemed to have sunk

into a half-exhausted sleep, huddled beyond the fire.

"We are bound." The bard tapped the bracelet on his arm.

"So bound that each of us is but a part of a whole. That

much I believe. That being so, we have each a strength or

skill that will prove to be useful. We-"

He did not finish, for Naile had returned to the fire, his

lips snarling so that the teeth which had given him his name

were exposed nearly to their roots.

"The snake is gone!" His voice was a grunting roar. "He

has gone to join them'"

"And your Afreeta?" Milo asked in return.

The berserker started. Then, holding out his hand and half

turning toward the dark without, he whistled, a single, ear-

piercing sound. Out of the night came the pseudo-dragon like

a bolt from a crossbow. She was able to stop in midair, drop

to the palm Naile extended. Her small dragon head was held

high as she hissed, her tongue nickering in and out. Naile lis-

tened to that hissing. Slowly his face relaxed from a stiff

mask of pure fury.

"Well?" Wymarc stooped to throw more wood on the fire,

looking up over one shoulder.

He was answered, not by the berserker, but rather by a

second figure coming out of the night. Gulth himself stood

there. His scaled skin glistened in the firelight, and water

dripped from his snout.

"In the river." Naile did not look at Gulth. "Lying in thft

river as if it were a bed, just his eyes above level!"

Once more Mile's memory stirred and produced a fact he

was not aware a moment before he had known.

"But they have to-water-they have to have water!" Thft

swordsman swung to the laardman. "He rode all day in the

dry. It must have been near torture for him!" He thought of

the miles ahead with two more long dry patches to cover,

must think of some way of helping Gulth through that.

Even as he struggled with the problem, Ingrge made a sugges-

tion.

"We can change the line of march by this much-upriver

to the main stream. We shall have Yerocunby and Faraaz

facing us at the border. But the river then will lead us

straight into the mountains. And it will provide us with a sure

guide as well as the protection of more broken ground."

"Yerocunby, Faraaz-what frontier guards do they post?"

Naile placed Afreeta back to coil about his throat

Their united memories produced some facts or rumors, but

they gained very little real information.

They decided to take Ingrge's advice and use the river for

a guide as long as possible. Naile tramped out again to take

the watch. Milo, wrapped in his cloak, settled for a little rest

before he should take his rum at guard.

Though they had all agreed to change the direct line of

their march in the morning, they had also planned to set the

ambush, or at least a watch on their backtrau. To learn the

nature and strength of those trailers was of the utmost impor-

tance.

Milo was aware of the aches of his body, the fact that he

had been twenty-four hours, or near that, without much

sleep. He shut his eyes on the fire, but could he shut his mind

to all the doubts, surmises, and attempts to plan without sure

authority or control? It seemed that he could-for he did not

remember any more until a hand shook his shoulder lightly

and he roused to find Naile on his knees beside him.

"All is well-so far." the berserker reported.

Milo got up stiffly. He had certainly not slept away all the

aches. Beyond the fire to which Naile must have added fuel,

for the others slept, the night looked very dark.

He pushed past Wymarc, who lay with his head half-pil-

lowed on his bagged harp, and went out. It took some mo-

ments for the swordsman's eyes to adjust to the very dim

light of a waning moon. Their mounts and the pack animals

were strung out along their picket ropes a little farther north.

Naile must have changed their grazing grounds so that they

could obtain all the forage this small pocket in the river land

could offer.

A wind whispered through the grass loud enough to reach

Milo's ears. He took off his helmet and looked up into the

night sky. The moon was dim, the stars visible. But he found

that he could trace no constellation that he knew. Where was

this world in relation to his own? Was the barrier between

them forged of space, time, or dimension?

As he paced along the lines of the animals, trying to keep

fully alert to any change in the sounds of the night itself,

Milo was for the first time entirely alone. He felt a strong

temptation to summon up fragments of that other memory.

Perhaps that would only muddy the impressions belonging to

Milo Jagon, and it was the swordsman who stood here and

now and whose experience meant anything at all.

So he began to work on that Milo memory, shifting,

reaching back. It was like being handed a part of a picture,

the rest of it in small meaningless scraps that must be fitted

into their proper places.

Milo Jagon-what was his earliest memory? If he searched

the past with full concentration, could he come up with the

answer to the riddle of the rings? Since Deav Dyne's discov-

ery, he had moments of acute awareness of them, as if they

weighed down his hands, sought to cripple him. But that was

nonsense. Only there were so many holes in that fabric of

memory that to strive to close them with anything but the.

vaguest of fleeting pictures was more than he could do. More

than he should do, he decided at last.

Live in the present-until they had come to the end of the

quest. He accepted that all Hystaspes had told them was cor-

rect. But, there again, how much had the wizard influenced

their minds? One could not tell-not under a geas. Milo

shook his head as if he could shake thoughts out of it. To

doubt so much was to weaken his own small powers as a

fighting man, he knew, powers that were not founded on

temple learning or on wizardry, but on the basis of his own

self-confidence. That he must not do.

So, instead of trying to search out any past beyond that of

his calling, he strove now to summon all he knew of the de-

tails of his craft. Since there was none here save the grazing

animals to see or question, he drew both sword and dagger,

exercised a drill of attack and defense which his muscles

seemed to know with greater detail than his mind. He began

to believe that he was a fighter of no little ability. While that

did not altogether banish the uneasiness, it added to the confi-

dence that had ebbed from the affair of the rings.

Dawn came, and with it Wymarc, to send Milo in to eat,

while the bard kept a last few fleeting moments of watch. As

they settled the packs and made ready to move out, Deav

Dyne busied himself at the now blank ground where last

night he had worked his magic. He lit a bunch of twigs that

he had bound into a small faggot, and with that he beat the

ground, intoning aloud as he so flailed the earth.

Wymarc returned, bearing with him newly filled saddle

bottles. With a lift of eyebrow he circled about the cleric.

"May take more than that to waft away the scent of magic

if they have a man of power with them," he commented

dryly. "But if it is the best we can do-then do it."

The three who were to play rear guard chose their

mounts-the choice being limited for Naile because of his

greater bulk. He could not hope for any great burst of speed

from his, only the endurance to carry his weight. Were they

not pushed for time by the geas he would better have gone

afoot, Milo knew, for the were-kind preferred to travel so.

As the line of march moved out, he, Yevele, and Naile

waited for them to pass, moving at a much slower pace and

searching with well-trained eyes for a proper setting where

they might go into hiding.

7

Ambush

They had ridden on for an hour before they found what

Milo's second and stronger memory hailed as a proper place

to set their trap-a place where the river banks sank and

there was a thicket of trees, stunted by the plain's winds, but

still barrier enough to cover them. Seven rode into the fringe

of that thicket and four, with the pack train, rode out again,

Ingrge in the lead.

Naile, Milo, and Yevele picketed their mounts under the

roof of the trees and gave each a small ration of dried corn

to keep them from striving to graze on the autumn-killed

grass. The berserker waded through the season-shrunken flood

to the opposite bank where there was a further edging of the

growth and disappeared so well into that screen that Milo,

for all his search, could not mark the other's hiding place. He

and the battlemaiden picked their own points of vantage.

Waiting plucked at the nerves of a man, Milo knew that.

Also, it could well be that they were engaged in a fruitless

task. He did not doubt Deav Dyne's Seeing of the night

before. But those who sought their party could have ventured

on straightway and not upstream. Until, of course, they

came across no further evidence of trail. Then they would

cast back-action that would take time.

Here in the brush he and Yevele were not under the wind

which carried a chilling bite. It blew from the north promis-

ing worse to come. However, there was a pale showing of sun

to defy the gray clouding.

'Two men, plus one worker of some magic," Milo spoke

more to himself than to the girl. In fact she, too, had with-

drawn so well into the brush he had only a general idea of

where she now rested.

The men would be easy enough to handle, it was the

worker of magic that bothered Milo. Naile, as were and ber-

serker, had certain spells of his own. Whether these could,

even in part, counteract that dark blot Deav Dyne had read

in the flames was another and graver matter. The longer they

waited the more he hoped that their turn north upstream had

indeed thrown the followers off their trail.

He saw a flicker of color in the air, speeding downstream.

Afreeta-Naile had released the pseudo-dragon. Milo silently

raged at the rash action of the berserker. Any worker of

magic had only to sight the creature-or even sense it-and

they would be revealed! He knew that the berserkers, because

of their very nature, were impetuous, given to sudden wild at-

tacks, and sometimes unable to contain the rage they uncon-

sciously generated. Perhaps Naile had reached that point and

was deliberately baiting the trailers into action.

Then-Milo looked down at the bracelet on his wrist.

There was a warmth there, a beginning stir of dice. He tried

to shut out of his mind all else but what the wizard had

impressed upon them-that concentration could change the

arbitrary roll of the dice. Concentrate he did. Dice spun,

slowed. Milo concentrated-another turn, another-so much

he did achieve, he was certain, by his efforts.

Moving with the utmost caution, the swordsman arose,

drew his blade, brought his shield into place. Now he could

hear sounds, clicking of hooves against the stones and gravel

of the shrunken river.

Two men rode into view. They bore weapons but neither

swords nor long daggers were at the ready, nor was the

crossbow, strapped to the saddle of the second, under his

hand. It would seem that they had no suspicion of any dan-

ger ahead.

Two men. Where was the third-the magic worker?

Milo hoped that Naile would not attack until they learned

that. However, it was Yevele who moved out. Instead of

drawn steel she held in her hands a hoop woven of grass.

This she raised to her mouth, blowing through it. He saw her

lips shape a distinct puff. There came a shrill whistling out of

the air overhead, seemingly directed above the two riders.

They halted, nor did the leader, who had been bending for-

ward to mark the signs of any trail, straighten up. It was as if

both men and mounts had been suddenly frozen in the same

position they held at the beginning of that sound.

Milo recognized the second rider-Helagret, the beast

dealer they had met in the market place in Greyhawk. His

companion wore half-armor-mainly mail. His head was cov-

ered by one of those caps ending in a dangling streamer at

the back, which might be speedily drawn forward and looped

about the throat and lower part of the face. This suggested

that his employment was not that of a fighter but rather a

sulker, perhaps even a thief. The crossbow was not his only

armament. At his belt hung a weapon that was neither dagger

nor sword in length but between those two. That he used it

skillfully Milo had no doubt.

There was a limit to the spell Yevele had pronounced,

Milo knew. But though they had so immobilized two of the

enemy (which was an improvement on an outright ambush),

there was still that third.

Milo waited, tense and ready, for his answer to Yevele's

action.

Afreeta was heard before she was seen-her hissing mag-

nified. Now, with a beat of wings so fast that they could

hardly be distinguished, save as a troubling of the air, she

came into sight, hung so for a moment, and was gone again

downstream. Milo made a quick decision. If the spell van-

ished, surely Naile and Yevele could between them handle

the two men in plain sight. It was evident that the pseudo-

dragon had located the third member of the party and waa

urging that she be followed to that one's hiding place.

The swordsman stepped out of concealment, saw the eyes

of the two captives fasten on him, though even their ex-

pressions could not change, nor could they turn their heads to

watch him. On the other side of the stream Naile appeared,

his axe swinging negligently in one hand, his boar-topped

helm crammed so low on his head that its shadow masked his

face. He lifted a hand to Milo and then pointed downstream.

Apparently the same thought had crossed his mind.

As Milo twisted and turned among the rocks and bushes,

so did the berserker keep pace with him on the other side of

the flood, leaving Yevele to guard the prisoners. Seemingly

Naile had no doubts about her ability to do so. Had her

spell-casting answered to concentration on her bracelet, thug

giving it added force? Milo hoped fervently that was so.

Naile's hand went up to signal a halt. That the were

possessed senses he could not himself hope to draw upon,

Milo well knew. He drew back into the shadow of one of the

wind-tortured trees, watching Naile, for all his bulk, melt into

a pile of rocks and drift.

There was no sound of hooves this time to herald the com-

ing of that third rider. But he was now in plain sight, almost

as if he had materialized out of sand and rock. His horse was

long-legged, raw-boned as if it had never had forage enough

to fill its lean belly. In the skull-like head it carried

droopingly downward, its eyes burned yellow in a way unlike

that of any normal beast Nor did he who rode it guide it

with any reins or bit.

Seemingly it strode onward without any direction from the

one crouching on its bony back.

The rider? The rusty robe of a druid, frayed to thread

fringes at the hem, covered his hunched body. Even the cowl

was drawn so far over the forward-poking head as to com-

pletely hide the face. Milo waited to catch the hint of corrup<

tion that no thing of the Chaos passing this close could

conceal from one vowed to the Law. But the frosty air car-

ried no stench.

Still, this was not one of Law either. Now his beast halted

without raising its head, and the cowl-shadowed face turned

neither right nor left. The druid's hands were hidden within

the folds of the long sleeves of his shabby robe. What he.

might be doing with them, what spells he could so summon

or control by concealed gesture alone, the swordsman could

not guess. The stranger was not immobilized, save by his own

will-that much Milo knew. And he was a greater danger

than any man in full armor, helpless and weaponless though

he now looked.

Afreeta came into view with one of those sudden darts.

Her jaws split open to their widest extent then closed upon a

fold of the cowl that she ripped back and off the head of the

druid. leaving his brownish, bare scalp uncovered. His face.

writhed into a mask of malice but he never looked upward at

the now hovering pseudo-dragon, or made any move to re-

cover his head.

Like all druids he seemed lost in years, flesh hanging in

thin wattles on his neck, his eyes shrunken beneath tangled

brows that were twice as visible on his otherwise hairless skin.

His nose was oddly flattened, with wide-spaced nostrils

spreading above a small mouth expressing anger in its puck-

ered folds.

To Milo the man's utter silence and stillness was more of a

menace than if he had shouted aloud some runic damnation.

The swordsman was more wary than ever of what those

hands might be doing beneath the wrinkles of the sleeves.

Afreeta flew in a circle about the druid's head, hissing vig-

orously, darting in so dose now and then it would seem sh&

planned to score that yellow-brown flesh or sink her fangs

into nose or ear. Yet the fellow continued to stare downward.

Nor did Milo see the least hint of change in either the direc-

tion of the eyes or the expression of the face. Such intensity

could only mean that he was indeed engaged in some magic.

The pseudo-dragon apparently had no fear for herself. Per-

haps she shared with her great kin their contempt for human-

kind. But that she harassed the druid with purpose Milo did

not doubt. Perhaps, though the man showed no mark of it,

his concentration on what he would do was hindered by the

gadfly tactics of the small flyer.

Out of the rocks Naile arose. All one could see of the ber-

serker's face was his square jaw and mouth. The lips of that

mouth were drawn well back to expose the fangs. When he

spoke there was a grunting tone to his voice, as if he hovered

near that change which would take him out of the realm of

humankind, into that of the four-footed werefolk.

"Carivols. When did you crawl forth from that harpies'

den you were so proud of? Or did the Mage pry you out as a

a man pries a mussel forth from its shell? It would seem, by

the look of you, that you have lost more than your snug hole

during the years since our last meeting."

Those unblinking eyes continued to hold their forward

stare, but for the first time the druid moved. His head turned

on his shoulder, slowly, almost as if bone and flesh were

rusted and firmly set, so that to break the hold was a very

difficult thing. Now, with his head turned far to the left, he

bent that stare on Naile. However, he made no answer.

Naile grunted. "Lost your tongue also, dabbler in spells? It

never served you too well, if I rightly remember,"

Now-while his attention was fixed on Naile!

Milo leaped. He had sheathed his sword slowly, so as to

make no sound. What he was about to do might well mean

his life. But something within him urged his action-as if

some fate worse than just death might follow if he did not

try.

He gained the side of the bony horse in that one leap. His

mail-mittened hand arose, almost without his actually willing

it, to catch at the nearer arm of the druid. It was like clasp-

ing an iron bar as he swung his full weight to pull the arm

toward him. By a surge of strength he did not know he could

produce, Milo dragged apart those hidden hands, though the

druid did not lose his position on the horse.

"Ahhhhh!" Now the head had swiveled about, the eyes

tried to catch the swordsman's. The other hand came into

view, the sleeve falling back and away. It clawed with fingers

that were nearer to long-nailed talons, swooped at Milo's

face, his eyes-

Between him and that awful gaze swept Afreeta. The

pseudo-dragon snapped at the descending hand with a faster

movement than Milo could have made. A gash appeared in

the flesh, dark blood followed the line of it

The arm Milo still held jerked and fought against him. It

was as if he strove to imprison something as strong as a

north-forged sword governed by a relentless will. Afreeta

dove again at the other hand. For the first time the druid

flinched. Not from the swordsman, but from the pseudo-

dragon's attack. It was as if his will now locked on his other

and smaller opponent.

In Milo's grasp the right arm went limp, so suddenly he

near lost his own balance. His hands slid down the arm

which was no longer crooked against the body but hung

straight, sleeve-hidden hand pointing to the gravel. From that

hand fell an object.

Milo set his foot on what the druid had dropped. That it

was the other's weapon he had no doubt at all.

"Milo, let go!"

Just in time he caught the berserker's cry and loosed his

hold. There was a kind of dark shimmer, so close that he felt

the terrible chill in the air which must have been born from

it. Afreeta shrieked and tumbled, to catch her foreclaws in

Milo's cloak and cling to him. He stumbled back.

Where the druid and. his horse had been there was, for one

long moment, a patch of utter darkness, deeper than any a

lightless dungeon or a moonless night could show-then noth-

ing.

Naile splashed back across the river. Afreeta, gathering

herself together, flew straight for him. Milo, recovering his

senses, had gone down on one knee and was examining the

ground. Had the druid pulled with him into that black noth-

ingness what he had dropped? Or was it still to be found?

"What's to do?" the berserker loomed over Milo.

"He dropped something-here." Milo's hand darted for-

ward at the sight of something black, dark enough in the

gravel to be easily seen when he looked closely enough. Then

caution intervened. He did not touch it. Who knew what

power of evil magic (for it had been plainly meant to be

used against them) was caught up in this thing.

The force of his foot pressure had driven it deep into the

sand and fine gravel. Now he grabbed at a fragment of drift-

wood nearby and gingerly began to clear it. Two sweeps of

the stick were enough.

It was a carving, perhaps as long as his palm had width.

The thing was wrought as a stylized representation of a crea-

ture that was not demonic as far as he could judge, and yet

held in it much of menace. There was a slender body, a long

neck and a head no larger-almost the likeness of a snake

which was more mammalian than reptile. The thing's jaws

gaped as wide as could Afreeta's upon need, and small

needlelike teeth appeared set within them. The eyes were

mere dots, but the whole carving carried a suggestion of fe-

rocity and fury.

"The urghaunt!" Naile's voice had lost some of its grunt

"So that was what that son of a thousand demons would

bring upon us."

His axe swung down, slicing the carved thing into two

pieces. As he broke it so, a puff of evil stench arose to make

Milo cough. That carving had been hollow, holding within it

rotting corruption.

Once again the axe fell, this time flatside, so that the two

pieces broke into a scatter of black splinters, shifting down

into the sand, lost except for a shred or two in the gravel.

"What is it?" Milo got to his feet. He felt unclean since

first that stench had entered his nostrils. Though he drew

deep breaths, he could not seem to clear his nose of its as-

sault.

"One of Carlvols's toys." Though he had made a complete

wreckage of the carving, Naile now stamped hard upon the

ground where it had lain as if to hide the very last of the

splinters forever.

"You knew him-"

"Well," growled the berserker. "When I was with the Mage

Wogan we marched against the Pinnacle of the Toad. That

was," he hesitated as if trying to recall something out of the

past, "some time ago. Time does not hold steady in my mind

any more. This Carlvols was not of the Fellowship of the

Toad. In fact he had reason to fear them, since he had

poached on their territory. He came crawling to Wogan and

offered his services. His services-mind you-to an adept!

Like a lacefly offering to keep company with a fire wasp!"

Naile grinned sourly.

"He had not pledged himself to Chaos, but he would have

to save his own dirty skin. We all knew it. We also knew

what he had in his mind-the Toad Kind had their secrets

and he wanted a chance to steal a few. Wogan ordered him

out of our camp and he went like a hound well beaten. He

dared not stand up against one so far above him in learning.

"We took the Pinnacle-that was a tricky business. Wogan

saw what lay within it destroyed-giving Chaos one less

stronghold in the north. What Carlvols may have scrabbled

out of the ruins. . . . Anyway, this is beast magic. He sum-

moned, or was summoning, death on four legs with that

thing."

Milo was already on the back trail. They had found and

somehow, between them, confounded the druid. But what if

he had joined the two Yevele held. That fear sent the swords-

man plunging along, no longer cautiously but running openly.

He heard the pound of Naile's feet behind him. The berserk-

er must have been struck by the same thought.

They came around a slight curve in the river to see the two

prisoners still frozen on their mounts. Yevele leaned against a

tall rock, her eyes fast upon the men. There was a bared

sword, not a spell hoop, now in her hand. Milo thudded on.

He needed only to note the tenseness of her body to realize

that the spell must be about to fade.

Breathing fast he came up to the right of the mounted

men, while Naile moved in from the left. Would Carlvols

suddenly also wink into view, even as he had vanished, to

add to the odds?

One of the frozen mounts bobbed his head and whinnied.

Milo, just as he had sprung for the druid, caught at Helagret.

Exerting strength, he pulled the man from his horse, dumping

him to the ground, his sword out, to point at the beast tam-

er's throat in threat. He heard a second crashing thump and

knew that Naile was dealing similarly with the other.

Helagret's eyes were still afire with the fury they had

shown when he was ensorceled. Now, however, his mouth

writhed into a sly parody of a smile and he made no move.

Yevele came to them, her own sword ready. 'The other

one?" she asked.

"For the nonce gone," Milo replied shortly. "Now, fellow,

give me one reason why I should not blood this point."

Helagret's smile grew a fraction wider. "Because you can-

not kill without cause, swordsman. And I have yet to give

you cause."

"You've tracked us-"

"Yes," the other admitted promptly. "But for no harm. Do

you smell aught of the dark forces about me or Knyshaw

here? We were bound to the service of him who follows us-

or did follow us. Mind bonds were laid upon us. Since mine,

at least, seem to have vanished, perhaps he is tired of thia

play. Look at me, swordsman. My weapons are not bared. I

was pressed into service since I know somewhat of this coun-

try. Knyshaw has other talents. Not magic, of course, that

was only the learning of the druid."

Milo backed a step or two. "Throw your weapon," he or-

dered. "Throw it yonder!"

Helagret obeyed promptly enough, sitting up to do so. But

Yevele was at his back, her steel near scratching his neck as

he moved.

A moment later the weapon of Naile's captive also clat-

tered out on the gravel. In spite of the cruel strength one

could read in his face he apparently was willing enough to

prove his helplessness.

"Why do you follow us?" Milo demanded.

The beast tamer shrugged. "Ask no such question of me.

As I told you, I know something of this land. When I refused

to be recruited as guide by that shave pate, he laid a journey

spell on me. Already he had Kynshaw bound to him in the

same manner. But he did not share with either of us the rea-

son for our journey. We were to be used; we were no com-

rades of his."

Plausible enough and, Milo was sure, at least half a lie.

The glare faded from Helagret's eyes. It was plain he was

putting much effort into his attempt to establish innocence.

"A likely story," snorted Naile. "It will be easy to ring the

truth out of you-"

"Not," Yevele spoke for the first time, "if they are indeed

geas bound."

Naile peered at her from under the edge of his heavy

helm.

"An excuse, battlemaid, which can cover many lies."

"Yet-" she was beginning when, out of the brush behind

them, arose a neighing that held in it stark and mindless ter-

ror. The two mounts of their captives shrilled in answer,

wheeled and pounded in a mad stampede across the river,

running wildly as the neighs from the woods rose in a terrible

crescendo of sound.

Helagret's face twisted in a terror almost as great as that of

the animal.

"Give me my sword!" he demanded in a voice that rose

like a matching shriek. "For the sake of the Lords of Law,

give me my sword!"

Naile's head swung around. He grunted loudly and then his

body itself changed. Axe fell to the ground, helm and mail

imprisoned, for a moment only, another form. Then distinct

in sight, a huge boar, near equalling in height the heavy horse

Naile had earlier ridden, stood pawing the gravel, shaking its

head from side to side, the red eyes holding now nothing of

the human in them, only a devouring rage and hate.

Milo jumped toward the woods. From the frenzied scream-

ing of their horses, he knew whatever menace came was a

threat of death. The horses must be saved. To be set afoot in

this country, could mean death.

He had not quite reached the line of twisted trees when the

first of the attackers burst into the open. It was plainly on an-

imal, near eight feet long, four-footed. Body, neck, and head

were nearly of the same size. The black thing that he and

Naile had destroyed was here in the flesh far worse than even

that nasty carving had suggested.

The creature reared up on stumpy hindlegs, its bead dart-

ing back and forth as might that of a snake. The were-boar

charged as the thing opened a mouth that extended near the

full length of its head and showed greenish fangs.

Milo caught up his shield. His patchy memory did not

recognize this creature. He was dimly aware that Yevele

moved in beside him, her steel as ready as his own. Their two

captives had to be forgotten as a second serpentlike length of

dull fur slithered out to front them.

The things were quick, and, whether or no they had any

intelligence, it was plain that they were killing machines. As

the were-boar charged, the first flung itself forward in a blur

of movement almost too quick for the eye to register. But the

boar was as fast. It avoided that spring by a quick dart to the

left. One of its great tusks opened a gash along a stumpy

foreleg. Then there was no watching of that duel, for the sec-

ond creature leaped, leaving the ground entirely, and landed

in a shower of sand and gravel, its head shooting out toward

Milo and the girl.

The thud of its strike against his shield nearly sent Milo off

his feet. He choked at its fetid odor.

"Horrrrue!" The battle cry of the women clans cut across

the hissing of the creature. Milo thrust at that weaving head.

He scored a cut across its neck, but only, he knew, by

chance. He saw that Yevele was lashing out at its feet and

legs as it spun and darted. The swordsman strove to land a

second blow on the neck, but the thing moved so fast he

dared not try, for anything now but the bigger target of the

body. Then there came a warning cry. He looked around just

as a third black head pushed through the thicket to his right.

"Back to back!" he managed to gasp out. Yevele, who had

shouted that warning, leaped to join him. So standing they

each faced one of the nightmare furies.

8

Black Death Defied

Milo smashed his shield into the gaping, long-fanged mask of

beast fury, at the same time thrusting with his sword. Then,

out of nowhere Afreeta spiraled, darting at the bleeding head

as she had when harassing the druid. The urghaunt drew back

on its haunches, its head swung up to watch the pseudo-

dragon for an instant. Milo took advantage of that slight sec-

ond or two of distraction, as he had during their struggle with

the master of these things. He launched a full-armed swing at

the creature's column of neck.

The steel bit, sheared halfway through flesh and bone.

With a shriek the urghaunt, paying no attention to its fearful

wound, launched itself again at Milo. Though the swordsman

brought up his shield swiftly, the force of its body striking

against his bore him back. He felt Yevele stumble as his

weight slammed against her. Claws raked around the edge of

the shield, caught and tore the mail covering his sword arm,

pierced the leather shirt beneath, bit into his flesh with a hot

agony.

But he did not lose grip of his sword. Nor had the fury of

that attack wiped away the practiced tactics his body seemed

to know better than his mind. Milo thrust the shield once

more against that half-severed head, with strength enough to

rock the creature.

In spite of pain, which at this moment seemed hardly a

real part of him, he brought up his sword, cutting down at

the narrow skull. The steel jarred against bone but did not

stop at that barrier. He was a little amazed in one part of his

mind at his success as the besmeared steel cut deeper.

Despite wounds that would have finished any beast Milo

knew, the urghaunt was near to charging again. Now the

swordsman's hand was slippery with blood until he feared the

hilt would turn in his grip. Shield up, and down, he beat at

the maimed head with crushing blows.

The body twisted. Broken-headed, blind, the thing still

fought to reach him. It might not be dead but it was nearly

out of the fight. Milo swung around. It had taken his full

strength to play out that encounter-strength that until this

very moment he had never realized he possessed. Yevele-

weaponwise as she was-how could she fare?

To his surprise the battlemaid stood looking down at a sec-

ond heaving body. Implanted in its enlongated throat was her

sword. One forepaw had been severed. From the stump sput-

tered dark blood to puddle in the gravel. Milo drew a deep

breath of wonder. That they had won-almost he could not

believe that. The raw fury radiated still by the dying crea-

tures struck against him, as if they could still use fang and

claw. He heard a heavy grunting and glanced beyond. The

giant boar, its sides showing at least two blood-welling slits

made by claws, nosed a pile of ripped skin.

The urghaunt Yevele had downed snapped viciously as the

battlemaid cooly drew her steel free of its body. She avoided

a small lunge, which sent the blood pumping faster from the

wounds, and used the edge of her weapon, striking full upon

the narrow head with two quick blows.

But even then the thing did not die. Nor was Milo's own

opponent finished. Only the torn body the were-boar had

shredded lay still. The boar trotted to the water's edge. For

the first time Milo remembered their captives.

Neither man was in sight, and their weapons were gone

from where they had thrown them. He swung around to look

into the fringe of trees. The crossbow had vanished, still

trapped to the saddle of the horse that had fled, so they need

not fear any silent bolt out of cover to cut them down.

"Ware!" Milo turned swiftly at that warning.

Naile Fangtooth, not the boar, stood there once more, his

axe in his hand. But his warning had been needed. The

mangled thing Milo had thought in the throes of death-

which should have been dead-was gathering its body for an-

other spring. Axe ready, upraised, the berserker advanced a

couple of strides. His weapon rose and fell twice, shearing

both heads from the bodies.

