The Pastel City 


Prologue

 Some seventeen notable empires rose in the 
Middle Period of Earth. These were the 
Afternoon Cultures. All but one are unimportant 
to this narrative, and there is little need to speak 
of them save to say that none of them lasted for 
less than a millennium, none for more than ten; 
that each extracted such secrets and obtained such 
comforts as its nature (and the nature of the 
Universe) enabled it to find; and that each fell 
back from the Universe in confusion, dwindled, 
and died.

 The last of them left its name written in the 
stars, but no one who came later could read it. 
More important, perhaps, it built enduringly 
despite its failing strength — leaving certain 
technologies that, for good or ill, retained their 
properties of operation for well over a thousand 
years. And more important still, it was the last of 
the Afternoon Cultures, and was followed by 
Evening, and by Viriconium.

 For five hundred years or more after the final 
collapse of the Middle Period, Viriconium (it had 



not that name, yet) was a primitive huddle of 
communities bounded by the sea in the West and 
South, by the unexplored lands in the East, and 
the Great Brown Waste of the North.

not that name, yet) was a primitive huddle of 
communities bounded by the sea in the West and 
South, by the unexplored lands in the East, and 
the Great Brown Waste of the North.

 They were fierce and jealous. Their rule of the 
Southerners was unkind, and, eventually, 
insupportable.

 The destruction of this pre-Viriconium culture, 
and the wresting of power from the Northmen 
was accomplished by Borring-Na-Lecht, son of a 
herdsman of the Monar Mountains, who gathered 
the Southerners, stiffened their spines with his 
rural but powerful rhetoric, and in a single week 


gutted both Drunmore and Glenluce.

gutted both Drunmore and Glenluce.

 But his greatest feat was the renovation of 
Viriconium, hub of the last of the Afternoon 
Cultures, and he took it for his capital — building 
where necessary, opening the time-choked 
thoroughfares, adding artifacts and works of art 
from the rust deserts, until the city glowed almost 
as it had done half a millennium before. From it, 
the empire took its name. Borring was a hero.

 No other hero came until Methven. During the 
centuries after Borring's death, Viriconium 
consolidated, grew plump and rich, concerned 
itself with wealth, internal trade and minor 
political hagglings. What had begun well, in fire 
and blood and triumph, lost its spirit. 


 For four hundred years the empire sat still 
while the Northmen licked their wounds and 
nourished their resentments. A slow war of 
attrition began, with the Southerners grown 
spineless again, the Northmen schooled to 
savagery by their harsh cold environment. 
Viriconium revered stability and poetry and 
wine-merchants: its wolf-cousins, only revenge. 
But, after a century of slow encroachment, the 
wolves met one who, if not of their kind, 
understood their ways . . .

 For four hundred years the empire sat still 
while the Northmen licked their wounds and 
nourished their resentments. A slow war of 
attrition began, with the Southerners grown 
spineless again, the Northmen schooled to 
savagery by their harsh cold environment. 
Viriconium revered stability and poetry and 
wine-merchants: its wolf-cousins, only revenge. 
But, after a century of slow encroachment, the 
wolves met one who, if not of their kind, 
understood their ways . . .

 There were many of them and many died. They 
fought with ruthlessness and a cold competence. 
They were chosen each for a special skill: thus, 
Norvin Trinor for his strategies, Tomb the Dwarf 
for his skill with mechanics and energy-weapons, 


Labart Tane for his knowledge of Northern 
folkways, Benedict Paucemanly for his 
aeronautics, tegeus-Cromis because he was the 
finest swordsman in the land.

Labart Tane for his knowledge of Northern 
folkways, Benedict Paucemanly for his 
aeronautics, tegeus-Cromis because he was the 
finest swordsman in the land.

 In an attempt to cement a passing alliance with 
some of the Northern Tribes, he persuaded his 
brother Methvel, whom he loved, to marry their 
Queen, Balquhider. On the failure of the treaty 
two years later, this wolf-woman left Methvel in 
their chambers, drowning in his own blood, his 
eyes plucked out with a costume-pin, and, taking 
their daughter, Canna Moidart, fled. She schooled 
the child to see its future as the crown of a 
combined empire; to make pretense on Methven's 
death to the throne of Viriconium.

 Nurtured on the grievances of the North, the 
Moidart aged before her time, and fanned in 
secret sparks of discontent in both North and 
South.

 So it was that when Methven died — some 



said partly of the lasting sorrow at Methvel's end 


— there were two Queens to pretend to the 
throne: Canna Moidart, and Methven's sole heir 
Methvet, known in her youth as Jane. And the 
knights of the Order of Methven, seeing a strong 
empire that had little need of their violent 
abilities, confused and saddened by the death of 
their King, scattered. 
Canna Moidart waited a decade before the 
first twist of the knife . . .

 Chapter One

 tegeus Cromis, sometime soldier and 
sophisticate of Viriconium, the Pastel City, who 
now dwelt quite alone in a tower by the sea and 
imagined himself a better poet than swordsman, 
stood at early morning on the sand-dunes that lay 
between his tall home and the grey line of the 
surf. Like swift and tattered scraps of rag, black 
gulls sped and fought over his downcast head. It 
was a catastrophe that had driven him from his 
tower, something that he had witnessed from its 
topmost room during the night.

 He smelled burning on the offshore wind. In 
the distance, faintly, he could hear dull and heavy 



explosions: and it was not the powerful sea that 
shook the dunes beneath his feet.

explosions: and it was not the powerful sea that 
shook the dunes beneath his feet.

 He wore a dark green velvet cloak, spun about 
him like a cocoon against the wind; a tabard of 
antique leather set with iridium studs over a white 
kid shirt; tight mazarine velvet trousers and high, 
soft boots of pale blue suede. Beneath the heavy 
cloak, his slim and deceptively delicate hands 
were curled into fists, weighted, as was the 
custom of the time, with heavy rings of 
nonprecious metals intagliated with involved 
cyphers and sphenograms. The right fist rested on 
the pommel of his plain long sword, which, 
contrary to the fashion of the time, had no name. 
Cromis, whose lips were thin and bloodless, was 
more possessed by the essential qualities of things 
than by their names; concerned with the reality of 
Reality, rather than with the names men give it.

 He worried more, for instance, about the 
beauty of the city that had fallen during the night 
than he did that it was Viriconium, the Pastel 
City. He loved it more for its avenues paved in 


pale blue and for its alleys that were not paved at 
all than he did for what its citizens chose to call 
it, which was often Viricon the Old and The Place 
Where The Roads Meet.

pale blue and for its alleys that were not paved at 
all than he did for what its citizens chose to call 
it, which was often Viricon the Old and The Place 
Where The Roads Meet.

 For a while he walked the tideline, examining 
the objects cast up by the sea: paying particular 
attention to a smooth stone here, a translucent 
spiny shell there; picking up a bottle the colour of 
his cloak, throwing down a branch whitened and 
peculiarly carved by the water. He watched the 
black gulls, but their cries depressed him. He 
listened to the cold wind in the rowan woods 
around his tower, and he shivered. Over the 
pounding of the high tide, he heard the dull 
concussions of falling Viriconium. And even 
when he stood in the surf, feeling its sharp acid 
sting on his cheek, lost in its thunder, he imagined 
it was possible to hear the riots in the pastel 
streets, the warring factions, and voices crying for 
Young Queen, Old Queen.

 He settled his russet shovel hat more firmly; 
crossed the dunes, his feet slipping in the 
treacherous sand; and found the white stone path 
through the rowans to his tower, which also had 


no name: though it was called by some after the 
stretch of seaboard on which it stood, that is, 
Balmacara. Cromis knew where his heart and his 
sword lay — but he had thought that all finished 
with and he had looked forward to a comfortable 
life by the sea.

no name: though it was called by some after the 
stretch of seaboard on which it stood, that is, 
Balmacara. Cromis knew where his heart and his 
sword lay — but he had thought that all finished 
with and he had looked forward to a comfortable 
life by the sea.

 It was before noon, and he had still not 
decided what to do.

 He sat in his highest room (a circular place, 
small, the walls of which were lined with leather 
and shelves of books: musical and scientific 
objects, astrolabes and lutes, stood on its draped 
stone tables; it was here that he worked at his 
songs), playing softly an instrument that he had 
got under strange circumstances some time ago, in 
the east. Its strings were taut and harsh, and stung 
his finger-ends; its tone was high and unpleasant 
and melancholy; but that was his mood. He 
played in a mode forgotten by all but himself and 
certain desert musicians, and his thoughts were 
not with the music.

 From the curved window of the room he could 


see out over the rowans and the gnarled thorn to 
the road that ran from the unfortunate city to 
Duirinish in the north-east. Viriconium itself was 
a smoke-haze above the eastern horizon and an 
unpleasant vibration in the foundations of the 
tower. He saw a launch rise out of that haze, a 
speck like a trick of the eye.

see out over the rowans and the gnarled thorn to 
the road that ran from the unfortunate city to 
Duirinish in the north-east. Viriconium itself was 
a smoke-haze above the eastern horizon and an 
unpleasant vibration in the foundations of the 
tower. He saw a launch rise out of that haze, a 
speck like a trick of the eye.

 The launch gained height, gyring slowly: flew 
a short way north while Cromis strained his eyes, 
and then began to make directly toward 
Balmacara. For a little while, it appeared to be 
stationary, merely growing larger as it neared the 
tower.

 When it came close enough to make out detail, 
Cromis saw that its faceted crystal hull had been 
blackened by fire, and that a great rift ran the full 
length of its starboard side. Its power plant (the 
secret of which, like many other things, had been 


lost a thousand years before the rise of 
Viriconium, so that Cromis and his 
contemporaries lived on the corpse of an ancient 
science, dependent on the enduring relics of a 
dead race) ran with a dreary insectile humming 
where it should have been silent. A pale halo of 
St. Elmo's Fire crackled from its bow to its stern, 
coruscating. Behind the shattered glass of its 
canopy, Cromis could see no pilot, and its flight 
was erratic: it yawed and pitched aimlessly, like a 
water-bird on a quiet current.

lost a thousand years before the rise of 
Viriconium, so that Cromis and his 
contemporaries lived on the corpse of an ancient 
science, dependent on the enduring relics of a 
dead race) ran with a dreary insectile humming 
where it should have been silent. A pale halo of 
St. Elmo's Fire crackled from its bow to its stern, 
coruscating. Behind the shattered glass of its 
canopy, Cromis could see no pilot, and its flight 
was erratic: it yawed and pitched aimlessly, like a 
water-bird on a quiet current.

 Before the wreckage had hit the ground, 
Cromis was out of the high room, and, cloak 
streaming about him, was descending the spiral 
staircase at the spine of the tower.

 At first, he thought the entire wood had caught 
fire.

 Strange, motionless pillars of flame sprang up 



before him, red and gold, and burnished copper. 
He thought, "We are at the mercy of these old 
machines, we know so little of the forces that 
drive them." He threw up his arm to guard his 
face against the heat:

before him, red and gold, and burnished copper. 
He thought, "We are at the mercy of these old 
machines, we know so little of the forces that 
drive them." He threw up his arm to guard his 
face against the heat:

 Unknown to him, he had drawn his sword. 
Having demolished a short lane through the 
rowans, the launch lay like an immense split fruit, 
the original rent in its side now a gaping black 
hole through which he could discern odd 
glimmers of light. It was as long as his tower was 
tall. It seemed unaffected by its own discharges, 
as if the webs of force that latticed the crystal 
shell were of a different order than that of heat; 
something cold, but altogether powerful. Energy 
drained from it, and the discharges became fewer. 
The lights inside its ruptured hull danced and 
changed position, like fireflies of an uncustomary 


colour.

colour.

 He had begun to turn sadly away when a figure 
staggered out of the wreckage toward him, 
swaying.

 The survivor was dressed in charred rags, his 
face blackened by beard and grime. His eyes 
shone startlingly white from shadowed pits, and 
his right arm was a bloody, bandaged stump. He 
gazed about him, regarding the burning rowans 
with fear and bemusement: he, too, seemed to see 
the whole wood as a furnace. He looked directly 
at Cromis.

 "Help!" he cried, "Help!"

 He shuddered, stumbled, and fell. A bough 
dropped from one of the blazing trees. Fire licked 
at the still body.

 Cromis hurled himself forward, hacking a path 
through the burning foliage with his sword. 
Cinders settled on his cloak, and the air was hot. 
Reaching the motionless body, he sheathed the 
blade, hung the man over his shoulders like a 
yoke, and started away from the crippled launch. 
There was an unpleasant, exposed sensation 
crawling somewhere in the back of his skull. He 


had made a hundred yards, his breath coming hard 
as the unaccustomed exertion began to tell, when 
the vehicle exploded. A great soundless gout of 
white cold fire, locked in the core of the launch 
by a vanished art, dissipated itself as pure light, a 
millennium after its confinement.

had made a hundred yards, his breath coming hard 
as the unaccustomed exertion began to tell, when 
the vehicle exploded. A great soundless gout of 
white cold fire, locked in the core of the launch 
by a vanished art, dissipated itself as pure light, a 
millennium after its confinement.

 As he reached the gates of Balmacara, 
something detached itself from the raggy clothing 
of the survivor and fell to the ground: a 
drawstring pouch of goat shagreen, full of coin. 
Possibly, in some dream, he heard the thud and 
ring of his portion of the fallen city. He shifted 
and moaned. There was at least one more bag of 
metal on him: it rattled dully as he moved. 
tegeus-Cromis curled his upper lip. He had 
wondered why the man was so heavy.

 Once inside the tower, he recovered quickly. 
Cromis ministered to him in one of the lower 
rooms, giving him stimulants and changing the 
blood-stiffened bandage on the severed arm, 
which had been cauterised negligently and was 
beginning to weep a clear, unhealthy fluid. The 
room, which was hung with weapons and 
curiosities of old campaigns, began to smell of 


burned cloth and pungent drugs.

burned cloth and pungent drugs.

 "Rest yourself," he told him. "You are in the 
tower of tegeus-Cromis, that some men call 
Balmacara. I must know your name if we are to 
talk."

 The black eyes flickered warily round the 
walls. They touched briefly on a powered 
battle-axe that Cromis had got from his friend 
Tomb the Dwarf after the sea-fight at Mingulay in 
the Rivermouth campaign; moved to the gaudy 
green-and-gold standard of Thorisman 
Carlemaker, whom Cromis had defeated 
single-handed — and with regret, since he had no 
quarrel with the fine rogue — in the Mountains of 
Monadhliath; came finally to rest on the hilt of 
the intangible-bladed baan that had accidentally 


killed Cromis' sister Galen. He looked from that 
to Cromis.

killed Cromis' sister Galen. He looked from that 
to Cromis.

 "Your coin fell as I carried you from your 
launch, Ronoan Mor." He pointed to where the 
three purses lay on an inlaid table. "You will find 
that all of it is present. How are things in the 
Pastel City?"

 It could not have been the money that worried 
Ronoan Mor, for the wariness did not leave his 
face. And that was a surprising thing. He bared his 
teeth.

 "Hard," he muttered, gazing bitterly at his 
severed limb. He hawked deep in his throat, and 
might have spat had there been a receptacle. "The 
young bitch holds steady, and we were routed. 
But — "

 There was such a look of fanaticism in his eyes 
that Cromis' hand, of its own accord, began to 
caress the pommel of the nameless sword. He was 
more puzzled than angered by Mor's insult to the 
Young Queen. If a man normally given to 


dreaming of bargain prices and a comfortable 
retirement (if of anything at all) could show this 
measure of devotion to a political cause, then 
things were truly out of joint in the land. 
Immediately, he found himself thinking: And did 
you need to know that, Sir Cromis? Is it not 
enough that the Pastel Towers shudder and fall 
overnight? There must be further proof?

dreaming of bargain prices and a comfortable 
retirement (if of anything at all) could show this 
measure of devotion to a political cause, then 
things were truly out of joint in the land. 
Immediately, he found himself thinking: And did 
you need to know that, Sir Cromis? Is it not 
enough that the Pastel Towers shudder and fall 
overnight? There must be further proof?