As the last flew a foot or so away from the fury of that

blow, Naile gave an exclamation and one hand went to his

side, while Milo was aware that his sword arm now burned as

if a portion of it had been held in the flames of an open fire.

"Marked you, too?" The berserker gazed at Milo's mit-

tened hand. Blood showed in a rusty rim about the edge of

that mitten. "These beasts," he kicked the head he had just

parted from the body away from him, "may have some poi-

son in them. So they are gone, eh?"

He had apparently noted the absence of their prisoners

also. Yevele answered him. "To be set afoot here is no fate I

would wish on any-even of Chaos."

Milo remembered the screaming of their own hidden

horses which had alerted them to the attack. The three might

now be faced by an ambush in the net of trees, but it would

be well to find their mounts and ride.

Afreeta had been dipping and wheeling out over the water,

her hissing sounding like self-congratulation at her own part

in their battle. Now she came to Naile. He winced again as

he raised his fist for her to perch upon, holding her near the

level of his eyes. Though Milo caught no rumble of voice

from the berserker he was sure the other was in communica-

tion with his small companion.

The pseudo-dragon launched from his fist, whirled upward

in a spiral, and then shot off under the trees.

"If those skulking cowards plan to play some game," Naile

remarked, "Afreeta will let us know. But let us now make

sure that we are not also afoot."

Milo wiped his sword on a bush and sheathed it with his

left hand. It hurt to stoop and pick up his battered shield on

which most of the painted symbols had now been scratched

and defaced. The fire in his arm did not abate, and he found

that his fingers were numb. He worked his right hand into

the front of his belt to keep the arm as immobile as he could,

for the slightest movement made the flame-pain worse.

Grimly he set his thought on something else, using a trick

he had learned when he had marched with the Adepts of

Nem, that pain could be set aside by a man concentrating on

other things. How much they could depend upon the pseudo-

dragon's scouting he was not sure. But Naile's complete confi-

dence, and what he himself had seen this day when she had

flown with intelligence and shrewdness to aid in their battles,

was reassuring.

They cut through the trees to where they had left their

mounts, only to face what Milo had feared from the first mo-

ment he had heard those screams. A sick taste rose in his

mouth as he saw the mangled bodies. The urghaunts had not

lingered at killing, but the mauling of unfortunate horses had

been coldly complete. Not even their gear could be sorted out

of that mess.

The fate Yevele had not wished even on a sworn enemy

was now theirs also. They were afoot in territory where there

was no refuge, and how far ahead their comrades rode they

could not even guess. Yevele gave one level-eyed glance at

what lay there. There was a pinched line about her mouth

and she turned her head quickly.

But Naile approached more closely, while Milo leaned

against the trunk of a tree and fought his battle against ad-

mitting pain into his mind. The berserker gave a snort of dis-

gust.

"Nothing of the supplies left," he commented. "We

are lucky there is the river. Now we had best be on the move.

There are scavengers who can scent such feasts."

Milo only half heard him. Along the river, yes. It was to

be the guide of their party north and at least they would not

go without water. Water! For a moment the fire in his arm

seemed to touch his throat. He wanted-needed-water.

"What if-he forced the words out-"there were more

than three of those things?"

"If there had been we would already know it," returned

Naile. He ran his fingertips, with an odd gesture as if he

feared to really touch, down his side. "They do not hunt

singly. And, since the druid's summoner is ground to dust, he

cannot call them down upon us again."

Milo stood away from his tree. "Back to the river then."

He tried to get the right note of purpose into his voice, but it

was a struggle. Naile's suggestion that the claws of those

black devils might be poisoned ate into his mind. He had

taken wounds in plenty-with scars on his body to prove

it-but he could not recall any pain as steady and consuming

as this before. Perhaps washing the gash out with cold water

would give some relief.

Twice he stumbled and might have fallen. Then a hand

slipped under his arm, took his shield and tossed it to Naile

who caught it in one fist as if it weighed nothing. Yevele

drew Milo's arm across her own mailed shoulder, withstand-

ing his short struggle to free himself. His sight grew hazy

with each faltering step and in the end he yielded to her will.

He did not remember reaching the river, though he must

have done so on his own two feet. Cold, fighting the heat of

his wound, made him aware that his mail, his leather, and his

linen undershirt, had been stripped away and Yevele was

dripping water on a gash along his arm from which the blood

oozed in congealing drops. So small a gash-yet this pain, the

lightness of his head. Poison?

Did Milo say that word aloud? He did not know. Yevele

leaned down, raised his arm, held it firm while she sucked

along that slash and spat, her smeared lips shaping no distaste

for what she did. Then Naile, his great hairy body bare to the

waist, gashes longer than that which broke Milo's skin visible

near his ribs, loomed into the swordman's limited field of

vision.

The berserker held his hands before him, cupped, water

dripping from the fingers. Kneeling beside the girl he offered

what he so held. With no outward sign of aversion, she

plucked out of the berserker's hold a wriggling yellow thing,

hardly thicker than a bow cord. This she brought to Milo's

arm, holding it steady until it gripped tight upon the bleeding

wound. Three more such she applied before settling the arm

and the things that sucked the dark blood by his side. Then

she set about doing the same for Naile, though it looked as if

his skin was not so deeply cut after all, for there were only

two or three patches of drying blood. Perhaps the boar's hide

that Naile had worn during his change was even better than

man-fashioned mail for defense.

Milo lay still and tried not to look upon his arm, or what

fed there, draining his blood, their slimy lengths of bodies

growing thicker. There was a shimmer in the air and Afreeta.

hung once more above them, planing down to settle her claws

in the thick mat of hair that extended even upon the berserk-

er's shoulder. Her long beaked head dipped and lifted as she

hissed like a pot on the boil.

"They are fools-" Milo heard Naile's words from a kind

of dream. "Not all men make their own choices. It may be

that their master will have some use for them again, enough

to see them out of the wilderness. But to take to the plain

without food or water-" Naile shook his head and then

spoke to Yevele. "Enough, girl. Those draw-mouths are it-

plenty to do the work."

He had five of the yellow things mouth-clamped to his

wounds. Turning to the stream he tossed those he still held in

his hands back into the water. Then he approached Milo and

leaned over, watching closely the wrigglers the swordsman

did not dare to look upon lest he disgrace himself by spewing

forth whatever remained in his stomach.

"Ah-" Naile set back on his heels. "See you that now?"

he demanded of Yevele.

Milo was unable to resist the impulse to look, too.

The bodies of the wrigglers had thickened to double their

original size. But one suddenly loosed its mouth hold and fell

to the gravel where it moved feebly. It was joined moments

later by a second that also went inert after a space of three

or four breaths. The other two remained feeding.

Naile watched and then gave an order. "Use your

snaplight, comrade. They would suck a man dry were they

left. But their brethren have taken the poison, the wound is

clean."

Yevele brought from her belt pouch a small metal rod and

snapped down a lever on its side. The small spark of flame

which answered touched the suckers one by one. They loosed,

fell, and shriveled. Naile examined his own busy feeders.

Three followed the example of the drinkers of Milo's poi-

son and fell away. At the berserker's orders, the battlemaid

disposed of the rest.

Milo became aware that, though he felt weak and tired,

the burning he had tried so hard to combat was gone. Yevele

slit his shirt and bound it over the wound, having first

crushed some leaves she went into the edge of the wood to

find, soaking them before placing them directly on the skin.

"Deav Dyne will have a healing spell," she commented.

"With that you will forget within a day that you have been

hurt."

Deav Dyne was not here, Milo wanted to comment, though

he found himself somehow unable to fit the words together,

he was so tired. They were without mounts, perhaps lost in

this land. Now. . . . Then the questions slid out of his mind,

or into such deep pockets they could be forgotten, and he

himself was in a darkness where nothing at all mattered.

He awoke out of the remnants of a dream that bothered

him, for it seemed that there was a trace of some message

which still impressed a shadow on his mind. Yet it drifted

from him even as he tried vainly to remember. He heard a

whinny-and awoke fully. The horses! But he had seen those

slain....

A face hung above him-familiar. He strove to put a

name to it.

"Wymarc?"

"Just so. Drink this, comrade."

Milo's head was lifted, a pannikin held to his lips. He swal-

lowed. The liquid was hot, near as hot as had been the tor-

ment in his arm. But, as its warmth spread through him, Milo

felt his strength fast returning. He sat up, away from the sup-

porting arm of the bard.

There were horses right enough-he could see them over

Wymarc's shoulder-fastened to the fringe trees.

"How-" He was willing to lick the interior of the panni-

kin to gather the last of that reviving brew.

"Deav Dyne did another seeing having been able to renew

his energy. I came back with mounts." Wymarc did not even

wait for him to finish his question. "He sent the elixer too.

Comrade, it is well that now we mount and ride."

Though most of his shirt was now bandaged about his

wound (his arm stiff and sore but with none of the burning

pain he had earlier felt), Milo was able with the bard's help

to pull on once again the leather undergarment, even take the

weight of mail. They were alone and Milo, seeing that his

sword was once more in sheath, his battered shield ready to

be hung from the saddle, looked to Wymarc for enlighten-

ment.

"Yevele--Naile?" He still had odd spells of detachment, al-

most drowsiness, as if he could not or had not completely

thrown off the effects of the poison.

"Have gone on-we shall catch up. The old boar,"

Wymarc's face crinkled in what might be an admiring grin.

"is stouter than we, comrade. He rode as if hot for another

fight. But the river is a sure guide and we must hurry for

there lies a choice ahead."

Milo was ashamed of his own weakness, determined that

the bard need not nurse him along. Once mounted he found

that his head did clear, even though he was haunted by the

vague impression of something of importance he had forgot-

ten.

"What choice?" he asked as they trotted along the river-

bank.

"There are watchers on the frontier. It would seem that

Yerocunby and perhaps even Faraaz is astir. Though who

they watch for-" Wymarc shrogged. "Yet it is not wise to

let ourselves be seen."

Milo could accept that. The disappearance of the druid

came to him in vivid recall. Magic could meddle with the

minds of unshielded men-make friends or the innocent into

enemies to be repulsed.

"Ingrge urges we go back to the plains to the north. Deav

Dyne has rigged a protection for the scaled one-a cloak wet

down with water-so he can stand the dryness of such travel-

ing. We have filled the drinking sacks also. Ingrge leaves cer-

tain guide marks to take us west while once more he scouts

ahead. He swears that once among the mountains we shall be

safer. But then there will be forests, and to the elven kind

forests are what stout defense walls are to us."

They caught up with Yevele and Naile before night and

took shelter in the fringe forest. The battlemaid came to

Milo, examined his arm where the claw slash had already

closed, and rewound the bandage saying, "There is no sign

of the poison. Tomorrow you should be able to use it better.

We have indeed been favored by the Homed Lady thus far."

She sat cross-legged, looking down now at the bracelet on

her wrist.

"In a way, the wizard's suggestion works. When I laid the

spell upon those skulkers, I thought on these." She touched

the dice with the tip of that overlong forefinger. "And it is

true-of that I am sure-they moved farther by my will.

Thus the spell held the longer."

"You cannot use that one again," Milo reminded her.

"Yes, it is a pity-that was a good spell. But I am no fol-

lower of magic, nor a priestess of the Homed Lady, that

more of the Great Art be mine. I do not like," she now

looked at him and there was a frown line between her wide-

set eyes, "this druid who can vanish in a puff of smoke.

There was nothing of the art in the two I held-only their

own cunning strength. But he whom you fronted is a greater

danger than near a hundred of their kind could be. Still Naile

says he was not of Chaos, when he knew him of old, rather

one of those who went from side to side in battle, striving to

choose the stronger lord to favor. What lord has he found, if

it be not one of the Dark?"

"Perhaps that-or the one we seek," Milo returned as he

laced up his leather jerkin once again.

He saw her shiver, and she moved a little closer to their

small fire. Though he did not believe what chilled her came

from the outside, but rather lay within.

"I have ridden with the Free Companies," she said. "And

you know what quest I followed alone when this wizard

swept us up to do his will. No one can lose fear, but it must

be mastered and controlled as one controls a horse with bit

and bridle. I have heard the clan victory chants-and

know"-her face was somber and set-"of their defeats. We

have gone up, sword out, arrow to bowstring, against many

of the creatures of Chaos. But this is something else."

Now she pulled her riding cloak closer about her, as if the

chill grew. "What do you think we shall find at the end of

this blind riding, swordsman? Hystaspes said it was not of

Chaos. I believe he thought it could master even Chaos-the

Black Adepts and all who are bound to their service. This

being true, how can we prevail?"

"Perhaps because in a manner we are linked to this alien

thing," Milo answered slowly. His fingers ran along the

smooth band of the bracelet "We may be this stranger's

tools, even as the wizard said."

The girl shook her head. "I am under only one geas-that

set by Hystaspes. We would know if another weighted upon

us."

"-Up by dawn-" Naile came close to the fire with his

heavy tread. Once more Afreeta lay, a necklet, about his

throat, only her eyes showing she was a living thing. Wymarc

had come with him to open a bag of provisions. They shared

out a portion of its contents, then drew lots for the night

watch.

Once more Milo paced and looked up at stars he did not

know. He tried not to think, only to loosen his senses, to pick

up from the world about him any hint that they were spied

upon, or perhaps about to be beleaguered by the unknown.

That they had defeated the druid and that which he had sum-

moned once was no promise that they could be successful a

second time.

Dawn skies were still gray when they rode on at a steady

trot. It was close to noon when Wymarc halted, pointing to a

rock leaning against another on the far side of the river.

"We ford here. There is the first of the guides as Ingrge

promised us."

There had been little talk among them that morning; per-

haps each in his or her own mind, thought Milo, was weigh-

ing all that had happened to them, trying to foresee what

might lie ahead. The compulsion of the geas set upon them

never lessened.

Another day they rode with only intervals of rest for their

horses. Milo learned fast to watch for the twist of grass

knotted together which pointed their way onward. One of

them at each such find dismounted to loose the knot, smooth-

ing out as best they could the marking of their way.

On the third day, close to evening, even though they had

not dared to push their horses too much, they came to the

second tributary of the border river. A camp awaited them

there, where the cleric and Gulth had pulled brush to make a

half shelter. The clouds had broken earlier in the afternoon

to let down a steady drizzle of rain, penetrating in its cold,

but there was no fire for them.

Gulth lay in the open, moisture streaming from his skin.

He watched as they rode up and picketed their horses, but he

gave not so much as a grunt of welcome as they pressed past

him into the shelter.

Deav Dyne sat cross-legged there, his hands busy with his

prayer beads, his eyes closed in concentration. Respecting

that concentration they did not break silence even among

themselves.

Milo had drawn his sword during their day's ride and used

his arm over and over again, determined that he would be

able to fight and soon. The wound still was bandaged, and

there was an angry red scar as if indeed fire had burnt hia

flesh. But he was content that his muscles obeyed him, and

the soreness his actions left could be easily ignored.

They had settled down, sharing out food, when Deav Dyne

opened his eyes. He gave them no formal welcome.

"The elf has gone on. He seeks the mountains as a man

dying of thirst would seek water. But his trail we can follow.

It is in his mind that he can find some clue to the dwelling of

Lichis." His voice kept to a level tone as if he gave a report.

"He has gone-but-"

For a long moment he was silent. Something made Milo

look away from him to the opening through which they had

crawled. Gulth shouldered his way in. But it was not the liz-

ardman the swordsman was looking for. Milo did not know

what he sought-still there was something.

"We light no more fires. That feeds them," the cleric con-

tinued. "They must have a measure of light to manifest them-

selves. We must deny them that"

"Who are 'they'?" growled Naile. He, too, slewed around

to look without.

"The shadows," returned Deav Dyne promptly. "Only they

are more than shadows, though even my prayers for en-

lightenment and my scrying cannot tell me what manner of

manifestation they really are. If there is no light they are

hardly to be seen and, I believe, so weak they cannot work

any harm. They came yesterday after Ingrge had ridden for-

ward. But they are no elven work, nor have I any knowledge

of such beings. Now they gather with the dark-and wait."

9

Harp Magic

They watched, now alerted, as the twilight faded. Milo noted

patches of dark that were certainly not bom from any tree or

bush, but lay in pools, as if ready to entrap a man. Always, if

you stared directly at them, they rested quiescent But if you

turned your head you caught, from the comer of an eye,

stealthy movement, or so it would seem.

"These are of Chaos," Deav Dyne continued. "But since

they take shape in no real substance-as yet-perhaps they

are but spies. However, the stench of evil lies in them." His

nostrils expanded. Now Milo caught, too, that smell of faint

corruption which those who gave allegiance to the Dark al-

ways emitted.

The cleric arose. From the bosom of his robe he brought

forth a small vial carved of stone, overlaid with runes in high

relief. He went to the mounts Wymarc and Milo had ridden,

and taking the stopper from the bottle, he wet the tip of his

right forefinger with what it contained.

With this wetted finger he drew invisible runes on the

horses' foreheads and haunches. When he returned he

sprinkled a few drops across the entrance to their cramped

camp.

"Holy water-from the Great Shrine." He gave explana-

tion. "Such as those may spy upon us. But we need not fear

their attempting more-not while they are out there and we

are here."

Naile grunted. "These are your spells, priest, and you have

confidence in them. But I have no liking for what I cannot

turn axe or tusk against."

Deav Dyne shrugged. "The shadows have no weight. If

you could put axe against them-then they would be some-

thing else. Now, tell me how you fared-more of this druid

who set a calling spell..."

He held his hands cupped about his prayer string, not look-

ing at any of them, remaining tense and listening as each in

turn told his or her part of the story. When they had done, he

made no comment. In fact they had brought out supplies and

were eating when he, not noting the share Yevele had laid

near his knee, spoke. "A tamer of beasts, an adventurer who

may be of the Thieves Guild, and one who can summon-

You know this druid?" It was too dark now to see much, but

they knew he asked that in the direction of Naile.

"I know of him. He lurked about when the Mage Wogan

led us to the finding of the Toad's Pinnacle. Wogan would

have no dealings with him, and he sniveled like a white-

blooded coward when the mage sent him out of our camp.

Since then he seems to have gained some courage-or else his

magics are the greater."

"Never underestimate one who has the summoning power,"

commented the cleric.

"We destroyed what he used to bring the urghaunts upon

us," Milo pointed out. "Is it not true that a spell once used,

unless it can be fed from another source, will not answer

again?"

"So we have believed," Deav Dyne assented. "But now we

deal with a thing-or a personality-that is alien. What tricks

its servants may be trained in we cannot tell."

They set no watch that night, for the cleric assured them

that, with the holy water sign upon them, their mounts would

not wander, nor could anything come upon them without a

warning that would alert him.

There were no shadows in the morning. However, as the

day lengthened into afternoon, all of the party were aware

that the flitting, near-invisible things again both trailed and

walled them in. By twilight they reached the next tributary of

the northern river. In the half-light they could see a mountain

range silhouetted against the western horizon.

"Running water." Deav Dyne looked down at the stream.

"Now we shall see what manner of thing these splotches of

dark may be. We shall cross-"

The girl interrupted him. "You mean because some evils

cannot cross running water? I have heard that said, but is it

the truth?"

"It is the truth. Now let us push to the other side and test

it on our followers."

Ingrge had left a stone marker by what must be the shal-

low part. The pack ponies had to be driven on and the water

came well up their shaggy legs. Their own mounts picked a

way cautiously, advancing as if they mistrusted the footing.

Once they were across, Deav Dyne swung around, and the

others followed his example, to look back at the shore they

had just quitted.

There were distinct blots of murk there right enough, no

clean shadows, but something of the Dark able to mimic

such. These separate parts flowed together, pooling on the

sand. And then-it flapped up!

Milo heard the battlemaid's breath hiss between her lips.

That hiss was answered with far more strength by Afreeta.

Their horses snorted, fought for freedom.

The black thing flapped as might a banner in a heavy

wind-save there was no wind. It was well off the ground

now, rising vertically. Once aloft, it made to dart after them,

spreading an even stronger stench of evil.

But though it stretched out over the sand and gravel that

bordered the water, it could not thrust the long tongue it now

formed far enough to reach them. That tongue flailed the air,

beat against an unseeable wall.

"It cannot pass water," Deav Dyne observed with quiet sat-

isfaction. "Therefore it is but a very inferior servant."

"Maybe it can't pass water," Wymarc broke in. "But what

of that?"

He pointed north. Milo's horse was rearing and plunging.

For a moment or two his attention was all to controlling the

frightened animal. Then he had a chance to glance in the

direction the bard had indicated.

A twin to that which still strove to reach them befouled the

air, flapping along. But apparently that way of progress was

difficult for it to maintain. Even as the swordsman caught

sight of it, the mass ceased its flying and settled groundward.

It broke apart the instant it touched the earth, small

patches seeping away like filthy water from an overturned,

rotting tub. The light was good enough for them to watch this

dispersal of the creature-if it were a single creature able to

loose itself into parts. Though the shadow bits moved, they

did not turn toward their party, as Milo fully expected.

Rather, like flattened slugs, they set a path parallel to the line

of march but some distance away.

Naile spat at the ground beyond his horse's shoulder. "It

goes its own way," he commented. "Perhaps it is rightly

wary." He looked to the cleric. "What say you, priest? Do we

hunt it?"

Deav Dyne had been leaning forward in his light saddle

watching the flopping of the new set of shadows as they

strung out.

"It is bold-"

Milo caught the inference of that. "What does such

boldness mean?"

The cleric shook his head. "What can I say about any of

Chaos's servants? If a man does not guard well against even

the most simple appearing of such, he is three times a fool."

"Let us test it then." Before Deav Dyne could protest the

berserker launched into the air the pseudo-dragon, who

circled his head and then shot with the speed of a well-loosed

arrow toward the nearest of the moving blobs. Having

reached a position above it, Afreeta hovered, her supple neck

arching downward, her jaws open as if she meant to dive

straight into the thing and do battle.

The blob of darkness on the ground puddled, halting its

advance. Toward it hastened another to join with it, then a

third. From the center of that uniting there arose a tendril of

darkness like the tentacles of a sea monster. But Afreeta was

not to be so caught. She spiraled upward, keeping just above

that arm of black. Other parts of the shadow-creature poured

toward the site. As they watched, these, too, joined with the

first and the reaching whip grew longer, higher.

"So," commented Naile, "it would do battle."

Deav Dyne, who had kept his attention on the scene, his

eyes narrowed with speculation, now swung his bead string in

his hand. Milo, suddenly thinking that perhaps they did have

something to give them warning of possible attack, glanced

downward at the bracelet about his wrist. He was somehow

certain that if this dark thing meant them harm, the bracelet

would come to life. Yet ft had not.

The cleric slid his beads back, cupping them in his hand.

"Call back Afreeta, warrior. This thing is a spy and not a

fighter. But whether it can summon that which will do battle,

I cannot tell."

"Let it watch us, since it would seem we have no real

choice in the matter," cut in the bard. "But let us also seek

the mountains and speedily. Ingrge has knowledge of safe

places thereabouts where there are defenses against Chaos-

very old but known to his own people."

So they rode on, while the shadow bits kept pace with

them. Their hands were ever close to their weapons, and

Naile kept Afreeta loose and flying. Now and again she flut-

tered down to ride upon the berserker's shoulder for a short

distance, hissing into his ear as if reporting. But if she had

anything of importance to say, Naile did not share it with the

others.

Milo kept closing and unclosing his hand that had been so

weak after the wound. His fingers could grip now with all

their old vigor on the sword hilt when he put them to the

test. There was a small ache beginning in his shoulders, as his

tenseness grew, and he continually searched the ground ahead

for signs of danger. That these shadows which spied on them

could summon some greater menace was only plain logic.

The pack ponies were no longer reluctant, dragging back

on their lead ropes. Rather they crowded up until they trotted

along between the riders, sometimes snorting uneasily, al-

though they never swung their heads to watch the shadows.

Perhaps it was the stench of ancient eva, which a rising wind

brought, that spurred them so.

Again the riders found the trail markings the elf had set.

Today they made no attempt to erase them. It was enough

that they were companied by these representatives of Chaos.

There was no longer reason to hope they might conceal their

passing.

Twice they halted to water and rest the horses and to eat

The moisture of Gulth's cloak, dried out in the wind, had to

be renewed from one of the water bags. As usual the lizard-

man made no comment. He rode ungracefully, for his kind

did not take to any mounts except some scaled things on(r)

found in the Seven Swamps, which could not be used far

away from those mudholes. His eyes, set so high above his

snouted lower face, never even turned toward the shadow,

Milo noted. It was as if the amphiban alien was concentrating

all his strength of will and mind upon another matter.

The land began to rise. Now the grass thinned, the ground

was broken here and there by shrubs and standing stones that

were like pillars and seemed unnatural, as if they had been

set so for some reason, save that their setting followed no

pattern.

Milo, studying how they dotted the way before them, was

mindful of something else. He did not need to see the

shadows suddenly surge forward to understand what might

menace their party here.

" 'Ware the stones!"

"Yes," Deav Dyne made answer. "They are shadow bait.

See-"

The shadows slipped ahead and dropped out of sight,

though the pools they formed now must lie hidden about

those pillars. Naile, who had taken the lead, plainly refusing

to ride close to Gulth, did not even nod in reply. Rather he

wove a zigzag way for them, keeping as far from each of the

stones and the things that might lurk about them as he could.

It was not easy to choose a way keeping them on their gen-

eral course and yet avoiding close proximity to the standing

stones.

So, as twilight began once more to close in, thus rendering

more dangerous the route before them, they needs must slow

from a steady trot to a walk. The animals of their company

resisted and sullenly fought that curbing. Trees showed

ahead, not the twisted stunted ones that had formed the

thickets along the rivers, but tall standing ones. They too

might give shelter to the enemy. Milo had not seen any move-

ment of shadows since they had disappeared among the

stones. He glanced now and then at his wrist. The bracelet

showed no life. Was it true that it could warn?

Wymarc broke the silence.

"We are losing our guard."

"How do you-" the swordsman began sharply, his tense

weariness riding his voice.

"Use your nose, man," returned Wymarc. "Or has it held

the smell of evil so long that it reports falsely?"

Milo drew a deep breath. At first he could not be sure,

then he was certain. The wind still blew in the same direc-

tion, from the north. But the taint it had carried earlier was

indeed less strong. Instead there came a trace of the clean

mountain air the scent of pine.

The cleric faced his mount around.

"Be ready!" he warned.

They had nearly reached the end of the place of standing

stones. The pack ponies, breathing laboredly, trotted on.

Gulth, for the first time in many hours, cried aloud, in croak-

ing words they did not know.

Milo edged his own mount around, the horse fighting his

control.

From behind some of the stones stepped figures as solidly

black as the shadows, but now standing tall. They were man-

shaped if you counted the limbs that raised their bodies from

the ground, the two arm appendages that each held high and

wide, as if they were about to rush to embrace the travelers.

On Milo's wrist the bracelet came to life. Feverishly he

fought to control the spin. But the shadow men were so alien

to all he had known that what he saw interfered with his

concentration. He knew without any words from his compan-

ions that this was the attack toward which the dark unknown

had been building.

The shadow men glided toward them, even as their former

substance had flowed across the earth. Milo did not reach for

his sword. He knew within himself that against such as these

the sharpest steel, even an enchanted blade, could not deliver

any telling blow.

There came a trilling of sound. At first Milo thought it is-

sued from the enemy, yet there was something in the sound

that strengthened his courage, instead of increasing his

doubts.

Wymarc had unbagged his harp. Now, as he swept his fin-

gers back and forth across the strings, their mounts stood

rock still. Music--against thosel

The freshness of the air was once more overlaid with the

stench of evil. Shadow men drew close-and before them

spread not only the rotten scent, but also a cold, deep enough

to strike a man as might the full breath of a blizzard.

Wymarc's chords rose higher and higher on the scale. It

seemed to Milo that the shadows slowed. This music hurt his

ears, rang in his head. He wanted to shut it out with his

hands, but that terrible cold held him in thrall.

He could no longer really hear-yet Wymarc still swept

the strings of the harp. Yevele cried out, swayed in her

saddle. There was no sound, only pain within Milo's head,

cutting out all else.

The swordsman's eyes blurred. Was this attack the woik of

the shadows, or what Wymarc wrought with his harp? For

the bard continued to go through the motions of playing,

even though there was nothing now to be heard.

Shudders ran through Milo's body in a rhythm matching

the sweep of fingers across the strings. The shadows had

halted-stood facing the riders only a little more than a

sword length from Wymarc. The bard's hand moved faster

and faster-or did it only seem so? Milo was sure of nothing

save the pain beating in his head, passing downward through

his body.

Then-

The shadows shivered-visibly. He was sure he saw that

They wavered back as their bodies shimmered, began to lose

the man form, dripped groundward bit by bit as might melt-

ing candles near the heat of an open fire. They stumbled on

stumps of feet, trailing lines of oozing matter behind them as

they strove to reach again the shelter of the stones. Wymarc

played on.

Now there were no manlike bodies, only once more dark

pools that heaved in a losing battle against what the bard had

launched. Those pools flowed, joined. A single manifestation

half arose. It formed no quasi-human body-rather suggested

some monstrous shape. A toad head lifted for a moment, but

could not hold, dissolving back into the mass. Yet the shadow

thing continued to struggle, bringing forth a tentacle here-a

taloned foot there. Then the heaving ceased. The pool of

dark lay quiescent

Wymarc lifted his hand from the harp strings. The pulsa-

tion of pain eased in his listeners. Milo heard Naile's voice.

"Well done, songsmith! And how long will that spell hold?

Or is the thing dead?"

"Do not grant me too much power, comrade. Like any

spell, this has its limitations. We had better ride." He was

slipping the harp into its bag. Once more their horses stirred.

Without having to rein their mounts, they turned toward

the ridge beyond and began to move up it There was a track

to follow here, fainf as if it had been some seasons since it

had been in use. One of Ingrge's markers pointed them into

it. Up and up they went, the clean air washing from them the

last of malaise brought on by the confrontation with the

shadows.

As they had reached the top of the ridge, Ingrge appeared.

He had rounded up the pack ponies who had gone before.

Now he said to Wymarc, "You have been busy, bard. The

Song of Herckon* is not for playing by just any hand."

"To each his own magic, ranger. This is my kind." There

was a halting in Wymarc's reply, as if what he had done had

drawn out of him much of his energy.

"I have found an Old Place," Ingrge said. "In it our magic

is still firm. Nothing of Chaos-or, even, of Law-dare enter

there unless made free to it by one of elven blood. You can

all lie snug tonight without watch or warder."

He led the party along the ridge to a second and steeper

climb beyond. Here the trees stood taller, closed in. How

long they rode Milo could not tell. He only knew that wear-

iness rode pillion behind him, gripping him tightly.

Once more stones arose, not grim and gray, like age-dark-

ened bones as the others lingered in his memory. These were

set edge to edge, forming a wall that opened from the path.

They were cloaked in the green velvet of moss, a moss that

was patterned here and there by outcrops of small red cups,

or brilliant, orange-headed, pin-sized growths.

As they passed between those rocks-which stretched out

on either hand to form a continuous wall-there came a lift

of spirit for the riders. The sound of the horses' shoes was

muffled by another carpet of moss, and straight beyond them,

was what Milo took first to be a mound overgrown with

small bushes. Then he saw that it was a single tree whose

leafed branches (the leaves as green and full as if the season

were spring and not the beginning of autumn) grew down-

ward to touch the ground.

Ingrge swept aside a mass of trailing vine, which formed

the door cover, and ushered them in, leaving them to explore

while he went to loose the ponies from then- loads, their

horses from the saddles.

In the center stood a mighty trunk of such girth as two

men might well conceal themselves behind. Hanging from the

underside of the drooping branches that formed the inner

shell of this forest house were globes shaped like fruit, but

which glowed to give light.

Moss again was the carpet, a very soft and thick one.

Around the limb wall were wide ledges, also moss grown,

each long enough to provide a bed. Most and best of all was

the feeling of peace that seeped into one's weary body, Milo

thought He had spent nights in many places. But never had

he been greeted by such a lifting of the heart and soothing of

the spirit as wrapped about him in this elven stronghold.

Weariness flowed away, yet he was content to seek one of

those ledges, settle himself upon it, put off his helm, and let

the forest life sink into him, renewing strength and spirit.

They had eaten and were lounging drowsy and content

when Ingrge spoke to Wymarc.

"You have shown us one magic, bard. But I do not think

that is the limit of what you carry. Can you play "The Song

of Far Wings'?"

Wymarc's hand went out to touch the harp bag which he

kept ever within reach.

"I can. But to what purpose, ranger?"

"When we climb to the West Pass," Ingrge returned, "we

must have a guide beyond if we seek Lichis. He has the will

and power to hide himself from both men and elf; we cannot

find him without some aid. It has been many years since any

have hunted him. But he will feel our thoughts and

strengthen his guard-spell unless we come to him by some

way he has left unmarked, a way the feathered ones know.

Then, once discovering the way"-the elf turned now to

Naile-"it would be well for you, berserker, to loose that

small one." He pointed to Afreeta. "Of the same blood she is,

and she can carry our plea to Lichis. He is old, and long ago

he swore he would have no more of any of us. But he might

be interested enough to allow us to him-if we have an advo-

cate of his species."

"Well enough," Naile agreed. Afreeta, as if she understood

all the elf had said and approved of her own role to come,

bobbed her head twice, then turned to hiss gently into Naile's

ear-his boar-helm being laid aside, leaving in view for the

first time thick braids of hair coiled and pinned to add pro-

tection for his skull.

10

The Domain of Lichis

They stood in a sharp cut of a pass. Here the air was thin,

very cold. Snow had drifted down to cloak the heights that

walled them in. The edge of frost in the air that flowed about

them was so cutting that they had tied over their faces any

manner of scarf or strip torn from extra clothing to keep out

what they could of the cold.

Horses drooped, feet spraddled, their limbs shivering from

the effort of the last part of the climb. The mountain had

been nearly like a ladder, so they had come up it at a

crawling pace-dismounted riders leading the animals.

Frost gathered upon their improvised wind masks, streaked

their cloaks. For the last of the upward effort Milo had won-

dered if Gulth would survive. The lizardman had grown more

and more sluggish in his movements, though he had never

voiced any complaint. In fact his silence made Milo some-

times speculate as to what thoughts passed through that alien

mind. Now Gulth squatted against a small fall of rock, his

ice encrusted cloak about him, his head huddled down under

the hood until only the tip of his snout protruded.

Ingrge turned to Wymarc, laying his mittened hand upon

the arm of the bard, gesturing with the other to the harp in

its bag. It was plain what he wanted of Wymarc. But in this

wind and cold-surely the bard dare not expose his fingers to

summon up his own brand of magic.

Yet it would seem that Wymarc was agreeing. He caught

the end of his furred mitten between his teeth to yank it off

his hand. The bared fingers he inserted under the edge of the

binding about his chin and mouth, perhaps to warm them

with the scanty breath these heights left in a man's lungs.

With the other hand he worried off the bag protecting his

skald's harp. Then he settled down on the same fall of rock

behind which Gulth crowded. Milo moved forward as quickly

as he could, taking up a position to shield the harper with his

body as much as he might. Seeing what he would do Deav

Dyne, Yevele and Naile speedily came to aid in making that

windbreak. Only the elf stood alone, staring out into the swirl

of clouds that screened what lay on the western side of the pass.

For several long moments Wymarc's face mask heaved and

twisted. Then be brought out his hand to the strings of the

harp. Milo saw him flinch and guessed that in this cold he

faced a pain as immediate and severe as if the strings wer(r)

molten metal.

Touching the harp steadied Wymarc. He began to weave a

spell of sound. Wind screamed and moaned, but through that

clamor arose his first notes, as clear and well defined as any

temple gong. They echoed and re-echoed from the rocky

walls, until it seemed that more than one harper plied his art

No pain from this playing attacked his listeners. The notes

Wymarc repeated over and over again rang through and then

out-called the wind, like a summons. Four times the bard

swept the harp strings to play the same questing call. Then,

once more, he thrust his stiffening fingers beneath the mouth

scarf to blow upon them.

"AYYYYYYY!" Ingrge's shout could well bring down an ava-

lanche should there be any dangerous overhang of snow and

rock, Milo thought apprehensively.

The elf had cupped his hands to form a trumpet and once

more voiced that upsurging shout. Through the grayish

roofing of the upper clouds descended a great winged thing.

Murky as the pass was, it did not hide those widespread

wings. Memory once more moved in Milo's mind, opening

grudgingly another door.

It was a gar-eagle-the greatest of all winged creatures

(save, of course, a dragon) that his world knew. The very

beating of those wings churned up snow as the bird descend-

ed. And when it came to perch at last on a rock a little far-

ther ahead, closed its fifteen-foot wings, and twisted its head

downward toward the elf-over whom it would have towered

another head's length had they been meeting on level

ground-even Naile pushed back a fraction.

The curved beak was brilliant scarlet-the hue of new-

Spilled blood-and the fierce eyes, which raked them all con-

temptuously in a single survey, were the gold of flames. But

for the rest there was nothing but the white of the purest snow.

Ingrge held up his mittened hands, palm outward and at

the level of his own heart in a ceremonial gesture of greeting.

The head of the huge bird dipped again, dropping lower so

that they were indeed now eye to eye. Milo did not hear any

sound save that of the wind which once more howled since

the'magic of the music no longer battled with it. Their com-

munication must be in the "silent speech," mind to mind, as

the elven folk were able to do not only among themselves but

with all the sons and daughters of nature who wore feathers,

scales, or fur-or even leaves-for it was rumored that to the

elves trees were also comrades, teachers, and kin-friends.

The gar-eagle's hooked beak, formed to rend and tear,

opened and the bird screeched ear-piercingly. Ingrge moved

back to allow it room as it spread once more those near un-

believable wings, rising up into the clouds.

When their visitor had entirely disappeared, Ingrge re-

turned. "We can move on." A wave of his hand gestured

ahead. "The great one will track us when he has word. And

we dare not linger here lest the cold finish us."

Luckily the slope downward from the pass was less difficult

than the climb. However, they did not try to ride, but

stumbled along, stumping on feet numbed by cold. Milo

chose to play rear guard, mainly because he feared that

Gulth might drop behind and not be noticed. While he had

no particular friendship for lizardmen in general, this one

was part of their company and deserved an equal chance.

He had guessed right that the saurian was near the end of

his strength, for Milo was not yet out of the pass cleft when

Gulth fell forward into the snow, making no effort to rise.

"Wymarcl" Milo raised his voice. The bard, half-hidden in

cloud mist, faced around, returning as quickly as he could.

Together they bundled Gulth across his horse and went on,

Milo leading the mount, the bard hovering beside to steady

the limp body of the lizardman if he showed any sign of slid-

ing off.

Mist hid the rest of the party ahead, but once they were

out of the pass itself the wind ceased to buffet them and Milo

welcomed that small encouragement. Luckily there was only

one possible path to take. It curved to the right where

trampled snow, fast being covered, was their guide. The

swordsman longed to speed up, but he was breathing in short

gasps, and he could guess their footing was treacherous.

Though it was a less exacting a road, it was still steep enough

to can forth caution. Soon it became a series of ledges, each

a fraction wider than the one above.

They were below the cloudline now so Milo looked ahead

eagerly for their party. Hooves and boots had beaten down

the snow-but he could see nothing of those who had made

that trail. Confused, he halted, while the horse moved up a

step, nudging at him.

"What's the matter?" Wymarc asked.

'They're gone!" Milo's first wild thought was of some

snare of spell that had needed the rest in spite of Ingrge's tal-

ent at scenting such.

"Gone?" The bard loosed his hold on Gulth and crowded

forward to look over the swordsman's shoulder.

Milo examined ledges with greater care. The three immedi-

ately below and beyond where they had paused were trail-

marked. But only half of the fourth one showed disturbed

snow, as if the rest of their company had been snatched up at

that point and-

Before he could share such a suspicion with Wymarc,

Ingrge appeared straight out of the mountain wall. The bard's

laugh made Milo flush at his own stupidity. Perhaps the cold

had slowed his wits and let his imagination take over.

"Cave!" Wymarc gave the answer Milo should have

known. "Let us get there with all speed. If our friend here

still has a spark of life in his body we had better be tending

it."

Ingrge joined them before they were along a third of the

next ledge. The elf's aid made the rest of their descent the

easier. Both horses and men trusted him and did not have to

pick such a careful path.

They pushed through a slit in the stone to enter a cave.

Despite the narrow entrance, it widened beyond into a space

large enough for both men and animals. Nor was that all. A

fire blazed on a flat stone, marked with the scorching of ear-

lier flames, and about il sat the others, holding out their

hands to the blaze, crowding in upon the small glow of heat.

With Ingrge's help Milo and Wymarc carried Gulth to the

source of heat. Deav Dyne arose hurriedly. As they pulled

away the ice-stiffened cloak, he leaned solicitously over the

scaled body. Milo himself could distinguish no sign of life.

But the healing spells of priests were well known to be able

to save one very close to death.

Beads in hand, Deav Dyne drew his other palm in long

soothing strokes from the lizardman's domed head to his

scaled and taloned feet, then down each arm in turn. The

cleric's voice muttered a chant. Now the elf knelt on the

other side of Gulth, joining his long-fingered hands to Deav

Dyne's in the stroking.

On the opposite of the fire, feeding it from time to time

from a pile of sticks heaped between two outflung spurs of

rock, squatted Naile. And almost nosing into the meager

flames was Afreeta, low upon her belly, her wings outspread

as if she would take into her body all the warmth she could.

Wymarc rubbed the hand he had bared to the wind in the

pass, alternately blowing upon the fingers and holding them

to the fire. Yevele had pulled open one of their supply bags

to bring out a roll of the most strength-providing food they

carried-dried fruit beaten into a thick pulp and then

crumbled to be combined with coarsely ground dried meat.

For a time the mere fact that they were out of the breath

of the mountain wind, under cover and in shelter, was

enough for Milo. He watched the labor of the elf and the

cleric apathetically, wondering if their efforts were not al-

ready in vain.

Neither Ingrge nor Deav Dyne were willing to concede

such a defeat. In the end, their efforts were rewarded. There

was a hiss of pain from the lizardman. His hom-lidded eyes

opened slowly, and now Milo could see the rise and fall of

his arched chest. Deav Dyne stopped his stroking, searched

again within his robe and brought out a small curved horn

stoppered with a metal cap.

With infinite care he loosed the stopper while Ingrge raised

the heavy saurian head upon his own knee, working his fin-

gers between the fearsome fangs of Gulth's jaws to open the

half-conscious alien's mouth. Onto the purplish tongue thus

.exposed, Deav Dyne dropped four small measures of the liq-

uid the horn contained, then made haste to shut the container

before he turned back to his patient.

Gulth blinked slowly. His head settled a little to one side in

Ingrge's hold. Then his eyes closed. The cleric sat back on his

heels.

"Cloaks!" he demanded without looking at the rest of

them. "All covering you can sparel"

Only when his patient was wrapped in a layer of cloaks,

with even the horse blankets heaped over him, did Deav

Dyne relax. He spoke to the elf. "If he stays in the mountain

cold we cannot answer for his life. His people are of the

steaming swamps-not conditioned to such trails as these."

"Then let him return whence he came," broke in Naile. "I

know of old these snake-skins. They are as full of treachery

as a drinking horn of ale in an indifferent inn. We should

have been the better, priest, had his spirit departed from

him!"

"You forget," the battlemaid answered him. "Is not the

same fetter on him as the ones we must wear?" She thrust

her arm farther into the firelight, where the flames awoke to

glinting life the reddish gleam of the bracelet. "I do not know

by what method we were chosen, but it is plain that he was

meant to be one of our company."

Naile snorted. "Yes-to betray us, perhaps. I tell you, that

one I shall watch, and should he in any way raise doubts of

his actions he will answer to me." His lips flattened against

his tusk-fangs.

Milo stirred-this was no time for the berserker to allow

his change-making rage to take control of his human part. He

inched forward and dared to lay hand on the massive arm

within his reach. "There is more wisdom in what she says

then in your doubts, warrior."

Naile's head swung in his direction. The berserker's small

eyes already held a warning light. "I say-"

"Say-say-say-" Wymarc repeated. But he made of that

single word a singsong of notes. His uncovered harp rested on

his knee, and now he fingered one string and then another,

not as if he chose to use his song magic, but rather as if he

tried each in turn to make sure of its strength, even as a war-

rior before battle looks to the state of his weaponry. Yet even

such a seemingly idle plucking carried with it sounds that

echoed softly through the cave.

Milo, who had been about to tighten his grip on Naile's

arm in perhaps a futile attempt to bring the berserker to his

senses, found his hold broken. His hand fell away to rest on

his own knee. Just as the warmth of the fire sank into his

chilled body, so did those random notes warm his mind,

bringing a release from tension, a gentle dreaminess from

which all that might harm or threaten was barred.

The swordsman chewed away at the bit of rolled journey-

food Yevele had handed him, content with the warmth and

that ease of mind, though an instinct buried deep inside him

still was wary enough to cry out that this easement was of

magic and would not long hold.

Outside the cave, darkness gathered. Only Ingrge arose

now and then to feed the fire, but no longer with wood.

Rather he brought lumps of coal from some inner bay to be

set with skill among the brands so that in turn those kindled,

giving new life and strength to the flames. Now and then one

of the horses or ponies, tethered farther in, stamped or

snorted, but those by the fire were sunk in the silence bom of

their own thoughts or dreams.

Once Milo roused enough to mention the need for a sen-

try, but Naile, his voice a whispering rumble, pointed to

Afreeta, saying, "She will give voice in warning. Her senses

are better than ours for such service."

The pseudo-dragon had waddled so close to the fire that

Milo wondered if it would not singe her. Her long neck

uncoiled, her head darted forth and her jaws clamped upon a

bit of glowing coal. She crunched it, as if it were some dainty

to be relished, and pounced upon a second. What Milo knew

of her kind, even of the greater, true dragons, was very littla.

He had always supposed that their legendary fire-eating was

just that-a legend with no truthful foundation. But it would

seem that it was true.

Naile made no attempt to prevent her epicure feast, even

though there was a faint puffing of smoke trails from her

throat

"Eat well, my beauty," the berserker half whispered. "You

will need such fire within you if we stay long in this land."

To stare into the fire brought drowsiness. Naile might be-

lieve that his winged companion was adequate protection for

their camp, but the tested soldier within Milo could not quite

accept that. Finally he got up and went to the mouth of the

cave.

In doing so he seemed to pass through an actual wall. The

heat that hung so comfortingly around the fire was lost in-

stantly. He shivered and drew closer his cloak, as he peered

out into a night so dark and starless that he had to depend

upon his ears rather than his eyes to guess what was beyond.

The sound of the wind among the peaks made a threaten-

ing cry, like that of a hunting beast prowling the mountains.

It shrieked and puffed fine snow into his face, which stung his

flesh like needles of ice.

By all the sounds he could identify, a storm had closed in

upon the high country. Perhaps only the cave shelter had

saved their lives. Even magic could not withstand such rag-

ing of nature. Milo stepped back. The others, even Ingrge,

slept, but the swordsman found himself shaken out of th(r)

charmed contentment Wymarc's harping had produced.

Though he settled down once more by the fire he could not

drowse. Rather he tried to order his thoughts, looking from

one to another of his strangely assorted company. Each

represented certain abilities and strengths (also, probably,

weaknesses), which differed. Even though he, Naile, and

Yevele were fighters, they were far from being alike. Tha

cleric, the bard, and the elf commanded other talents and

gifts. The lizardman-like Naile, Milo wondered why the

alien had been added to their motley company. It was true

that the saurian-ancestored ones were swamp dwellers, need-

ing both water and turgid heat about them to function best.

Yet Gulth, uncomplaining, had ridden into the near waterless

plains and climbed as long as he could into what must be for

him a hell of cold.

The lizardfolk in their own lands, and with their own

weapons, were warriors of high standing. Therefore, there

must be some reason why Gulth should ride with them now,

not just because he also wore the bracelet which was the

badge of their slavery to some unknown menace. As he gazed

into the fire Milo was once more plagued by fleeting

memories of that other world. He stirred uneasily. Those-he

must seal them away for his own sake. To be divided in mind

when danger stalked (and when did it not here?) was to b(r)

weakened.

He slept at last. This time he dreamed vividly. A dark

stone wall loomed large. About the base of the wall grew

greenery, a greenery that was not natural-that was too'

bright-that shuddered and shook, as if the plants themselves

Strove to drag their roots from out the soil and charge at him.

Gray wall, green that had a life he could not understand

and-

There was a piercing shriek. Milo roused. For a moment

he was so completely bewildered at the breaking of his dream

that he only stared bewUderedly at a fire. Gray walls-'

fire. . . . No, the walls had not been composed of flames,

but rather of solid stone.

Again that shriek. Now Ingrge moved lightly toward the

outer entrance. The others stirred, sat up. Naile's hand

gripped his axe and Afreeta perched on his shoulder. Though

her mouth was open and her tongue darted in and out she

did not hiss. Milo, hand about sword hilt, moved out behind

the elf.

There was no dark ahead now, rather the gray of an over'-

cast day. But their view of the dull sky was nearly hidden by

the vast form of the gar-eagle who had settled on the ledge-

without, its head lowered so that it might look into the cave.

Once more the bird loosed its mighty scream. Ingrg(r)

fronted it eye to eye in the same form of silent communica-

tion they had earlier held. Milo fidgeted at his side, not for

the first time wishing that some of the talents of the elven

kind were also shared by men.

That confrontation of elf and bird continued for what

seemed a long space. Then Ingrge stepped within the over-

hang of the cave as huge wings fanned the air. Up into the

thin atmosphere of the heights sped the gar-eagle, while the

elf returned to the company now roused and waiting by the fire,

"Lichis lies to the south in a place he has made his own,"

Ingrge reported shortly. "It remains to be seen if he will ac-

cept our company. Your little one"-now he spoke to

Naile-"it is she who must speak for us in the end."

The berserker nodded. "Afreeta knows. But how far is this

dragon dwelling? We have not the wings of your messenger.

Nor can Afreeta take the way such a mighty one follows. A

single blast from the wind in these reaches would beat her far

off course."

"She need not try her wings, not until we reach the bound-

aries Lichis has established to protect himself," returned the

elf. "As to how far away-" He shrugged. "That I cannot

measure in our distance upon land-for Reec"-he waved to

the outer world, plainly naming the gar-eagle-"does not

reckon distance as do we who are wingless. He has set the

way in a pattern for my mind only-as he looked down upon

it from afar. However, we can descend to the lower lands

and move from one valley to another, sheltering in part from

the cold."

Even Gulth aroused enough to sit one of the mounts, still

wrapped as well as they could manage against the chill of the

heights, making no complaint as Deav Dyne led his horse

once more out into the blasts that had nearly killed the liz-

ardman. Thus they followed the path of the ledges down,

until scrub trees, finally forest giants, closed about them in a

dark green silence through which Ingrge took a twisting route

with the same confidence as one treads a well-marked road.

11

Lichis the Golden

The silence abiding in the forest was daunting. Milo

found himself glancing over his shoulder now and then, not

because he heard any sound, but rather because he heard

nothing. This was the same feeling that had gripped him in

the inn at the start of this whole wide adventure, that be was

under covert observation.

Perhaps some distant kin of Ingrge patroled these ways,

keeping out of sight. But it was strange that no bird called

within the dark green fastness, that the party caught no sight,

heard no sound of any beast

There was no way of telling the hours, and so zigzag was

the path the elf followed that Milo could not be sure whether

they still headed south or west. They did mount rises separat-

ing one valley from another. From these ridges all he could

see was the loom of the cloud-veiled mountains behind, with

other dark and dreary-looking peaks massing ahead.

At length they emerged from the trees into a section where

the rough terrain was of congealed lava, long hardened, yet

retaining sharp edges. This brought their progress to a crawl,

making it necessary to constantly watch for the safety of

their own footing and that" of their animals.

Above them, at last, was the break in the mountainside

through which, ages ago, this once molten flood had found a

path. Ingrge waved to that opening in the rock wall and

spoke to Naile. "It is time to loose Afreeta. We stand at the

outer edge of Lichis's own domain. Beyond this point we do

not dare to go without invitation."

"So?" The berserker raised his hand to the pseudo-dragon

nested within the upturned collar of his hide cloak. "Well

enough."

Afreeta uncoiled, crawled out upon his palm, her wings

shimmering in the air as she exercised them. This time she

seemed too eager to even look at the man she had chosen to

companion; rather she took off in a glide. Then her wings

whirred swiftly as she beat her way up toward that break in

the mountainside. So swiftly did she go that she vanished as

if blown afar by some act of magic,

"We wait." Ingrge moved out among their ponies, unfas-

tening the feed bags. Milo and Wymarc joined him, measur-

ing out handsful of corn which the small beasts greeted with

eager whinnies. The horses munched the grain and were

watered from bags not nearly as plump as they had been ear-

lier. The riders rationed themselves to a small portion of

water, well below the rim of a cup Ingrge filled and passed

from hand to hand.

Gulth slumped in the saddle of his mount. Milo guessed

that had the lizardman dismounted it could well be that he

could not have won aloft again. His cowled head bung for-

ward so that his snout nearly touched his breast. But, as

usual, he uttered no complaint.

Naile strode back and forth. It was never easy for one of

his mixed nature to wait patiently. As he paced, he turned his

head ever upward, seeking a glimpse of Afreeta returning.

Deav Dyne set his back to a jutting rock. He began to pass

his prayer beads through the fingers of one hand, while the

other rested on the breast of his robe, guarding what secrets

he carried there in the inner pockets.

A man, raised and trained in the precincts of one of the

great temple-abbeys, would find consorting with the dragon-

folk hard. Those of the scaled and winged kind owned no

gods-or demons either. Their own judgment of right or

wrong was not that of mankind, and their actions could not

be either foreseen or measured by those whom they con-

sidered lesser beings.

The Golden Dragon himself was known to have always fa-

vored the road of Law. Lesser beings of his race consorted

openly with Chaos, giving aid capriciously to Dark adepts.

The stories concerning Lichis aD stated that, when he with-

drew from the world, he had, finally, fiercely bade men go

their own heedless ways and expect no more commerce with

him. That he would break with his word now, even though

they had indeed come to his private nest place-how dared

they count on any favorable reception?

Milo fingered the bracelet that bound him to both a mad

and seemingly endless quest, finding little good in such

thoughts.

"If this be indeed Lichis's nest," Yevele's voice was

thoughtful as she came to stand beside the swordsman, "why

should he harken to usT'

"That same question I have been asking myself," Milo an-

swered. He surveyed the jagged, broken top of the heights.

Unlike the mountain of the pass, here was no cloud to

conceal any part of those forbidding pinnacles cutting into

the dull sky. In the west, behind the peaks, a sullen, dire,

blood-red band across the heavens proclaimed the hour of

sundown.

The girl raised her arm, her attention for the band about

her wrist.

"If we play a game, swordsman, then it is a doom-dark-

ened one. This wizard-talk of things not of our world using

the very fact of our existence to weave some spell . . ." She

shook her head slowly. 'Though there are always new things,

both good and ill, waiting to be learned-"

What she might have added was cut off by a harsh cry

from Naile. The berserker came to a halt, facing up slope, his

thick muscled arm flung out in greeting and to serve as a

perch for Afreeta. The pseudo-dragon settled, her claws click-

ing on his mail as she climbed to his shoulder and there fell

to hissing, her head bobbing almost as fast as her wings

moved in the air.

Naile's eyes gleamed bright beneath the overhang of his

helm.

"We can go on," he reported. Ingrge nodded and set about,

with the others' help, to get their train in order. Only this

time Naile took the lead, Afreeta, plainly excited to a high

pitch, sometimes sitting on his shoulder, sometimes whirring

aloft for short flights, impatient at the careful plodding of

those who must walk on two feet or four.

The lava flow formed the most tricky of roads. All but

Gulth dismounted, sometimes needing to turn back and lead

a second or a third of their beasts across some very broken

strip. As they made that very slow climb the light faded more

and more from the sky. Dusk closed in too rapidly.

True twilight had fallen when they reached at last the lip

of the break through which the then molten lava had flowed.

Here they halted, looking down into the domain of Lichis.

A crater formed an irregular cup, but the fires that had

burst loose from the earth's core at this point had long since

died. There was the gleam of water in the deepest part of the

center and around that a rank growth of shrub and grass, not

autumn browned but still sullenly green.

Water birds, looking hardly larger than Afreeta from this

distance, wheeled above that small lake, settled on it, took on

again as whim directed. Save for them, no other life could be

sighted. Once more Afreeta cried and leaped into the air, cir-

cling Naile's head, then winging out, not toward the down-

ward descent that ended at the lakeside, but rather along the

rim of the crater to the left.

Deav Dyne rumbled in his robe, to produce a ball of dull

silver about which he ringed the prayer bead string. The

dullness of the globe vanished, rays of light which rivaled

beams of a full moon sped forth. He pushed by Nafle and

went slowly, holding his strange torch closer to the ground so

that, by its pale, steady light, they could see any obstacle.

Their pace now became little more than a crawl. AH at

once Deav Dyne halted. What his improvised torch showed

them was another cleft in the rock. And, as he threw himself

belly down, lowering the globe by a coil of his bead string,

they could sight below a level of path angling over the ridge,

down into the now-shadowed crater.

Ingrge swung over, went down on one knee, peering at that

path. When the elfs white face was lifted into the stronger

glow of the globe, he was already speaking. "This is a game

trail of sorts. I would say that if we loose the animals they

will drift down for feed and water. There they will abide un-

straying." Now he spoke once more directly to Naile, about

whose head Afreeta was buzzing and darting impatiently.

"What we seek is here above?"

"Yes," rumbled the berserker.

Even the globe could not continue to aid them through the

steadily growing dark. To force their mounts and the ponies

further on such a rough way could well mean a broken leg, a

snapped hoof, or injuries even Deav Dyne, with all his skill,

could not heal.

So they followed Ingrge's suggestion, stripping the weary

mounts and the pack ponies, urging them carefully down into

the cut and giving them their heads. Straightway, horses

whinnied, ponies nickered as they trotted free to where water

and grazing waited. Piling most of their gear among the

rocks, the party made ready to forge ahead.

Gulth, perhaps because he had ridden through most of

their day's travel, seemed able to keep his feet. But Wymarc"

without a word, moved up close enough to the lizardman to

lend a hand if aid should become necessary.

Even though they did not now have to seek the best way

for the beasts, their advance was slow. But at last they came

to a narrow seam turning inward along the crater wall. Down,

this they crept step by cautious step, their left hands gripping

whatever hold they could find. Then Deav Dyne moved out

upon a ledge and stood, globe held high, to light them down.