 For a moment, the survivor went on as if he 
had not heard: " — But she cannot hold for long 
when Canna Moidart's northern allies join with 
those patriots left in the city — "

 There was a feverish, canting tone in his voice, 
as though he repeated a creed. Sweat broke out 
on his brow, and spittle appeared on his lips. 
"Aye, we'll have her then, for sure! And caught 
between two blades — "

 He held his tongue and studied Cromis closely, 
squinting. Cromis stared levelly back, 
endeavouring not to show how this intelligence 
affected him. Mor clawed himself into a sitting 
position, trembling with the effort

 "Wise to reveal yourself, tegeus-Cromis!" he 
cried suddenly, like an orator who singles one 


man from a crowd of rustics. "Where does your 
service lie?"

man from a crowd of rustics. "Where does your 
service lie?"

 As if in answer, Ronoan Mor's good hand 
fumbled in his clothing again. And this time, it 
drew forth a twelve-inch sliver of flickering green 
light that hissed and crackled: A baan.

 He drew back his lips, held the ancient 
weapon stiffly before him (all men fear them, 
even their users), and snarled, "Large enough for 
you, sir. You see — " He glanced sideways at the 
trophies on the wall " — others may hold 
forceblades. Northerners, they tell me, have many 
such. With whom does your service lie, 
tegeus-Cromis?" He twitched the baan so it 
sparked and spat. "Tell me! Your evasions weary 
me — "

 Cromis felt perspiration trickling under his 
armpits. He was no coward, but he had been long 
away from violence: and though the baan was in 
poor condition, the energies that formed its blade 


running low, it would still slice steel, make play 
of bone and butter of flesh.

running low, it would still slice steel, make play 
of bone and butter of flesh.

 "This to your succour!" shouted Mor, and spat. 
"Tell me, or I'll open you from crutch to 
collar-bone."

 The baan flickered like an electric snake.

 "You are a fool, Ronoan Mor. Only a fool 
insults a man's queen under that man's hospitable 
roof."

 Mor flung his head back and howled like a 
beast.

 He lunged blindly.

 Cromis whirled, tangled his cloak about hand 
and baan. As the blade cut free, he crouched, 
rolled, changed direction, rolled again, so that his 
body became a blur of motion on the 
stone-flagged floor. The nameless sword slid from 
its sheath: and he was tegeus-Cromis the 
Northkiller once again, Companion of the Order 
of Methven and Bane of Carlemaker.

 Confused, Mor backed up against the head of 
the bed, his slitted eyes fixed on the crouching 
swordsman. He was breathing heavily. 


 "Forget it, man!" said Cromis. "I will accept 
your apologies. Your illness wears you. I have no 
use for this foolishness. The Methven do not 
slaughter merchants."

 "Forget it, man!" said Cromis. "I will accept 
your apologies. Your illness wears you. I have no 
use for this foolishness. The Methven do not 
slaughter merchants."

 tegeus-Cromis, who had thought never to fight 
again, laughed.

 As the baan buried itself in the trophy wall, he 
sprang forward, so that his whole long body 
followed the line of the nameless sword.

 A choked cry, and Ronoan Mor was dead.


 tegeus-Cromis, who fancied himself a better 
poet than armsman, stood over the corpse, 
watched sadly the blood well on to the blue silk 
bed, and cursed himself for lack of mercy.

 "I stand for Queen Jane, merchant," he said, 
"As I stood for her father. It is that simple."

 He wiped the blade of the sword with no name 
and went to prepare himself for a journey to the 
Pastel City, no longer plagued by dreams of a 
quiet life.

 Before he left, another thing happened, a 
welcome thing.

 He did not expect to see his tower again. In his 
skull, there was a premonition: Canna Moidart 
and her true kinsmen burned down from the 


voracious north with wild eyes and the old 
weapons, come to extract vengeance from the city 
and empire that had ousted them a century since. 
The savage blood ran true: though Canna Moidart 
was of Methven's line, being the daughter of his 
brother Methvel, old quarrels ran in her veins 
from her mother Balquhider's side; and she had 
expected the sovereignty on the death of her 
uncle. Viriconium had grown fat and mercantile 
while Methven grew old and Moidart fermented 
discontent in kingdom and city. And the wolves of 
the north had sharpened their teeth on their 
grievances.

voracious north with wild eyes and the old 
weapons, come to extract vengeance from the city 
and empire that had ousted them a century since. 
The savage blood ran true: though Canna Moidart 
was of Methven's line, being the daughter of his 
brother Methvel, old quarrels ran in her veins 
from her mother Balquhider's side; and she had 
expected the sovereignty on the death of her 
uncle. Viriconium had grown fat and mercantile 
while Methven grew old and Moidart fermented 
discontent in kingdom and city. And the wolves of 
the north had sharpened their teeth on their 
grievances.

 The fire in the rowan wood had died. Of the 
crystal launch, nothing remained but a charred 
glade an acre across. The road wound away to 
Viriconium. Some measure of order had prevailed 
there, for the smoke haze had left the horizon and 
the foundations of the tower no longer trembled. 
He hoped fervently that Queen Jane still 


prevailed, and that the calm was not that of a 
spent city, close to death.

prevailed, and that the calm was not that of a 
spent city, close to death.

 He could not see their standard, but he put 
down the gourd-shaped instrument from the east 
and went to welcome them; whether with words 
or with his blade, he did not much care.

 He was early at the gates. Empty yet, the road 
ran into the rowans, to curve sharply and 
disappear from sight. A black bird skittered 
through the leaves, sounding its alarm call; sat on 
a branch and regarded him suspiciously from 
beady, old man's eyes. The sound of hooves drew 
nearer.

 Mounted on a pink roan mare fully nineteen 
hands high and caparisoned in bright yellow, the 
first horseman came into view.

 He was a massive man, heavy in the shoulders 
and heavier in the hips, with thin, long blond hair 
that curled anarchically about a jowled and 
bearded face. He wore orange breeches tucked 
into oxblood boots, and a violet shirt, the sleeves 
of which were slashed and scalloped.

 On his head was a floppy-brimmed rustic hat 



of dark brown felt, which the wind constantly 
threatened to take from him.

of dark brown felt, which the wind constantly 
threatened to take from him.

 Cromis' shout of greeting drove the black bird 
entirely away.

 He ran forward, sheathing his sword and 
crying, "Grif! Grif!"

 He gathered up the reins beneath the roan 
mare's bit, hauled her to a halt and pounded one 
of the oxblood boots with the heel of his hand.


 "Grif, I had not thought to see you again! I had 
not thought any of us were left!"

 Chapter Two

 "No, Cromis, there are a few left. Had you not 
gone to earth after your sister Galen's accident, 
and then crept secretly back to this empty place, 
you would have seen that Methven made due 
provision for the Order: he did not intend it to die 
with his own death. A few left: but truthfully a 
few, and those scattered."

 They sat in the high room, Birkin Grif 
sprawled with a mug of distilled wine, his boots 


on a priceless onyx table, while Cromis plucked 
half-heartedly at the eastern gourd or paced 
restlessly the floor. The chink of metal on metal 
filtered from the courtyard far beneath, where 
Grif's men prepared a meal, watered their horses. 
It was late afternoon, the wind had dropped, and 
the rowans were still.

on a priceless onyx table, while Cromis plucked 
half-heartedly at the eastern gourd or paced 
restlessly the floor. The chink of metal on metal 
filtered from the courtyard far beneath, where 
Grif's men prepared a meal, watered their horses. 
It was late afternoon, the wind had dropped, and 
the rowans were still.

 "Ho! Who knows of Tomb even when the 
times are uncomplicated? He searches for old 
machines in deserts of rust, no doubt. He lives, I 
am sure, and will appear like a bad omen in due 
course. As for Trinor, I had hoped you would 
know: Viriconium was always his city, and you 
live quite close."

 Cromis avoided the big man's eyes.

 "Since the deaths of Galen and Methven, I 
have seen no-one. I have been . . . I have been 
solitary, and hoped to remain so. Have some more 
wine."

 He filled Grif's cup.

 "You are a brooder," said Grif, "and some day 
you will hatch eggs." He laughed. He choked on 
his drink. "What is your appraisal of the 
situation?" 


 Away from thoughts of Galen, Cromis felt on 
firmer ground.

 Away from thoughts of Galen, Cromis felt on 
firmer ground.

 "Aye. I expect to break the heads of 
malcontents. We were on our way to do that when 
we noticed the smoke about your tower. You'll 
join us, of course?"

 Cromis shook his head.

 "A cordial invitation to a skull-splitting, but 
there are other considerations," he said. "I 
received intelligence this morning that the 
Moidart rides from the north. Having sown her 
seeds, she comes harvesting. She brings an army 
of northmen, headed by her mother's kin, and you 
know that brood have angered themselves since 
Borring dispossessed them and took the land for 
Viricon. Presumably, she gathers support on the 
way."

 Birkin Grif heaved himself from his chair. He 
stamped over to the window and looked down at 
his men, his breath wheezing. He turned to 
Cromis, and his heavy face was dark.

 "Then we had better to ride, and swiftly. This 
is a bad thing. How far has the Moidart 


progressed? Has the Young Queen marshalled her 


forces?"

 Cromis shrugged.

 "You forget, my friend. I have been a recluse, 
preferring poetry to courts and swords. My . . . 
informant . . . told me nothing but what I have 
told you. He died a little later. He was in some 
part responsible for the smoke you saw." He 
poured himself a mug of wine, and went on:

 "What I counsel is this: that you should take 
your company and go north, taking the fastest 
route and travelling lightly. Should the queen 
have prepared an army, you will doubtless 
overhaul it before any significant confrontation. 
Unless a Methven be already in charge of it, you 
must offer (offer only: people forget, and we have 
not the king to back us any more) your 
generalship.

 "If there is no army, or if a Methven 
commands, then lead your men as a raiding force: 
locate the Moidart and harry her flanks."

 Grif laughed. "Aye, prick her. I have the skill 
for that, all right. And my men, too." He became 
serious. "But it will take time, weeks possibly, for 
me to reach her. Unless she already knocks at the 
door." 


 "I think not. That must be your course, 
however long. Travelling by the canny routes, 
news of her coming would be a full three weeks 
ahead of her. An army cannot take the hill ways. 
With speed, we can hope to engage her well 
before she reaches Viriconium."

 "I think not. That must be your course, 
however long. Travelling by the canny routes, 
news of her coming would be a full three weeks 
ahead of her. An army cannot take the hill ways. 
With speed, we can hope to engage her well 
before she reaches Viriconium."

 "Today, I leave for the city. There I will 
arrange the backing of Queen Jane for the 
Methven and also seek Trinor, for he would be an 
asset. If an army has been sent (and I cannot think 
the queen as ill-informed as I: there must be one), 
I will join you, probably at Duirinish, bringing 
any help I can."

 "Fair enough, Cromis. You will need a couple 
of men in the unquiet city. I'll detail — " Cromis 
held up his hand.

 "I'll ride alone, Grif. Am I hard pressed, it will 
be useful practice. I have grown out of the way of 
fighting."

 "Always the brooder." Grif returned to the 
window and bawled down into the courtyard, 
"Go to sleep, you skulkers! Three hours, and we 
ride north!"

 Grif had not changed. However he lived, he 



lived it full. Cromis stood by him at the window 
and clapped his meaty shoulder.

lived it full. Cromis stood by him at the window 
and clapped his meaty shoulder.

 Grif bellowed with laughter, which seemed to 
infect his men. They milled about the courtyard, 
laughing too, although they could not have heard 
the question.

 "Something as befits a Methven in peacetime, 
brooder. Or as you may have it, nothing as befits a 
Methven at any time. I have been smuggling 
distilled wine of low and horrible quality to 
peasants in the Cladich marshes, whose religion 
forbids them drink it . . ."

 Cromis watched Grif's ragged crew disappear 
into the darkness at a stiff pace, their cloaks 
flapping out behind them. He waved once to the 
colourful figure of Grif himself, then turned to his 
horse, which was breathing mist into the cold 
night. He checked the girth and saddlebags, 
settled the eastern instrument across his back. He 
shortened his stirrups for swift riding.

 With the coming of darkness, the winds had 
returned to Balmacara: the rowans shook 
continuously, hissing and rustling; Cromis' 
shoulder-length black hair was blown about his 


face. He looked back at the tower, bulking dark 
against the cobalt sky. The surf growled behind it. 
Out of some strange sentiment, he had left the 
light burning in the upper room.

face. He looked back at the tower, bulking dark 
against the cobalt sky. The surf growled behind it. 
Out of some strange sentiment, he had left the 
light burning in the upper room.

 Refugees packed the Viriconium road like a 
torchlit procession in some lower gallery of Hell. 
Cromis steered his nervous beast at speed past 
caravans of old men pushing carts laden with 
clanking domestic implements and files of women 
carrying or leading young children. House 
animals scuttled between the wheels of the carts.

 The faces he passed were blank and frightened, 
overlit and gleaming in the flaring unsteady light 
of the torches. Some of them turned from him, 
surreptitiously making religious signs (a brief 
writhe of the fingers for Borring, whom some 
regarded as a god, a complicated motion of the 
head for the Colpy). He was at a loss to account 
for this. He thought that they were the timid and 
uncommitted of the city, driven away by fear of 
the clashing factions, holding no brief for either 
side. 


 He entered the city by its twelfth gate, the 
Gate of Nigg, and there was no gatekeeper to 
issue even the customary token challenge.

 He entered the city by its twelfth gate, the 
Gate of Nigg, and there was no gatekeeper to 
issue even the customary token challenge.

 About him rose the Pastel Towers, tall and 
gracefully shaped to mathematical curves, tinted 
pale blue or fuchsia or dove-grey. They reached 
up for hundreds of feet, cut with quaint and 
complex designs that some said were the 
high-point of an inimitable art, thought by others 
to be representations of the actual geometries of 
Time.

 Several of them were scarred and blackened 
by fire. Some were gutted and broken.

 Seeing so much beauty brought down in this 
way, he was convinced that a change had come 
about in the essential nature of things, and that 
they could never be the same again.

 Proton Circuit became a spiral that wound a 
hundred yards into the air, supported by slim and 
delicate pillars of black stone. At the summit of 
the spiral lay the palace of the Young Queen, that 
had been Methven's hall. A smaller building than 


most in that city, it was shaped like a filigree 
shell, built entirely of a pure white metal that 
vibrated and sang. Before its high bright arch 
stood guards in charcoal livery, who made 
stringent demands on him to reveal his identity 
and business.

most in that city, it was shaped like a filigree 
shell, built entirely of a pure white metal that 
vibrated and sang. Before its high bright arch 
stood guards in charcoal livery, who made 
stringent demands on him to reveal his identity 
and business.

 He remembered certain passwords known only 
to the guards of the city.

 He made his way along corridors of pale, 
fluctuating light, passing strange, precious objects 
that might have been animated sculptures or 
machines, excavated from ruined cities in the Rust 
Desert beyond Duirnish.

 Queen Jane awaited him in a tall room floored 
with cinnabar-veined crystal and having five false 
windows that showed landscapes to be found 
nowhere in the kingdom.

 Shambling slowly among the curtains of light 
and finely-wrought furniture was one of the giant 
albino megatheria of the southern forests: great 


sloth-like beasts, fifteen feet high when they stood 
upright (which was rarely) and armed with 
terrible cutting claws, though they were 
vegetarian and amiable. The Queen's beast wore 
an iridium collar, and its claws were sheathed in a 
clear thick resin. Seeing Cromis, it ambled up to 
him in a sleepy manner, and gazed myopically at 
him. Patterns of light moved across its shining 
pelt.

sloth-like beasts, fifteen feet high when they stood 
upright (which was rarely) and armed with 
terrible cutting claws, though they were 
vegetarian and amiable. The Queen's beast wore 
an iridium collar, and its claws were sheathed in a 
clear thick resin. Seeing Cromis, it ambled up to 
him in a sleepy manner, and gazed myopically at 
him. Patterns of light moved across its shining 
pelt.

 Cromis turned his eyes from the megatherium 
to the dais at the south end of the room.

 Queen Jane of Viriconium, Methvet Nian, 
whom he had last seen as a child at Methven's 
court, was seventeen years of age. She sat on a 
simple throne and regarded him steadily with 
violet eyes. She was tall and supple, clad in a 
gown of russet velvet, and her skin was neither 
painted nor jewelled. The ten identical rings of 
Neap glittered from her long fingers. Her hair, 
which recalled the colour of the autumn rowans of 
Balmacara, hung in soft waves to her waist, coiled 
about her breasts.

 "Queen Jane," said Cromis and bowed.

 She buried her fingers in the thick fur of the 



megatherium, and whispered to it. The false 
windows flickered with strange scenes. She 
looked up.

megatherium, and whispered to it. The false 
windows flickered with strange scenes. She 
looked up.

 "Have I changed so much, madam?"

 "Not much, Lord Cromis: you were a stiff and 
sombre man, even when you sang, and you are 
that still. But I was very young when we last met 

— " 
Suddenly, she laughed, rose from the throne 
and came gracefully down to take his hands. 
Cromis saw that her eyes were moist.

 " — And I think I preferred Tomb the Dwarf 
in those days," she went on, "for he brought me 
the most wonderful things from his favourite 
ruins. Or Grif, perhaps, who told questionable 
tales and laughed a good deal — "

 She drew him through the shifting 
light-sculptures to the dais, and made him sit 
down. The megatherium came to gaze wisely at 
him from brown, tranquil eyes. Methvet Nian sat 
on her simple throne, and the laughter left her.

 "Oh, Cromis, why have none of you come 
before? These ten years, I have had need of your 



support. How many live? — I have seen none of 
you since my father's death."

support. How many live? — I have seen none of 
you since my father's death."

 She shook her head musingly, so that her 
bright hair caught the light and moved like a fire.

 "Two only, Cromis: I have held the city, 
though it has suffered; and I have dispatched Lord 
Waterbeck — who, though well-schooled, has not 
the strategies of one such as Norvin Trinor — 
with four regiments. We hope to engage my 
cousin before she reaches the Rust Desert."

 "How long has Waterbeck been gone?"

 "A week only. The launch fliers tell me he 
must reach her within another week and a half, for 
she travels surprisingly fast. Few of them have 
returned of late: they report launches destroyed in 
flight by energy-weapons, and their numbers are 
depleted.

 "Our lines of communication grow thin, 
Cromis. It will be a dark age, should our last 



machines go down."

machines go down."

 "Cromis, can you do anything?"

 "I start immediately," he said, trying to smile 
and finding the requisite muscles stiff from disuse. 
He gently disengaged her hands, for their cool 
touch had disturbed him.

 "First, I must locate Trinor, who may be 
somewhere in the city; although if that is so, I 
cannot say why he has not come to you before 
now. Then it will take me only a short time to 
come up with Grif, since I can take paths 
impassible to more than one rider.

 "What I must have from you, my lady, is an 
authorisation. Trinor or Grif must command that 
army when it meets the Moidart, or failing one of 
them, myself — this Waterbeck is a peacetime 
general, I would guess, and has not the experience 
of a Methven.

 "You must not fear too greatly. Can it be done, 
we will do it, and fall bringing a victory about. 
Keep order here and faith with what Methven 
remain, even though we have not used you well." 


 She smiled, and the smile passed barriers he 
had not thought existed in his morose soul. She 
took off one of the steel rings of Neap and slid it 
on to his left index finger, which was hardly of 
greater diameter than her own, saying:

 She smiled, and the smile passed barriers he 
had not thought existed in his morose soul. She 
took off one of the steel rings of Neap and slid it 
on to his left index finger, which was hardly of 
greater diameter than her own, saying:

 He rose to leave, and found himself reluctant.


 "No launch, my lady. Those, you must keep 
jealously, in case we fail. And I prefer to ride."

 At the door of the room with five windows, he 
looked back through the drifting shapes and 
curtains of light, and it seemed to him that he saw 
a lost, beautiful child. She brought to mind his 
dead sister Galen, and he was not surprised: what 
shook him was that those memories somehow 
lacked the force they had had that morning. 
Cromis was a man who, like most recluses, 
thought he understood himself, and did not.

 The great white sloth watched him out with 
almost human eyes, rearing up to its full height, its 
ambered claws glinting.

 He stayed in the city for that night and another 
day. It was quiet, the streets empty and stunned. 
He had snippets of rumour that the Moidart's 


remaining supporters skulked the narrower alleys 
after dark and skirmished with groups of the city 
guard. He did not discount them, and kept a hand 
on the nameless sword. He expected to find 
Trinor somewhere in the old Artist's Quarter.

remaining supporters skulked the narrower alleys 
after dark and skirmished with groups of the city 
guard. He did not discount them, and kept a hand 
on the nameless sword. He expected to find 
Trinor somewhere in the old Artist's Quarter.

 He came to Bread Street at twilight. It was far 
removed from the palace and the Pastel Towers, a 
mean alley of aging, ugly houses, down which the 
wind funneled bitterly. Over the crazed rooftops, 
the sky bled. He shivered and thought of the 
Moidart, and the note of the wind became more 
urgent. He drew his cloak about him and rapped 
with the hilt of his sword on a weathered door.

 He did not recognise the woman who opened 
it: perhaps the light was at fault.

 She was tall, statuesque and graceful; her 
narrow face had an air of calm and the 
self-knowledge that may or may not come with 


suffering: but her blue robe was faded, patched 
here and there with material of quite another 
colour, and her eyes were ringed with tired, lined 
flesh. He bowed out of courtesy.

suffering: but her blue robe was faded, patched 
here and there with material of quite another 
colour, and her eyes were ringed with tired, lined 
flesh. He bowed out of courtesy.

 She peered into his face as if her eyes were 
weak, and said nothing. She stepped aside and 
motioned him to enter. He thought that a quiet, 
sad smile played about her firm mouth.

 Inside, the house was dusty and dim, the 
furniture of rough, scrubbed deal. She offered him 
cheap, artificially-coloured wine. They sat on 
opposite sides of a table and a silence. He looked 
from her discoloured fingernails to the cobwebs 
in the windows, and said:

 "I do not know you madam. If you would be 


— " 
Her weary eyes met his and still he did not 
know her. She got slowly to her feet and lit a 
squat hanging lamp.

 "I am sorry tegeus-Cromis. I should not have 
embarrassed you in this fashion. Norvin is not 
here. I — "

 In the lamplight stood Carron Ban, the wife of 
Norvin Trinor, whom he had married after the 


fight against Carlemaker's brigands, twelve years 
before. Time had gone against her, and she had 
aged beyond her years.

fight against Carlemaker's brigands, twelve years 
before. Time had gone against her, and she had 
aged beyond her years.

 "Carron! Carron! I did not know. What has 
happened here?"

 She smiled, bitter as the wind.

 "Norvin Trinor has been gone for nearly a 
year," she said. "You must not worry on my 
behalf. Sit down and drink the wine."

 She moved away, avoiding his gaze, and stood 
looking into the darkness of Bread Street. Under 
the faded robe, her shoulders shook. Cromis came 
to her and put his hand on her arm.

 "You should tell me," he said gently. "Come 
and tell me,"

 But she shrugged off the hand.

 "Nothing to tell, my lord. He left no word. He 
seemed to have grown weary of the city, of me — 
"

 "But Trinor would not merely have abandoned 
you! It is cruel of you to suggest such — "

 She turned to face him and there was anger in 


her eyes.

her eyes.
I 
have heard nothing from him for a year. And now 


— now I wish to hear nothing of him. That is all 
finished, like many things that have not outlasted 
King Methven." 
She walked to the door.

 "If you would leave me, I would be pleased. 
Understand that I have nothing against you, 
Cromis; I should not have done this to you; but 
you bring memories I would rather not 
acknowledge."

 "Lady, I — "

 "Please go."

 There was a terrible patience in her voice, in 
the set of her shoulders. She was brought down, 
and saw only that she would remain so. Cromis 
could not deny her. Her condition was painful to 
them both. That a Methven should cause such 
misery was hard to credit — that it should be 
Norvin Trinor was unbelievable. He halted at the 
door.

 "If there is help you require — I have money 


— And the queen — " 
She shook her head brusquely. 
"I shall travel to my family in the south. I want 

nothing from this city or its empire." Her eyes 
softened. "I am sorry, tegeus-Cromis. You have 
meant nothing but good. I suggest you look for 
him in the north. That is the way he went

nothing from this city or its empire." Her eyes 
softened. "I am sorry, tegeus-Cromis. You have 
meant nothing but good. I suggest you look for 
him in the north. That is the way he went

 "Should I find him — "

 "I would have you carry no message. 
Goodbye."

 She closed the door, and he was alone on that 
mean street with the wind. The night had closed 
in.

 Chapter Three

 That night, haunted by three women and a 
grim future, Cromis of the nameless sword, who 
thought himself a better poet than fighter, left the 
Pastel City by one of its Northern gates, his 
horse's hooves quiet on the ancient paving. 
No-one hindered him.

 Though he went prepared, he wore no armour 
save a mail shirt, lacquered black as his short 
cloak and leather breeches. It was the way of 


many of the Methven, who had found armour an 
encumbrance and not protection against 
energy-blades. He had no helmet, and his black 
hair streamed in the wind. The baan was at his 
belt and his curious eastern instrument across his 
back.

many of the Methven, who had found armour an 
encumbrance and not protection against 
energy-blades. He had no helmet, and his black 
hair streamed in the wind. The baan was at his 
belt and his curious eastern instrument across his 
back.

 He went in this fashion for three days, and one 
thing happened to him while he traversed the 
summit of the Cruachan Ridge.

 He had reached the third cairn on the ridge 
when a mist descended. Aware of the insecurity of 
the path in various places ahead, and noting that 
his beast was already prone to stumble on the 
loose, lichen-stained rock, he halted. The wind 
had dropped, and the silence made a peculiar 


ringing noise in his ears. It was comfortless and 
alien up there, impassable when the snow came, 
as were the lower valleys. He understood the 
Moidart's haste.

ringing noise in his ears. It was comfortless and 
alien up there, impassable when the snow came, 
as were the lower valleys. He understood the 
Moidart's haste.

 Inside, there were signs that other travellers of 
the Cruachan had been overtaken by the mist: 
several long-dead fires: the bare bones of small 
animals.

 He tethered his horse, which had begun to 
shiver; fed it; and threw a light blanket over its 
hindquarters against the chill. He kindled a small 
fire and prepared a meal, then sat down to wait 
out the mist, taking up the eastern gourd and 
composing to its eery metallic tones a chanted 
lament. The mist coiled around him, sent cold, 
probing fingers into his meagre shelter. His words 
fell into the silence like stones into the absolute 


abyss:

abyss:

 He put the instrument away from him, 
disturbed by the echoes of his own voice. His 
horse shifted its feet uneasily. The mist wove 
subtle shapes, caught by a sudden faint breath of 
wind.

 "tegeus-Cromis, tegeus-Cromis," said a reedy 
voice close at hand.

 He leapt to his feet, the baan spitting and 
flickering in his left hand, the nameless sword 
greasing out of its dull sheath, his stance canny 
and murderous.

 "There is a message for you."

 He could see nothing. There was nothing but 



the mist. The horse skittered and plunged, 
snorting. The forceblade fizzed in the damp 
atmosphere.

the mist. The horse skittered and plunged, 
snorting. The forceblade fizzed in the damp 
atmosphere.
n 
echoed out! out! out!

 "There is a message," repeated the voice.

 He put his back against a worn wall and 
moved his head in a careful semi-circle, on the 
hunt. His breath came harsh. The fire blazed up 
red in the grey, unquiet vapours.

 Perched on the rubble before him, its wicked 
head and bent neck underlit by the flames, was a 
bearded vulture — one of the huge, predatory 
lammergeyers of the lower slopes. In that gloom, 
it resembled a hunchbacked and spiteful old man. 
It spread and cupped a broad wing, fanning the 
fire, to preen its underfeathers. There was a 
strange sheen to its plumage; it caught the light in 
a way feathers do not.

 It turned a small crimson eye on him. "The 
message is as follows," it said. Unlimbering both 
wings, it flapped noisily across the ruined room in 
its own wind, to perch on the wall by his head. 
His horse sidestepped nervously, tried to pull free 
from its tether, eyes white and rolling at the dark, 
powerful wings. 


 Cromis stood back warily, raised his sword. 
The lammergeyers were strong, and said by the 
herders of Monar to prefer children to lambs.

 Cromis stood back warily, raised his sword. 
The lammergeyers were strong, and said by the 
herders of Monar to prefer children to lambs.

"tegeus-Cromis of Viriconium, which I take to 
be yourself, since you tally broadly with the 
description given, should go at once to the tower 
of Cellur." Here, it flexed its cruel claws on the 
cold grey stone, cocked its head, ruffled its 
feathers. "Which he will find on the Girvan Bay 
in the South, a little East of Lendalfoot. Further 

— " 
Cromis felt unreal: the mist curled, the 
lammergeyer spoke, and he was fascinated. On 
Cruachan Ridge he might have been out of Time, 
lost: but was much concerned with the essential 
nature of things, and he kept his sword raised. He 
would have queried the bird, but it went on: 

" — Further, he is advised to let nothing 
hinder that journey, however pressing it may 
seem: for things hang in a fine balance, and 
more is at stake than the fate of a minor empire.

 "This comes from Cellur of Girvan. That is the 
message."

 Who Cellur of Girvan might be, or what 
intelligence he might have that overshadowed the 


fall of Viriconium (or, indeed, how he had taught 
a vulture to recognise a man he never could have 
met), Cromis did not know. He waited his time, 
and touched the neck of his horse to calm it.

fall of Viriconium (or, indeed, how he had taught 
a vulture to recognise a man he never could have 
met), Cromis did not know. He waited his time, 
and touched the neck of his horse to calm it.

 "Meanwhile, there may be questions you wish 
to ask. I have been provided with an excellent 
vocabulary."

 With a taloned foot, it scratched the feathers 
behind its head, and seemed to pay no more 
attention to him. He sheathed his sword, seeing no 
threat. His beast had quietened, so he walked 
back to the fire. The lammergeyer followed. He 
looked into its glittering eyes.

 "What are you?" he asked.

 "I am a Messenger of Cellur."

 "Who is he?"

 "I have not been instructed in the description 
of him."

 "What is his purpose?" 


 "I have not been instructed in the description 
of that."

 "I have not been instructed in the description 
of that."

 "He fears the geteit chemosit."

 The mist did not lift that day or that night. 
Though Cromis spent much of this time 
questioning the bird, he learned little; its answers 
were evasive and he could get nothing more from 
it than that unpleasant name.

 The morning came grey and overcast, windy 
and sodden and damp. The sister-ridges of the 
Cruachan stretched away East and West like the 
ribs of a gigantic animal. They left the third cairn 
together, the bird wheeling and gyring high above 
him on the termagant air currents of the 
mountains, or coming to perch on the arch of his 
saddle. He was forced to warn it against the latter, 
for it upset the horse.

 When the sun broke through, he saw that it was 
a bird of metal: every feather, from the long, 
tapering pinions of the great wide wings to the 
down on its hunched shoulders, had been stamped 
or beaten from wafer-thin iridium. It gleamed, 
and a very faint humming came from it. He grew 
used to it, and found that it could talk on many 


diverse subjects.

diverse subjects.

 He came down the steep Lagach Fell to the 
source of the River Minfolin in High Leedale, a 
loamy valley two thousand feet up in the hills. He 
drank from the small, stone-ringed spring, 
listening to the whisper of the wind in the tall 
reed-grasses, then sought the crooked track from 
the valley down the slopes of Mam Sodhail to the 
city. The Minfolin chattered beside him as he 
went, growing stronger as it rushed over falls and 
rapids.

 Low Leedale spread before him as he 
descended the last few hundred feet of Sodhail: a 
sweep of purple and brown and green quartered 
by grey stone walls and dotted with herders' crofts 
in which yellow lights were beginning to show. 
Through it ran the matured Minfolin, dark and 
slow; like a river of lead it flowed past the city at 
the north end of the valley, to lose and diffuse 
itself among the metal-salt marshes on the verge 
of the Rust Desert: from there, it drained 
westward into the sea.

 Sombre Duirinish, set between the stark hills 
and the great brown waste, had something of the 


nature of both: a bleakness.

nature of both: a bleakness.

 A pale mist clung to the surface of the river 
fingering the walls as it flowed past.

 Camped about a mile south of the city, by the 
stone bridge over the Minfolin, were Birkin Grif's 
smugglers.