Even as a ledge backed by the cave had been their refuge

in the mountains, so did this one also furnish a threshold for

a great arch of rock. It might have been that their arrival be-

fore that dark hole was a signal. The restricted light of Deav

Dyne's torch was swallowed up in a blaze of radiance, fever-

ishly red, dyeing all their faces. Out of that crimson flood

came not a voice but a thought which pierced minds with the

same clarity as a shout might have reached their ears, a

thought so strong that to receive and understand it brought a

feeling of pain.

"Man and elf-were and small kin-aye, and scaled ona

of the water, come you in. You who have dared disturb my

quiet."

Go in they did. Milo was sure they could not have with-

stood the will behind that mind-voice even had they so

wished. About them washed scarlet light, forming mist

through which they could move, yet could not see.

Out of habit and instinct Milo's mittened hand rested on

his sword. He unconsciously brought up his battered shield.

The dragonkind were legend, had been legend for gener-

ations. Deep in him there was awe bom of those same

legends.

The red mist swirled, puffed, arose as one would draw up-

ward a curtain. Under their boots was no longer gray rock,

rather a patterned flooring of glinting crystals, perhaps even

of gems, set in incomprehensible designs. Red-all shades of

red-and yellows and the white of ice were those bits of bril-

liance. But only for a moment did Milo see and wonder at

them.

For now the mist moved high to disclose the master of this

nest. Confronting them was another ledge, this one with a

rim to hold back what it contained, though here and there

some of that shifting substance had cascaded to the floor, sent

spinning by movements of great limbs. What formed that

bedding (if bedding it might be termed) was lumps and pieces

of gold, some of it coins so old that their inscriptions were

long since worn away.

Bright and gleaming as that metal was, the creature who

used it as the softest of beds was more resplendent. Afreeta

was indeed a miniature copy of this huge and ancient kins-

man, but, like the gar-eagle of the heights, Lichis's size was

such as to reduce all facing him to the insignificance of small

children. His body scales were larger than Naile's hand, and

over the basic gold of their coloring gem lights rippled stead-

ily, as the water of a pool might be stirred by a summer

breeze. Mighty wings were folded and the snouted head waa

high held in a curious, near-human way by the resting of the

fanged jaw on a taloned paw folded in upon itself like a fist,

the "elbow" of that huge limb supported in turn by the rim

of the gold-filled nest.

The great eyes were still half-lidded, as if their arrival had

disturbed its slumber. No man could read any expression on

that face. Then the mighty tail stirred, sending a fresh shower

of gold thudding out into the gem-set floor.

"I am Lichis." There was a supreme confidence in that

thought which overbore all defenses, struck straight into their

minds. "Why come you here to trouble me in the peace I

have chosen?"

He regarded them drowsily and then, though Milo had ex-

pected that one of the others-the cleric who dealt in magic,

the elf whose blood was akin to the land itself, or even Naile

who companioned with Afreeta-would be set to answer that

half-challenge, it was at the swordsman that question had

been aimed.

"We lie under a geas," Milo verbalized because that was

more natural for him. "We seek. . . ." Then he fell silent for

it seemed to him that some invisible projection from Lichis

reached deep into his mind, seeking, sorting, and he could

raise no defense against that invasion, try as he might.

Milo was not even aware that his shield had clanged to the

floor, that his hands pressed against his forehead. This was a

frightening thing-part of it a sickening revulsion, a feeling

of rape within the very core of his mind.

"So-" Invasion ceased, withdrew. Lichis reared his head

higher, his eyes fully opened now so that their slitted pupils

were visible.

That clawed paw on which he had rested his jaw made a

gesture. About them the whole of the cave nest trembled.

The mountain wall itself quivered in answer to Lichis's

thought-demand, though Milo sensed force, aimed not at him

but elsewhere, thrusting into dimensions beyond the compre-

hension of those who knew not the talent.

A ball of scarlet haze rolled from overhead, began to spin.

Though it made him increasingly sick and dizzy to watch its

gyrations, Milo found that he could not rum his eyes from it.

As it spun, its substance thickened and then flattened. The

ball became a flat surface, steadying vertically above the floor

at Milo's shoulder height

On that disk arose configurations. The red faded to the

gray of the mountain lands. Lapping the wall of rock was

now an expanse of yellow-gray, without any features, just a

billowing surface.

"The Sea of Dust," Ingrge said. Lichis did not glance in

the direction of the elf. Rather he leaned his great head for-

ward, staring intently at the miniature landscape which ever

changed, grew more distinct. Mountains lay to the right-the

Sea stretched on over three-quarters of the rest of the disk.

Now, at the extreme left, within the dust land, there arose

a dark shadow, irregular-like a blot of ink dropped from

the pen of a scribe to spread across a yet unlettered parch-

ment. The stain became fixed on the very edge of the disk.

Lichis's head drooped still more, until his great snout

nearly touched that blot. Milo thought that he saw the

dragon's wide nostrils expand a little as if he were sniffing.

Then once more the thought voice reached out for the

swordsman.

"Stretch forth your right hand, man."

Obediently he swung his palm up and out, not allowing his

flesh to touch the miniature landscape. On his thumb the

oblong of the ring began to glow. The minute red lines and

dots on it awoke into a life of their own.

"You carry your own guide," Lichis announced. "Loosen

your hand, man-now!"

So emphatic was that order that Milo obeyed. He tried to

allow his haad to go limp where it hung above the miniature

mountains walling the pictured sea. His flesh met and rested

upon some invisible support in the air. Then, by no will of

his, it moved from right to left, slowly, inexorably, while on

the ring the lines and dots waved and waned. Toward the

blot on the left his hand swung. The compulsion that held

him, tugged him into taking one step forward and then an-

other. His index finger, close to the thumb, clung tightly, one

length of flesh near-wedded to the other. Now that finger

pointed straight to the blot.

"There is your goal." Lichis sank back to his former indo-

lent position. Below Milo's outstretched hand the disk spun

furiously, bits of mist from which it had been fashioned

breaking off, the clear-cut picture of the land disappearing.

"The Sea of Dust," Ingrge mused. "No man-or elf-has

dared that and returned-"

"You have seen where lies that which you would find." Li-

chis's thought conveyed no emotion. "What you do with this

knowledge is your own affair."

Perhaps because the Golden Dragon had used him to point

out their path and he was beginning to be irked at being an-

other's tool, Milo dared to raise another question. "How far

must we go, Dragon Lord? And-"

Lichis shifted on his bed of gold. There was a rippling of

color across his scales. From him, to catch in their minds,

flowed a warning spark of the ancient lord's irritation.

"Man-and such other of you as walk on two feet, ride

upon four-measure your own distances. To the end of your

strengths your road will stretch. I have seen in your memories

what this wizard would have you do. To his small mind the

logic is correct. But he has his boundaries in all those scraps

of the old learning he clutches to him and seeks to store in

his limited memory. This I believe: what you seek now lies at

the core of the Sea of Dust. It is alien, and even I cannot

fathom what it hides, though the blood-kin of my species

have, in their time, passed from world to world in dreams or

waking-when they were foolishly young, nearly still damp

from the egg and filled with the impetuousity of unlearned

spawn.

"You will dare the Sea-and what haunts it. In it are the

younger brothers such as Rockna, who in the past went a-

hunting there."

"The Brass Dragon!" Naile broke out, and Afreeta hissed,

thrusting her head into hiding beneath the collar of his cloak.

Something close to amusement-of a distant and alien

kind-could be sensed in Lichis's answer.

"So that one is still making trouble? It has been many span

of years since he played games with men and answered, when

he so willed, the calling of the Lords of Chaos. I think none

now live who would dare so to call now. But once he made

the Sea of Dust his own. Now"-Lichis settled down farther

in his strange bed, burrowing his limbs into the loose gold-

"I weary of you, men, elf, and all the rest. There is nothing

new in your species to amuse me. Since I have answered your

questions I bid you go."

Milo found himself turning, without willing that action,

saw that the others were also doing so. Already the red mist

fell in thick rolls, to curtain off their reluctant host. As the

swordsman drew away he looked back over his shoulder. Not

only had the mist now completely veiled Lichis but it was

fading into shadows; as they came out on the ledge above the

crater valley, there was nothing left behind them but impene-

trable dark.

They descended, burdening themselves with the packs and

gear they had stripped from the horses, to where their ani-

mals grazed about the lake. The tall walls of the crater cut

off those mountain winds that hafd lashed them and it was ac-

tually warmer than it had been at any time since they had set

forth from Greyhawk. They did not need the fire this night

for ease of temperature, yet they crowded to it as a symbol

of a world they understood, an anchorage against danger,

though Lichis's domain held no threat of Chaos. The dangers

of the Outer Dark could not venture so close to one who had

been ever triumphant over the magic of evil.

"The Sea of Dust." Naile had eaten his portion of their

journey-food and now sat, his back against a boulder, his

heavy legs outspread. Afreeta perched upon one of his knees

so that now and then he drew a caressing finger down her

spiked backbone. "I have heard many tales of it-but all

third and fourth hand or even still further removed. Do any

of you know more?"

Ingrge threw a twist of tough grass to feed the fire. Sparks

new upward.

"I have seen it," he stated flatly.

Their attention centered upon the elf. When he did not

continue, Naile prompted impatiently:

"You have seen it. Well, then what manner of country is

it?"

"It is," the elf replied somberly, "exactly what men call it

As the seas better known to us are filled with water which is

never quiet, pulled hither and yon by tides, driven by storm

winds, breaking in ceaseless waves to eat away at the land, so

exists the Sea of Dust. It may not have its tides, but it has its

winds to encase a traveler in clouds of grit, until he is totally

lost. He sinks into it, to be swallowed up as water may swal-

low a man who cannot swim. How deep its layers are no one

knows.

"There was once a race who made it their own. They built

strange ships-not like those that go upon the oceans, but flat

of bottom, with runners extending some distance fore and aft,

wide and webbed to hold them on the surface. They raised

sails to the ever-blowing winds and coasted thus. Now after a

heavy storm it is said that sometimes a wreck of one of their

ancient ships may be seen jutting out of the wind-driven dust.

What became of them, no man of our age knows. But to ven-

ture out into those quicksands afoot is to sink-"

Naile hunched forward a little, his hands made into fists

resting upon his knees.

"You speak of webbed runners to support a ship," he

mused. "And you warn of men sinking straightway into this

treacherous stuff. But what if men who would try such a

journey could also use foot webs, spreading as it were the

weight of their bodies over a wider expanse? In the frozen

lands men walk so upon the surface of soft snow in winter,

where without such support they would flounder into drifts."

"Snowshoes!" MUo's other memory quirked into life for an

instant. He looked at the elf. "Could such work, do you

think?"

Ingrge shrugged. "We can but try." He sounded none too

sure. "I have not heard of such before. But I see no way we

can venture, without some aid, into that shifting, unsolid

country. We cannot take the beasts with us. Only what we

ourselves can carry will provide our sustenance there."

Milo thought of the map Lichis had created. How far away

was the center? The Golden Dragon had refused even to

guess the distance. As he rolled himself into his cloak it was

with a dampened spirit. What a man could do he was ready

and willing to try-but there comes a time when even

strength and will can be challenged, wrung to the uttermost,

with failure the final sum of all.

12

The Sea of Dust

They chose to camp sheltered by scrub trees. There

they slumped wearily for a space to nurse aching feet, shoul-

ders galled by packs. Howver, at this end of the day's labori-

ous march they did at last look out upon that feared trap, the

sea of restless dust. It was no more level than the wind-

disturbed ocean. Where ocean waves roll, here dunes mounded

and gave off a haze of grit from their rounded crests at the

slightest breath of breeze. Farther out, whirling pillars of dust

devils danced, rose and fell, skittered across a rippling surface,

demons of the waste.

Looking out into and over that desolation. Milo longed to

turn his back upon it. A man could fight against upraised

weapons. He might even summon up reserves of courage to

front demonic threat or alien, monstrous enemies produced

from a sorcerous nightmare. But this land itself was against

human kind.

Yet there was no easing of the geas compulsion that had

drawn them hither. Whether or no, they were committed to

the penetration of what lay ahead, with no sure knowledge of

any trail (for how could one mark a trail when there was a

constant shifting of dunes, the haze of driven dust?) or how

long they must fight for survival before they reached their

goal.

With the next day's dawning they began to fashion their

only hope for going farther. Ingrge chose the material, and

he did it as though he loathed the task. As with all the elven

kind, any destruction, even of these crooked and spindling

scrub trees that grew on the lip of the sea, was a thing

against his innermost nature. They selected, with care the

most pliable of lengths he gave them, soaking them in a pool

of water that was murky with dust puffed from the south,

giving the turgid water a yellow velvet surface.

Once they were thoroughly soaked, Naile used his strength

to bend the chosen pieces and hold them while they were

lashed together. The berserker also sacrificed a goodly portion

of his leather cloak to be slit into narrow thongs to lace

across the resulting egg-shaped "sand shoes." Then, into that

netting, the rest interwove roots, twisting in this material until

the whole took on a solid appearance.

Edging his boots carefully into thongs, Milo was the first to

try the clumsy looking footgear, venturing out into the drear

yellow-brown waste of dust. The surface gave under his

weight, and some of the particles oozed over the edges of his

footgear. But, though he had to proceed with a spraddle-

legged walk, he sank no farther. In the end, they decided they

had found the answer to one of the perils of the sea.

They discarded all the gear that they dared, taking only

their weapons, a measure of their journey supplies, and a

waterskin for each. Once they had filled those from the pool,

filtering the contents through a cloth Yevele provided, Gulth

waded into the water, which washed no higher than his waist,

and squatted down in the liquid until only his snout could be

seen. He had taken his cloak with him, letting it sop up in its

tough fabric as much of the liquid as possible. Alone of the

company he refused to be fitted with the sand shoes. His own

webbed feet, he insisted, would accommodate him on the

treacherous surface as they did in the ooze of his home

swamps.

Last night they had completed those shoes and now it was

morning once more. For the first time, and when they wished

it the least, the clouds that had hung over them for much of

their journey cleared. Sun arose, to glare down upon the

shifting surface of the gray-brown sea. Like Gulth, they went

cloaked, even with hoods pulled over their helmets to shield

them from dust powder and grit. Their progress was very

slow as they waddled awkwardly on, fighting to balance on

the clumsy web shoes.

Gulth quickly became a stumbling pillar of dust as it clung

to his wet cloak. But he had been right in that his own

webbed feet proved better able to walk here than on the hard

stone of the mountain's bones.

Milo took the lead. He held his thumb stretched out so that

he could see the ring that Lichis had told them was a guide.

Though the lines and dots upon it meant no more to him

than they had ever done, he saw, for the first time, that there

was a glow at the base of the stones. As they advanced that

glow crept slowly up the green surface.

It had begun near the end of one of the lines and Milo,

wanting to test the efficiency of this strange and, to him, im-

probable guide, angled a little away from a straightforward

line. The glow dimmed.

He was right! As he swung back again, the glow deepened,

fastened upon the line directly. The swordsman remembered

tales of the voyagers who had dared this waste with wind-

driven dust-skimming ships. Could the lines mark the paths

their ships had taken? Since he could do no better, he kept to

what he read in the ring, seeking, each time the glow wav-

ered, to move right or left back to the line.

At the fifth such change in the line of march, Naile de-

manded angrily what he was trying to do-wear out their

strength moving hither and thither like some mindless earth

beetle? But on Mile's pointing out the direction of the ring

lines, the berserker subsided with a grunt. Ingrge and Deav

Dyne gave assent with nods. The elf added that the line Milo

had chosen, mainly by chance, did indeed run toward that

portion of the sea where Lichis's map had produced in minia-

ture the seat of the evil they sought.

Their pace continued necessarily slow. The effort required

to raise a foot from the sucking embrace of the dust and to

place it ahead tried muscles that ordinary walking did not

use. While the sun's glare centered heat on them, Milo called

halts closer and closer together and was glad to see that none

of them, even Gulth, took more than a sip or two from their

supply of water.

The question that lay at the back of all their minds was

how long a trail might stretch before them. Added to that

was the uncertainty of their finding more water even at the

end, though if their enemy had his-or its-headquarters

there, Milo reasoned, there must exist some source of food

and water.

He called a longer halt at midday for he noticed that

Gulth, though as usual the lizardman offered no protest, was

wavering. The heat had long since sucked all moisture from

his dust-burdened cloak. Now it must be drying his skin in

turn. Yet if they gave him freely from their own containers

of water it might mean death for them all. Two high-heaped

dunes quite close together provided a measure of protection

from the air that was filled with powder and dust. It found a

way into their mouths, clogged their nostrils, irritated their

eyes. Creeping between the hillocks, Milo and Wymarc shed

their cloaks and battened them down with handsful of grit to

form a roof under which the party lay close together, striving

to shut out the misery of the day, their shoes under them to

support their bodies. To have attempted this journey by day,

Milo decided, was folly. They should have started at night

when at least the sun would have been eliminated from their

list of torments.

Deav Dyne roused him some time later. The cleric's face

was a smear of dust making a grotesque mask. But the trou-

ble in his eyes was plain to read.

"Gulth-he will die," he stated bluntly, pointing to where

(he lizardman lay a little apart from the others, as he always

did. Yevele now knelt beside him, only partly visible in the

dusk, for it was close to night. The thick cloak had been

pulled aside from the scaled body while the battlemaid wiped

the arch of the alien's chest with a cloth. When she uptipped

one of the water bags and -wet the cloth, Milo would have

protested, but his words were never uttered. Instead he crept

over to her side.

Gulth's eyes were shut, his snouted mouth hung open a

fraction, dark tongue tip exposed. Yevele dribbled a little of

the water into his mouth, then set aside the bag, to once more

rub the lizardman's chest with her dampened cloth. She

glanced up at Milo.

"This does little good." Her voice sounded harsh as if the

dust had gotten into her throat to coat her words. "He is dy-

ing-"

"So he dies." Naile sat up. He did not even turn his head

to view the girl's efforts at rousing the lizardman. "The world

will be the sweeter with one less snake-skin in it!"

"One expects nothing from the boar but blind rage and

little thought." She spat, as if to clear her mouth of both the

words and the dust. "But think of this, boar warrior." Yevele

lifted Gulth's limp wrist exposing the bracelet. "Seven of us

bear this. Do you not speculate that if we are so tied, the fate

of one is in the end entwined with the fate of the rest? I

know not what magic has bound us on this wheel of compan-

ioned adventure, but I should not care to take the chance of

losing any one of you. Not because we are truly sworn com-

panions or shield mates, but because together we may be

mightier than we are separately. Look about you, berserker.

Is this not seemingly an ill-assorted company?

"We have an elf, and the elven-kin are mighty fighters, to

be sure. No one within this world will gainsay that they have

proven that many times over. But they have other gifts that

the rest of us do not possess. Behind you is a bard-a

skald-and his weapon is not first that sword he wears, rather

the power he draws from that harp of his. Can any other of

us touch its strings to such purpose?

"Deav Dyne-no warrior, but a healer, a worker of spells,

one who can draw upon potent powers which or who would

not answer to any other's voice. And you, yourself, Naile

Fangtooth-all know the gifts of the were-kind, both their

powers and what trouble may follow the use of them. I am

what I am. I have the spell that I used and perhaps one or

two others I can summon. However, I am no true daughter

of such learning, rather one schooled to war. Yet again, I

may have what each of the others of you lack. While you,"

she looked last to Milo "are a swordsman, a rank that marks

you as a seasoned fighting man. Still, it is what you wear

upon your thumb that guides us through this desert.

"So, each of us having our own talent to offer, can we say

that Gulth does not also have his?"

"Being what?" demanded Naile. "So far we have had to

coddle him as if he were a babe. Would you now dowse him

with all our water so he may stumble on, say, another day-

or night's-journey? What then? Having used up our sup-

plies-he is no better and we are the worse. I tell you, girl,

battlemaid or no, such an action is a foolishness that only the

greenest of country lads who has never borne the weight of a

shield might decide upon-"

"However, she is right!" Milo slewed around to front the

berserker, knowing well that perhaps he might also face a

disastrous flare-up of the big man's murderous temper. What

Yevele had just said was logical good sense. Their very mixed

party differed from any questing company he could remem-

ber-so diversified that there- must be some reason for its as-

sembly. Certainly Gulth had contributed nothing so far but

the weight of a burden. But he did wear the bracelet, so it

followed he had his place in the venture.

For a moment, the swordsman thought that Naile would

vent his anger. Milo was sure that he could never stand up to

a berserker's attack. Then-

There came a ripple of notes. Milo, his own blood pound-

ing heavily in his ears, was confused. A bird-here in this

death wilderness?

He saw the flush subside in Naile's face, felt his own hand

fall away from his sword hilt. Then he realized that Wymarc

was smiling. His fingers on the harp strings made them sing

once more.

Naile looked at the bard. "You play with magic,

songsmith, and sometimes you may find those fingers of yours

burned." But there was no real threat behind his warning. It

Was as if the music had drawn the poison of anger out of him

as speedily as a sword could let the life out of any man.

"My magic, berserker," returned Wymarc. "We may not be

blood comrades, but the battlemaid has the right of it.

Deserve it or not, we are bound fast together in this ploy.

Therefore, I have one small suggestion to offer. This Afreeta

of yours, if she is like all her kind, she can smell out both

food and drink. Suppose you loose her, berserker. In the

meantime, if our scaled fellow here needs water to keep life

within that long body of his, I say give him of my share. I

have often tramped roads where wells lay far apart."

Deav Dyne looked up from his beads. "Give of mine also,

daughter." He pushed the skin he had borne closer to her.

The elf said nothing, only brought his skin, while Milo

tugged at the stopper on his. For a long moment Naile hesi-

tated.

"A snake-skin," he growled, "struck my shield mate's head

from his shoulders. On that day I took oath, as I laid Karl

under his stones of honor, that I would have vengeance for

his blood price. That was three seasons ago and in a far part

of the world. But if you all agree to this folly, I shall not be

lessened by you. As for Afreeta-" He raised his hand to his

throat and the pseudo-dragon crawled out, to sit upon it. "I

think she will find us nothing beyond what we see here and

now. But I cannot answer for her. She shall do that for her-

self." He loosed his small flyer into the night.

Deav Dyne, the girl, and Milo worked together, laving the

skin of Gulth, until the lizardman coughed. His eyes, dull and

nearly covered by the extra inner lid, opened.

They could not wet down his cloak again, that would have

taken all the water of a small pond, Milo imagined. Perhaps

though, with it about him the moisture on his skin would not

evaporate so soon. At least the burning sun was gone. As

they freed the cloaks they had used to roof their day shelter,

the swordsman looked to his ring. To his great surprise for-

tune at last favored them a little, for, even in the dark, a

spark of light shone there on what they hoped was their path.

Deav Dyne stepped up beside Gulth, pulling one of the liz-

ardman's dangling arms about his own shoulders, lending

him part of his own strength. The rest shrugged on their

packs, Naile, without a word, slinging the cleric's along with

his own. There were a few stars, high and cold, very remote,

but tonight no moon. Still, the dust itself seemed oddly visible

though Milo could discern no real radiance out of it-merely

that it stretched as a pallid field ahead.

They wobbled and fought for balance until their aching

muscles perforce adjusted to a gait necessary to maintain

them afoot. At least the blowing of dust powder, which had

accompanied them during their half-day's travel, appeared to

have died away, Their surroundings were clear enough of the

punishing haze for them to breathe more easily and see to a

greater distance.

Milo moved out, his attention ever divided between the

ring and the way ahead, for they had to detour from time to

time to avoid the rise of dunes. They had halted twice for

rests before Afreeta's hissing call brought them to a quick

third pause.

The pseudo-dragon sped directly to Naile, hooked claws in

the folded back hood of his cloak, and pressed her snout as

close to his helm-concealed ear as she could get.

"That way-" Naile gestured with his hand to the right,

"She has made a find."

He stepped out of the line of their advance, apparently

quite confident of Afreeta's report. Because the others had

some hope in that confidence, they fell in behind him. Weav-

ing a way through a miniature range of dust hills, they came

out into a wide open expanse. From its nearly flat surface

jutted upward two tall, thin columns, starkly dark against the.

pallid sand. Afreeta took wing once more, hissing loudly. She

reached the nearest of those pillars and clung with taloned

feet, her head pointing downward to the smooth dust. Her

hissing became a squawk of excitement.

Milo and Naile floundered on until the berserker set hand

to the pillar below the perch of his winged companion.

"Wood! Wood!" Now he pounded on it "You know what

this is? I have seen service aboard the free ships of Parth-

this is a mast! There is a ship below it!"

He dropped to his knees scooping away dust with his

cupped hands, sending its powder flying over his shoulder as

a hound might dig at the burrow of prey gone to earth.

"But"-Milo moved away from the flying dust that swirled

out from the berserker's exertions-"a buried ship-what

might that still bold after all these years?"

"Anything." Ingrge's voice was calm, yet it would appear

he was infected with the madness that had gripped the ber-

serker only with a little more logic in his action. For, before.

he squatted down a short distance away, he had drawn off one

of his dust shoes and was using it as a shovel, doing greater

good with that than Naile had been able to accomplish with

his hands.

Milo was certain some madness bom of this alien and

threatening world (perhaps, even an outreaching of that

which they sought and which must have defenses they could

not conceive) had gripped both of them. Then Wymarc

moved closer and deliberately knelt to unfasten his own

webbed foot gear. He glanced up at Milo, his dust-begrimed

face showing that lazy smile.

"Do not think they have taken leave of all senses, swords-

man. Any ship that breasted such a sea as this must have

gone well provisioned. And do not underrate our winged

friend there. If she was told to seek water-that was what she

quested for, nor would she make a mistake. It seems that per-

haps miracles may yet be with us, even in these unregenerate

and decadent days." With that, he, too, began to dig.

Though Milo could not really accept that they would find

anything, he discovered he could not keep apart from their

labor. So, save for Gulth, who lay on the dust well away

from the scene of their efforts, they united to seek a ship that

might have lain cradled in the dust since before even one

stone of Greyhawk's wall had been set upon another.

It was a back-killing and disheartening task, for the dust

shifted continually through their improvised shovels. And,

though they mounded it as far away from where they dug as

they could, streams of dust continually trickled down the

sides of the hole to be lifted out again. They tried to steady

these walls with the fabric of their cloaks, but Milo believed

they were wasting their strength in folly. Then Naile gave a

shout mighty enough to move the dunes themselves.

"Decking!"

Long ago Deav Dyne had produced his light-giving globe

to aid their sight, and now he swung it below. It was true

enough-what Milo had never really expected to see was firm

under the berserker's boots-a stretch of planking. Afreeta

fluttered down from her perch on the mast and landed on a

ridge of yet uncleared dust. There she began to scrabble with

her feet, again uttering her high squawk.

Naile pursed his lips, hissed in turn. The pseudo-dragon

fluttered up, keeping her wings awhirr while lie scooped vigor-

ously at the site she had indicated. Within moments his

sweeps had uncovered what could only be the edge of a

hatch.

At the same moment, Milo looked down at his wrist. His

bracelet had come to life.

" 'Ware the dice!" he cried out, as he strove to concentrate

with all the energy his tired body could summon on the be-

ginning whirr of those warnings of danger. He did not even

know if his warning had reached the others.

Heat warmed the metal as the points of light glinted. On,

his mind urged. On-give me-give me-

The dice stopped, allowing their pattern to blaze just for a

moment before they were dead, metal and gem together

again. Milo snatched up the shield he had been using to carry

off the up-thrown dust from the edge of the pit they were

digging. His sword was already drawn as he swung slowly

about, searching for an enemy he was sure must exist. He

saw Gulth throw off the heavy cloak, pull himself to his

knees, his hand fumbling weakly at the hilt of his own

quartz-studded weapon.

Yevele, dumping a burden of dust from her own shield,

scrambled to her feet and sank calf-deep in the loose ground.

For the first time Milo thought of this impediment to any

battle. To fight on their dust shoes would make even the most

dexterous of swordsmen unsteady, unable to use even a frac-

tion of his skill. To discard the webbing might plunge them

instantly into a trap, keeping them fast-pinned at the pleasure

of the foe.

Where was the enemy?

The pale stretch of the dust above the pit and the hillocks

of powdery stuff they had dumped at a distance were clearly

vacant of any save themselves. Ingrge crawled up, made for

his bow and the arrow quiver that he had left beside the de-

pleted water skins. The elfs head swung from side to side,

and, though in this half-light Milo could not be sure, the

swordsman believed Ingrge's nostrils expanded and contracted,

testing the air for a scent human senses were too dulled

to discover.

Deav Dyne was the next to crawl into sight. He must have

left his light globe below in the pit, though his prayer beads

swung from his left wrist. Now he stooped a foot or so away

from the edge of their pit to gather up a fistful of dust Chant-

ing, he tossed this into the air, pivoted slowly, throwing simi-

lar handsful to each point of the compass as he used one of

the archaic tongues of the temple-trained.

What he strove to do, Milo could not guess. But as far as

he himself could gauge it, the spell achieved nothing.

"Heave, man, I have the lashing cut." Naile's bellow sound-

ed from below. Had the beserker not heard the warning or

taken heed of his own bracelet? Milo, reluctant to leave his

post above, shouted back.

" 'Ware, Naile-"

"Take watch yourself!" roared the other. "I have seen the

dice spin. But what we must face lies-"

There was a crash. Dust rose out of the pit in a great bil-

lowing cloud to blind their eyes, fill their mouths and noses,

render them for a long moment helpless.