 Their fires flared in the twilight, winking as 
the men moved between them. There was 
laughter, and the unmusical clank of cooking 
utensils. They had set a watch at the centre of the 
bridge. Before attempting to cross, Cromis called 
the lammergeyer to him. Flapping out of the 
evening, it was a black cruciform silhouette on 
grey.

 "Perch here," he told it, extending his forearm 


in the manner of a falconer, "and make no sudden 
movement."

in the manner of a falconer, "and make no sudden 
movement."

 "That sort of bird makes poor eating," he said. 
"There must be more to this than meets the eye."

 Cromis dismounted and gave his horse into the 
care of the guard. His limbs were stiff from the 
fell-journey, and the cooking smells of the 
encampment had made him aware of his hunger.

 "Much more," he said. He hefted the 
lammergeyer, as if to fly it from his arm. "Repeat 
your message," he commanded it. Birkin Grif 
raised his eyebrows. 

"tegeus-Cromis of Viriconium," began the 
bird reedily, "should go at once to the tower of 
Cellur, which he will find — "

 "Enough," said Cromis. "Well, Grif?"

 "A flock of these things has shadowed us for 
two days, flying high and circling. We brought 


one down, and it seemed to be made of metal, so 
we threw it in a river. A strange thing, that you 
might be good enough to tell me about while you 
eat."

one down, and it seemed to be made of metal, so 
we threw it in a river. A strange thing, that you 
might be good enough to tell me about while you 
eat."

 He allowed the lammergeyer to flap from his 
arm, and, massaging the place where its talons had 
clung to him, sat down next to Grif. He accepted 
a cup of distilled wine, and let it heat his throat. 
The camp had become quieter, and he could hear 
the mournful soughing of the wind about the 
ridges and peaks of Monar. The Minfolin 
murmured around the piers of the bridge. He 
began to feel comfortable as the warmth of fire 
and wine seeped through him.

 "However," he said, "I should advise your men 
to shoot no more of them, should any appear. This 
Cellur may have odd means of redress."

 From a place beside the fire, the lammergeyer 
cocked its head, presenting to them a blank red 
eye.

 "You did not find Trinor, then?" said Grif. 
"Can I tempt you with some of this?"

 "Grif, I forgot how revolting you are. Not 


unless you cook it first."

unless you cook it first."

 "And you have no desire to follow this bird?" 
asked Grif.

 "Whatever Cellur of Lendalfoot may think, if 
Viricon goes down, everything else follows it. 
The defeat of the Moidart is my priority."

 "Things have grown dark and fragmented," 
mused Grif. "We do not have all the pieces of the 
puzzle. I worry that we shall solve it too late for 
the answer to be of any use."

 "Still: we must go up against the Moidart, 
however unprepared, and even though that would 
seem not to be the whole of it."

 "Unquestionably," said Grif: "But think, 
Cromis: if the fall of Viriconium is but a part, 
then what is the shape or dimension of the whole? 
I have had dreams of immense ancient forces 
moving in darkness, and I am beginning to feel 
afraid."

 The lammergeyer waddled forward from the 



fire, its wings opened a little way, and stared at 
the two men.

fire, its wings opened a little way, and stared at 
the two men.

 "Go away and peck your feathers, bird," said 
Grif. "Maybe you'll find steel lice there." To 
Cromis, he suggested: "If you have eaten enough, 
we'll go into the town. A search of the taverns 
may yet bring Trinor to light."

 They walked the short distance to Duirinish by 
the banks of the Minfolin, each occupied by his 
own thoughts. A low white mist, hardly chest 
high, covered the Leedale, but the sky was clear 
and hard. The Name Stars burned with a chilly 
emerald fire: for millennia they had hung there, 
spelling two words in a forgotten language; now, 
only night-herders puzzled over their meaning.

 At the steel gates, their way was barred by 
guards in mail shirts and low, conical helmets, 
who looked suspiciously at Grif's gaudy clothes 
and the huge bird that perched on Cromis' arm. 
Their officer stepped forward and said:

 "No one enters the city after dark." His face 
was lined with responsibility, his voice curt. "We 
are bothered constantly by northmen and spies. 


You had best wait until the morning." He studied 
Grif. "If you have legitimate business."

You had best wait until the morning." He studied 
Grif. "If you have legitimate business."

 "So," he said. "It's either climb that lot, or 
break your pompous face. The latter seems to me 
the easier." He flexed his hands suggestively. "Let 
us in, stupid."

 "Hold off, Grif," said Cromis, restraining him. 
"It's a wise precaution. They are merely doing 
their job." He held his hands well away from the 
hilt of the nameless sword and advanced. He slid 
the ring of Neap from his finger and held it out 
for the officer's inspection. "That is my authority. 
I will take responsibility for your opening the 
gate, should any question arise. I am on the 
Queen's business."

 He took back the ring, returned the officer's 
short bow, and they passed into the Stone City.

 Inside, the roads were narrow, to facilitate 
defence, should the gate be taken or the outer 
walls breached. The gloomy granite buildings — 
for the main part barracks and weaponaries and 
storehouses — huddled together, their second 


storeys hanging out over the streets so that fire 
could be poured into an invader from above. 
Their windows were morose slits. Even in the 
commercial centre, where the houses of the metal 
and fur trade stood, the buildings had an air of 
dour watchfulness. Duirinish had never been a gay 
city.

storeys hanging out over the streets so that fire 
could be poured into an invader from above. 
Their windows were morose slits. Even in the 
commercial centre, where the houses of the metal 
and fur trade stood, the buildings had an air of 
dour watchfulness. Duirinish had never been a gay 
city.

 "More important," Cromis told him, "is that 
they must be well on their way to Ruined 
Glenluce by now. even travelling by the old 
coastal road."

 "We'll catch them by going directly north. 
Straight through the Marshes, fast and light across 
the Rust Desert. Not a pleasant trip, but speedy."


 "If the Moidart catches them on that road 
before Glenluce, the fight will be over before we 
find it," Cromis muttered, brooding on that 
thought.

 They spent an hour travelling the narrow ways 
that spiralled up toward Alves, stopping at two 
inns. There, they found no sign of Norvin Trinor, 
and fellow-customers tended to avoid Cromis and 
his bird. But in the Blue Metal Discovery, a place 


in the commercial quarter, they came upon 
another Methven.

in the commercial quarter, they came upon 
another Methven.

 By the time they came to Replica Square, 
Birkin Grif seemed to be having some trouble in 
placing his feet squarely on the cobbles. He 
walked very carefully, singing loudly and 
continuously a verse of some maudlin Cladich 
lament. Even to Cromis things looked a little less 
sombre. No change of mood was discernible in 
the bird.

 The doors of the inn were wide open, spilling 
yellow light into the blue and a great racket into 
the quiet square. One or two customers emerged 
hurriedly from the place and walked off looking 
furtively behind them. Shouts mingled with the 
sound of moving furniture. Birkin Grif stopped 


singing and swaying and became quite still. A 
little introspective smile crossed his jowly 
features.

singing and swaying and became quite still. A 
little introspective smile crossed his jowly 
features.

 He was halfway across the square before 
Cromis came up with him. They stood in the wash 
of light from the open door and gazed into a long 
room.

 At its near end, behind a cluster of overturned 
trestle-tables, huddled two potboys and some 
wan-looking customers, shifting their feet 
nervously in a mess of sawdust and spilt food. The 
innkeeper, plump, red-faced and perspiring, had 
poked his head into the room through a serving 
hatch, he was banging a heavy metal mug 
repeatedly on its sill and shouting abuse at a 
group of figures in the centre of the room by the 
massive stone fireplace.

 There were seven of them: five heavily-built 
men with wiry black hair and beards, dressed in 
the brown leather leggings and coats of 
metal-scavengers; a serving girl in the blue shift of 
the house (she was crushed into the 
chimneybreast, her hand to her mouth, and her 
grimy face was fearful); and an old man in a 


ribbed and padded doublet of russet velvet. All 
six men had drawn swords, and the greybeard, his 
whiskers wine-stained about the mouth, held also 
the wicked stump of a broken bottle. He was 
snarling, and they were advancing on him.

ribbed and padded doublet of russet velvet. All 
six men had drawn swords, and the greybeard, his 
whiskers wine-stained about the mouth, held also 
the wicked stump of a broken bottle. He was 
snarling, and they were advancing on him.

 "You silly old goat! You should be passing 
your remaining years in decent contemplation; not 
bickering over dirty-girls — "

 Theomeris Glyn looked a little embarrassed. 
"Oh, hello," he said. His grey eyes glittered 
shiftily above his hooked, red-veined nose. He 
peered at Grif. "I'm trying to catch up with the 
army," he muttered defensively. "They left me 
behind." His face brightened, thick white 
eyebrows shooting up into his tangled hair. "Heh, 
heh. Come and stamp some lice, eh Grif? Now 
you're here?"

 He cackled, and feinted suddenly toward his 
nearest opponent with the broken bottle. Breath 
hissed and feet shuffled in the sawdust. Old he 
may have been, but he was still viperishly quick: 
bright blood showed where his sword had made 


the true stroke, and the man danced back, cursing. 
His companions closed in.

the true stroke, and the man danced back, cursing. 
His companions closed in.

 "To ensure your safety," it said, "I suggest you 
leave here immediately. It is unwise to risk 
yourself in a minor combat. Cellur has need of 
you."

 Whereupon it launched itself from his arm, 
screaming and beating its great grey wings like a 
visitation from Hell. Astonished, he watched it 
tear with three-inch talons at a white and shouting 
face (this was too much for the fat innkeeper; 
wailing with horror as the bird tore at its victim, 
he slammed the serving hatch shut and fled). 
Cromis drew sword, marked his man. He saw Grif 
wade in, cutting out right and left, but had no time 
to watch: a dull blade with a notched edge slashed 
in high at his skull.

 He ducked, crouched, and thrust his sword up 
with both hands into his assailant's groin. With a 
terrible cry, the man dropped his weapon and fell 
over backwards, clutching at himself.

 Cromis jumped over his writhing body as a 



second scavenger came howling at him from 
behind. He landed in an acrobatic crouch, rolled 
away. The room became a tumbling blur full of 
screams and the beating of giant wings.

second scavenger came howling at him from 
behind. He landed in an acrobatic crouch, rolled 
away. The room became a tumbling blur full of 
screams and the beating of giant wings.

 . . . Cromis moved easily behind a wild stroke. 
"Stop now, and you go unharmed," he panted. But 
his opponent spat, and engaged the nameless 
sword.

 "I'll stick yer!" he hissed.

 Cromis slid his steel down the man's blade, so 
that they locked hilts. His free hand went unseen 
beneath his cloak; then, deliberately releasing his 
pressure on the locked swords, he fell forward. 
For a moment, their bodies touched. He slid the 
baan into the scavenger's heart, and let the body 
fall.

 His knuckles had been cut and bruised as the 



swords disengaged; he licked them absently, 
staring at the corpse. A steel medallion showed at 
its throat. He felt a touch on his shoulder.

swords disengaged; he licked them absently, 
staring at the corpse. A steel medallion showed at 
its throat. He felt a touch on his shoulder.

 "You're too heavy on your feet. And I'd rather 
teach you to sing. Look at this — "

 He poked with the tip of his sword at the 
scavenger's medallion. It glinted in the bright 
light. It was a coin, but not of Viriconium: in high 
relief, it bore the arms of Canna Moidart: wolf's 
head beneath three towers.

 "Already she prepares to rule," said Cromis. 
"These are Northerners. We must leave at first 
light. I fear we shall arrive too late."

 As he spoke, shouting and commotion broke 
out again behind them.

 In the fireplace, Theomeris Glyn of Soubridge, 
the old campaigner, was struggling with the 
serving girl. Her blue bodice had come awry, but 
she had placed four neat welts on his left cheek. 
Her small grubby fist hammered on him.

 "A man who may not survive his Queen's wars 
needs a little affection!" he cried petulantly. "Oh 
drat!" 


 Behind him stood the landlord, wringing 
greasy hands over the wreckage and demanding 
payment of his bony, oblivious shoulders.

 Behind him stood the landlord, wringing 
greasy hands over the wreckage and demanding 
payment of his bony, oblivious shoulders.

 "Go and pull the old fool off her, Grif, and 
we'll take him with us. At least he'll see action 
again, for what it's worth."

 Later, as they passed the gates of Duirinish, 
old Glyn dawdling drunkenly behind them, Grif 
said:

 "She prepares her way to rule, as you say. Her 
confidence is immense. What can half a hundred 
brigands, a poet and an ancient lecher do to flex a 
will such as that?"

 Chapter Four

 Next morning, in the thin light of dawn, Grif's 
company wound past the dark, watchful walls of 
the Stony City and into the North. Rivermist rose 
fading up toward the sun in slender spires and 
pillars. Duirinish was silent but for the tramping 
of guards on the high battlements. A heron 
perched on a rotting log to watch as the tiny force 


forded the northern meander of the Minfolin. If it 
found them curious, it gave no sign, but flapped 
heavily away as the white spray flew from 
cantering hooves.

forded the northern meander of the Minfolin. If it 
found them curious, it gave no sign, but flapped 
heavily away as the white spray flew from 
cantering hooves.

 Birkin Grif rode with wry pride at their head.

 His massive frame was clad in mail lacquered 
cobalt-blue, and he wore over that a silk tabard of 
the same acid yellow as his mare's caparisons. He 
had relinquished his rustic hat, and his mane of 
blond hair blew back in the light wind. At his side 
was a great broadsword with a silver-bound hilt; 
in a scabbard hanging from his saddle-bow rested 
his long-axe, to hand in case he should be 
unhorsed. The roan mare arched her powerful 
neck, shook her big, beautiful head. Her bridle 
was of soft red leather with a subtle copper 


filigree inlaid.

filigree inlaid.

 At Birkin Grif's left, his seat insecure on a 
scruffy pack-horse, Theomeris Glyn, his only 
armour a steel-stressed leather cap, grumbled at 
the cold and the earliness of the hour, and cursed 
the flint hearts of city girls. And behind the three 
Methven, Grif's men had begun to chant a 
rhythmic Rivermouth song of forgotten meaning, 
The Dead Freight Dirge: 

Burn them up and sow them deep: 
Oh, Drive them down; 
Heavy weather in the Fleet: 
Oh, Drive them down; 
Gather them up and drive them down: 
Oh, Sow them deep; 
Withering wind and plodding feet: 
Oh, Drive them down! 



 Its effect on Cromis was hypnotic: as the 
syllables rolled, he found himself sinking into a 
reverie of death and spoliation, haunted by grey, 
transluscent images of a shattered Viriconium. 
The face of Methvet Nian hung before him, in the 
grip of some deep but undefinable sorrow. He 
knew he could not go to her. He was aware of the 
metal bird of Cellur, gyring and hovering high 
above him as he rode, the embodiment of a threat 
he could not name.

 Its effect on Cromis was hypnotic: as the 
syllables rolled, he found himself sinking into a 
reverie of death and spoliation, haunted by grey, 
transluscent images of a shattered Viriconium. 
The face of Methvet Nian hung before him, in the 
grip of some deep but undefinable sorrow. He 
knew he could not go to her. He was aware of the 
metal bird of Cellur, gyring and hovering high 
above him as he rode, the embodiment of a threat 
he could not name.

 "Here we leave the Old North Road," he said. 
"There's our way; direct but unpleasant."

 Before them, the road turned abruptly West 
and was lost to sight behind the black terminal 
massif of Low Leedale Edge: from there, it found 
its way to the coast and began the long journey 
North.

 But straight ahead among the bracken and 
coarse grass at the mouth of the valley ran a 
narrow track. Fifty yards from the road, the 
heather failed, and the terrain became brown, 
faintly iridescent bog streaked with slicks of 
purple and oily yellow. Beyond that rose thickets 


of strangely shaped trees. The river meandered 
through it, slow and broad, flanked by dense 
reedbeds of a bright ochre colour. The wind blew 
from the North, carrying a bitter, metallic smell.

of strangely shaped trees. The river meandered 
through it, slow and broad, flanked by dense 
reedbeds of a bright ochre colour. The wind blew 
from the North, carrying a bitter, metallic smell.

 "Some might find it beautiful," said Cromis; 
and he did.

 Theomeris Glyn snorted. He pinched his beaky 
nose. "It stinks," he said. "I wish I hadn't come. I 
am an old man and deserve better." Grif smiled.

 "This is just the periphery, greybeard. Wait 
until we reach the interior, and the 
water-thickets."

 Where the valley bracken petered out, a dyke 
had been sunk to prevent the herd-animals of Low 
Leedale from wandering into the bog. It was deep 
and steep-sided, full of stagnant water over which 
lay a multicoloured film of scum. They crossed it 
by a gated wooden bridge, the hooves of their 
horses clattering hollowly. Above them, Cellur's 
lammergeyer was a black speck in the pale blue 
unclouded sky. 


 In the water-thickets, the path wound 
tortuously between umber iron-bogs, albescent 
quicksands of aluminum and magnesium oxides, 
and sumps of cuprous blue or permanganate 
mauve fed by slow, gelid streams and fringed by 
silver reeds and tall black grasses. The twisted, 
smooth-barked boles of the trees were 
yellow-ochre and burnt orange; through their 
tightly woven foliage filtered a gloomy, tinted 
light. At their roots grew great clumps of 
multifaceted transluscent crystal like alien fungi.

 In the water-thickets, the path wound 
tortuously between umber iron-bogs, albescent 
quicksands of aluminum and magnesium oxides, 
and sumps of cuprous blue or permanganate 
mauve fed by slow, gelid streams and fringed by 
silver reeds and tall black grasses. The twisted, 
smooth-barked boles of the trees were 
yellow-ochre and burnt orange; through their 
tightly woven foliage filtered a gloomy, tinted 
light. At their roots grew great clumps of 
multifaceted transluscent crystal like alien fungi.

 Over everything hung the heavy, oppressive 
stench of rotting metal. After an hour, Cromis' 
mouth was coated with a bitter deposit, and he 


tasted acids. He found it difficult to speak. While 
his horse stumbled and slithered beneath him, he 
gazed about in wonder, and poetry moved in his 
skull, swift as the jewelled mosquito-hawks over a 
dark slow current of ancient decay.

tasted acids. He found it difficult to speak. While 
his horse stumbled and slithered beneath him, he 
gazed about in wonder, and poetry moved in his 
skull, swift as the jewelled mosquito-hawks over a 
dark slow current of ancient decay.

 When they emerged from the trees for a short 
while at about noon, Cromis noticed that the true 
sky was full of racing, wind-torn grey clouds; and 
despite its exotic colours, the Metal-salt Marsh 
was cold.

 In the evening of the third day, they reached 
the shallow waters of Cobaltmere in the Northern 
reaches of the marsh. They had lost two men and a 
horse to the shifting sands; a third man had died 
painfully after drinking from a deceptively clear 
pool, his limbs swelling up and turning 
silver-grey. They were tired and filthy, but 
pleased with the speed of their progress. 


 They made camp in a fairly dry clearing 
halfway round the waterlogged ambit of the mere. 
Far out on the water lay fawn mudbanks streaked 
with sudden yellow, and floating islands of matted 
vegetation on which waterbirds cackled, ruffling 
their electric-blue feathers. As the day decayed, 
the colours were numbed: but in the funereal light 
of sunset, the water of Cobaltmere came alive 
with mile-long stains of cochineal and mazarine.

 They made camp in a fairly dry clearing 
halfway round the waterlogged ambit of the mere. 
Far out on the water lay fawn mudbanks streaked 
with sudden yellow, and floating islands of matted 
vegetation on which waterbirds cackled, ruffling 
their electric-blue feathers. As the day decayed, 
the colours were numbed: but in the funereal light 
of sunset, the water of Cobaltmere came alive 
with mile-long stains of cochineal and mazarine.

 When he found it impossible to sleep again, he 
moved nearer to the dead embers of the fire. He 
lay there uneasily, wrapped in blanket and cloak, 
his fingers laced beneath his head, staring up at 
the faint Name Stars.

 About him humped the grey forms of sleeping 
men. Horses shifted drowsily behind him. A 
nocturnal mosquito-hawk with huge obsidian 
globes for eyes hunted over the shallows, 
humming and snapping. He watched it for a 


moment, fascinated. He could hear the wheeze of 
Theomeris Glyn's breathing, and the low sound of 
water draining through the reed-clumps. Grif had 
set a guard on the clearing: he moved slowly 
round its edge and out of Cromis' field of vision, 
blowing warmth into his cupped hands, his feet 
sinking with soft noises into the dank earth.

moment, fascinated. He could hear the wheeze of 
Theomeris Glyn's breathing, and the low sound of 
water draining through the reed-clumps. Grif had 
set a guard on the clearing: he moved slowly 
round its edge and out of Cromis' field of vision, 
blowing warmth into his cupped hands, his feet 
sinking with soft noises into the dank earth.

 He was considering the fine, firm set of her 
mouth when he heard a faint sigh behind him: not 
close, and too low-pitched to wake a sleeping 
man, but of quite peculiar strength and urgency.

 Calmly, waiting for a moment of fear to pass, 
he felt for the hilt of the nameless sword. Finding 
it, he rolled cautiously on to his stomach, making 
as little unnecessary movement as possible and 
breathing silently through his open mouth. This 
manoeuvre brought into view the semicircle of 
clearing previously invisible to him. Stone-still, 


he studied the point from which the sigh had 
come.

he studied the point from which the sigh had 
come.

 He realised that he could neither see nor hear 
the perimeter guard.

 Carefully, he freed himself from his blankets, 
eased his sword a few inches from its scabbard. 
Reflex impelled him to crouch low as he ran 
across the clearing, and to change direction 
several times in case he had been marked by 
archers or energy-weapons. He felt exposed, but 
had no actual fear until he encountered the corpse 
of the guard.

 It was lying near the gap in the trees: a 
huddled, ungainly form that had already sunk 
slightly into the wet ground. Upon closer 
examination, he found that the man had not even 
drawn his weapon. There was no blood apparent, 
and the limbs were uncut.

 Kneeling, he grasped the cold, bearded jaw, 



his skin crawling with revulsion, and moved the 
head to ascertain whether the neck was broken. It 
was not. The skull, then. He probed reluctantly. 
Breath hissing through his clenched teeth, he leapt 
hurriedly to his feet.

his skin crawling with revulsion, and moved the 
head to ascertain whether the neck was broken. It 
was not. The skull, then. He probed reluctantly. 
Breath hissing through his clenched teeth, he leapt 
hurriedly to his feet.

 He wiped the mess off his fingers on some 
spongy grass, swallowing bile. Anger and fear 
flooded through him, and he shivered a little. The 
night was silent but for the far-off drowsy 
humming of a dragonfly. The earth round the 
body had been poached and churned. Big, 
shapeless impressions led away from it and out of 
the glade to the South. What sort of thing had 
made them, he could not tell. He began to follow 
them.

 He had no thought of alerting the rest of the 
camp. He wanted vengeance for this pitiful, 
furtive death in a filthy place. It was a personal 
thing with him.

 Away from Cobaltmere, the phosphorescence 
grew progressively dimmer; but his night-vision 
was good, and he followed the tracks swiftly. 
They left the path at a place where the trees were 
underlit by lumps of pale blue luminous crystal. 


Bathed in the unsteady glow, he stopped and 
strained his ears. Nothing but the sound of water. 
It occurred to him that he was alone. The ground 
sucked at his feet; the trees were weird, their 
boughs a frozen writhing motion. To his left, a 
branch snapped.

Bathed in the unsteady glow, he stopped and 
strained his ears. Nothing but the sound of water. 
It occurred to him that he was alone. The ground 
sucked at his feet; the trees were weird, their 
boughs a frozen writhing motion. To his left, a 
branch snapped.

 Only his peculiar defensive skills saved him. 
There was a baleful hissing behind him: he 
allowed his knees to buckle, and a cold green 
blade cut the air above his head; poised on his 
bent left leg, he spun himself round like a top, his 
sword slashing a half-circle at the knees of his 
assailant. Knowing that the stroke could not 
connect, he leapt back.

 Before him loomed a great black shadow, 


some seven or eight feet high. Its limbs were thick 
and heavy, its head a blunted ovoid, featureless 
but for three glowing yellow points set in an 
isosceles triangle. It continued to hiss, its 
movements silky and powerful and controlled, 
leaving those strange, shapeless imprints in the 
mud beneath it. There was an alien coldness about 
it, a calm, calculating intelligence.

some seven or eight feet high. Its limbs were thick 
and heavy, its head a blunted ovoid, featureless 
but for three glowing yellow points set in an 
isosceles triangle. It continued to hiss, its 
movements silky and powerful and controlled, 
leaving those strange, shapeless imprints in the 
mud beneath it. There was an alien coldness about 
it, a calm, calculating intelligence.

 There was no further sparring. In the dark 
place by the stinking pool, they went at it, and 
baan and steel performed a deadly, flickering 
choreography.

 And always Cromis must evade, hoping for a 
moment's carelessness: yet the shadow was as fast 
as he, and fought tirelessly. It forced him slowly 
to the lip of the pool, and a mist was in front of 


his eyes. He was cut in a number of places. His 
mail shirt hung in ribbons.

his eyes. He was cut in a number of places. His 
mail shirt hung in ribbons.

 Beneath his clothing, his right hand found the 
hilt of the little baan that had killed his sister. 
Clutching it, he feigned an injury, delaying a 
counterstroke and fumbling his recovery. He felt 
little hope for the stratagem. But the giant saw the 
opening: and as its weapon moved back, then 
down, Cromis whipped out the energy-knife and 
met with it the killing-blow.

 There was terrifying flash as the two baans 
engaged and shorted out. Cromis was hurled 
bodily into the pool by the concussion of ancient 
energies, his arm paralysed. Its blade dead and 
useless, the giant reeled drunkenly about the 
clearing, hissing balefully.

 Cromis dragged himself from the water, arm 
numb with agony. Gagging and retching on the 


liquid that had entered his mouth, he renewed his 
attack; and found that in the final flurry of blades, 
the nameless sword had been cut cleanly in two 
halfway down its length. Cursing bitterly, he 
lashed out with the stump. But the giant turned 
and ran awkwardly into the trees, lumbering 
through the pool in a fountain of spray.

liquid that had entered his mouth, he renewed his 
attack; and found that in the final flurry of blades, 
the nameless sword had been cut cleanly in two 
halfway down its length. Cursing bitterly, he 
lashed out with the stump. But the giant turned 
and ran awkwardly into the trees, lumbering 
through the pool in a fountain of spray.

 Shouting broke out near him. On grey wings, 
Cellur's lammergeyer crashed through the foliage, 
flapping evilly across the clearing, and, 
screaming, sped after the fleeing shadow. Cromis 
felt himself lifted.

 "Grif," he muttered. "My blade is broken. It 
was not a man. I injured it with a trick of Tomb's. 
There is ancients' work here —

 "The Moidart has woken something we cannot 
handle. It almost took me."

 A new fear settled like ice in his bone-marrow. 
He clutched desperately at the fingers of his left 
hand. "Grif, I could not kill it!

 "And I have lost the Tenth Ring of Neap."


 Despair carried him down into darkness. 



 Dawn broke yellow and black like an omen 
over the Cobaltmere, where isolated wreaths of 
night-mist still hung over the dark, smooth water. 
From the eyots and reed-beds, fowl cackled: 
dimly sensing the coming winter, they were 
gathering in great multicoloured drifts on the 
surface of the lake, slow migratory urges building 
to a climax in ten thousand small, dreary skulls.

 Dawn broke yellow and black like an omen 
over the Cobaltmere, where isolated wreaths of 
night-mist still hung over the dark, smooth water. 
From the eyots and reed-beds, fowl cackled: 
dimly sensing the coming winter, they were 
gathering in great multicoloured drifts on the 
surface of the lake, slow migratory urges building 
to a climax in ten thousand small, dreary skulls.

 He had woken from a brief sleep, his mouth 
tasting of failure, to find Grif's men straggling 
back in despondent twos and threes from a search 
of the glade where he had met the dark giant; and 
they reported that the Tenth Ring of Neap was 
gone without trace, trodden deep into the churned 
mud, or sunk, perhaps, in the foetid pool. The 
metal bird, too, had returned to him, having lost 


its quarry among the water-thickets. Now he sat 
with Theomeris Glyn, who had snored like a 
drunk through all the chaos.

its quarry among the water-thickets. Now he sat 
with Theomeris Glyn, who had snored like a 
drunk through all the chaos.

 Cromis laughed dully. "You are small comfort. 
An old man mumbling over meat and homilies. 
What shall we do without the Queen's 
Authorisation? What can we do?"

 Birkin Grif came up to warm his hands over 
the fire. He sniffed at the cooking meat like a fat 
bloodhound, squeezed his great bulk carefully 
into the space between Cromis and the old man.

 "Only what we would have done had we kept 
the thing," he said. "Manufacture dooms in your 
head and you will go mad. Reality is 
incontrovertible. Also, it will not be anticipated."

 "But to command an army — " began Cromis 



helplessly.

helplessly.

 "That's true," Old Glyn said judiciously, 
spitting out some gristle. "That's how we did it in 
the old days. Damned expensive boots, those, 
Grif. You ought to saddle-soap them to keep the 
damp out. Not that I ever commandeered anything 
but the arse of a wench."

 Grif clasped Cromis' shoulder, shook it gently. 
"Brooder, it was not your fault." Cromis 
shrugged. It made him feel no better. "You buried 
the guard?" he asked, hoping to change the 
subject.

 Grif's smile vanished. He nodded. "Aye, and 
found one more piece for the puzzle. I was 
fascinated by the precise edge of his wound. 
Examining it more closely, I found — " He 
paused; prodded the fire with his boot and 
watched the ascending sparks. "We buried only a 
part of that man, Cromis: the rest has gone with 
the creature you put to flight. "His brain has been 
stolen." 


 There was a silence. The colourful trees 
dripped. Theomeris Glyn began to chew noisily. 
Cromis reached out to toy with the shards of his 
sword, unpleasant visions of the corpse crawling 
through his head: the huddled limbs in the mud, 
the congealing broth at the edge of the wound.

 There was a silence. The colourful trees 
dripped. Theomeris Glyn began to chew noisily. 
Cromis reached out to toy with the shards of his 
sword, unpleasant visions of the corpse crawling 
through his head: the huddled limbs in the mud, 
the congealing broth at the edge of the wound.

 Perched on an overhanging bough with pale 
turquoise bark, the metal lammergeyer eyed him 
silently. "Sure you won't have some pig — ?" 
offered Theomeris Glyn.

 They reached the northerly bounds of the 
marsh without further loss of men. By afternoon 
on the fourth day the gaudy foliage had thinned 
sufficiently to reveal a sky overcast but of more 
acceptable colour. Their speed increased as the 
going firmed steadily. The bog broke up into 
irregular patches separated by wide, flat 
causeways, tending to the colour of rust as they 
moved north. A cold wind billowed their cloaks, 


plucked at Cromis' torn mail, and fine rain dulled 
the hides of the horses.

plucked at Cromis' torn mail, and fine rain dulled 
the hides of the horses.

 "We are lucky to come here in winter," said 
Birkin Grif, twisting in his saddle as he led the 
company in single file up the gently-sloping cleft 
worn by a black and gelid stream. Walls of damp 
russet loess reared lifelessly on either side. 
"Although the winds are stronger, they carry more 
moisture to lay the soil. The Waste is not a true 
desert."

 Cromis nodded dully. In the Low Leedale it 
had been autumn yet, but that was hard to believe 
here. He fixed his eyes on the narrow strip of sky 
beyond the lips of the ravine, wishing for 
Balmacara, where the year died more happily.

 "There is slightly less danger of earth-falls, you 
understand, and clouds of dust. In summer, one 
might choke to death, even here on the edge."

 From the uncomfortable sky, Cromis shifted 
his gaze to the file of men behind him. They were 



lost in a mist of rain, dim shapes huddled and 
silent on tired mounts.

lost in a mist of rain, dim shapes huddled and 
silent on tired mounts.

 The Waste rolled north — umber and ochre, 
dead, endless. Intersecting streams with high, 
vertical banks scored deep, meaningless 
ideographs in the earth. In the distance, distorted 
into deceptive, organic forms, metal girders 
poked accusing fingers at the empty air, as if there 
the Rust Desert might fix the source of its 
millennial pain. Grif's smugglers muttered, and 
found that a narrowed eye might discern certain 
slow but definite movements among the baffling 
curves of the landscape.