Then came another shout, fast upon that the warning grunt

of a battle-mad boar many times louder than any true boar

could utter. Without clear thought of what might happen,

Milo, still wiping at his watering eyes with the back of his

left hand swung around to wade toward the lip of the pit.

For there was no mistaking the sounds now. Battle was in

progress there.

13

The Liche Ship

The dust itself churned and moved, upsetting Milo as a

wave might sweep the feet from under a man. He heard cries

through the murk, fought to keep his feet, instinctively threw

tip his shield arm to give him a small breathing space be-

tween the billow of rising grit and his body which the dust

threatened to bury.

Already the swordsman was held thigh deep in the outward

spreading flood of gray-brown powder. More than half-

blinded, gasping for breath, Milo reeled and fought against

the powder that entrapped him. For all he could tell he was

alone, the others might have been swallowed up, buried by

this eruption. Yet he could still hear faintly that infernal

grunting, even what might be the clash of steel against steel.

Firm in the shifting clouds of dust was a dark mass. There

was a great upheaval where the ship lay. The craft might it-

self now be answering to some spell once laid upon it. Milo,

his eyes smarting and watering to rid themselves of the fine

grit, moved toward it, only to be brought up (unable to judge

distance, against what seemed a solid wall, with force enough

to drive the shield back agai&t his chest and shoulder.

The waves of dust sent surging by the rise of this barrier

were subsiding, the air clearing. Now the sound of battle,

came far more strong. Milo slung his shield to his back,

forced the blade of his sword between his teeth in his dust-

coated mouth and swept his hands along the wall for some

method of climbing.

To the left his gropings caught the dangling skeleton of a

ladder. With a mighty effort he pulled himself toward that,

wondering if the stiff rope of its sides, the wood of its doles

might crumble under his weight. He knew that, strange and

unnatural as it might be and surely bom of some form of un-

natural magic, this was no wall that had risen so summarily

from the depths of the Dust Sea. Rather it must be the long-

buried ship.

He gripped the ladder and fought to raise himself out of

the dust, kicking it to loosen its hold on him, drawing himself

up with all the strength he could muster in his straining arms.

The sea sucked at him avidly, but he won on to the next

handhold and the next.

His feet came free, found purchase on the ladder, so he

pulled himself aloft haunted by a horror of falling back into

the dry sea, there to perhaps lie entombed forever.

Somehow Milo won to the deck, out into air that he could

breathe, where the mist of dust had fallen away. Wymarc

stood with his back against the butt of one of the masts. The

bard's harp lay at his feet while in his hand his sword made

swift play, as controlled as fingers had been on the strings of

his instrument, keeping at bay three attackers.

Naile, in were form, plowed fearlessly into others emerging

from the hatch he had broached, his heavy boar's head flash-

ing with a speed seemingly unnatural to such an animal, his

tusks catching and ripping up ancient mail as if age had

pared it to the thinnest parchment.

While the enemy. ...

Milo did not need the faint, musty smell of corruption that

wafted toward them from that crew to know that these were

liches, the Undead. Their body armor was the same color as

the dust that had been their outward tomb for so long. They

even wore masks of metal, having but holes for eyes and nos-

trils, which hung from their helmets, covering their faces.

The masks had been wrought in the form of fierce scowls,

and tufts of metal, spun as fine as hairs, bearded their chins

to fan outward over their mail corselets. They poured up

from the hold, swords in hand-strange swords curved as to

blade-which they swung with a will. And the Undead could

not die.

Milo, as he reached the surface of the deck, saw Naile-

boar savage one of the Undead with his tusks, breaking ar-

mor as brittle as the shell of a long-dead beetle, in fact

breaking the liche almost in two. But its feet continued to

stand and the torso, as it fell, still aimed a blow at its at-

tacker.

"ALL-LL-VAR!" Without being aware that he had given

voice to the battle cry of his youth, Milo charged at the liches

that ringed Wymarc at the mast. His shield slammed into the

back of one. Both armor and the dried body beneath broke.

The swordsman stamped hard on an arm rising from the

planking to sweep at his legs with one of the curved swords,

brought down his own weapon on an angle between head and

shoulder of another of the enemy advancing on Wymarc's

left, while two of his fellows kept the bard busy.

Steel clanged against the breastplate edge, sheered a spread

of metal thread beard, then took the helmed head from the

thing's narrow shoulders. Yet Milo must strike again and

again before, with a blow from his shield, he could send the

dried body blundering out of his path.

Dimly he heard shouts from the others, though Wymarc

held his breath to conserve energy for the fight. Milo leaped

forward to engage a second of the Undead coming up behind

the mast, its curved sword held at an angle well calculated to

hamstring the bard. This liche was half crouched and the

swordsman slammed his shield with all his power against its

bowed shoulders. Tripping over the severed arm of one of

those Wymarc had earlier accounted for (an arm that still

heaved with the horrible Undead power), he fell, bearing un-

der him the liche.

He was hardly aware of a curved sword striking the

planking only inches away from his head. Milo rolled away

from the liche. Without waiting to rise farther than his knees,

he used his shield as a battering weapon for a second, striking

the thing's head and shoulders. Then looking around he saw

one that had been striving to free its weapon from the nearly

fossilized wood lose both arm and half the shoulder from a

blow aimed by Yevele, her sword used two handed and

brought down with all the force she could deliver.

Ingrge, his green-brown forest garb standing out here as a

bright color, waded into the mele beyond. No arrow, not

even one poisoned by tha secret potions of the western

hunters, could bring death to those already dead. So the elf

had dropped his bow and was using his sword. Above all

other sound, arose ever the terrible battle cry of Naile who

charged again and again, blood dripping now from his thickly

bristled shoulders, shreds of dried skin, bits of time-eaten

metal and brittle bone falling from his tusks as he stamped

and gored.

Something caught at Mile's heel. A head, or the travesty of

a head sheared from a body, freed of the grotesque mask,

lips long since completely dried away, snapped its teeth in

open menace. The swordsman kicked out, sickened. Under

the force of his blow that disembodied head spun around,

was gone. Milo's shield was already up to meet another rush

from the two that had been the last to climb into the air.

"AYY-YY-YY-YY-YY-YY!" The were-boar turned in a circle,

striving to free himself from the weight of one of the Un-

dead. The thing had either lost or discarded its concealing

helm. Its jaws were set in Naile's hind leg and there it

gnawed with mindless ferocity at the tough flesh. Then, down

through the air swept a sword serrated with wicked points of

quartz, smashing the bodiless head into a shattered ruin.

Gulth staggered on a step or two. Naile, with a last furious

shake of his leg, wheeled away from the lizardman to hunt

fresh prey. He charged again, and again, not at new attackers

now, but stamping and lowering his great head to catch and

toss aloft fragments of the Undead. Though there was still

movement among the fallen, arms that strove to raise aloft

swords, mouths that snapped, legs fighting to rise only to con-

tinually fall back again, none of those that had been im-

prisoned in the ship stood whole or ready to move against the

adventurers.

Wymarc's arm hung limply against his side, blood drib-

bling sluggishly from ripped mail near his shoulder. Ingrge

knelt well away from the mass Naile still stamped, using the

blade of his sword to force apart jaws that had closed upon

his ankle, with better luck than those that had earlier

threatened Milo. Gulth leaned against the second mast. His

snouted head was sunk upon his breast and he kept on his

feet only by his hold on the mast and the fact that his sword,

point down on the deck, gave him support.

The were-boar, having reduced to shreds and shards all the

fallen, shimmered. Naile Fangtooth stood there in human

form, breathing hard, some of the beast's red glare still in his

eyes, wincing, as he moved, from a wound on his flank.

He drew a couple of deep breaths, but it was Wymarc,

nursing his slashed arm against him, who spoke first.

"There are never guardians without that which they must

guard. What is it, I wonder, that these were set here to pro-

tect?"

Yevele had withdrawn to the edge of the deck, wiping her

sword blade over and over with a corner of her cloak, then

deliberately cutting off the portion of the cloth that had

touched the steel and discarding it among the mass of broken

bodies and armour.

"They were near the end of the spell that bound them so."

she said, not looking at what lay there. "Else they would have

given us a far greater battle-"

"Or, perhaps"-Milo looked to the bracelet-"we have

indeed learned a little of what Hystaspes told us could be

done. Did you also will the aid of fortune in this?"

There was a murmur from the rest-mutual agreement. It

would seem that they had perhaps changed in a little by their

concentrated wills the roll of those dice which marked their

ability to continue to exist.

Up from the open hatch spiraled Afreeta. She wheeled

around Naile, uttering small cries into which imagination

might read some measure of distress as she hovered on the

level of his leg wound. The berserker gave a gruff sound

which might almost have been a laugh.

"Now, then, my lady. I have taken worse. Yes, many times

over. Also"-his laugh grew-"do we not have a healer-of-

wounds with us?" He waved a hand to the bulwarks of the

raised ship where Deav Dyne once more cradled his beads,

the cleric's lips moving with inaudible, but none the less,

meant-to-be-potent prayer. "However, what have we uncov-

ered here, besides the spells of some wizard? As the bard has

said, guardians do not guard without good reason." Limping,

the berserker made his way to the edge of the hatch that had

been pushed back to allow the exit of the liche defenders.

Milo glanced at Deav Dyne, the one among them best

trained to pick up any emanation of Chaos, or perhaps of

some other evil even older than men now living could guess.

But the cleric's eyes were fast closed, he must be concen-

trating upon his own petitions. The swordsman went after the

berserker. Even Yevele had picked a way to that opening,

avoiding the noisome litter on the deck.

The faint stench of corruption was stronger here. Ingrge

snapped his firestone and caught up a bit of ancient rag to

bind about an arrow shaft. He did not use his bow, but rather

sent the small flame down as a hand-thrown dart. It stuck into

a chest, burning brightly enough to let them see that nothing

now moved there.

What they looked into was a well, over which reached,

fore and aft, a walkway. On either side of it were wedged

great stoppered jars, plus a few chests piled one upon the

other. Afreeta fluttered down to perch on the sealed lid of

one of those man-tall jars, pecking away at it between inter-

vals of hissing. For the third time Naile laughed.

"She has found us what we asked of her. Down there lies

something drinkable."

Milo could hardly believe that countless centuries might

have left any water unevaporated. He swung over and down,

making his way cautiously toward the jar Afreeta indicated,

alert to any sound from out of the dark which might signal

that all the liches had not yet come forth to fight. Reluctantly

he sheathed his sword, used his dagger to pick at the black

sealing stuff on the jar which was near iron-hard. At last,

using the blade as a chisel and the pommel of his sword as a

hammer, he broke loose a first small chunk. Once that was

free the rest flaked into a dust Milo could brush away.

He levered up the lid.

"What have we then?" Naile demanded as the swordsman

leaned over to sniff at the contents. "Wine of the gods?"

The smell was faint but the jar was full to within two fin-

gers' breadth of the top. Milo wiped a finger on his breeches

and lowered it. Wet and thin-not like something that had

begun to solidify. He drew forth his finger, holding it close to

his nose. The skin was pink, as if flushed by blood. But the

smell that came to his nostrils was not unpleasant.

"Not water, but liquid," he reported to those above.

Afreeta clung to the lip of the jar and sent her spade-tipped

tongue within, to lick and lick again at its contents. An object

dangled down to swing within Milo's reach. He recognized

one of the smaller bottles that had been fastened to their

saddles.

"Give me a sample!" Naile boomed from above.

Obediently the swordsman wiped off the outer skin of the

bottle, pushed it deep enough into the container so that a

wave of liquid was sent gurgling into the bottle. Then he al-

lowed it to swing aloft.

Prying loose the burning arrow he trod carefully along the

runway of the hold. There were at least fifty of the great jars,

all sealed and wedged upright, as if their one-time owners

were determined they would not leave their racks before the

ship came to harbor once more.

The chests were less well protected against the ravages of

time. He threw open two, to expose masses of ill-smelling

stuff that might have either been food or material now near

rotted into slime. Of the liches or where they had been during

their imprisonment here he could see no sign. He had no

wish to move far from the promise of escape the open hatch

gave.

When Milo swung up, via a helping rope of two capes

twisted together, he found Deav Dyne with his healing po-

tions. Wymarc's arm was already bound, and the bard held

his hand out before him, flexing his fingers one after the

other to test their suppleness. Ingrge and Yevele, portions of

material wrapped about their noses and mouths, were using

the sweep of their swords and Yevele's shield to push from

the deck, over into the dust, the remains of the spectre force.

Gulth squatted by the far mast. His quartz-studded weapon

lay across his knees, and he had bowed his head on his folded

arms, as if he had withdrawn into some inner misery. Naile

lay on the deck, his hairy thigh exposed. Into his wound

Deav Dyne was dribbling some of the liquid from the newly

Opened jar below.

"Ha, swordsman." Naile hailed Milo. "It would seem these

dead men had something to fight for after all." He took the

flask from the cleric's hand and allowed a goodly portion to

pour from its spout into his mouth. Deav Dyne gave one of

his narrow, grudging smiles.

"If I be not mistaken, today we have found a treasure

here. This is the fabled Wine of Pardos, that which heals the

body, sharpens the wits, was the delight of the Emperors of

Kalastro in the days before the Southern Mountains breathed

forth the plague of fire. But," now Deav Dyne's smile faded,

"we have troubled something that may have been a balance

in this land and who knows what will come of that?"

Naile took another and larger swallow. "Who cares, priest?

I have drunk of the vintages of the Great Kingdom-and

twice plundered caravans of the Paynim who fancy them-

selves the greatest vintners of our age. Naught they could of-

fer goes so smoothly down & man's throat, fuels such a gentle

warmth in his belly, or makes him look about him with a

brighter eye. Wine of Pardos or not"-he set down the flask

and slapped his hand against his chest-"by the Brazen Voice

of Ganclang, I am whole and a proper man again!"

Since Deav Dyne had pronounced the bounty from below

good they drew upon it freely, filling the skins that had

shrunken to empty flaps. Gulth offered no refusal when the

cleric washed down once more the lizardman's dust-clogged

skin and soaked his cloak in another of the jars, leaving it

there to become completely saturated.

They made their camp on board the ship and speculated as

to what had brought it boiling out of the dust and set its dead

defenders upon them. Perhaps here, too, a geas had been set

on ship and defenders which their disturbance of its burial

had brought so to fulfillment. Though the elf and the cleric.

had used their talents to sniff out any form of the Greater

Magic that might lie on board, both admitted that they were-

left with that mystery unresolved. Milo privately believed that

the army of the liche had not been set, for what might be a

millennium, merely to guard a cargo of wine jars, precious

though those might be.

He could not deny that the wine did have powers of recu-

peration. Wounds bathed in it closed nearly instantly, while it

was as refreshing to the taste as the clearest and coldest of

spring water could have been. As he took the second part of

the night watch, he moved slowly back and forth along tha

deck wishing they might use this ship to travel onward. But

the masts were bare of any sail, and neither he nor the others,

though they had discussed the matter wistfully, could see any

other form of propulsion. They had not tried to explore the

ship farther than the hatch Naile had originally forced open.

At the stern there was the bulk of a cabin, the door of

which had resisted even Naile's strength when he had earlier

tried it. Milo believed that the berserker was now willing to

leave well enough alone. The battle with the liches, a victory

though it had been, had left them all shaken. It was one thing

to face the living, another to have to batter to pieces things

already dead but endowed with the horrible strength and will

these had displayed.

Milo made his way to the bow of the ship. As always, in

the Sea of Dust, here came a soft whispering from the dunes.

Now it seemed to him that he heard more than just the

wind-shift of the dust, that the whispering was real. H&

strained to catch actual words, words uttered in a voice be-

low, just below, the level of his hearing. So vivid was the im-

pression that out there enemy forces were gathering that he

glanced now and then to his bracelet, expecting to see it

come to life in warning. Milo made his sentry rounds, up one

side of the deck, down the other, passing the cloak-wrapped

forms of the others, with an ever-growing urgency. He even

went to hang over the side railing and stare down to where

the debris of the battle had been flung.

But there was nothing of it to be seen-shattered bone,

rust-breached armor, all had vanished into the dust as if those-

they had fought had never existed at all. However, there was

something abroad in the night-

The swordsman set a firm rein upon his imagination. There

was nothing abroad in the night! He was well aware that his

senses were far inferior to those of either Ingrge or Naile-

that Afreeta, perhaps, had the keenest ability of them all.

Surely the wine they had drunk had not brought any dim-

ming of mind with it-only a renewal of strength.

Then why did he seek what was neither to be seen nor

heard?

Still he tramped the deck and watched and waited. For

what he could not have said. Ridden by increasing uneas-

iness, he went to awaken Naile to take the next watch. Yet

the swordsman hesitated to speak of his unrest, knowing full

well that the berserker would be far more able to detect any-

thing that was wrong.

Milo could not remember having dreamed so vividly be-

fore as he did now in the sleep into which he swiftly slid. The.

dream had the same background as when he had been on.

watch, possessing such reality he might have been fastened by

some spell to the mast, immobile and speechless, to watch

what happened.

Naile, limping very little, was making the same round Milo

himself had followed during his tour as sentry. When the ber-

serker reached the bow of the ship the second time, he stood

still, a certain tenseness in his stance, his head turned to stare

southward over the billows of the dust sea.

Then Milo, in the dream, followed Naile's fixed gaze. It

was ... it was like those shadows that had dogged them

across the plains, and yet not the same either. He believed

that he did not really see, he only caught, through Naile'a

mind, in some odd, indescribable way, the sensation of

seeing. As if one were trying to describe to the blind the.

sense of sight itself. But there was that out there which Naile

did not see and which held the berserker's attention locked

fast.

Naile hitched his cloak about him, axe firmly grasped in

his hand. He returned to where the ladder hung. Down he

climbed, over the rail and into the dust. As he so passed out

of Milo's sight, the swordsman fought against the bonds of

the dream, for he was now certain, without being told, that

Naile Fangtooth was being drawn away, led by what he saw.

Milo's struggles to awaken did not break the dream. He.

was forced to watch Naile, dust shoes once more bound to'

his feet, slip and slide away from the ship, his broad back:

turned on his companions, as if they had been wiped from his

memory. There was an eagerness in Naile's going. It was al-

most as if he saw before him someone or something he had

long sought. In spite of the unsteady surface beneath his feet,

he ploughed steadily southward, while Milo was forced to

watch him vanish, wearing a path among the whispering

dunes.

When Naile was swallowed up by the dust sea, Milo him-

self dropped into a darkness in which there was nothing more.

to be seen or puzzled over.

"Milo!" A voice roared through the darkness, broke open

his cocoon of not caring.

He opened his eyes. On one side knelt Wymarc, the laugh-

ter lines about his generous mouth, bracketing his eyes, wiped

from his suntanned ^kin. As Milo shifted his head at a touch

upon his shoulder, he saw to his left Yevele, her helmet laid

aside, so that the red-brown of her tightly-netted hair was

fully visible. In her thin face her eyes narrowed in a strange

wariness, measuring him.

"What-?" he began.

"Where is Naile?" The question drew Milo's attention back

to the bard.

The swordsman levered himself up on his elbows. Out of

the smothering and deadening dark from which they had

drawn him came, in a burst of vivid memory, that strange

dream. Before he thought of what might be only vision he

spoke aloud.

"He went south." And, at the same moment, he knew that

he indeed spoke the truth.

14

Rockna the Brazen

Swiftly Milo added to that guess (which was no guess,

he was certain, but the truth) the description of his dream.

Deav Dyne nodded before the swordsman had finished. Head

high, the cleric had drawn a little away to the same position

in the bow that Naile had first held in Milo's vision. Now he

leaned forward, his attention centered afar as the beiserker's

had been.

Milo scrambled up behind him, one hand clutching at the

cleric's shoulder.

"What do you see?" he demanded.

His own eyes could pick up nothing but the waves of dust

dunes marching on and on until the half-light of early dawn

melted one into another.

"I see nothing." Deav Dyne did not turn his head. "But

there is that out there which awakes a warning. Sorcery car-

ries its own odor-one which can be tainted even as those

dead befouled this ship."

The cleric's nostrils were distended, now they quivered a

little, as do those of a hound seeking out the trace of a

quarry. Ingrge moved up to join them with the noiseless tread

of his race.

"Chaos walks." His words were without emotion as he, too,

stared into the endless rise and fall of the dust billows. "And

yet ..."

Deav Dyne nodded sharply. "Yes, it is 'and yet,' elf-war-

rior. Evil-but of a new kind-or perhaps old mingled with

the new. Our comrade-in-arms goes to seek it-and not with

his mind-"

"What do you mean?" Milo wanted to know.

"That sorcery has laid a finger on him, and mighty must be

the power of that finger. For the were-kin possess their own

potent magic. I say that Naile Fangtooth does not govern his

body in this hour, and perhaps even not his mind." Deav

Dyne replied slowly.

The bard and Yevele had drawn closer. Now Wymarc

slung his bagged harp over his shoulder.

"That would argue that we may be needed," he said mat-

er-of-factly.

Within himself Milo know the truth of a decision he had

not even been aware of making. Though they were not kin by

either blood or choice (he had no strong liking for the were-

kind as no fighter did who had not the power of the change)

yet at this moment he could walk in no way that did not lead

him on the trail of Naile. Tied they were, one to the other,

by a bond stronger than choice.

He glanced at the ring that had led them by its thread-map

patterning. A film of dust lay across the veined stone. When

Milo rubbed at the setting with his other thumb, striving to

clear it, he discovered the haze was no dust but an apparent

fading of the lines themselves.

South and west Naile had tramped in the swordsman's

vision, Alfreeta curled in slumber about his throat. Was it

that both the berserker and the pseudo-dragon had been en-

snared in a single spell? Across these dust dunes what man

could leave a trail to be followed after he himself had disap-

peared? The rest of them could wander here, lost, until they

died from lack of water or were caught in the menace of

some trap such as this ship had held. Yet, south and west

they must go.

They busied themselves with their packs. Gulth drew about

him the cloak which had been left to soak up all that it might

of the wine. Then, one by one, they dropped from the deck

of the ship, their dust-walking shoes strapped on firmly, to set

out in the wake of the berserker.

The elf, as he had on the plain, moved to the fore of then-

party, walking with steady purpose as if he guessed what they

sought lay ahead.

Slowly the sun rose. In this land it had a pallor and was

obscured from time to time by wind-driven clouds of grit.

Once more they bound those strips cut from their clothing

about their mouths, shielding that part of their faces left bare

below the outjut of helm, the hood of travel cloak. Milo won-

dered at the sureness of the elf who led them. In this fog of

dust he himself would have been long since lost, might per-

haps wander in circles until he died.

He kept close watch upon his map-ring, hoping that it

would flare once more into life, provide a compass. That did

not happen.

Luckily those gusts of wind that carried the dust in swirig

and clouds blew only intermittently. There were periods when

the fog of particles was stilled. During one such moment,

Ingrge paused, raised one hand in a signal that halted the

others, the plodding Gulth, muffled in his now dust-covered

cloak, plowing into Milo with force enough to nearly knock

the swordsman from his feet.

"What-?" Yevele's voice was hoarse. She had uttered but

that one word when the elf made a second emphatic gesture.

Wymarc shifted the harp upon his shoulder. His head was

upheld, but his face was so covered by the improvised mask

that Milo read urgency only in the movements of his body.

Whatever had alerted the elf had reached the bard also. Still

Milo himself was aware of nothing.

Nothing, until....

The sound was faint-yet he caught it. A hissing scream.

Such a cry came from no human throat.

"Big scaled one . . ." The slurring in Gulth's voice nearly

matched the hiss of that scream. Though he stood shoulder to

shoulder with Milo, the lizardman's words were muffled and

hard to catch. A second and a third time that challenge sound-

ed. For it was a challenge and such as Milo had once heard

with dread. A scrap of memory stirred awake in his mind.

Big scaled one? Dragon! In that moment the bracelet on

his wrist gave forth the warmth he both waited and feared.

Feverishly he tried to channel his power of thought, not to

awaken memory, but to affect the turn of the dice. A dragon

in full battle fever. What man-or men-could hope to stand

against such? Still, with the rest, he moved toward the source

of that cry, his dust shoes shuffling at the fastest pace he

could maintain.

Even a were with power of the change could not hope to

front a dragon and come forth unscathed-or even liv-

ing. ...

They tried to make better time by seeking out a way be-

tween the dunes, not up and down the treacherous sliding

heights of those mounds. Again they heard the dragon call-

which did not yet hold any note of triumph. Somehow, he

whom they sought, for Milo never doubted that it was Naile

Fangtooth who fronted the scaled menace, managed to keep

fighting on.

The hissing of the giant reptile was louder. On their wrists

the dice had ceased to live and spin. How successful had they

been in raising their power? To fight a dragon- Milo shook

his head at his present folly. Still he plowed on, his sword

now in his hand, though he could not remember having

drawn it.

So they came into a space where the dust dunes had been

leveled through some freak of the wind. This miniature plain

formed the arena of battle.

The dragon, its wings strangely small as if shriveled to a

size that could not raise the bloated body from the earth, beat

the air-raising a murk through which its own brazen scales

shone with the menace of a raging fire. This creature was

smaller than Lichis, but that was no measurement to promise

victory. As its head snapped aloft and it opened its fanged

jaws for another of those screams, its rolling red eyes caught

sight of their party.

With a speed its bulk should have made impossible, that

double-homed head darted at them, striking snakelike. Milo

could smell the strong acid stench of the pointed tongue

which dripped with venom, a poison to fire-eat the flesh from

a man's bones in the space of five breaths, for which no sor-

cery could supply a remedy.

His battered shield had been lifted only a finger's breadth

and he had no chance, he knew, against such a lightning

swift attack. For it seemed to Milo those blazing red eyes

were centered on him. Then, out in the air, there came a dart-

ing thing, small enough in size to ride upon the spear point

of that dripping tongue. But it was not to ride so that the

thing made a blurr of attack. Rather she spread small claws

to gash and tear at the tongue, fearless of the venom gathered

and dripping from the lash of yellow-red flesh.

The tongue whipped and struck from side to side, curling

to seize its small attacker and draw into the dragon's maw the

glittering body of Afreeta, even as a frog of the marshes

strikes and takes into its gaping mouth an unwary fly.

Now the pseudo-dragon twisted and turned in the murk,

sometimes hidden, now visible again. Afreeta could not come

at the tongue again to strike, but neither did she retreat. Her

maneuvers meant that the dragon might not carry forward its

attack on the party below.

Out of the dust cloud, which the dragon's fanning wings

kept alive, came the boar-shape Milo had seen in action be-

fore. But this time Naile Fangtooth was hampered. His were-

shape vanished and he was a man for three strides, then a

boar, and then a man, a constant change of shape that it

seemed, the berserker could not control. The man-body held

for longer and longer moments, until at last, Naile gave up

his struggle to go were. Instead, axe in both fists, he fronted

the dragon as a man.

The fitful strikes and twists of the scaled body made a blur

in cloudy battle. But it was Afreeta's determined assault on

the creature's head and tongue that prevailed, though the

pseudo-dragon was twice nearly caught in looping coila

snapped whipfast through the air.

Something else pierced the cloud of dust. Milo saw an ar-

row thud against the heavy brow-ridge of the embattled

dragon, fall to the ground. Ingrge was methodically aiming at

the most vulnerable part of the creature, its slightly bulbous

eyes-only so fast were the dartings of the dragon head that

it would seem even one with the fabled skill of the ranger

folk could not hope to strike such a target.

The constant fanning of those wings was a distraction, and

the grit they brought into the air stung in the eyes, was like

to blind those the creature fronted. It screamed and bellowed,

striving to use its tongue, the forked barb on the end of that,

more deadly than any arrow human or elfkind could fashion.

Milo moved in, discovering that fear and a kind of anger,

which the sight of that body awoke in him, made him a bat-

tlefield of their own. The emotions remained equally

matched, so he did not run from the encounter as half of him

wanted, but humped forward, hampered by the dust shoes.

There were other shadows in the deepening rise of the dusk

the wings created. He was not alone, still he was-walled in

by that fear he could not yet raise enough anger to master.

His sword was heavy in his hand as he caught enough sight

of that pendulous, scaled belly to give him a target of sorts.

Milo struck with all the speed and skill he could muster.

Unlike the fight on the ship, nothing gave or broke under that

blow. Rather it was as if he had brought the point of his blade

against immovable stone. The hilt was nearly jarred from his

hold. Then, close enough so that the stench of it made his

head swim for an instant, the looping tongue, with behind it

that armory of great, discolored fangs, swept toward him.

There was a speeding dart through the air. Perhaps more

from an unusual turn of fortune than an inherent skill, the

down-turned spike of that tongue was pierced through by an

arrow. The shaft gravitated in a wild dance as the dragon

lashed back and forth its most cunning weapon, striving to

free its tongue end.

Out of the dust cloud arose a clawed foot, each talon on it

being a quarter of Milo's own body length. The foot expand-

ed and contracted those claws, striving to catch at the arrow.

In so doing the movements exposed, for instants only, a

small, scaled pocket of noisome flesh existing between limb

and body. The swordsman threw himself forward, nigh losing

his balance because he had forgotten the dust shoes. Though

Milo went to one knee, he thrust again with his sword into

that crevice between limb and body.

Then he was hurled aside, skidding face downward into the

dust, where his fight changed to one for breath alone. He

waited for a second slash of that foot to rip him into bloody

rags. But the blow did not come. Desperately he squirmed

deeper into the dust, one arm protecting his face, hoping in

some way to use the stuff that had defeated him to protect

him a little now.