 But tegeus-Cromis turned his horse to face 
away from the spoiled land, and stared back at the 
mauve haze that marked the marshes. He was 
much preoccupied by giants.

 Chapter Five

 "We should not strive too hard to imitate the 



Afternoon Cultures," said Grif. "They killed this 
place with industry and left it for the big 
monitors. In part, if not in whole, they fell 
because they exhausted the land. We mine the 
metal they once used, for instance, because there 
is no ore left in the earth.

Afternoon Cultures," said Grif. "They killed this 
place with industry and left it for the big 
monitors. In part, if not in whole, they fell 
because they exhausted the land. We mine the 
metal they once used, for instance, because there 
is no ore left in the earth.

 "There will be no more Name Stars," 
murmured Cromis, looking up from the fragments 
of his sword. Dusk had drawn a brown veil across 
the wastes, amplifying the peculiar vagueness of 
the dune landscape. It was cold. As yet, they had 
seen no lizards: merely the slow, indistinct 
movements among the dunes that indicated their 
presence.

 "Or any more of this," said Grif, bleakly. They 
had made camp amid the ruins of a single vast, 
roofless building of vanished purpose and 
complicated ground-plan. Although nine tenths of 
it had sunk long ago beneath the bitter earth, the 
remains that reared around them rose fifty or sixty 
feet into the twilight. A feeble wind mumbled in 
off the Waste and mourned over their indistinct 
summits. Among the dunes meandered a vile, sour 


watercourse, choked with stones worn and 
scoured by Time.

watercourse, choked with stones worn and 
scoured by Time.

 "There will be no more of anything soon," said 
Theomeris Glyn. "The Moidart, the Afternoon 
Cultures — both are Time by another name. You 
are sentimentalists, lacking a proper sense of 
perspective. When you get to my age — "

 "We will grow bored and boring, and make 
fools of ourselves with dirty girls in Duirinish. It 
will be a fine time, that."

 "You may not make it that far, Birkin Grif," 
said the old man darkly.

 Since Cromis' fight in the Metal-salt Marsh, 
Cellur's mechanical culture had spent most of its 
time in the air, wheeling in great slow circles over 
the Waste. It would report nothing it had seen 
from that vantage. Now it perched just beyond the 
circle of firelight and said:

 "Post-industrial shock effected by the so-called 
'Afternoon Cultures' was limited in these latitudes. 
There is evidence, however, that to the west there 


exists an entire continent despoiled to the degree 
of the Great Brown Waste.

exists an entire continent despoiled to the degree 
of the Great Brown Waste.

 Its precise reedy voice lent a further chill to 
the night. In the silence that followed, the wind 
aged, the dying sun ran down like clockwork in 
an orrery. Birkin Grif laughed uncomfortably; a 
few thin echoes, came from his men.

 "Bird, you will end up as rust, with nothing to 
your credit but unproven hypotheses. If we are at 
the end of Time, what have you to show for it? 
Are you, perhaps, jealous that you cannot 
experience the misery of flesh, which is this: to 
know intimately the doom you merely parrot, and 
yet die in hope?" The bird waddled forward, 
firelight spraying off its folded wings.

 "That is not given to me," it said. "It will not 
be given to you, if you fail the real task implicit in 
this war: fear the geteit chemosit; travel at once 
to the tower of Cellur, which you will find — "

 Filled with a horrible depression, Cromis 
dropped the shards of his sword and left the fire. 
From his saddlebag he took his curious eastern 
instrument. He bit his lip and wandered past the 
picket line and the perimeter guards. With death 


in his head, he sat on a stone. Before him, huge 
loops of sand-polished girder dipped in and out of 
the dunes like metal worms. They are frozen, he 
thought: Caught on a strange journey across an 
alien planet at the forgotten end of the universe.

in his head, he sat on a stone. Before him, huge 
loops of sand-polished girder dipped in and out of 
the dunes like metal worms. They are frozen, he 
thought: Caught on a strange journey across an 
alien planet at the forgotten end of the universe.

 Rust in our eyes . . . metallic perspective 
trammel us in the rare earth north . . . we are 
nothing but eroded men . . . wind clothing our 
eyes with white ice . . . we are the swarf-eaters . . 
. hardened by our addiction, tasting acids . . . 
Little to dream here, our fantasies are iron and icy 
echoes of bone . . . rust in our eyes, we who had 
once soft faces.

 "Rust in our eyes — " he began again, 
preparing to repeat the chant in the Girvanian 
Mode: but a great shout from the camp drove it 
out of his skull. He jumped to his feet.

 He saw the metal bird explode into the air, 
shedding light like a gunpowder rocket, its wings 
booming. Men were running about the 
encampment, casting febrile shadows on the 
ancient walls. He made pitiful grabbing motions 
at his empty scabbard, hurrying toward the 
uproar. Over a confusion of voices he heard Grif 


bellow suddenly: "Leave it alone! Oh, you stupid 
pigs, leave it alone!" Obsessed by his fantasies of 
an alien world, Cromis was for a moment unable 
to identify the dark, massive shape fidgeting and 
grunting in the gloom of the dead building. Drawn 
out of the inhospitable dunes by the warmth or the 
light and surrounded by men with swords, it 
seemed to be mesmerised and bemused by the fire 

bellow suddenly: "Leave it alone! Oh, you stupid 
pigs, leave it alone!" Obsessed by his fantasies of 
an alien world, Cromis was for a moment unable 
to identify the dark, massive shape fidgeting and 
grunting in the gloom of the dead building. Drawn 
out of the inhospitable dunes by the warmth or the 
light and surrounded by men with swords, it 
seemed to be mesmerised and bemused by the fire 
a lean, heavy body slung low between 
queerly-articulated legs, a twenty foot denizen of 
his own imagination. 
He was almost disappointed to recognise it as 
one of the black reptiles of the Waste, huge but 
harmless, endowed by the folk-lore of Viriconium 
with the ability to eat metal.

 "Big lizard," muttered one of Grif's brigands, 
with sullen awe: "big lizard."

 Cromis found himself fascinated by the flat, 
squat head with its wicked undershot lower jaw 
and rudimentary third eye. He could discern none 
of the spines and baroque crests traditional in 
illustrations of the beast, simply a rough hide with 
a matt, non-reflective quality.

 "Pull back," ordered Grif, quietly. The men 
obeyed, keeping their weapons up. Left to itself, 
the reptile closed determinedly on the fire: 


finally, the flames leapt, perfectly reflected, in 
each of its eyes. There it stood for some minutes, 
quite still. It blinked. Cromis suspected that 
whatever sluggish metabolic desires the fire had 
aroused were unfulfilled. Laboriously, it backed 
away. It shuffled back into the night, moving its 
head slowly from side to side.

finally, the flames leapt, perfectly reflected, in 
each of its eyes. There it stood for some minutes, 
quite still. It blinked. Cromis suspected that 
whatever sluggish metabolic desires the fire had 
aroused were unfulfilled. Laboriously, it backed 
away. It shuffled back into the night, moving its 
head slowly from side to side.

 "We don't belong here any more," he said.


 "What do you suppose it saw in there?" 
Cromis asked him.

 Two days out into the barrens. It seemed 
longer.

 "The landscape is so static," said Grif, "that 
Time is drawn out, and runs at a strange, slow 
speed."

 "Scruffy metaphysics. You are simply dying of 
boredom. I think I am already dead." Old 
Theomeris slapped his pony's rump. "This is my 
punishment for an indiscreet life. I wish I had 
enjoyed it more."

 Since noon that day they had been travelling 
through a range of low, conical slag hills, 
compelled by a surface of loose slate to lower 


their speed to a walk. The three-hundred-foot 
heaps of grey stone cast bell-like echoes from the 
unsteady hooves of the horses. Landslips were 
frequent; limited, but unnerving.

their speed to a walk. The three-hundred-foot 
heaps of grey stone cast bell-like echoes from the 
unsteady hooves of the horses. Landslips were 
frequent; limited, but unnerving.

 Ten or fifteen minutes before, the bird had 
ceased flying its customary pattern of wide 
circles, and now hung in the air some eight 
hundred feet up, a silver cruciform slipping and 
banking occasionally to compensate for a thermal 
current rising from the slag tips. As far as he could 
tell, it was hovering above a point about a mile 
ahead of their present position and directly on 
their route.

 "The bird has seen something," he said to Grif, 
when he was sure. "It is watching something. Call 
a halt and lend me a sword — no, not that great 
lump of iron, the horse will collapse beneath it — 
and I'll go and find out what it is."

 It was queer, lonely excursion. For half an 
hour he worked along the precarious spiral paths, 
accompanied only by echoes. Desolation closed 
oppressively round him. 


 Once, the terrible, bitter silence of the slag 
hills was broken by a distant rhythmic tapping; a 
light, quick, mysterious ring of metal on metal: 
but a brief fall of rock drowned it out. It returned 
later as he was urging his horse down the last 
slope of the range, the Great Brown Waste spread 
once more before him, Cellur's metal vulture 
hanging like an omen five hundred feet above his 
head.

 Once, the terrible, bitter silence of the slag 
hills was broken by a distant rhythmic tapping; a 
light, quick, mysterious ring of metal on metal: 
but a brief fall of rock drowned it out. It returned 
later as he was urging his horse down the last 
slope of the range, the Great Brown Waste spread 
once more before him, Cellur's metal vulture 
hanging like an omen five hundred feet above his 
head.

 A pile of dusty harness lay near them, and a 
few yards away stood a small red four-wheeled 
caravan of a type usually only seen south of 
Viriconium — traditionally used by the tinkers of 
Mingulay for carrying their large families and 
meagre equipment. Redolent of the temperate 
south, it brought to his mind images of 
affectionate gypsy slatterns and their raucous 
children. Its big, thick-spoked wheels were 
picked out in bright yellow; rococo designs in 
electric blue rioted over its side panels; its curved 
roof was painted purple. Cromis was unable to 
locate the source of the tapping sound (which 
presently stopped), but a thin, blue-grey spire of 
smoke was rising from behind the caravan. 


 He realised that it was impossible to conceal 
his presence from whoever was camped down 
there — his horse's nervous, crabbing progress 
down the decline was dislodging continuous slides 
of rock which bounded away like live things — 
so he made no effort, coming down as fast as 
possible, gripping his borrowed sword tightly.

 He realised that it was impossible to conceal 
his presence from whoever was camped down 
there — his horse's nervous, crabbing progress 
down the decline was dislodging continuous slides 
of rock which bounded away like live things — 
so he made no effort, coming down as fast as 
possible, gripping his borrowed sword tightly.

 "Why don't you just stand there quietly," said a 
voice he thought he knew, "and make no attempt 
to regain that rather clumsy sword? Eh?" And 
then: "You caused enough fuss and furore for ten 
men coming down that hill."

 Cromis opened his eyes.

 Standing before him, a power-axe held in his 
knotty, scarred hands, was a thin figure no more 
than four feet high, with long white hair and 
amused, pale grey eyes. His face was massively 


ugly — if had an unformed look, a childlike, 
disproportionate caste to its planes — and the 
teeth revealed by his horrible grin were brown 
and broken. He was dressed in the heavy leggings 
and jerkin of a metal-prospector, and standing on 
end the haft of his axe would have topped him by 
a foot.

ugly — if had an unformed look, a childlike, 
disproportionate caste to its planes — and the 
teeth revealed by his horrible grin were brown 
and broken. He was dressed in the heavy leggings 
and jerkin of a metal-prospector, and standing on 
end the haft of his axe would have topped him by 
a foot.

 "You will, however, concede that I've 
captured you? I'll chop the bloody bird up for 
dogsmeat if you don't — "

 And with that, Tomb the Dwarf, as nasty a 
midget as ever hacked the hands off a priest, did a 
little complicated shuffle of triumph round his 
victim, cackling and sniggering like a parrot.

 "If I had known it was you," said Cromis, "I'd 
have brought an army of occupation, to keep you 
quiet."

 Night.

 A pall, a shroud, of darkness lay over the slag 



heaps, to cover decently their naked attitudes of 
geographical death. Out on the Waste, the harsh 
white glare of Tomb's portable furnace dominated 
the orange flickering of a circlet of cooking fires.

heaps, to cover decently their naked attitudes of 
geographical death. Out on the Waste, the harsh 
white glare of Tomb's portable furnace dominated 
the orange flickering of a circlet of cooking fires.

Burn them up and drive them deep; 
Oh, drive them down!

 It was Cromis' nameless sword, now whole, 
that flared in the furnace and sparked on the anvil, 
and drew closer to its gloomy destiny with every 
accentuated syllable of the chant.

 After the meeting by the caravan, Cromis had 
called down the vulture and sent it to fetch Grif 
from his position in the hills. On his arrival, he 
had bellowed like an ox: it was a wild reunion 
between him and the Dwarf, the one bellowing 
with laughter and the other capering and crowing. 
Now Grif was eating raw meat and shouting at his 
brigands, while Tomb and Cromis worked the 
forge. 


 "You interrupted me," shouted the Dwarf over 
the roar and wail of the bellows. "I was repairing 
that."

 "You interrupted me," shouted the Dwarf over 
the roar and wail of the bellows. "I was repairing 
that."

— which lay by the furnace. Small versions of the 
motors that powered the airboats were situated at 
the joints of its limbs, and a curious arrangement 
of flexible metal straps and stirrups was attached 
half way down each of its thighbones and upper 
arms. It looked like the ugly, purposeful work of 
long-dead men, an inert but dangerous colossus. 
"What is it?" asked Cromis.

 "You'll see when we get a fight. I dug it up 
about a month ago. They had some beautiful 
ideas, those old scientists." The light of Tomb's 
sole enthusiasm — or was it simply splashback 
from the furnace? — burned in his eyes, and 
Cromis had to be content with that.

 Later, the four Methven sat round a fire with a 
jug of distilled wine. The reforged sword was 
cooling, the furnace powered-down, the brigands 
noisily asleep or dozing in their smelly blankets.

 "No," said Tomb, "we aren't too far behind 
them." He displayed his repugnant teeth. "I'd have 



been up with Waterbeck and his well-disciplined 
babes by now, but I wanted to get that 
power-armour in good order."

been up with Waterbeck and his well-disciplined 
babes by now, but I wanted to get that 
power-armour in good order."

 Tomb chuckled. "Why did I saddle myself this 
way? A greybeard with a bad memory, a braggart, 
and a poet who can't even look after his own 
sword. I think I might join the other side." He 
leered down at his hands. "Time I killed 
somebody, really. I feel like killing something."

 "You're a nasty little beast, aren't you?" said 
Birkin Grif. "Have some more wine."

 Cromis, content to have found Tomb if not 
Norvin Trinor, smiled and said nothing. More 
roads than this lead to Ruined Glenluce, he 
thought.

 But in the end they had no need to go as far as 
Glenluce, and Tomb's prediction proved true: two 
days later, they came upon Lord Waterbeck's 
expeditionary force, camped several miles 
south-east of that unfortunate city, in a spot where 
the Waste had heaved itself into a series of low 
ridges and dead valleys filled with the phantoms 


of the Departed Cultures. Time is erosion: an icy 
wind blew constant abrasive streams of dust over 
the bare rock of the ridge: it had been blowing for 
a thousand years.

of the Departed Cultures. Time is erosion: an icy 
wind blew constant abrasive streams of dust over 
the bare rock of the ridge: it had been blowing for 
a thousand years.

 The tents radiated as a series of spokes — each 
one representing a division of foot or horse — 
from a central pavilion surrounded by a complex 
of ancillary bothies: Lord Waterbeck's command 
centre. There, canvas was replaced by oiled 
scarlet silk, shot through with threads of gold 
wire.

 "He has a fine sense of his own importance," 
said Grif scathingly. "We had better go down and 
upset it."

 "You are too harsh. Don't prejudge him." 


Cromis felt no enthusiasm for the task ahead. He 
fingered the hilt of the reforged sword and tried 
to shrug off his reluctance. "Tell Tomb to settle 
your men well apart from the main body, while 
we do what we can."

Cromis felt no enthusiasm for the task ahead. He 
fingered the hilt of the reforged sword and tried 
to shrug off his reluctance. "Tell Tomb to settle 
your men well apart from the main body, while 
we do what we can."

 Cromis caught threads and tail-ends of 
conversation as he rode:

 "The Moidart. . ."

 ". . . and you can't trust a rumour."

 "Twenty thousand northmen . . ."

 ". . . the Moidart. . ."

 ". . . and bloody airboats. Bloody scores of 
them!"

 "What can you do about it?"

 ". . . glad to get it over and done."

 ". . . the Moidart." 


 At barely thirty years of age, Lord Waterbeck 
of Faldich had imposing grey hair — cut short 
and smoothed impeccably back from his forehead 

 At barely thirty years of age, Lord Waterbeck 
of Faldich had imposing grey hair — cut short 
and smoothed impeccably back from his forehead 
and an urbane manner. His features were bland 
and boneless, his skin unwrinkled but of a 
curiously dry, aged texture. He wore a neat, tight 
jacket of tasteful brown cord unadorned, as were 
his well-shaped, unobtrusively-manicured hands. 
Cromis imagined that it would be difficult for him 
to offend any of his peers, and that it was 
precisely this inability that had earned him his 
present position. 
When they entered the pavilion (it was less 
opulent than its outer appearance suggested, and 
draughty) he was sitting behind a small, cluttered 
camp table, adding his signature to a sheet of 
white vellum covered with careful grey script. He 
raised his head, nodded brusquely, and gave his 
attention to his work again.

 "There is an official recruitment booth just 
along the way," he said, his voice crisp and 
pleasant. "But never mind, now you're here. I'll 
call an orderly and have him deal with you here."

 He looked up and smiled very briefly. 
"From your appearance, I'd say you've come 
some distance to serve. Encouraging to see 


newcomers, although there won't be many more. 
Well done, men."

newcomers, although there won't be many more. 
Well done, men."

 "Just one moment, please."

 Waterbeck consulted a small ledger, nodded to 
himself. He folded his dispatch and began to 
address it.

 "Perhaps Lord Cromis would prefer to speak 
for himself, eh?"

 He offered them his brief little smile.

 "You understand that I have many things to 
occupy my time. Battle will be joined within a 
week, and fifteen thousand men out there rely on 
me. If you could — "

 He made an apologetic gesture.

 "I have been advised of no airboat landings 
recently. If you could give me the meat of your 
message now, perhaps we could discuss an answer 
later?"

 "I am not a courier, Lord Waterbeck," said 
Cromis. "My purposes are military, and may be 
embarrassing to us both." 


 "I see. I've never run into you in the city, my 
lord. Our haunts must be different. Each man to 
his own, hm?"

 "I see. I've never run into you in the city, my 
lord. Our haunts must be different. Each man to 
his own, hm?"

 "You will have some identification provided 
by Her Majesty, I take it?"

 "I began my journey with such proofs," said 
Cromis, aware of how foolish he must sound. The 
man was giving him no help at all. "But due to a 
failure of my own, they were lost. However, the 
Queen will vouch for me. I suggest you dispatch 
an airboat to the — "

 Waterbeck laughed. He sat down. He shook 
his head slowly.

 "My dear man," he said. "My dear man. I 
might be addressing a simple adventurer. Or even, 
though I am most reluctant to suggest it, a 
Northman. I cannot spare an airboat merely to 
check the credentials of every wanderer who 
comes in here with a mysterious — and 
unexplained — proposition.

 "If you wish to fight, well then, I will sign you 
on; but I cannot even listen to whatever it is you 
propose without some concrete, immediate proof 
of your identity." 


 Birkin Grif scowled hideously. He leaned over 
the desk and put his face close to Waterbeck's. He 
hissed:

 Birkin Grif scowled hideously. He leaned over 
the desk and put his face close to Waterbeck's. He 
hissed:

 Waterbeck got to his feet.

 "There is an official recruitment booth a few 
steps away from here," he said quietly. "I do not 
wish to hear any more of this."

 Later, they sat on the tailboard of Tomb's 
caravan, watching the Dwarf as he made final 
adjustments to his peculiar device.

 "He knew," said Grif. "He knew why we were 
there. He sensed it."

 "You cannot tell that for sure. He was within 
his rights, if shortsighted. I did not have the ring, 
and even with that to ease the way it would have 
been a difficult meeting. He would have resented 
our command."

 Grif made a chopping motion in the air, both 
hands locked together. He spat into a swirl of dust 
raised by the wind.

 "He knew, all right. If he'd heard us out, he'd 



have been forced to dispatch that boat."

have been forced to dispatch that boat."

 "Watch this here," he said. "When I've got this 
thing together, I'll visit Lord Waterbeck. I'll cut 
his onions off. I'll slice them thinly with my axe."

 He had spread the immense skeleton on the 
ground, so that its legs stuck straight out and its 
arms were set close to its sides. Now, he lowered 
himself gently down until he lay supine on its cold 
bones.

 He slid his feet into the stirrups on its thighs, 
and tightened the metal straps round his ankles. A 
complicated harness fastened his upper body into 
its rib-cage.

 "A cold embrace," he said.

 He positioned his hands so as to reach certain 
levers that projected from the bones above its 
elbow-joint. Its jawless skull he hinged forward to 
fit over his head like a helmet. He lay there for a 
moment, strapped to the thing like a man crucified 
on a tree of insane design.

 "I power it up now," he explained. He worked 
levers. A low, distinct humming filled the air. A 
smell of ozone reminded Cromis of the airboat 


disaster at Balmacara. "Ah," said Tomb. He 

disaster at Balmacara. "Ah," said Tomb. He 

 The skeleton twitched its huge steel bones.


 Tomb sniggered.

 He moved his arm, and a fleshless metal hand 
rose into the air. It made grasping motions. It 
flexed its fingers.

 Tomb bent his legs, and came slowly to his 
feet. He was eleven feet tall.

 "Where's my chopper?" he said. And, having 
found that weapon, he broke into a grotesque, 
capering dance, swinging it round his head in 
ecstatic but deadly figures of eight; lifting his new 
legs high to display them; pointing his nimble 
silver-steel toes.

 'I'll shorten them!" he screamed, the wind 
whistling through his mechanical limbs. He 
ignored the helpless, delighted laughter of his 
friends. "I'll cut the sods!" He didn't say who. 
"Beautiful!" he crowed. And he stormed off, a 
gigantic paradox suspended on the thin line 
between comedy and horror, to test his machine 
by completing a full circuit of the encampment 
under the amazed eyes of fifteen thousand sensible 
fighting men.

 Neither the Methven nor their tiny force of 



brigands ever signed up officially with Lord 
Waterbeck's army. His estimation of the Moidart's 
rate of progress toward Duirinish proved to be a 
little optimistic. An hour before dawn the next 
day, ten airboats bearing the sigil of the Wolf's 
Head and Three Towers howled over the northern 
ridge, their motors in overdrive.

brigands ever signed up officially with Lord 
Waterbeck's army. His estimation of the Moidart's 
rate of progress toward Duirinish proved to be a 
little optimistic. An hour before dawn the next 
day, ten airboats bearing the sigil of the Wolf's 
Head and Three Towers howled over the northern 
ridge, their motors in overdrive.

 Chapter Six

 Cromis was asleep when the attack began. In 
the soft, black space of his head a giant insect 
hovered and hummed, staring gloomily at him 
from human eyes, brushing the walls of his skull 
with its swift wings and unbearable, fragile legs. 
He did not understand its philosophy. The 
ideographs engraved on its thorax expressed a 
message of Time and the universe, which he 
learned by heart and immediately forgot. The 
whine of the wings deepened in pitch, and 


resolved itself into the monstrous wail of the 
Moidart's aircraft.

resolved itself into the monstrous wail of the 
Moidart's aircraft.

 He strapped on his sword. "We're too 
exposed!" They could do nothing about it. Long, 
fast shapes gyred above them, dim in the light of 
false dawn.

 Evil red flares lit the valley as a section of the 
attacking squadron located Waterbeck's airboat 
park and began to bombard it with barrels of 
burning pitch and large stones. The remainder of 
the fleet separated and shrieked low over the 
encampment, dropping their loads at random to 
panic men and horses.

 A detachment of Waterbeck's troops began 
firing one of the only three operative power 
cannon that remained in the kingdom, its pale 


violet bolts flaming up like reversed bolide trails 
against a dark sky.

violet bolts flaming up like reversed bolide trails 
against a dark sky.

 Despite the efforts of Waterbeck's own airboat 
men, two machines were destroyed — their spines 
broken, their ancient energies earthing away — 
before the rest of his meagre wing hurled into the 
sky. The energy-cannon ceased firing immediately 
they were airborne, and the battle moved away 
from the ground.

 Two boats, locked together and leaking 
strange pastel fireflies of released energy, drifted 
slowly over the encampment and vanished behind 
the southern ridge. Cromis shuddered: small dark 
shapes were falling from them, soundless and 
pathetic.

 "Had I made a different choice, I might be up 
there now," murmured Tomb the Dwarf, looming 
up out of the red glare of the pitch fires. He 
sounded almost wistful.

 "Cromis, there's something wrong with your 
vulture."

 The bird was strutting to and fro on the roof of 
the caravan, where it had perched during the 
night. It extended its neck as if to vomit, beat its 


great iridium wings together, and squawked 
insanely. It made short, hopping sallies into the 
air. Suddenly, it shrieked:

great iridium wings together, and squawked 
insanely. It made short, hopping sallies into the 
air. Suddenly, it shrieked:

 It launched itself off the roof and fastened its 
talons on Cromis' arm. It bobbed its head, peered 
into his face.

 "tegeus-Cromis, you should leave here at once 
and go to — "

 But Cromis hardly heard. He was watching 
Canna Moidart's captains as they swarmed down 
the face of the northern ridge and into the valley 


— their standards raised high, thirty thousand 
Northmen at their backs, and the geteit chemosit 
coming on in dark waves before them. 
Time bucked and whipped like a broken 
hawser in Cromis' head, and for a moment he 
existed at two separate and distinct points along 
its curve —

 In a dark glade by a stinking pool, he fought a 
great black shadow some seven or eight feet high. 
Its limbs were thick and heavy, its head a blunted 
ovoid, featureless but for three glowing points set 
in an isosceles triangle. Its movements were 
powerful and controlled. It hissed as it wielded its 
enormous energy-blade, and left strange, shapeless 


imprints in the mud beneath it. There was an alien 
coldness about it; a calm, calculated intelligence 
—

imprints in the mud beneath it. There was an alien 
coldness about it; a calm, calculated intelligence 
—

 "Beware the geteit chemosit!" cried the 
vulture on his arm.

 Sick and shaking, he explored an 
understanding that had been open to him since his 
fight in the Metal-salt Marsh.

 "I should have listened," he said. "We have no 
chance," he whispered.

 "We have more than poor Waterbeck, 
perhaps," murmured Birgin Grif. He put a hand 
on Cromis' shoulder. "If we live, we will go to 
Lendalfoot and see the metal bird's owner. They 
are golems, automatic men, some filthy thing she 
has dug up from a dead city. He may know — " 


 "Nothing like this has been seen in the world 
for a thousand years," said Tomb the Dwarf. 
"Where did she find them?"

 "Nothing like this has been seen in the world 
for a thousand years," said Tomb the Dwarf. 
"Where did she find them?"

 Their impact on Waterbeck's army was brutal. 
Already disorganised and disconcerted by the 
airboat raid, scattered, separated from their 
commanding officers, the Viriconese milled about 
their ruined encampment in a desperate and feeble 
attempt to form some sort of defensive position.

 Faced by a human antagonist, they might have 
held their shaky line. Certainly, there burned in 
all of them a hatred of the Northman which might 
in other circumstances have overcome their 
tactical weakness and stiffened their resistance. 
But the chemosit slaughtered their self-possession.

 They sobbed and died. They were 
hastily-conscripted half-trained. Powered blades 
cut their swords like cheese. Their armour failed 
to armour them. They discovered that they did not 
belong there. 


 In the moment of first contact, a fine red mist 
sprayed up from the battleline, and the dying 
inhaled the substance of the dead while the living 
fought on in the fog, wondering why they had left 
their shops and their farms. Many of them simply 
died of shock and revulsion as the blood arced 
and spurted to impossible heights from the 
severed arteries of their fellows, and the air was 
filled with the stink of burst ' innards.

 In the moment of first contact, a fine red mist 
sprayed up from the battleline, and the dying 
inhaled the substance of the dead while the living 
fought on in the fog, wondering why they had left 
their shops and their farms. Many of them simply 
died of shock and revulsion as the blood arced 
and spurted to impossible heights from the 
severed arteries of their fellows, and the air was 
filled with the stink of burst ' innards.

 In the dead airboat park, someone managed to 
depress the barrel of the energy-cannon enough to 
fire it horizontally. For some seconds, its meteoric 
bolts — almost invisible in the daylight — hissed 
and spurted into the unbroken rank of the 
mechanical men. For a moment, it looked like 
discomfiting them; several burned like torches 


and then exploded, destroying others: but a small 
squad detached themselves from the main body, 
and, their power-blades chopping in unison, 
reached the gun with ease. It sputtered and went 
out, like a candle in the rain, and the gunners with 
it —

and then exploded, destroying others: but a small 
squad detached themselves from the main body, 
and, their power-blades chopping in unison, 
reached the gun with ease. It sputtered and went 
out, like a candle in the rain, and the gunners with 
it —

 Grif unsheathed his sword and smiled. He 
jumped to the ground. He mounted his roan mare 
(in the grey light, her caparisons shone bravely) 
and faced his ugly, dishonest crew. "We will all 
die," he told them. He bared his teeth at them and 
they grinned back like old foxes. "Well?"

 They stropped their evil knives against their 
leather leggings. "What are we waiting for?" 
asked one of them,

 "You bloody fools!" yelled Grif, and roared 



with laughter. "Nobody asked you to do this!"

with laughter. "Nobody asked you to do this!"

 Cromis nodded. He did not want to speak, but, 
"Thank you," he said to them. His voice was lost 
in the clangour of Waterbeck's defeat.

 "I am already halfway there," chuckled Tomb 
the Dwarf. He adjusted some of his levers. He 
swung his axe a couple of times, just to be sure.

 Theomeris Glyn sniffed. "An old man," he 
said, "deserves better. Why are we wasting time?" 
He looked a fool, and entirely vulnerable in his 
battered old helmet. He should have been in bed.

 "Let's go then," said Cromis. He leapt down 
from the roof. He mounted up, the iridium vulture 
flapping above him. He drew the nameless sword. 
And with no battle cries at all, forty smugglers, 
three Methven and a giant dwarf hurled 
themselves into a lost fight. What else could they 
have done?

 The dead and the half-dead lay in mounds, 
inextricably mixed. The ancient, unforgiving dust 
of the Great Brown Waste, recalling the crimes of 
the Departed Cultures, sucked greedily at these 
charnel heaps, and turned into mud. Some five 


thousand of Waterbeck's original force were still 
on their feet, concentrated in three or four groups, 
the largest of which had made its stand out of the 
bloody morass, on a long, low knoll at the centre 
of the valley.

thousand of Waterbeck's original force were still 
on their feet, concentrated in three or four groups, 
the largest of which had made its stand out of the 
bloody morass, on a long, low knoll at the centre 
of the valley.

 To his left, Tomb the Dwarf towered above 
the Northmen in his exoskeleton, a deadly, 
glittering, giant insect, kicking in faces with 
bloodshod metal feet, striking terror and skulls 
with his horrible axe. On his right, Birkin Grif 
whirled his broadsword unscientifically about and 
sang, while murderous old Glyn taunted his 
opponents and stabbed them cunningly when they 


thought they had him. "We did things differently 
when I was your age!" he told them. And, like a 
visitation from hell, Cellur's metal vulture tore the 
eyes from its victims but left them living.

thought they had him. "We did things differently 
when I was your age!" he told them. And, like a 
visitation from hell, Cellur's metal vulture tore the 
eyes from its victims but left them living.

 He reined his horse around and flung it like a 
javelin at a wall of Northerners who, dropping 
their gaudy shields in panic, reeled away from the 
death that stared out of his wild eyes and lurked 
in his bloody weapon.

 "Methven!" he cried.

 He couched the butt of a dead man's pike 
firmly underneath his arm and used it as a lance. 
He called for the champion under the standard 
and issued lunatic challenges. He lost the lance, in 
a Northman's belly.