One breath-length of time, perhaps a little more, passed.

Then there sounded a cry that deafened him. The sound went

on, ringing through his head, until the whole world held noth-

ing else but that bellow of fury and agony.

A hand caught at his shoulder, pulled at him. Milo

squirmed in the direction that clutch would draw him. Why he

had not been seized already by the claws of the dragon he

did not know. Each second of freedom he still had he deter-

mined to put to escape, vain though any hope of that might be.

Now a second set of fingers was on his other shoulder, and

they bit as deep as his mail would allow, new strength in

them drawing him on. Behind sounded another screech, and

through it the roaring of another voice, human in timber,

mouthing words Milo could not understand.

When he was again on his feet, aided by those holds upon

him, he saw that it was Deav Dyne and Gulth who had come

to his aid. Breathless, his mouth and throat choked with dust

until he was near to the point of retching, he swung around.

Naile in human form fronted the dragon. From the right

eye of the maddened beast bobbed the feathered end of an

arrow, proving that the famed skill of the elfkind was not dis-

torted by report. The axe of the berserker moved with

skill-and speed-to strike at the maimed head that darted

down at him. Near enough to evoke attack in turn was a

slender figure with shield raised as a protection against the

venom-dripping tongue, sword held with the readiness and

cool skill of a veteran.

Steel arose and held steady. The creature had shaken free

of the arrow that had pinned its tongue, but the tonguetip

was now split raggedly asunder. Perhaps in its pain the

dragon lost what wits it carried into combat, for the tongue

flicked at that steadily held sword as if to enmesh the steel

and tear it from the warrior's hand. Instead the now ragged

flesh came with force against the cutting edge of the blade.

There was a shower of venom and dark blood-a length of

tongue, wriggling like a serpent, flew through the dusty murk.

Now jaws gaped over the warrior, the head came down-

Naile struck, his axe meeting the descending head with a

force that the dragon's attack must have added to. The crea-

ture gave another cry-spewing forth blood-and jerked its

head aloft. So it dragged from Naile's hands the axe that was

embedded in its skull between the eyes. It reared high and

Milo cried out-though his warning might be useless even as

he gave it.

Naile's arm swept Yevele from her feet, sending her rolling

into the embrace of the dust, into which she sank as into a

sea of water. Even as the berserker had sent her as well out

of danger as he could, Naile himself threw his own body

backward, striving to avoid the second descent of that fear-

some head.

So loudly did the dragon cry, Milo heard no twang of bow-

string. Yet he saw a feathered shaft appear in the left eye,

sink into it for most of its length. The creature crashed for-

ward. Though its stumpy wings still fluttered, the force of its

fall sent it deep into the dust, just missing Naile who fought

his way through it as if he swam.

Up from the embrace of the dust the blinded head of the

dragon heaved once, curving back upon the wings, snout and

evil mask of the foreface pointing to the sky above them. The

roar from the fanged jaws was such that Milo's hands cov-

ered his ears, endeavoring to shut out that scream of pain

and fruitless rage. Twice more did the creature give voice-

and then its head sank, jerked up a little, sank again. The en-

suing silence held them all as might a spell.

Milo dropped his hands, stared at the bulk now sinking

deeper into the hold of the dust. A dragon-and it was slain!

He found his heard beating faster, his breath coming quicker.

Fortune indeed had stood at their backs this day!

Naile floundered to his feet, fought the dust to get back to

the creature's side. His hands closed upon the haft of his axe

and his body tensed with effort as he strove to loosen the

blade from the skull. Milo looked to Ingrge.

"Never shall I doubt what is said of the arrow mastery of

your people," he said through the dust which still clogged his

throat.

"Nor sword and axe skill of yours," returned the elf.

"Your own stroke, swordsman, was not one to be despised."

"My stroke?" Milo glanced down at his hands. They were

empty. For the first time he thought of shield and sword.

"If you would regain your steel," Deav Dyne said, "you

needs must burrow for it before the scaled one is utterly lost

in the dust." He gestured to the body of the dragon, now

indeed some three-quarters buried-though the wings still

twitched feebly now and then, perhaps so keeping clear the

scaled back that they could still see through the dispersing

fog.

Two forms, so clothed in dust as to seem a part of that

same fog, came blundering away from where Naile still

fought to free his axe. The larger brushed the clinging grit

from the smaller, the hump of harp between his shoulders

identifying the bard. :

At the cleric's words, he raised his head, his face so

masked in dust that he might have walked by blood kin and

not been hailed.

"This was such a battle as can make song fodder." He spat

dust. "Yes, swordsman, that was a lucky stroke of yours

beneath the leg. Even as this valiant battlemaid did sever the

poison tongue. Dragon-slayers, all of you! For it took the

skill of more than one to bring down Rockna of the Brass."

"Ha!" Naile had his axe free. Now he looked over his

shoulder. "Dig it will be for your steel, swordsman." Even as

Milo pushed forward, trying vainly to remember the feel of

scaled skin parting from his own blow and finding that that

second or two of realization eluded him, the berserker began

to dig furiously along the body of the dragon, using, as they

had on the ship, his dust shoe for a scooping shovel.

Milo hastened to join. The fetid smell of the creature's

body was near to overpowering as they worked shoulder to

shoulder. Now Wymarc and Deav Dyne came to aid them. A

lost sword was enough to threaten them all in this place and

time.

Milo coughed, spat, and kept to his scooping. Their com-

bined efforts laid bare the shoulder of the creature and the

top of the foreleg. Naile put hand to the leg and heaved,

striving to draw it aside, leaving a crevice between body and

leg free from the slither of the ever-moving dust. Milo leaned

far over, gagging at the stench. There indeed was his sword.

He could sight the hilt protruding at an angle from the

softer-scaled leg. Lying across the limb of the dragon, he put

both hands to the hilt, as Naile had done with the axe, and

exerted his full strength.

Though he could not remember planting that steel so, he

must have done it with energy enough to bury it deeply. At

first there was solid resistance to his struggle, then the length

buried within the body of Rockna gave. He sprawled back,

the bloodstained blade snapping up and out into the open.

"Hola!"

That cry drew all their attention. Ingrge had, unseen,

climbed one of the dunes that ringed this arena in which they

had fought. He was looking north and now his arm arose in a

gesture Milo could not read. But Deav Dyne started a step or

so forward, then came to a halt. The dusty face he turned

toward the others was grave.

"We go from peril to peril." He fumbled with his beads

again.

Naile's head lifted, he growled, his rumble sounding more

like the irritated grunt of a bear than either man or boar.

"What hunts us now, priest? Dragon, liche ... ?"

Wymarc watched the elf who was coming down the dune,

setting one foot below the other with careful precision and

more speed than Milo knew he himself could give to such ac-

tion.

"The wind." The elf came up to them. "There is a storm

raising the dust and coming toward us."

Dust! Milo's thoughts moved fearfully. A sea of dust-just

as a desert was a sea of sand. And he had heard only too

much of what happened tp those caught in the wild whirl of

sandstorms. This dust was finer, would be more easily swept

up and carried to bury a man.

Wymarc swung around, looking to the dragon their efforts

had partly unburied.

"What was our bane may be our fortune," he observed

with some vigor. "The storm is from the north?"

Ingrge gave a single swift nod. He, too, was looking to the

dragon's body.

"You mean . . . Yes, a perilous chance indeed, but per-

haps our only one now!" Deav Dyne dropped his beads into

the front of his robe. "It is such a chance as the Oszannen

take in desert lands when caught in storms." He stooped and

loosed one of his dust shoes-then made his way around the

half-uncovered dragon and started to dig with the same vigor

that Milo and Naile had used moments earlier.

That they could use the body for a barrier against clouds

of whirling dust Milo doubted. But perilous though such a

chance might be, to find any better escape was now out of

the question. So they dug with a will, heaping the dust they

dredged out on the far side of the scaled body. Suddenly

Yevele spoke.

"If that were set down"-she pointed to the stuff they

raised and tossed beyond-"would it not cake into a greater

barrier? See, here the dragon's blood has stiffened this dust

into a solid surface. We fight against dust not sand. What we

deal with is far lighter and less abrasive."

"It is a thought worth the following." Milo looked to where

those skins filled with the ship's wine lay. If one balanced

drinkers' needs against such a suggestion-which would give

them the best chance for survival?

"A good one!" Wymarc started for the skins. "As you say

we do not face sand-for which may the abiding aid of Falt-

forth the Suncrown be praised!"

They decided that two of the skins might be sacrificed to

their scheme. It was Deav Dyne and the bard who, between

them, dribbled the wine across the heaped dust beyond the

dragon's bulk. Milo took heart at their efforts when he saw

that indeed the blood that had seeped from the slain creature

had puddled and hardened the fine grit into flat plates which

could be lifted and used to reinforce the wine-stiffened dust.

They worked feverishly, moving as fast as they could. Now

one could see the dust cloud darkening the sky. Moments

later they crouched, their cloaks drawn over their heads to

provide pockets of breathable air-air that was air whether it

be tainted with the stench of the dragon's body or not. The

rough edges of the dead beast's scales bit into their own flesh

as they strove to settle themselves to endure attack from this

subtle and perhaps more dangerous foe.

15

Singing Shadow

Milo stirred. A weight pinned him to the ground.

Sometime during the force of the storm he had lost conscious-

ness. Even now his thoughts were sluggish, blurred. Storm?

There had been a storm. His shoulder rasped against some-

thing solid and his nose was clogged not only with the ever-

present dust, but also with a stench so evil that he gagged,

spat, and gagged again. To get away from that-yes, that was

what he must do.

It was dark, as dark as if the dust had sealed his eyes. He

forced his hands into the soft powder under him, strove to

find some firm purchase there to enable him to heave himself

up, to shake the burden from his back. There was no such

solid surface. None but the wall scraping at his shoulder.

Now he flung out an arm and used it to push himself up and

away.

Dust showered down as he wavered to his feet, steadying

himself by holding onto the rough barrier he had found. At

least he was upright, looking up and out into night. Night-?

Milo shook his head, sending more powdery stuff flying

outward in a mist. It was difficult to marshal coherent

thought. Some stealthy wizardry had claimed him-freezing,

not his clumsy body, but his mind into immobility.

But....

Milo's head turned. He had heard that! He edged around

so that, though the barrier against which he had sheltered still

half-supported him, it was now at his back. On his wrist there

was movement. Still deep in the daze which nullified even his

basic sense of danger, he saw the dice flicker alive, begin to

turn.

There was something-something he must do when that

happened. Only he could not think straight. Not now-for

from the waste of dunes came that other sound, sweet, low,

utterly beguiling. The song of a harp in the hands of a mas-

ter? No, rather a voice that shaped no words, only trilled,

called, promised.

Milo frowned down at the bracelet. If he could only think

what it was he should do here and now! Then his arm fell to

his side, for that trilling sound soothed all his wakening anxi-

eties, pulled him....

The swordsman moved forward toward the hidden source

of that call. He sank nearly to his knees in the dust drifts,

floundered and fought, dust shoes near forgotten until he

strove impatiently to lash them on. The need to find this

singer who used no words moved him onward as if he were

drawn by a chain of bondage.

Fighting against the insidious pull of the dust, he rounded

the base of a dune. Moonlight sent strange shadows across his

way. The night was bitterly cold. But there was no wind and

the dust disturbed by his floundering efforts fell quickly back

again.

There was light-not moonlight but a stronger gleam,

though it did not have the warmth of a torch or the steady

beam of a lantern. Rather....

Milo came to a stop. She stood with her back to him, her

hands upheld to the moon itself. Between those hands swung

a disk on a chain-a disk that made a second moon, a minia-

ture of the one above her.

Yevele!

No helmet covered her head now, nor was her hair netted

tight. Instead it flowed about her like a cloak. The pallid light

of her moon pendant took away the warmth of color that

was in her hair by day, gave to all of her a silvery overcast.

She had used the spell of immobility-what other sorcery

could she lay tongue and hand to? There were women secrets

that even the wizards could not fathom. Milo had heard tell

of them. He shook his head as if to loosen a pall of dust

from his mind, as he had in part from his body.

Women magic-cold. Moon magic. . . . All men knew

that women had a tie with the moon which was knit into

their bodies. What she wrought here might be as alien to him

as the thoughts and desires of a dragon-or a liche-if the

dead-alive had thoughts and not just hungers and the will of

Chaos to animate them. Yet Milo could not turn away-for

still that trilling enticed, drew him.

Then she spoke, though she did not turn her head to see

who stood there. It was as if she had knowledge of him, per-

haps because she had sent this sorcery to draw him. That sud-

den thought, he discovered, held a strange new warmth.

"So you heard me then, Milo?" There was none of the

usual crisp note in her voice, rather gentleness-a greeting

subtle and compelling as a scent.

Scent? His nostrils expanded. The foul odor of the dead

dragon was gone. He might have stood in a spring-greened

meadow where flower and herb flourished to give this

sweetness to the air.

"I heard." His answer was hardly more than a whisper.

There worked in him now emotions he could not understand.

Soldier's women he knew, for he had the same appetites as

any man. But Yevele-though mail like unto his own

weighted upon her, blurred the curves of her body-Yevele

was unlike any woman he had stretched out hand to before.

Now his right hand did rise, without any conscious effort

on his part, reaching toward Yevele, though she still did not

turn to look at him. The cold light caught on the bracelet he

wore with a flicker. It might have been that one of the dice

had made a turn of which he was not aware. But the thought

hardly touched his mind before she spoke again, driving it

fully from him.

"We have powers, Milo, we who follow the Homed Lady

of the Sword and Shield. It is sent to us from time to time-

the forelooking. Now it has come to me. And this forelooking

tells me that our lives are being woven into a single cord-

both of us being the stronger for that uniting. Also-" Now

at last she did move and he saw clearly her features, which

were as solemn and set as might be those of a priestess inton-

ing an oracle from a shrine. "Also we have in truth a duty

laid upon us."

Her straight gaze caught and held his eyes, and there ap-

peared a dazzle between (hem. He raised higher the hand he

had put out to her, to shade his eyes from that bemusing

sparkle of light. But it was gone in an instant. Then he asked

dully, "That duty being?"

"We are to be the fore of the company, because we are in

truth meant to be one. Strength added to strength shall march

in the van. Do you not believe me, Milo?"

Again the dazzle sprang between them. His thoughts fell

into an ordered pattern, so he marveled that he had not real-

ized this all long ago. Yevele spoke the truth, they were the

ordained spearhead of the company.

"Do you not understand?" She took one step, a second

toward him. "Each of us has a different talent, welded to-

gether we make a weapon. Now is the time that you and I,

swordsman, must play our own role."

"Where and how?" A faint uneasiness stirred in him. But

Yevele before him was not the source of that uneasiness-she

could not be. Was it not exactly as she had said? They were

each but a part-together they were a whole.

"That it has been given me to see in the foreknowledge."

Her voice rang with confidence. "We march-there!" The

hand still holding the moon disk swept out, away-and the

disk appeared to blaze, giving a higher burst of cold light to

her pointing fingers.

"See-" Now the stern quality left her voice. In its place

was an eagerness. They might be fronting an adventure in the

safe outcome of which she had full assurance. "I have

brought the dust shoes. The moon is high and the light full.

Also the storm is' past-we have the night before us."

She- .stopped to Ji-ick up the crude shoes he knew well. Then

her fingers touched lightly on Milo's wrist, below the band of

the bracelet. Though she looked so cold in this light, yet a

warmth spread upward along his arm from that Kghtest of

touches. Her eyes held his again, commanding, assured.

Of course she was right. But...

"Where?" He repeated part of his question.

"To what we seek, Milo. No, you need no longer depend

upon that ring of yours with its near-forgotten map. The

Lady has given full answer to my pleas. See you!"

She whirled the moonlit disk at the length of a chain, let-

ting it fly free. It did not fall, to sink and be hidden in the

dust. Rather there was another dazzle of light and Milo

blinked. For in its place a spot of light hovered in the air at

the level of Yevele's eyes.

"Moon magic!" She laughed. "To each his own, Milo. I do

no more than any who has some spell training can do. This is

a small thing of power, it will be drawn to any source of

Power that is not known to us, or that is alien to our under-

standing. Thus it can lead us to that which we seek."

He grunted and went to one knee to tighten the lashings of

the sand shoes. Magic was chancy-he was no spell-user. But

neither, he was certain, could any agent of Chaos have

marched with them undiscovered since they had left Grey-

hawk. Deav Dyne-Ingrge-both would have known, caught

the taint of evil at their first meeting with Yevele.

"The others?" he half-questioned as he arose again. She

had moved a little away and there was a shade of impatience

on her face. Though she now bore her helmet in the crook of

one arm she made no attempt to re-net her hair and place it

on her head.

"They will come. But no night is without a dawn. And our

guide can only show its merit by the moon under whose

blessing it was fashioned. We must move now!"

The disk of light quivered in the air. As the girl took a step

forward, it floated on, always keeping at the same distance

from the ground and ahead.

One range of dunes was like unto another. Twice MHO

strove to check their way with those lines upon his ring. But

the veins in the stone were invisible in this light, which

gathered more brightly around Yevele. She had begun that

trilling again, so that all he had known before this time now

seemed as dim as the setting of his strange ring.

There was no change in the Sea of Dust. Dunes arose and

Jell as my?ht the waves of a real sea. Lookmg back once/

Milo could not even sight any trail that they left, for the

powder straightway fell in upon and blurred any track. In

fact he could not even tell now in which direction lay the

body of the dragon and those others who had marched with

them. This troubled him dimly from time to time. When such

inner uneasiness awoke in him Yevele's soft trilling struck a

new note, drawing him back from even the far edge of ques-

tioning what they did-or were to do.

Time lost meaning. Milo felt that he walked in a dream,

slowly, his feet engulfed by a web that strove to entangle

him. Still that disk floated ahead, Yevele sang without words,

and the moon gave cold light to her floating, unbound hair,

the carven features of her face.

It was chance that brought a break in the web that en-

meshed Milo. Or was there such a thing as chance he some-

times wondered afterwards? Did not the priests of Om

advance the belief that all action in the world, no matter how

small or insignificant, had its part in the making of a pattern

determined upon by Powers men could not even begin to

fathom with their earthtied senses?

The fastening on one dust shoe loosened and he knelt

again to make it fast. As he pulled on the lacing, his left

hand was uppermost. The dull dust clouded the setting of his

second ring. But, though it was indeed filmed with dust, it

was no longer dull! Milo wiped it quickly across the edge of

his surcoat, for glancing at it alerted that uneasiness in him.

No, it was no longer dull gray, without any spark of light

Something moved within it!

Raising his hand against his breast Milo peered more

closely at what shafting within it. What-?

"Milo!" Yevele had returned, was standing over him.

Again (was it some hidden impulse of his own, or was he

only the tool or player of some other power?) he put the

hand wearing the ring up and out. His grip closed about her

wrist.

The dull stone was indeed alive. In its depths there stood a

figure. Tiny as it was it showed every detail clearly. A

woman, yes-very much of woman-well-endowed by

nature. But not Yevele!

Under the fingers that imprisoned her wrist there was no

hardness of mail, no wiry arm strengthened by sword exercise

to a muscularity near his own. Milo, still keeping that hold,

faced her whom he so held. No Yevele, no. ...

The hair that floated around her was as silver as the moon-

light. In her marble-white face the eyes slanted, held small

greenish sparks. Her jaws sharpened, fined to form a mask

that held beauty, yes, but also more than a touch of the alien.

Now her mouth opened a trifle to show sharp points of teeth

such as might be the weapons of some beast of prey.

That change in her jerked Milo free from the spell which

had held him. He was on his feet, but he did not loose his

hold on her. Save for a first involuntary pull against his

strength, she, too, stood quiet

"Who are you?"

For a moment she stared at him, her slanted eyes nar-

rowing. There was on her face a shadow of surprise.

Her lips moved. "Yevele."

Illusionist! His newly awakened mind, freed from the spells

she could so easily weave about the unwary, gave him the

true answer. He did not need to hear the truth from her-he

already knew. Now he spoke it aloud. 'Illusionist! Did you so

entice the berserker?" They had been too occupied with dan-

ger to question Naile before the coming of the storm, but

Milo believed that he now saw the answer to the other's

desertion of their party.

She tried to fling off his grasp, her face more and more

alien as her features formed a mask of rage. But Milo held

her tight, as the once cloudy gem blazed, while the disk that

had spun through the air whirled and dove for his face like a

vicious insect. He flung up his other hand to ward it off.

It dodged his defense easily, as might a living creature,

swooped, and flattened itself against his skin above the wrist

of the hand that gripped its mistress. Milo cried out-the

pain from that contact was as intense as any burn. In spite of

himself, his hold loosened.

The woman gave a sinuous twist of her arm and her body

broke free. Now she laughed. For a moment he saw her

waver, become Yevele. But the folly of keeping up such a

broken cover of deceit was plain. Instead she turned from

him, kicking off the clumsy sand shoes.

She was mistress of more than one form of magic, for she

skimmed across the surface of the dust apparently as

weightless as the wind, not even raising in her passage the up-

permost film of the sea. Above and around her whirled the

moon disk, moving so swiftly that its very radiance wove a

kind of netting for her defense.

Useless though pursuit might now be, Milo followed dog-

gedly after. He had no way, he was sure, to return to the

party by the dragon. If there was any hope to win free of the

sea it might be to trail his beguiler.

She rounded a dune and was lost to his sight. Then he

came to the point where she had disappeared. When he

reached it he saw that flicker of light now so well ahead that

he had no hope of catching up.

However, now it kept to a straight line, for the dunes fell

away and the surface of the Sea of Dust was as level as it

had been in that place where they had found Naile battling

with the dragon. There was something else . . . The light

flickered, dipped, spun from the dull gray of the sea into

what stretched not too far ahead, a mass of darkness rising

unevenly.

The blotch of that snadow swallowed up even the moon-

light. Milo paused, his head up, his nostrils testing the smells

of the night. He lacked the keen sense of the elf and the ber-

serker, but he could give name to what he smelled now-the

rank odor of a swampland. Yet to find this in the ever-abid-

ing aridity of the Sea of Dust was such a strange thing it in-

stantly warned him against reckless approach.

That swampland was no barrier for her whom he followed.

The light spun on out, wan and pale, into the embrace of the

darkness, drew even more rapidly ahead. Milo's dust shoes

beat a path for him to the edge of the shadow. He caught a

diminished glimmer of what might be a stretch of water; he

could smell the fetid odor of the place. For the rest it was

only darkness and menace. To follow out into that would be

to entrap himself without any profit.

But that he had reached the place they had been seeking,

the place of which Lichis had told them, Milo had no doubt

Somewhere out in that quagmire, which defied all natural

laws by its very being, lay the fortress of the enemy.

What if he had remained in the illusionist's spell-would

she have left him immured in some bog, as treacherous as the

dust, to be swallowed up? He looked down at the ring that

had given him the warning. There was no light there now, the

stone was once more dull and dead. Milo wheeled slowly, to

look back, careful of how he placed his feet. There was no

returning....

He had no idea how long he must wait for dawn, nor how

he might reach the others, draw them hither to face the next

obstacle in their quest. Using the dust shoes as a supporting

platform, he hunkered down, his gaze sweeping back and

forth along the edge of the swampland. There was growth

there. He could trace it in the moonlit humps of vegetation.

There was life also, for he started once and nearly spun off

into the dust, as the sound of shrill and loud croaking made

him think, with a shiver he could not entirely subdue, of that

horror tale told about the Temple of the Frog and the unnat-

ural creatures bred and nurtured therein to deliver the death

stroke against any who invaded that hidden land. That, too,

occupied the heart of a swamp, holding secrets no man of the

outer world could more than guess.

The line between the Sea of Dust and this other territory

ran as straight as a sword's point might have drawn it. None

of the vegetation or muck advanced outward, no point of

dust ran inward. That line of division was too perfect to be

anything but artificial. Milo, understanding that, fingered his

sword hilt.

Wizardry-yet not even the wizardry he knew of-if

Hystaspe had been right. A wizardry not of this world-and

it was hard enough for a fighting man to withstand what was

native. He had no spells except...

Milo stretched out his right wrist. Moonshine could not

bring to life the dice. He struggled to remember. They had

turned-or one had-as he had followed the enticement of

the illusionist into the night. Then he had been so under her

spell that he had not been able to influence the turning. He

advanced his other hand, flattened down the thumb to inspect

the once more dead stone ring, putting it beside the other

with the map he could not see. Where had he gained those

rings?

The swordsman fought to conquer memory, seek those pas-

sages in his mind that were blocked. He was-

There was a flash of a mental picture, here and gone in al-

most the same instant. Sitting-yes, sitting at a table. Also he

held a small object, carven, shaped-the image of a mani

That was of some vast importance to him-he must struggle

to bring the memory back-to retain it long enough to

learn-He must... 1

Something flashed out of the air, hung before him. Moon-

light glittered on it. But this was no disk-it hissed, shot out

a spear tongue as if to make sure of his full attention.

Memory was lost.

"Afreeta."

The pseudo-dragon hissed as banefully as had her greater

cousin, but his speaking of her name might have been an or-

der. As speedily as she had come to him, she sped off through

the night. So the others now had their guide. In so little was

Milo's distrust of the future lifted. He tried once more to

capture that memory-thinking back patiently along the lines

he had followed. He had looked at the bracelet, his rings-

before that had been the call that had made him remember

the Temple of the Frog. He was . . .

Slowly he shook his head. Something in his hand-not the

rings-not the bracelet that tied him to this whole venture.

He thought of the scene with Hystaspes. What the wizard had

said of an alien who had brought him-and the others-here

to tie. ... Tie what? Milo groped vainly for a clue. What

lay away, hidden in the unnatural swamp, was of the highest

danger. They were the ill-assorted hunting party sent to ferret

out and destroy it. Why? Because there was a geas laid on

them. Men did strange things to serve wizards whether they

would or not. It was not of Chaos, that much he knew. For a

swordsman could not be twisted and bent into the service of

evil.

But this tied himi He pounded his wrist against his knee in

rising anger. It was a slave fetter on him, and he was no man

to take meekly to slavery. His anger was hot; it felt good. In

the past he had used anger to provide him with another

weapon, for, controlled as he had learned to control it, that

emotion gave a man added strength.

Before him lay someone, something, that sought to make

him a slave. And he was-

Voices!

He got to his feet, hand once more seeking sword hilt

Now he faced the swells of the dunes. From between them

figures moved. More illusions?

Milo consulted the ring. It did not come to life. As yet he

had no idea of the range of that warning. He continued to

hold his thumb out where he could glance from the setting to

those drawing near at the pace dictated by the dust shoes.

Though he could not see most of their faces because of the

overhang of helmets, or cloak hoods, he knew them well

enough to recognize that they had the appearance of those

with whom he companied. Still he watched the ring.

"Hola!" Naile's deep call, the upflung arm of the berserker,

was in greeting. He led the party, Afreeta winging about his

head. But close behind him trod a smaller figure, helmeted

head high. It was toward her that Milo now pointed the ring.

There was no change in the set. Still he could not be

sure-not until perhaps he laid hand on her as he had on the

singer out of the night. Wymarc drew close to her as if he

sensed Milo's suspicion.

"There was the smell of magic," the bard said. "What led

you on, swordsman?"

The dark figure of Naile interrupted. "I said it, songsmith.

He followed someone he knew-even as did I. That damn

wizardry made me see a brave comrade dead in the earth

these three years or more. Is that not so, swordsman?"

"I followed one-with the seeming of Yevele." He took

three steps forward with purpose, reached out to touch her.

No blaze-this was Yevele. The battlemaid drew back.

"Lay no hands on me, swordsman!" Her voice was harsh,

dust-fretted, with none of the soft warmth that other had

held. "What do you say of me?"

"Not you, I have proved it." Swiftly then he explained.

The threat that an illusionist could evoke they all already

knew. Perhaps Deav Dyne, Gulth (no one could be sure of

any alien's reaction to most magic that enmeshed the human

kind) or Ingrge might have withstood that beguilment, but he

was sure that the rest could not.

"Clusionist." The cleric faced the dark swamp. "Yet you

were led here-to what we have sought."

"A swamp," Naile commented. "If they sink us not in dust,

perhaps they would souse us in mud and slime. Such land as

that is a trap. You were well out of that, swordsman. It

would seem those trinkets you picked up somewhere are near

as good as cold steel upon occasion."

He was answered by one of those croaking cries from the

swamp. But Gulth, who had trudged waveringly at the end of

their party, gave now a hissing grunt that drowned out the

end of that screech.

Throwing aside his dust-stiffened cloak, the lizardman

headed straight for the murky dark of what Naile had so

rightfully named "trap."

16

Into the Quagmire

Dawn came reluctantly, as if the sky must be forced

into illuminating this strangely divided land. Now they could

see color in that mass of vegetation, rank, sickly greens,

browns, yellows. Here and there stood a twisted and mis-

shapen rise of shrub, some species of water-loving growth

maimed in its growing by the poisoned earth and muck in

which it was rooted. There were reeds, tangles of bulbous,

splotched plants among them. Dividing each ragged clump of

such from another lay pools, scum-covered or peat-dark

brown, to the surface of which rose bubbles that broke, re-

leasing nauseating breaths of gas from unseen rot.

Some of these pools, in the farther distance, achieved the

size of ponds, and one might even be considered a lake. In

these larger expanses of water there spread pads of water-

growth root-anchored below. There was a constant flickering

of life, for things squatted on those pads or hid among the

reeds and shrubs, darting forth to hunt. Above insects

buzzed-some so large as to be considered monsters of their

species.

Yet the line of damarcation between dust and quag must

form an invisible wall, for the life of the swamp never, even

when being pursued or hunting, came across it. The line be-

tween dust and quag was no physical barrier, however, for

Gulth had had no trouble in entering the water-logged land

and had immersed his dust-plastered body in one of the dark

pools, seemingly having neither fear nor distaste for the stink-

ing mud his bathing stirred up, or what might use that murk

to cover an attack.

Sharing the lizardman's fearlessness, Afreeta flew ahead to

dip, flutter, pursue, and swallow insects whirring in the air.

Yet, as the land grew clearer and clearer to their sight in the

morning, the rest of the party drew closer together, as if they

sought to position themselves in defense against lurking dan-

ger.

Though the illusionist had flitted above the swamplands in

the night as if provided with a firm road for her feet, Milo

could not now understand how she had been able to do that.

The clumps of vegetation were scattered, broken apart by

flats of mud, which heaved and shot up small, brown-black

bits, as if they were pots boiling. Their company had fash-

ioned the dust shoes, which had given them a measure of mo-

bility across the sea, but those would not serve them here.

There was no steady footing.

Gulth blew, shaved mud from his limbs with the edge of

one hand. With the other he grasped a bloated, pale-greenish

body from which he had already torn so much of the flesh

that Milo could not be sure what form it had originally had.

Chewing this as if it were the finest delicacy offered at some

high banquet, the lizardman teetered from one foot to an-

other, facing inward toward the hidden heart of this water-

logged, unnatural country.

The quag country was largely hidden. A mist drifted up-

ward, steaming as might the fumes from the bubbling mud

pots. They could no longer sight some of the ponds, or one

end of what might be a lake. Fingers of fog reached outward

toward the partition between dust and mud. If the swamp-

land had seemed nigh impossible to penetrate before the

clouding of the land in a shroud that grew thicker and thick-

er, blotting out one clump here, a stretch of uneasy mud or

pool there, now they dared not consider a single forward step.

That creeping mist reached Gulth, wreathed about his

mud-streaked body. Before he was lost in it, he wheeled,

strode backward to the line change, where he stood facing

them but making no move. to reenter the Sea of Dust. One of

his scaled arms moved in a loose, sweeping gesture, his

snouted head turned a little, so one of the unblinking eyes

might still regard the quag.

"We go-" His hissing voice pierced the continued buzz of

the insects.

Naile, both hands clasped on the shaft of his axe, shook his

head.

"I am no mud-sulker, scaled man. One step, two, and I

would be meat for the bog. Show me how we can move

across those mud traps-"

"That states it for us all," Wymarc said. "What do we do,

comrades of necessity? Is there any among us who knows a

spell to grow wings, perhaps? Or one that will at least tem-

porarily dry us a path through the murk? What of your ring,

swordsman-your map ring? What does it point as a way

ahead?" He looked to Milo.

The green stone had no life to illuminate those red veins. It

remained as lifeless as the film of dust lying over it and all

the swordsman's skin. Milo studied the rolls of mist and knew

that Naile was right, the nature of this land defeated them.

"Make road." Gulth's head swung fully back in their direc-

tion once again.

"With what?" Yevele asked. She had not spoken since Milo

had told his tale of the illusionist. He had marked also that

she deliberately kept as far from him as she could during

their short rest before the coming of light, sitting herself at

the other end of their company, with Naile, Wymarc, and the

elf between them. Did she, Milo wondered, now with an

awakening of irritation, think that he held her accountable

for the trick of spell-weaving? Surely the girl could not be so

much a fool as to believe that!

Deav Dyne held up his hand for silence before he spoke

directly to the lizardman.

"You have some plan, some knowledge that is not ours

then, Gulth?"

There could be no change of expression on that so-alien

face, nor did Gulth directly answer the questions of the cleric.

Instead he croaked a word that carried the weight of a direct

order.

"Wait!"

Without lingering for any reply or protest from the others,

the lizardman strode back into the quag with a confidence

that certainly the rest of the party lacked. Mists closed about

him so he vanished nearly at once.

In turn they drew forward to the line between sea and

quagmire. This close, the unlikeliness of finding any path

over or through was even more evident. Deav Dyne

addressed Milo.

'The illusionist vanished here?"

"Over it-or at least the light of her moon disk did."

"Could be another of her illusions-to make you believe

so," Wymarc pointed out.

The elf and the cleric nodded as if in agreement to that.

"Then where did she go?" returned Milo.

"If she ever was." Yevele spoke, not to him, but as if voic-

ing some inner thought aloud.

"She was there. I laid hand on her!" Milo curbed anger

arising from both her tone and words.

"Yes." Now Deav Dyne nodded once more. "Once the

spell is broken she could not summon it again easily. But an-

other spell..." He allowed his sentence to trail away.

Naile went down on one knee, his attention plainly not for

his companions but for something he had sighted on the

ground before him. Now he reached over that dividing line

and poked at a straggly, calf-high bush. Prom the mass of in-

tertwined twigs he freed a strip of material, jerking it back.

"Somone passed here, leaving a marker," he said. "This

was not so twisted by chance."

What he held was a scrap of material-yellow and

dingy-about the length of two fingers.

"Cloak lining." With it still gripped in one hand, Naile

used his axe with the other, sliding that weapon forward to

rest momentarily on the earth beside the bush. The weight of

the double-headed blade sank it into the bare spot as soon as

it rested there. Hurriedly he snatched it back again. "If it

marked anything," the berserker commented, "it must be not

to enter here. But if this was set to ward off-then there is

some place that is safe-"

"And that may look enough like this spot," Ingrge cut in,

viewing what they could see in spite of the mist with a

tracker's eyes, to mislead those who would travel here-"

"Or else," Wymarc added wryly, "to play a double game

and make us believe just what you have now said. Wizards'

minds are devious, elf. Such a double-set trap might well be

what we have here."

"Something moving!" Yevele cried out, pointing into the

swirling mist.

Milo noted that he was,, not the only one to draw steel at

her warning. But the figure that came toward them at a run-

ning pace turned out to be Gulth, a Gulth laden with great

rolls of brilliant, acid green under each arm.

One of these he dropped so it flipped open of its own ac-

cord, lying directly above the spot Naile had tested with the

weight of his axe. It was wider than that axe and its shaft,

round in shape. A mighty leaf, rubbery tough, now rested on

the treacherous surface as if it had no weight at all.

"Come-" Gulth did not even look up to see if they

obeyed his summons. He was too busy laying down the rest

of his load, disappearing into the mist again as he put one

leaf next to the other to form a path.

Naile shook his head. "Does the scaled one think we shall

trust such a device?" he demanded. "How he manages to

keep from sinking is some magic of his own people. We have

it not nor can a leaf give it to us."

Gulth did not return, though they watched for him. It was

the elf who pushed past Naile and knelt to stretch out his

bow, prodding at the surface of the leaf with the tip.

"It does not sink," he observed.

"Ha, elfkind, what is your bow, even though you put

muscle to your testing," Naile enquired, "against the full

weight of one of us? Even that of the battlemaid here would

force it down-"

"Will it?" Yevele gave a short spring that carried her over

the dividing line to stand balanced on the leaf. It bobbed a

little as she landed upon it, but there was no breaking of its

surface, nor did it sink into the mud it covered. Before Milo

could protest she moved onto the second leaf where the mist

began to swirl. Her folly was reckless. Still she had proven

that in part Gulth was right. What knowledge of strange

life-or alien sorcery-the lizardman had, it would seem that

in the quagmire it was of use.

Ingrge went next. He was slight of body as were all his

race, yet it was true that he must weigh more than the girl, in

spite of her armor and weapons and the pack she had slung

over her shoulder before she made that reckless gesture. As

he, in turn, steadied himself on the leaf, he looked over his

shoulder.

"It is firm," he reported, before he moved on, to be hidden

in the mist as Yevele had vanished. Deav Dyne drew his robe

closer about him, perhaps to guard against the tangled bush,

stepping boldly out and away. He was gone as if walking on

a strong-based bridge.

Wymarc shrugged. "Well enough. I hope that that harvest

of leaves will hold," he remarked, readying to take the stride

that would set him on Deav Dyne's heels. Then Milo and

Naile stood alone.

Plainly the berserker mistrusted the green support. Of them

all he carried the most weight, not only in bone and flesh, but

also in his axe, pack and armor. He shifted from one foot to

the other, scowling, his narrowed gaze on the leaf. Finally, as

the bard had done, he shrugged.

"What will be, will be. If it is the fate set on me to

smother in stinking mud, then how can I escape it?" He

could have been marching to some battle where the odds

were hopelessly against him. Milo took off his cloak, rolling it

into a very rough excuse for a rope.

'Take this." He flapped one end into Naile's reach. "It

may not serve, but at least it will give you a better chance."

Privately, he thought Naile was entirely right in mistrusting

Gulth's strange bridge. Whether he could pull Naile out of

' danger if the leaf gave way beneath the berserker, he also had

his doubts, but this was the best aid he could offer.

From the quirk of the berserker's lips Milo believed that

Naile agreed with every unvoiced doubt. Yet he accepted the

end of the cloak as he went forward, bringing both feet

firmly together on the surface of the leaf.

The green surface did tilt a fraction, bulging downward

immediately under Naile's feet. Yet it held, with no further

sinking, as the heavy man readied his balance to take a sec-

ond stride. Then he was gone, still on his feet, and the cloak

pulled in Milo's hold. Gritting his teeth and trying not to

think of what might happen if the leaf, which must have been

badly tried by the passing of the others, gave out under him,

the swordsman stepped cautiously onto its surface.

It did shift under his boots, moving as might a soft surface.

Still, he did not sink, and he braved the queasy uneasiness

that shifting aroused in him. Now the cloak tie with Naile

was broken, the other end loose so he drew it to him. Ap-

parently the berserker had been so encouraged he felt no

need of such doubtful support.

On Milo moved, standing now on the second leaf, the mist

hiding from him all but a fraction of the one ahead. He

waited a second or two longer, making as sure as he could

that Naile had progressed beyond. These leaves, by some

miracle, might take the weight of one alone, but Milo had no

mind to try their toughness with both him and Naile striving

to balance together.

He moved slowly and carefully, though not straight, for

the leaves had been laid down to skirt most of the open

pools. Thus sometimes, in the mist that so distorted and hid

the rest of the quagmire, the swordsman felt as if he had

doubled back in a time-consuming fashion.

"Wait!" The warning out of the mist stopped him as he

gathered himself for a small leap to carry him over a pool to

a leaf lying beyond.

It was harder to force himself to stand there, listening, then

to keep on the move from one leaf to another. Now the in-

sects, which he had tired to ignore in his concentration upon

his footing, were a torment as they bit and stung his

sweating, swollen flesh. Out of the murk of the pool some-

thing raised a clawed, scaled paw, caught the edge of the

leaf. A second paw joined it. Between them appeared a frog-

like head. But no frog of Milo's knowledge showed fangs,

pointed and threatening. The thing was the size of a small

dog or cat. And it was not alone. Another paw reached for

support some distance away.

Milo's sword slid delicately out of its sheath. He continued

to mistrust the result of any sudden movement. The first of

the frog things was on the edge of the leaf, fully clear of the

water, its head held at an angle so that the glitter of its eyes

reached his own face. Milo struck as he might spear a fish.

The sword point went into the thing's bloated body. It gave

a sound more scream than croak as he flung away from him

with a sharp twist of his blade, not waiting to see it sink back

into the water before he slashed down at the other. More

clawed paws were showing along the leaf side.

The leaf quivered under him. He killed the second of the

creatures. Now no more climbed from the pool. Instead those

paws-and there were more of them than he could stop to

count-fastened on the leaf, forcing its side downwards. So

the things had intelligence of a sort. They were united in an

attempt to upset him. Once in that pool, small as they were,

he would be at their mercy. Moving as swiftly as he could,

Milo slashed and slashed again. Paws were cut from spindly

legs, yet others arose as the mutilated enemy sank out of

sight. He was forced to his knees by the continuous shaking

of the leaf. And it was slowly but inevitably sinking at the

side where the frog things congregated.

Milo could not move from where he already crouched, lest

his own weight add to the efforts of the frog things. But he

defended his shaky perch with all the skill he knew.

"On!"

The call out of the fog reached him dimly. He was far

more aware of his own struggle. He allowed one glance

toward the next leaf. There were none of the frog things wait-

ing there. But to reach it meant a leap and that from the un-

steady leaf. Now they were no longer striving to upset him.

Instead, with those taloned paws, and perhaps with their

teeth, they ripped away at the leaf itself, tearing it into strings

of pale green pulp. And they no longer climbed high enough

for him to get at them. He must move, and now!

Milo gathered himself together and, not daring to pause

any longer, (one tear in the leaf had already nearly reached

him) he made the crossing. His haste perhaps added to the

impact of his landing, for he lost his footing as the leaf

moved under him. The toe of one boot projected back over

the pond.

As he fought to regain his balance, drawing in his leg, he

saw one of the frog creatures had its teeth embedded in the

metal-reinforced leather of the boot. With a small surge of

something close to panic, the swordsman struck out with his

mailed fist, for he had sheathed his sword, and hit the thing

full on.

The fat body smashed under his blow. However, the jaws

did not open, keeping fast their hold. Milo had to slash and

slash again with his dagger, his hands shaking with a horror

he could not control. Though he so rid himself of the flat-

tened body and of most of the head, he could not even then

loose the jaws.

Those he carried with him as he hurried on, moving from

one leaf to the next. Voices sounded ahead, there was a call-

ing of his name. He took a deep breath and answered, hoping

that his present state of mind could not be deduced from his

tone. Then, as his pulse slowed and he mastered the sickness

that threatened each time he glanced at that thing deep set in

his boot, he had another fleeting thought.

The bracelet! Milo swung up his arm, almost believing that

he must have lost it. There had not been the slightest warning

of any peril ahead such as he had come to rely upon. The

dice were fixed. He prodded one with a finger-immovable.

Did that mean that they had lost the one small advantage

they might have in any struggle to come?

Leaf by leaf he won ahead. The mist did not thin. All he

could see was what lay immediately around him. Luckily,

though he skirted two more pools, neither had to be directly

crossed.

"Take care," Another warning from the curtain of mist.

"Bear right as you come."

The leaf before him was set straight. Milo hesitated, looked

to the bracelet. It remained uncommunicative. Voices-illu-

sions? If he bore right as ordered would such a shift take him

directly into disaster?

"Naile?" he called back, determined for identification be-

fore he obeyed.

"Wymarc," the answer came. The mist, Milo decided,

played tricks with normal tones. It could have been anyone

who mouthed that name.

Sword in hand, Milo teetered back and forth. He must

chance it. To do otherwise might not only endanger him but

one of the others. He moved on, across the leaf and to the

right, skirting the very edge of it and causing it to tilt.

So he came through the mist to where figures stood half-

unseen. There was a line of leaves laid out here, so each one

had a firm platform of his own. Before them stretched a wide

spread of water. Perhaps this was the lake they had been able

to view in the first gray time of light before the mists

gathered. As he moved up even with the others, he saw that

his neighbor was indeed the bard.

"What do we wait for?"

Wymarc made a gesture to the sweep of dark water. "For

a bridge apparently-or something of the sort. I could wish

that we did it in a less populated place." He slapped at his

face and neck, hardly disturbing the insects that buzzed about

him in a cloud of constant assault.

"Gulth?"

The lizardman had solved one problem for them. Would

he have an answer for this also?

"He was gone when we reached here. But we are not the

first to come this way. Look."

It could only be half seen in the mist, but what the bard

pointed to was a post made of a tree trunk, its bark still on

and overlaid with a thick resinous gum. Caught in it were

layers of the insects, so that it was coated above the waterline

with the dead and the still-struggling living. But on each side

of it, well up above the water, were two hoops of metal,

dulled and rusty, standing away from the wood.

"Mooring of a sort." Milo was sure he was right. And, if

something had been moored here in the past. . . . Still that

did not signify that any such transportation would be avail-

able to them.

"Something coming!" Naile, beyond Wymarc, gave them

warning. Milo could hear nothing but the noise of the insects

which, now that he was not occupied with leaf-crossing, was

maddening.

Out of the mist a dark shadow glided across the surface of

the lake, heading straight for them. Afreeta, who had been in

her usual riding place on Naile's shoulder, darted out to meet

that craft.

It was a queer sort of boat and one that Milo could not ac-

cept at first as being any possible transportation at all. It

looked far more as if a mass of reeds had been uprooted and

was drifting toward them. Still, no mat would move with

such purpose, and this move steadily if slowly, plainly aimed

at the shore at their feet.

As it at last nudged the mud, Milo could see that the raft

was indeed fashioned of reeds, at least on the surface. They

had been torn from their rooting, forced into bundles, and

tied together with cords made of their own materials. The

bundles did not dip deeply in the water, plainly they rested

on another base. Now, below the front edge of this unwieldly

platform of vegetation (it did not even promise the stability

of a raft) something rose to the surface.

Gulth drew himself up and collected from among the reed

bundles his swordbelt with its weapon.

"Come." In the mist his voice took on some of the croak-

ing intonation of the frog things. To underline his invitation-

order, he gestured them forward.

There were extra rows of the reed bundles forming a raised

edging about the platform. But seven of them on that? Milo,

for one, saw little hope. Yet Yevele was not going to lead this

time. Since by chance he was the closest, the swordsman

jumped, landing on the other side of the low barrier. The raft

did bob about, but it remained remarkably bouyant. Milo

scrambled hastily to join Gulth. Perhaps with their weight on

the other side to balance, the others would have less trouble

embarking. One by one they followed Mile's lead, Naile com-

ing last. The raft did sink a little then, some of the water

forced in runnels through the raised edge. At Gulth's orders

they spaced themselves across the surface in a pattern the liz-

ardman indicated, which, they deduced, had something to do

with maintaining its floating ability.

Then, dropping his swordbelt once more, Gulth slid easily

into the water and the raft slowly moved out from the shore.

Milo turned his head. Wymarc lay an arm's distance away.

"He can't be towing us, not alonel" the swordsman pro-

tested. Magic he could swallow-but this was no magic, he

knew.

"He is not," Ingrge, instead of the bard, answered. "Direc-

tion he gives-but to others. The scaled ones have their own

friends and helpers and those are bom of swamps. Gulth has

found here such to answer his call. They swim below the sur-

face-as the horses of the land pull a cart, these will bring us

across the water."

Their journey was a slow one. And it was, as the mist

gathered around them and they could no longer see the shore

from which they came, a blind voyage. Nor was there any

Sign of what or who drew them on. Milo rose cautiously to

his knees once to peer over the barrier. He saw lines of

braided reeds showing now and again at the meeting of raft

and water. They were drawn taut. Save for those and the

emergence of Gulth at intervals, his head rising so he might

check on the raft, there was no proof they were not alone.

17

Quag Heart

Imprisoned by the walls of mist, surrounded by clouds

of insects which even the .forays of Afreeta did nothing to

drive away, they were caught in a pocket of time that they

could not measure. They only knew that the crude raft on

which they balanced continued to move. And, since Gulth

controlled that journey, they guessed that the lizardman must

also know their goal.

"I am wondering," Yevele said, "if we have already been

noted and there are those awaiting us . . ." She raised her

head, propping herself up on her extended arms, and looked

directly at Milo. "Such ones as this shape-changer you have

already fronted, swordsman."

"She's no shape-changer," Naile cut in. "An illusionist

needs to reach into the mind to spin such webs. And another

can break them, when he reali2es that they are only fancies."

He appeared aggrieved that Yevele equated the stranger with

him in such a fashion.

"I am wondering why she came to us." Wymarc shook his

head vigorously to try and discourage the attentions of a fly-

ing thing nearly as long as his own middle finger. "It argues

that we have been discovered, thus we may indeed meet a

welcome we shall not want."

"Yes, the open jaws of another dragon," commented Naile,

"or the sucking of a mud hole. Yet there is something about

these attempts against us-"

"They seem to be not very carefully planned," Wymarc

supplied when the berserker paused. "Yes, each attempt

possesses a flaw, does it not?"

"It is," Ingrge spoke for the first time, "as if orders are in-

complete, or else they are not understood by servants." He

rolled over on his back and held up his arm so that the

bracelet was visible. "How much do these control our way

now?"

"Perhaps very little." MUo gained their full attention.

Quickly he outlined his battle with the frog things and how

then there had been no warning spin of the dice.

"It may be because we approach at last the place in which

those came into being, that they can operate only beyond its

presence," Yevele said slowly, her hand rubbing now along

her own bracelet. "Then, if that is so-"

"We are without warning or any aid we can gain from a

controlled spin." Deav Dyne finished her thought. "Yet, do

you feel released from the geas in any fashion?"

There was a moment of silence as they tested the compul-

sion that had brought them out of Greyhawk and to this

place of water, mud, and mist. Milo strove to break loose, to

decide to turn back. But that force was still strong within

him.

"So, we learn something else," the cleric pointed out.

"Wizardry still holds us, even though the other, this,"-he

tapped fingertip against the band about his wrist-"does not.

What are we to gather from such evidence?"

"A geas is of this world," Yevele mused aloud. "The band

which we cannot take from us perhaps is not. There are

many kinds of magic; I know of no one, unless it be an

adept, who can list them all. This foul quagmire is magic-

born. What kind of magic, priest? There are many fearsome

odors here, still I have not sniffed yet the traces of Chaos

leaves when dark powers are summoned. Alien forces?"

"So said Hystaspes," Milo returned.

"We are slowing," Ingrge broke in. "Those who tow us

want no part of what lies ahead, they protest against Gulth's

urging," He raised to look over the edge as Milo had done.

More water seeped in and his cloak showed patches of wet.

"How many of these swamp dwellers can be allied for us

or against us?" Naile wanted to know. "None answer to my

were-call."

So the berserker, without telling them, had been trying to

use one of his own talents.

"Who knows?" Ingrge answered. "None have I touched

who were not life as we of this world recognize it. Though

this swamp has been populated arbitrarily. In some minds I

have found fading memories of living elsewhere-in the rest

there is only consciousness of the here and now."

"A slice of country transported -with its dwellers?" haz-

arded Deav Dyne. "That is wizardry beyond my learning.

Yet all things are possible, there is no boundary of knowl-

edge."

"Something there!" Milo picked a dark shadow out of the

mist. It was fixed, not moving. Toward that the raft headed,

far more slowly now.

"Gulth holds them, those who pull us," reported the elf.

"They protest more, but his control continues. He has agreed

to release them when we touch that which we see ahead."

The shadow grew and became not just a dark spot in the

mist, but a tumble of rocks spilling forward to form a narrow

tongue. They looked upon the promise of that stability with

divided minds. To the credit side, the solid look of the rock

promised firm footing, a refuge from the swamp. On the

other hand, firm land would also hold other dangers.

Gulth crawled out of the water, climbing carefully over the

side barrier. ;

"We go there-" He gestured to the tongue of rock.

It loomed high above, its foot water-washed and covered

with green slime. The raft bumped gently against it a mo-

ment later.

"Push-that way-" Gulth stepped close, leaned over, to

set his taloned hands against the rough surface of the rocks,

obeying his own order, to edge the unwieldly craft to the left.

Only Naile, Milo, and Wymarc could find room to stand

beside the lizardman and add their strength to this new

'maneuver. The stone was wet and their progress was hardly

faster than that of the fat leechslugs that clung to the rocks

and that they tried to avoid touching. Little by little they

brought the raft around to the other side of that jutting point.

There, in an indentation which made a miniature bay, they

worked their way closer to some smaller stones that rose

from the surface of the water like natural steps.

One could only see a short distance ahead, but Naile had a

method for overcoming that difficulty. Afreeta took off, spi-

raling up, then darting into the mist at the higher level to

which that stairway climbed. Milo and Gulth found finger-

holds to which they clung as Naile swung over, setting his

feet firmly on the first stone.

The berserker climbed up out of sight while they still held

so. One by one the others passed between them to follow.

Then Milo clambered over, and the lizardman was quick to

follow, leaving the raft to drift away.

Here fog enfolded them even more thickly. They could not

see those they followed. However, the mist did not muffle a

sudden shout or the sound of steel against steel. Milo, sword

in hand, made the last part of that assent in two bounds. Nor

did he forget a quick glance once more at his wrist. The dice

neither shone nor moved. It would seem the phenomenon on

which they depended still did not work.

Gulth, moving with more supple speed than the swordsman

had seen him use since their quest began, gave one leap that

surpassed Mile's efforts and vanished into the mist. The

swordsman was not far behind. With a last spurt of effort he

broke through the fog, into open space. This lay under a gray

and lowering sky to be sure, but one might see his fellows as

more than just forms moving in and out of eye range.

What he did witness was Naile, axe up to swing, as if the

berserker had fastened on Milo himself as the enemy. Yet-

there was Naile, further off, confronting a shambling, stone-

hided troll!

Illusion! Milo lifted the hand wearing the ring, half-afraid

that, in the atmosphere of this alien setting, it, too, might

have ceased to possess its spell-breaking quality. But, like the

geas, it still served. The Naile about to attack him changed

swiftly, in a nicker of an eye, to a man he had seen before-

the animal trader Helagret. His axe was a dagger, its upright

blade discolored by a greenish stain. Milo swung at this op-

ponent with the practiced ease of a trained inflghter.

His sword met that dagger arm, but did not sheer deeply

for the edge found the resistance of a mailed shirt beneath

the other's travel-stained jerkin. But the force of the blow, de-

livered so skillfully, sent the dagger spinning from the other's

hand, rendered him off balance. Milo tossed the sword to his

other hand, caught it by the blade and delivered with the

heavy hilt a trick stroke he had learned through long and

painful effort.

As the pommel thudded home on the side of Helagret's

head, the man's eyes rolled up. Without a cry he slumped to

the rock. His huddled body lay now in the way of Naile, re-

treating from the lunges of the troll, for no matter how skill-

fully the berserker wrought with his bone-shattering axe

strokes, none of them appeared to land where he had aimed

them.

"No." Milo threw up his ring hand, dodging past Naile,

stooping just in time to escape one of the berserker's wider

swings, and touched the troll.

There was again that flicker of dying illusion. What Naile

faced now was not an eight-foot monster toward the head

and neck of which he had aimed his attack, but rather a

man, human as Milo, and well under the berserker's own

towering inches. Knyshaw, the thief-adventurer, his lips

drawn into a snarl, dove forward, stretching forth both hands

as the troll had earlier threatened Naile with six-inch talons.

Strapped to his digits were the wicked weapons of the sound-

less assassin, keen knives projecting beyond his own nails.

The tips of two were stained and Milo guessed that the

lightest scratch from one would bring a painful death.

The axe arose and fell as Naile voiced a shrill squeal of

boar anger. There was no mail here to stop that stroke. Kny-

shaw screamed, stumbled. The hands with their knives were

on the ground. From the stumps of his wrists spouted blood.

Again Naile struck. The thief, his head beaten in, fell, the

hands hidden beneath his twitching body.

Milo leaped over that body, heading for the rest of the

skirmish. Deav Dyne crouched by a spur of rock, his belt

knife drawn, but his other hand cradled his beads, and he

chanted, intent on keeping his attacker from him while he

wrought some spell of his own calling. That attacker slunk,

belly to the ground, a scaled thing that might well have is-

sued from the quagmire. Its body was encased in a shell,

buthead, swaying back and forth, was that of a serpent, and

the eyes, staring fixedly at the priest, were evilly wise.

Milo brought the ring against its shell. This time there was

no change. He swung up his sword, only to be elbowed aside

by Naile. His axe flashed up, then down, with an execu-

tioner's precision, to behead the monster. Through the air

spun viscous yellow stuff that the creature had spat at the

crouching cleric just before its head bounced to the rock. A

few drops fell on the edge of Deav Dyne's robe. A wisp of

smoke arose and the cloth" showed a ragged hole.

" 'Ware that!" Naile cried. He had turned and was already

on the move.

Wymarc and Ingrge stood back to back, alert to those who

circled them. A little apart the druid Carivols paced around

and around the beleaguered two and their enemies. The latter

were black imps, spears in hand, their coal-red eyes ever

Upon those they teased and tormented, flashing in to deliver

some prick with their spears. To Milo's surprise neither the

elf nor the bard strove to defend himself with a sword,

though trickles of blood ran down their legs unprotected by

mail.

Naile roared and leaped forward, swinging his axe at the

prancing demons. The steel head passed through the bodies

he strove to smash as it might have through wisps of smoke.

Milo, seeing that, understood the strange passivenees of the

two in that circle.

Carlvols did not look at either Milo or the berserker. His

body was tense, strain visible on his face. The swordsman

guessed that, though the magic worker had had the ability to

summon these creatures from whatever other plane they

knew as home and keep them tormenting the two they encir-

cled, it was a dire energy drain for him to hold the spell in

force. None of the demons turned to attack either Naile or

Milo. Thus there was clearly a limit to what the druid could

order them to do. Yet they were well able to keep up the

threat against both elf and bard, and their spear attacks were

growing stronger, the circle narrower.

"Stand aside!" Deav Dyne shouldered by Milo. The cleric

whirled his string of prayer beads as if it were a scourge he

could lay across an imp's back and rump. Even so did he aim

it at the nearest.

Milo was content to leave this skirmish to the two priests

and what they could summon. Now he looked for Yevele-to

find two battlemaids, locked together in combat.

So much was one girl the image of the other that, as he

crossed the rock to where sword met sword, shield was raised

against blade, the swordsman could not say which of the two

was she with whom he had marched out of Greyhawk.

There was a stir in the rocks beyond. From the shadow

there ran a man. He carried a mace in both hands and

ranged himself behind the circling Yeveles, striving to use his

weapon on one. Yet it would seem that he himself was not

sure which was which and that he hesitated to attack for that

reason. Milo bore down on the newcomer. Though the

stranger stood near as tall as the swordsman, his face under

the plain helm he wore had the features of an ore. And his

lips were tightly drawn so that his fanglike teeth were visible

between.

Milo, sword upraised, was upon him before the other real-

ized it. Then he whirled about with a sidewise swing of the

mace, aimed at Milo's thigh. There was enough force in that

blow, the swordsman thought, to break a hip. Only narrowly

was he able to avoid being hit. The ring on his thumb did not

gleam so this fighter was no illusion. Swords could make little

impression as this enemy wore a heavy mail shirt, reinforced

breast and back with plates of dingy and rust-reddened metal.

For all his squat thickness of body, the ore was a cunning

fighter-and a stubborn one. No man dared underrate this

servant of Chaos. But no ore, no matter how powerful or

skiUful, could in turn face what came at him now from an-

other angle while his attention was fixed on Milo.

This was no axe-swinging berserker but the were-boar, near

as tall as the ore at the massive shoulder, grunting and

squealing in a rage that only the death of an enemy might as-

suage. Milo leaped quickly to one side, lest the animal in

battle madness turn on him also, as had been known to hap-

pen when friend and foe were pinned in narrow compass. He

could leave the ore to the were. There remained Yevele,

locked in combat with what appeared to be herself. Once

more he turned to the battling women.

One of them had forced the other back to stand with her

shoulders against a barrier Milo saw clearly for the first

time-a wall looming from more mist. He threw out his arm

to touch the one who had forced her opponent into that posi-

tion.

There was no flare of the ring. Now Milo's sword swept up

between the women, both their blades knocked awry by that

stroke they had not foreseen.

"Have done!" He spoke to Yevele. 'This witch may answer

what we need to know."

For a moment it seemed that the battlemaid would not

heed him. He could see little of her face below the helm.

Though her head swung a fraction in his direction, he knew

she was still watchful.

The other Yevele took that chance to push forward from

the wall and stab at him with her blade. But he caught the

Mow easily on the flatside.of his sword, his strength bearing

down her arm. She drove her shield straight at him, and he

lashed out with his foot, catching her leg with a blow made

the crueler by his iron-enforced boot.

Screaming, she staggered back, her shoulders hitting the

wall as she slid down along its surface. Milo stooped to touch

her with the ring. Her helmet had been scraped off in her

fall, showing tight braids of hair beneath it.

They were no longer red-brown-rather much darker. And

it was not Yevele's sun-browned features now that were com-

pletely visible. The nose was thinner, higher in the bridge, the

face narrowed to a chin so pointed it was grotesque. Her

mouth was a vivid scarlet and her full lips twisted as she spat

at him, stabbing upward with her sword.

Yevele kicked this time, her toe connecting expertly with

the illusionist's wrist. The sword dropped from fingers sud-

denly nerveless. Then the fallen woman screeched out words

that might have been a curse or a spell. But if it were the lat-

ter she never got to finish it. As deftly as Milo had done in

his own battle. Yevele reversed her sword and brought the

hilt down on the black head.

The illusionist crumpled, to lie still. Yevele smiled grimly.

"Swordsman," she said, not looking at Milo, rather bending

over the illusionist while she unbuckled the other's swordbelt

to bind her arms tightly to ber body, "no longer will I think

that you were telling some tavern miner's tale when you said

that you had met me in the dust dunes by moonlight." She

went down on one knee. Tearing off a strip from the cloak

she had dropped earlier, she thrust a wad of the stout cloth

into the illusionist's mouth, making fast the gag with another

strip. "Now she will" tfirow no more speffs of inaf or any

other nature." Yevele sat back on her heels, her satisfaction

easy to read.

"Yes," she continued after a moment's survey of her cap-

tive, "not only can this one appear before me wearing my

face, but look you-she has bad some study of the rest of

me-even the dents upon my shield and the sifting of dust!

Swordsman, I would say that we have been watched carefully

and long-probably by magic means."

Yevele spoke the truth. What the unconscious girl before

them wore was an exact duplication of her own apparel.

When the illusionist had played her tricks upon him in the

night-then her armor had also been an illusion, vanishing

when he broke the spell. But this time the clothing was real.

"Look not into her eyes, if indeed she opens them soon,"

the battlemaid continued. "It is by sight-your sight linked to

theirs-that such addle a brain. Perhaps"-her tone turned

contemptuous as she arose-"this one thought to bedazzle me

so by a mirror image that I could be easily taken. Sha

speedily discovered such tricks could not bemuse me,

QUAG KEEP 179

And"-now she swung around, Milo turning with her-"it

would appear we have all given good account of ourselves.

But-where is Gulth?"

Boar stood, forefeet planted on the body of the ore, a

ragged piece of mail dangling from one yellowish tusk.

Wymarc and Ingrge were no longer surrounded by any encir-

cling of dancing imps. Instead they backed Deav Dyne who

swung his beads still as he might a whip advancing on the

black druid who cowered, dodged, and tried to escape, yet

seemingly could not really flee. The prayer beads might be

part of a net to engulf him, as well as a scourge to keep him

from calling on his own dark powers. For to do that, any

worker of magic needed quiet and a matter of time to sum-

mon aides from another plane, and Carivols was allowed nei-

ther.

Yevele was right. There was no sign of the lizardman. He

had been with Milo when they had climbed to this spot-or

at least the swordsman had thought so. Yet now Milo could

not recall having seen Gulth since he himself had plunged

into battle. He cupped his hands about his mouth and called:

"Ho-Gulth!"

No answer, nothing moved-save that Naile performed

once again his eye-wrenching feat of shape-changing.

"Gulth?" Milo called again.

Afreeta darted down from the mist above them, circled

Naile's head, to alight as usual on his shoulder. Of the lizard-

man there was neither any sign nor hint of what might have

become of him.

A silence had fallen as Deav Dyne got close enough to his

quarry to draw the beads across his shoulder. The black druid

clapped both hands over his mouth and fell to his knees, his

body convulsed by a series of great shudders. Stepping back

the cleric spoke.

"By the Grace of Him Who Orders the Winds and the Sea-

sons, this one is now our meat-for a space. Do you bind

him so that he may not lay hand to any amulet or tool h&

might have about him. Take also that pouch he wears upon

his belt. Do not open it, for what it may contain is for his

hand alone. Rather take it .and hurl it away-into the swamp,

if you will. In so much can we disarm him. As for Gulth-"

He came to join Naile, Milo, and Yevele. "It might be well

that we seek him. Also, be prepared for what else can face

us."

The druid, his pouch gone, his arms pulled behind him, the

wrists tightly bound, was dragged up to them by Wymarc.

Milo went to examine him who had played the role of an-

other Naile. There was a sluggish pulse, but his skull might

be cracked. He could be bound and left.

They had two conscious captives, the illusionist and the

druid. Perhaps these two were of least use, though they were

the most deadly, that since both had defenses that were not

based on strength of body or weapon in hand. Over the gag

Milo saw the woman's intent gaze as he went to bring her to

their council of war. But he knew that Yevele had been right

in her warning. The last thing to do was to look into her eyes

or let her compelling gaze cross his. He laid her down beside

the druid. The man's face worked frantically as he fought to

open his lips, yet they remained close-set together.

"I would not suggest we take them with us," Wymaro

spoke up. "To my mind it is a time to move fast, laying no

extra burdens upon ourselves."

"Well enough," agreed Naile. He drew his knife. "Give me

room, bard, and this I shall lay across their throats. Then we

need not think of them again."

"No." Milo had seen plenty such blooding of captives oa

fields of victory. It was a custom among many of the weres,

and not them alone. Better to leave only dead than to take

prisoners, when to guard such defeated one's purposes.

Wymarc was right, they should not take with them these most

dangerous of the enemy. But it was not in him to kill a

helpless captive coldly and neatly out of hand.

18

Roll the Dice

They drew together at the black wall, its top veiled

in the mist. With that as a guide they went warily forward,

seeking some break in its surface. This was no natural up-

thrust of rock, but laid by the hand of either human or alien.

The blocks were unfinished, placed one above the other, but

so cunningly set that it was solid enough without mortar.

Floating wisps of mist drifted above them, sometimes curl-

ing down that wall. Milo glanced back. There the mists had

closed in, dropping a curtain between them and the recent

battleground. Here, a pocket of clear air appeared to move

with them. There was nothing to see but the black rock, with

clusters of moisture bubbles gathering underfoot, or the wall.

While, with every breath they drew, that dankness invaded

their lungs, tainted as it was by the effluvia of the swamp-

lands.

Ingrge went down on one knee, intent upon something on

the ground.

"Gulth has come this way." He indicated a smear on the

rock. Some of the grayish slime growth, which spotted it lep-

erously in places, had been crushed into a noisome paste.

"How can you be sure that was left by Gulth?" Yevele de-

manded.

The elf did not look at her. It was Milo who caught the

clue-those scrape marks could only have been made by

Gulth's forward-jutting foot claws. But why had the lizard-

man deserted the fight, gone ahead?

"I said it!" Naile broke into the swordsman's thoughts. "To

trust one of the scaled ones is folly. Can you not see? It was

he who brought us here, delivered us as neatly as a mer-

chant's man brings a pack of trading goods across country to

a warehouse."

Afreeta lifted her head, hissed with the viciousness of her

kind. Naile raised one hand to rest on her body between fan-

ning wings. With his axe in the other he went on with an ag-

ile tread surprising for his bulk.

There was their gate-or door; a dark gap in the wall, wait-

ing like the maw of some great, toothless creature. There

was no door or bar-only a dark trough which they could

cot see. Naile swung his axe, slicing into that blackness as if

it were a living enemy. The double-headed blade flashed in-

ward, vanished from their sight. Then the berserker pulled it

back once more.

"Look to your wristlet!" Wymarc's warning was hardly

needed. A growing warmth of that metal had already alerted

them all.

The dice spots blazed, the metal bands themselves took on

a glow that fought against the drab daylight of the rocky isle.

But the dice did not spin, nor could Milo, concentrating with

all the power he could summon, stir them into any action.

They were alive with whatever force they had-but they did

not move.

"Power returns to power." Deav Dyne held out his own

banded arm. "Yet there is nothing here that answers to my

questing." He shook his beads.

"Still-the geas holds. We must go on," Wymarc returned.

It was true. Milo felt that, too. The compulsion that had

kept them moving ever southward and had sent them into the

Sea of Dust here strengthened. Some force stood or hovered

behind him, exerting rising strength to combat his will.

Now all the power Hystaspes had summoned to find the

geas built higher-as a flame leaps when fresh oil is poured

into the basin of the lamp. There could be no arguing against

the wizard's will, no matter what might face them in or be-

yond that curtain of the dark hung across the arched opening

of the wall.

Without a word to each other, hooked like fish upon a line,

they moved forward, while the warmth from their bracelets

grew to an almost unbearable heat. Darkness closed about

them-bringing a complete absence of all light. Milo took

three strides, four, hoping to so win into a place where sight

and hearing would once more function, for here he was

blind, nor could he catch any sounds from those who shared

his venture.

He was isolated in the smothering dark. It was difficult to

get a full breath, though the swamp air had been cut off

when he had taken that first stride into the total black. Trap?

If so he was fairly caught. The band on his wrist was bum-

ing, though here he could not see those flashes from the

minute gems on the dice. He tried with the fingers of his left

hand to free them, make them swing. It was impossible.

Ever the command that Hystaspes had set on him sent him

on and on. If this was all they could sense-how then might

they combat an entity blindly? Such a defense as this on the

part of the alien was more than they had expected.

Milo shook his head. There was a kind of mist in his

brain-slowing his thoughts, perhaps blacking out his mind

even as this outer darkness had entrapped his body. He could

move freely, yes, but he was not even sure now, in his state

of increasing bewilderment and dizziness, that he moved

straight ahead. Was he wandering in circles?

And in his head. ...

A table, voices, something he clasped within his hand. A

figure! Milo's thought caught and held that fraction of

memory in triumph. He had held a figure, beautifully

wrought, of a fighting man armored and helmeted like-like

Milo Jagon himself!

Milo Jagon? He paused, enfolded in the dark. He was . ..

was ... Martin Jefferson!

He was . . . was . . . With the beginning of panic he stag-

gered on, his hands going to his head as he fought to control

the seesaw of memories. Milo-Martin-Martin-Milo-Ab-

sorbed in that conflict, he stumbled on, one foot before the

other, no longer aware of his surroundings.

Then, just as the dark had closed about them upon their

entrance through the wall, so did it end. Milo blundered out

into the open once again. He squinted against a light that

struck at him. To his eyes this was a punishing glare, so he

blinked and blinked again. Then his sight adjusted.

He stood in a room of rough stone walls and floors. There

were no windows in those walls. Above his head the ceiling

was the same drab black-gray, though it was crossed by heavy

beams of wood. In the wall directly opposite there was the

outline of a doorway-an outline only, for it had long ago

been filled with smaller stones wedged tightly together to

form what looked to be an impassable barrier.

Before this stood Gulth, facing that blocked way, his back

to those who had joined him. Milo strove to move forward,

nearer to the lizardman. He had taken two strides to bring

him out of the darkness into this place where the walls them-

selves gave forth an eerie glow without any benefit of lamp

or torch. But, he now could go no farther in spite of all his

willing. His feet might have been clamped to the stone floor.

"Wizardry!" Naile rumbled at his right. "One wizard sends

us on, the other traps us." The berserker was twisting, trying

to turn his body, manifestly attempting to loosen feet as im-

movable as Milo's.

"No spell of this world holds us," Deav Dyne said. The

cleric stood quietly, his beads coiled about his wrist, carefully

looped not to touch the bracelet. On all their arms those still

glowed with minute sparks of light.

"What do we now?" Yevele demanded. "Wait here like

sheep in a butcher's pen?"

Milo moistened his lips with tongue tip. To be so entrap-

ped sapped his resolution, and he understood the danger of

such wavering. Now his voice rang out a fraction louder than

he had intended. He hoped that no one of them could hear in

it any inflection of uneasiness.

"Who are we?"

He saw all their heads turn, even that of Gulth, though the

lizardman was far enough in advance that he could not really

see who stood behind him.

"What do you mean?" Yevele began and then hesitated.

"Yes, that is so-who are we in truth? Can any of us give an-

swer to that?"

None replied. Perhaps within themselves they shifted

memories, strove to find a common ground for the seesaw of

those memories.

It was Wymarc who made answer. "In that way lies our

danger. Perhaps we have been so split now to disarm us, send

us into some panic. While we stand here, comrades of the

road, we must be one, not two!"

Milo steadied. The bard was right. But could a man put

aside those sharp thrusts of alien memory, be himself whole

and one, untroubled by another identity? He glanced at tha

bracelet on his wrist. Naile had called this wizardry. The ber-

serker was right. Could one wizardry be set against another

in a last battle here?

"Be those of Greyhawk!" A sudden instinct gave him that

"The swordsman has made an excellent suggestion," Deav

Dyne said slowly. "Divided we will be excellent meat, per-

haps helpless before the alien knowledge. Strive to be one

with this world, do not reach after that which was of another

existence."

Milo-he was Milo-Milo-Milo! He must be Milo! NOW

he strove to master that other memory, put it from him. as far

as possible. He was Milo Jagon, no one else!

The bracelet. . . . The swordsman fastened his gaze on it,

holding out his arm so that he could see it clearly. Dice-

spinning dice-no, do not look at that-do not think of

them! He fought to drop his arm once more to his side, dis-

covered that it was as fixed in the raised position as his feet

were to the stones of the floor. Look away! At least that he

could do. He forced up his chin. By an effort that made the

sweat bead on his skin, he broke the intent stare of his eyes.

"Well done." Deav Dyne spoke with the firm tone of one,

who had fronted wizardry of many kinds and had not been

defeated. Milo glanced at the others. Their arms, even that of

the cleric, were held out stiff before them, but every one had

broken the momentary spell that bad held them in thrall to

the motionless dice.

"This is the magic of this time and place," the cleric con-

tinued. "Milo has told us-be of Greyhawk. Let us use the

weapons of Greyhawk against this alien. Perhaps that is the,

answer. Each of us has something of magic in us. Ingrge

holds that knowledge which is of the elves and which no hu-

man man can understand or summon, Naile puts forth the

strength of the were-folk. Yevele has some spells she has

learned, Wymarc controls the harp, Milo wears upon his

hands ancient rings of whose properties we cannot be sure. I

have what I have learned." He swung his beads. "I do not

think Gulth, either, lacks some power. So, let us each concen-

trate his mind on what is ours and bears no relation to fhose,

bands set on us against our wills."

His advice was logical, but Milo thought they were trusting

in a weak hope. Still the Illusion-breaking ring had worked

during their fight outside these walls. He looked at the two

rings, moving his other hand out beside the one held so stiffly

straight before him. Now he concentrated, as Deav Dyne had

bade, upon them. What other strange powers they might con-

trol when used by one with the right talent, he had no idea.

He could only hope....

He pressed his two thumbs tightly together, thus the set-

tings touched side by side. Wizards were able to move stones,

rocks as heavy as those malting up these walls, with mind

power alone when it was properly channeled. No, he must

not let his mind stray as to what could be done by an adept.

He must only think now on what might be done by Milo

Jagon, swordsman.

Cloudy oval, oblong green bearing forgotten map lines-he

stared at them both, strove to reduce his world to the rings

only, though what he groped so dimly to seize upon he could

not have explained. In ... in ... in ... Somewhere that

word arose in his mind, repeated-it had a ring of compul-

sion, a beat that spread from thought to the flesh and bone.

In-relax-let it rise in you.

What rise? Fear of the unknown tried to break loose. Reso-

lutely Milo fought that, drove it from the forepart of his

mind. In ... in ... in....

The beat of that word heightened, added to now by a

strain of music, monotonous in itself but repeating the same

three notes again and again, somehow adding force to his

will. In... in ... in....

As Milo had exiled beginning fear, so now he battled with

doubt. He was no wizard, no spell-master, whispered that

doubt. There could be no real answer to the task he willed.

Steel only was his weapon. In ... in ... in....

As his world was deliberately narrowed to the rings, they

grew larger until he could see only the strange gems. Both

were coming alive, not exactly glowing as had the bracelet,

rather as if their importance was being made manifest to

him. In ... in....

Milo moved before he was aware that that which had held

his feet had loosed hold. He took one slow step, another. It

was like wading through the treacherous mud of the swamp.

To raise each foot required great effort. Still it could be done.

His shoulder brushed against Gulth's. They both stood fac-

ing the wall. On his other side he was dimly aware of Yevele

coming up beside them, could hear, without understanding, a

mutter of words she voiced. In....

He took a last step. His outstretched hands, held at eye

level so that he could concentrate on the rings, came palm

flat against the small stones that had been set to block the

doorway. Beside him, Gulth had also moved, his taloned

hands resting beside Milo's.

Concentrate! He found it difficult to hold that fierce will-

to-be on the rings. Then-

The wall barrier, which had looked and felt at his first

touch so immovable, began to crumble. The blocks decayed

into coarse rubble, which tumbled to the flooring. A brighter

light than they had yet seen streamed out. Concentrate! Milo

fought to keep his thoughts fixed steadily on the rings and

hold there.

Those blocks were gone, their outstretched hands now met

no opposition. Milo heard a soft cry from beside him, echoed

it with a sharp breath of his own. The bracelet was no longer

only warm. It formed a tormenting band of fire about hia

arm, bringing sharp pain.

However, his feet were not fixed. Aroused to sullen anger

by that pain, he moved on, dimly aware that the rest of the

party were fast on his heels.

What they faced....

Illusion? Milo could not be sure. But as he stared ahead

into that brightly lighted room his surprise was complete.

Here were no stone walls, no sign of any dwelling that one

might find in this world.

The floor under his boots was wood, only half-covered by a

rug of dull green. Planted in the center of it was a table. And

on the table was stacked a pile of books-not the scrolls,

tomes, parchment he might expect to find in a wizard's cham-

ber-but books that the other person deep within him recog-

nized. One, a loose-leaf notebook, lay open, back flat on the

table. Facing it was a row of small figures, standing in scat-

tered array on a large sheet of paper marked off into squares

by different colored lines. On the wall behind the table hung

a map.

Deav Dyne spoke. 'This is the land we know." He ges-

tured to the map.

Milo came to the table. The figures. . . . Once more his

hand curled as if he clasped their like in protecting fingers.

Not chessmen-no-though these were playing pieces right

enough, representations of men, of aliens, each beautifully

fashioned with microscopic detail. He eyed them narrowly, al-

most sure that each of them must be one of the pieces. But

that was not true. There were a druid, a dragon, others he

could not be sure of without examining them closely-but no

swordsman, no elf, bard, battlemaiden, no Gulth, Deav Dyne,

Naile....

There was no one in the room, no other entrance save the

door they had opened for themselves. Still Milo had a feeling

that they would not be alone long, that he who had opened

that book, set out the figures, would at any moment return.

Yevele moved around the table, looking down at the pa-

pers spread there. She looked up.

"I know these-why?" There was a frown of puzzlement

on her face. "This is . . ." Her mental effort was visible to

any watcher as she fought to find words. "This is-a game!"

Her last word was a key to unlock the door of memory.

Milo was not transported back in person, but he was in mind

in another room not too different from this in some ways.

Ekstem should be there unpacking the new pieces. He held a

swordsman-

"We-we are the pieces!" he broke out. He swung halfway

around, pointing from one of 'the party to the next. "What

can you remember now?" he demanded from them.

"Game pieces." Deav Dyne nodded slowly. "New game

pieces-and I picked one up to examine it more closely.

Then"-he made a gesture toward himself, toward the rest of

them-"I was in Greyhawk and I was Deav Dyne. But how

can this be-wizardry of a sort I have no knowledge of? Was

it the same with all of you?"

They nodded. Milo had already gone on to the next ques-

tion, one that perhaps none of them might be able to answer.

"Why?"

"Do you not remember what Hystaspes said to us?"

counter-questioned the battlemaid. "He spoke of worlds tied

together by bringing us here-of a desire to so link two

planes of existence together."

"Which would be a disaster!" Wymarc said. "Each would

suffer from such a-"

Whatever he might have added was never voiced. There

came a flickering in the opposite comer of the room. Then a

man stood there, as if the very air itself had provided a door-

way for his entrance.

An expression of complete amazement on his thin face was

quickly overshadowed by another of mingled fear and anger,

or so Milo read it. The swordsman made the first move. He

depended once more on the reflexes of his body, as his blade

cleared scabbard and pointed toward the stranger in one

clean, flowing act

Yevele moved as speedily-but in a different direction. She

snatched up the open notebook from the table.

"Let that alone!" Anger triumphed over both amazement

and the trace of fear in the stranger.

"This is the key to your meddling, isn't it?" demanded the

girl in return. "This-and those." She pointed to the row of

figures. "Are they to be your next captives?"

"You don't know what you are doing," he snapped. Then

he paused, before adding, "You don't belong here. Ewire!"

His voice rose in a sharp, imperative call. "Ewire, where are

you? You can't trick me with your illusions."

"Illusions?" Naile rumbled. "Let me get my two hands on

you, little man!" The berserker strode forward with a pur-

poseful stride, "Then you will see what illusions can do when

they are angered!"

The stranger backed away. "You can't touch me!" His tone

now held a shrill note. "You're not supposed to be here at

all!" He sounded aggrieved as well as impatient "Ewire

knows better than to try her tricks on me."

Yevele leafed hastily through the ring-bound pages of the

notebook. Suddenly she paused, and called out. "Wait, Naile,

this is important to us all." Steadying the book in one hand,

she used a finger of the other to run lightly across the page as

she read. "First shipment of figures on its way. Will run peri-

odic checks. If the formula does work-what a perfect

game!"

"So," Milo held his sword with the point aimed at the

other's throat. Thus far he kept rigid control of his anger.

"We have been playing your game, is that it? I do not know

how or why you have done this to us. But you can send us

back-"

The stranger was shaking his head. "You needn't try to

threaten me-you aren't real, don't you understand that? I'm

the game master, the referee. I call the action! Oh-" He

raised one hand and rubbed his forehead. "This is ridiculous.

Why do I argue with something-someone who does not re-

ally exist?"

"Because we do." Naile reached out one hand as if he

would seize upon the stranger's shirt just above his heart.

Inches away from the goal his fingers brought up against an

invisible barrier. The stranger paid no attention to the aborted

attack. He was staring at Yevele.

"Don't!" his voice reached a scream, he had suddenly lost

control. "What are you doing?" Now he moved toward the

table and the girl who held the notebook in her hands. She

was methodically tearing out the pages, letting them drift to

the floor. "No!"

The stranger made a grab for his possession. Even as Naile

could not reach him, neither could he reach Yevele. Calmly

she moved back and continued her destruction.

Then the other laughed. "You really can't be anyone now

but yourselves," he said in a voice he once more had under

control. "It's a one-way road for you."

"But not for you?" Deav Dyne asked with his usual

mildness.

The stranger flashed a glance at him. "I'm not really here.

You might term it 'magic' in this benighted barbaric world. I

project only a part of me. I have an anchor-back there.

You do not. You serve my purpose by being here. Do you

suppose I would have left you any way back? The more of

you"-he glanced at the figures on the table and away

again-"who can answer to what is set in those figures-be-

cause each one holds that which will draw someone of the

right temperament here-the stronger my plan will be."

"Thank you for the information." Wymarc reached the

table to gather up the figures with a single sweep of his hand.

He slammed them to the floor and stamped hard, flattening

the metal into battered lumps.

The stranger watched him with a sly smile. "It doesn't put

an end to it, you know. There are more of those waiting. I

need only bring them through, link them here, and then-"

He shrugged.

"I do not think you will -do that." From the back of the

notebook Yevele drew a single sheet of time-browned paper.

Milo caught only a glimpse of a straggle of dark lines across

it.

Now the stranger let out a cry. "I-I couldn't have left

that here!"

Once more he made an ineffectual attempt to seize what

she held but the barrier that lay between them held. Yevele

backed farther away, holding out the paper to Deav Dyne.

The cleric grasped it and swiftly rolled it up, to be wrapped

with his prayer beads. Yevele spoke to Milo.

"The dice, comrade, get the dice! It would seem he has

forgotten them also."

Milo lunged for the table, the stranger doing the same

from the other side. It was he who overbalanced the board,

sent it crashing on its side, barely missing Milo's feet. Dice

such as those they wore in miniature rattled among the cas-

cade of books and papers, to spin across the floor. Milo

scooped up three, saw that Ingrge and Wymarc had the oth-

ers.

"Roll the master one, roll it NOW, Milo! See what will hap-

pen," Yevele ordered.

"No." The stranger sprawled forward, on his knees, his

arms reaching out in a vain attempt to gather his property.

"Does it work both ways then?" Milo did not expect an an-

swer. But because he was impressed by Yevele's order and

was willing at this moment to believe that perhaps magic was

at work here, he spun the proper cube.

The result was startling. That man, cursing now in his fu-

tility, wavered; table, papers strewn across the floor, they and

their owner were gone. Around the party the whole room be-

gan to spin, until they caught at one another dizzily. There

came a rushing of wind, a chill of freezing air.

Once more they stood in a stone-walled room. Above them

there was no longer any ceiling, for that wall ended in the

jagged line of ruin. And they were alone.

"He is gone, and I believe I can swear by the High Altai

of Astraha, he cannot return." Deav Dyne announced.

"But we-we are here," Yevele said slowly.

Milo looked straightly at her. "Perhaps he was right and

for us there is no return. Still, there is much strange

knowledge in this land that may aid us if we are fortunate.

We have this." He tossed the master cube in his hand and

caught it. "Who knows what we can leam concerning it."

"Well spoken," Deav Dyne agreed. "And we are free of

the geas also."

It was true. Though Milo had not realized it, that faint

uneasiness bom of the geas no longer rode him.

Naile cleared his throat. "We can now go our own ways

with no reason to bow to any other's wish-"

He hesitated and Yevele said, "Is that what you wish, ber-

serker? That we should now part and each seek his own for-

tune?"

Naile rubbed his chin with one hand. Then he answered

slowly. "A man usually chooses his battlemates and shield

companions. However, now I say this. If you wish Naile

Fangtooth, yes, even the scaled one there, to march your

road-say so. I am free of all other vows."

"I agree." Wymarc shifted the bagged harp to an easier

position on his shoulder. "Let us not be hasty in splitting our

force. It has been proven we can act together well when the

need arises."

Ingrge and the cleric nodded. Last of all Gulth, looking

from one face to the next, croaked, "Gulth walks your road

if you wish."

"So be it," Yevele said briskly. "But where do we now go

and for what purpose? From this foray we have gained

little-save perhaps the confounding of this player of games."

"We have this," Milo tossed the die. His problem had been

solved. He knew now that he was Milo Jagon and in that he

took a certain amount of satisfaction. "Shall we roll to see

what we can learn?"

"We are wed to that, the bracelets will not loosen." Ingrge

had been pulling at his, to no purpose. "Therefore, comrades

of the road, take care of those same dice. But as you ask,

swordsman, I now say-roll to see what comes of it. One

chance is as good as another."

Milo cupped the die tightly in his hand for a moment and

went down to one knee. Then, wondering what might follow,

he tossed the referee's control out on the rock floor of the ru-

ined keep.