 He killed a score of frightened men. He was 
mad with the horror of his own bloodlust. He saw 



no faces on the ones he sent to hell, and the face 
of fear on all the rest. He spoke poetry to them, 
unaware of what he said, or that he said it in a 
language of his own invention — but his sanity 
returned when he heard the voice of the man 
beneath the Wolf's Head.

no faces on the ones he sent to hell, and the face 
of fear on all the rest. He spoke poetry to them, 
unaware of what he said, or that he said it in a 
language of his own invention — but his sanity 
returned when he heard the voice of the man 
beneath the Wolf's Head.

 "Why have you done this?" whispered Cromis.

 The turncoat's face was long and saturnine, his 
mouth wide and mobile, thin-lipped under a 
drooping moustache. A wrinkled scar, left long 
ago by the knife of Thorisman Carlemaker, ran 
from the corner of one deep-set grey eye, niching 
the skin of his cheek. His black, curling hair fell 
round the shoulders of a purple velvet cloak he 
had once worn at the Court of King Methven. He 
sat his heavy horse with confidence, and his 
mouth curled in contempt.

 "Waterbeck is dead," he said. "If you have 
come to sue for peace on behalf of this rabble — 
" Here, the surrounding Northmen howled and 
beat their hands together " — I may be lenient. 
The Queen has given me wide powers of 
discretion." 


 Shaking with reaction to his berserk fit, 
Cromis steadied himself against the pommel of his 
saddle. He was bemused. A little of him could not 
believe what was happening.

 Shaking with reaction to his berserk fit, 
Cromis steadied himself against the pommel of his 
saddle. He was bemused. A little of him could not 
believe what was happening.
a 
Moidart's champion. Have I found him?"

 "You have."

 The traitor nodded, and the Moidart's 
footsoldiers drew back to form an arena. They 
grinned and whistled, shook their shields. 
Elsewhere, the battle continued, but it might have 
been on another planet

 "What did she offer you? Was it worth the 
pain you caused Carron Ban?"

 The man beneath the Wolf's Head smiled.

 "There is a vitality in the North, Lord Cromis, 
that was lost to Viriconium when Methven died. 
She offered me an expanding culture in return for 
a dead one."

 Cromis shook his head, and lifted the nameless 
sword.

 "Our old friendship means nothing to you?"


 "It will make you a little harder to kill, Lord 
Cromis."

 "I am glad you admit to that. Perhaps it is 
harder for the betrayer than for the betrayed. 


Norvin Trinor, you are a turncoat and a fool."

Norvin Trinor, you are a turncoat and a fool."

 Trinor's heavy blade swung at his head. He 
parried the stroke, but it had already shifted into a 
lateral motion which he was forced to evade by 
throwing himself half out of his saddle. Trinor 
chuckled, locked his foot under Cromis' left 
stirrup in an effort to further unseat him. Cromis 
dropped his reins, took his sword in his left hand 
and stuck it between the heaving ribs of the 
turncoat's mount. Blood matting its coat, the 
animal swerved away, compelling Trinor to 
disengage.

 "You used to be the best sword in the Empire, 
Lord Cromis," he panted. "What happened to 
you?"

 "I am ill with treachery," said Cromis, and he 
was. "It will pass."

 They fought for five minutes, then ten, heedless 
of the greater conflict. It seemed to Cromis that 
the entire battle was summed up here, in a 
meeting of champions who had once been friends; 
and at each brief engagement, he grew more 
despairing.

 He saw Carron Ban's hurt, disdainful face 


through the shining web of her traitor-husband's 
blade, but it gave him no strength; he understood 
that she had felt pity for him that night in 
Viriconium, knowing that this confrontation must 
take place. He saw also that he was unable to 
match the haste she felt for Trinor: at each 
encounter, something slowed the nameless sword, 
and he was moved to pity rather than anger by the 
sneers of his opponent.

through the shining web of her traitor-husband's 
blade, but it gave him no strength; he understood 
that she had felt pity for him that night in 
Viriconium, knowing that this confrontation must 
take place. He saw also that he was unable to 
match the haste she felt for Trinor: at each 
encounter, something slowed the nameless sword, 
and he was moved to pity rather than anger by the 
sneers of his opponent.

 He sat there, absolutely still, on the foundered 
animal. The Northmen groaned, and moved 
forward: the combat circle tightened like a noose.

 "You had better get on with it," murmured 
Trinor. He shrugged. "The wolves will have you 
anyway, Lord Cromis — see how they close in! 
— and the Pastel City along with you. They are a 
hungry lot

 "You had better get it over with."

 tegeus-Cromis raised the nameless sword for 


the fatal stroke. He spat down into the face before 
him: but it was still the face of a friend. He 


shuddered with conflicting desires.

shuddered with conflicting desires.

 A long time later, at the foot of the knoll in the 
centre of the valley, two Northern pikemen 
unhorsed him, and wondered briefly why he 
apologised as he rolled from his wrecked animal 
to kill them.

 "I could not kill him, Grif."

 It was the second hour after dawn. A cold, 
peculiar light filtered through the low cloudbase, 
greying the dead faces on the corpse-heaps, 
striking mysterious reflections from their eyes. 
The wind keened in off the Waste, stirring bloody 
hair and fallen pennants. Four wallowing 
Northern airboats hung beneath the clouds like 
omens seen in a dream. The entire valley was a 


sea of Northmen, washing black and implacable 
against one tiny eyot of resistance.

sea of Northmen, washing black and implacable 
against one tiny eyot of resistance.

 "I could not do it."

 Cromis had fought his way to the top of the 
hill on foot, aided by Tomb the Dwarf and a 
handful of the smugglers. The metal bird had led 
them to him, hovering above him as he fought 
with the men who had unhorsed him. (Now it 
perched on his arm, its head and talons covered 
with congealed blood, and said: "Fear the geteit 
chemosit — " It had said nothing else since he 
reached the knoll, and he did not care.) He was 
smeared with other men's brains, suffering from a 
dozen minor wounds, and there was a pit of 
horrors in his head. He did not know how he had 
survived.

 "At least you are alive," said Grif. His fat 
cheeks were sagging with weariness; and when he 


moved, he favoured his right leg, laid open from 
knee to ankle in the death-struggles of his 
beautiful mare. "Trinor could have killed any of 
the rest of us with ease. Except perhaps for 
Tomb."

moved, he favoured his right leg, laid open from 
knee to ankle in the death-struggles of his 
beautiful mare. "Trinor could have killed any of 
the rest of us with ease. Except perhaps for 
Tomb."

 "I would have done for him, all right. But to 
what point? Look there, Grif: that is our future — 
"

 Out among the corpse-heaps, black, huge 
figures moved on a strange mission, a mechanical 
ritual a thousand years old. The geteit chemosit 
had lost interest in the fight. Their triplex eyes 
glittering and shifting as if unanchored to their 
skulls, they stalked from corpse to corpse. They 
performed their curious surgery on the lifeless 
heads — and robbed each Viriconese, like the 
dead smuggler in the Metal-salt Marsh — of his 
brain.

 "They will come for us after the Northmen 



have finished," said Cromis. "What are they doing 
, Tomb?"

have finished," said Cromis. "What are they doing 
, Tomb?"

 "Indeed, I wonder who are the actual masters 
of this battleground — it is often unwise to 
meddle with the artifacts of the Afternoon 
Cultures." 

"tegeus-Cromis should go at once to the 
tower of Cellur," said the metal bird, but no one 
listened to it.

 Theomeris Glyn, the old campaigner, sat some 
distance away from the rest of the Methven, 
hoping to reinvigorate his sword by stropping it 
on a dead man's boot.

 "I think it is starting," he called cheerfully. 
"They have licked their privates for the last time 
down there, and gathered up their courage."

 With a wild yell, the Northerners threw 
themselves at the knoll, and it shook beneath the 
onslaught. A spear-cast blackened the air, and 
when it had cleared, pikemen advanced 
unimpeded up the lower slopes, gutting the 


survivors and treading in their wounds.

survivors and treading in their wounds.

 Tomb the Dwarf sniggered and swung his 
greedy axe. He towered above them, and they ran 
like rats around his silver-steel legs —

 Birkin Grif cursed. His sword was shattered at 
the hilt, so he broke a Northman's neck and stole 
another. He called to his smugglers, but all that 
brave and dirty crew were dead —

 Old Glyn lunged. "You've never seen this one 
before," he cackled, as he put his hidden knife in, 
"eh?" His opponent was astonished —

 Cromis ducked and rolled like a fairground 
acrobat. The metal vulture was above him, the 
nameless sword was everywhere —

 They came together, and made their stand.


 "Methven!" cried Cromis, and they answered 



him "Methven!"

him "Methven!"

 "If they are couriers," said Grif, "they come a 
little late."

 The crystal launches clashed with a sound like 
immense bells. As Cromis watched, the Northern 
squadron-commander closed to ram: but the sky 
exploded suddenly around his ship, and burned, 
dripping cold fire; and, tail-first and crippled, it 
dropped out of the sky. Faint violet bolts chased it 
down.

 "There's a cannon aboard one of those ships," 
said Tomb the Dwarf wonderingly. "It is the 
Queen's own flight."

 Confused by this sudden renaissance in the air, 
the Northmen drew back from their prey and 
craned their necks. The dying airboat ploughed 
through them and blew up, scattering limbs and 
bits of armour. Howling with rage, they renewed 


their attack, and the Methven on the hill were 
hard put to it.

their attack, and the Methven on the hill were 
hard put to it.

 Ten feet above the top of the hill, it swung 
rapidly on its own axis, and fell like a stone. The 
energy-cannon under its prow pulsed and spat. A 
hatch opened in its side. Its motors sang.

 It was a difficult retreat. The Northmen 
pressed in, determined to claim what was due to 
them. Tomb took a blow from a mace behind the 
knees of his exoskeleton: a servo failed, and he 
staggered drunkenly, flailing about him.

 Cromis found himself some yards away from 
the open hatch, the old campaigner at his side. 
They fought silently for a minute.

 Then Theomeris Glyn put his back squarely 
against a pile of corpses and showed the 
Northmen his teeth. "I don't think I'll come, 


Cromis," he said. "You'll need some cover." He 
sniffed. "I don't like flying machines anyway."


 "Don't be silly," said Cromis. He touched the 
old man's arm, to show his gratitude. "We'll make 
it."

 But Glyn drew himself up. His age sloughed 
away from him. He had lost his helmet, and blood 
from a gash in his head had clotted in his beard; 
his padded doublet was in ruins, but the pride in 
his face shone out clear.

 "tegeus-Cromis," he said, "you forget yourself. 
Age has its privileges, and one of them is to die. 
You will do me the honour of allowing me to do 
that in my own way. Get into the ship and I will 
cover your back. Go. Goodbye."

 He met Cromis' eyes.

 "I'll gut a few of them, eh?" he said. "Just a 
few more. Take care."

 And Theomeris Glyn, a lord of the Methven 
despite his years, turned to face his enemies. The 
last Cromis ever saw of him was a whirling 
rearguard of steel, a web such as he had been used 
to spin when the old king ruled, and his blood was 
young.

 Trembling violently, blinded by the old man's 
courage, Cromis stumbled through the hatch. The 


metal bird rocketed in after him. It was still 
screaming its useless message of warning: he 
suspected that its mechanisms had been damaged 
somehow during the fight. He slammed the hatch 
shut. Outside, the Northmen were beating their 
weapons on the hull, searching for another 
entrance, grunting Like frustrated animals.

metal bird rocketed in after him. It was still 
screaming its useless message of warning: he 
suspected that its mechanisms had been damaged 
somehow during the fight. He slammed the hatch 
shut. Outside, the Northmen were beating their 
weapons on the hull, searching for another 
entrance, grunting Like frustrated animals.

 Birkin Grif lay on the vibrating crystal deck, 
his face white and drained. Bent over his injured 
leg, a woman in a hooded purple cloak was 
attempting to staunch the bleeding. He was saying 
weakly, "My lady, you were a fool to come here 

— " 
She shook her head. Russet hair escaped her 
hood. Her cloak was fastened at the neck with a 
copper clasp formed to represent mating 
dragonflies. Looking at her, Cromis experienced a 


terrible premonition.

terrible premonition.

 "We can expect a bit of fuss when we get up 
there," said the pilot. "Ah. Got her. Do hold tight 


— " He opened his throttles. The ship began to 
climb steeply. 
Cromis, stumbling toward the Dwarf, was 
thrown to the deck. He dropped his sword. He hit 
his head on the fire control of the energy-cannon. 
As he passed out, he recognised the woman in the 
purple cloak: it was Methvet Nian herself, the 
Young Queen.

 We are all insane, he thought. The Moidart has 
infected us all with her madness.

 Chapter Seven

 Shortly after Cromis came to his senses, the 
airboat was rammed.

 Clinging grimly to a staunchion as the daring 
young Courier flung his ship about the dangerous 
sky, he felt as if he were sitting behind the eyes of 


a tumbler pigeon: earth and air blurred together in 
a whirling mandala of brown and grey, across 
which flickered the deadly silhouettes of the 
Northern airboats. He was aware that Tomb had 
finally escaped the embrace of his own armour; 
that Grif and the Young Queen had wedged 
themselves against the rear bulkhead of the 
command-bridge.

a tumbler pigeon: earth and air blurred together in 
a whirling mandala of brown and grey, across 
which flickered the deadly silhouettes of the 
Northern airboats. He was aware that Tomb had 
finally escaped the embrace of his own armour; 
that Grif and the Young Queen had wedged 
themselves against the rear bulkhead of the 
command-bridge.

— and he had something else to occupy his mind: 
a speculation, a fear stimulated by the sudden 
appearance of Methvet Nian — 
Abruptly, the portholes darkened. The ship 
gave a great shudder, and, with a sound like 
destroyed bells, its entire prow was torn off. 
Shards of crystal spat and whirred in the gloom. 
Five feet in front of the pilot, leaving his controls 
undamaged only by some freak of chance, an 
enormous hole opened in the hull: through it 
could be seen briefly the tumbling, receding 
wreck of the craft that had accomplished the 
ramming. An icy wind rushed in, howling.

 "Oh," murmured the courier. A twelve inch 
spike of crystal had split his skull. Three fingers 
could have been got in the wound with ease. He 


swayed. "We still have power — if anybody can 
fly this thing — " he said, puzzledly. "I am sorry, 
My Lady — I don't seem to be — " He fell out of 
his seat.

swayed. "We still have power — if anybody can 
fly this thing — " he said, puzzledly. "I am sorry, 
My Lady — I don't seem to be — " He fell out of 
his seat.

 "Look down there," said Tomb, as they veered 
over the scene of Waterbeck's rout. "What do you 
think of that?"

 The valley was a gaping wound filled with 
Northerners and dead men and thick white smoke 
which surged up from wrecked airboats, 
obscuring the dark figures of the geteit chemosit 
as they performed their acts of skull-rape. The 
Waste surrounding the battlefield was crawling 
with reptiles: hundreds of stiff, dust-coloured 
forms, converging slowly from south, east and 


west, their motions stilted and strange.

west, their motions stilted and strange.

 "They seem to be watching," said Cromis. 
"Nothing else." And, indeed, the ridges that 
flanked the valley were already lined with them, 
their stony heads unmoving as they gazed at the 
ruin, their limbs held rigid like those of spectators 
at some morbid religious observance.

 "We fascinate them," said Birkin Grif bitterly. 
With the boat's return to stability, he had regained 
his feet His leg was still bleeding freely. "They 
are amazed by our propensity for 
self-destruction." He laughed hollowly. "Tomb, 
how far can we get in this machine?"

 The ship drifted aimlessly, like a waterbird on 
a quiet current. The Waste moved below, haunted 
by the gathering reptiles.

 "Duirinish," said the Dwarf. "Or Drunmore. 
We could not make Viriconium, even if 
Paucemanly had postponed his flight to the Moon, 
and sat here at the controls in my place."

 Methvet Nian was kneeling over the dead 
courier, closing his eyes. Her hood was thrown 
back and her autumn-rowan hair cascaded about 
her face. Cromis turned from the strange sight of 


the monitor-lizards, his earlier fears returning as 
he looked at her.

the monitor-lizards, his earlier fears returning as 
he looked at her.

 Her violet eyes were wide, shocked. He had 
never seen anything so beautiful or so sad. He was 
overcome, and covered his emotion by pretending 
to hunt in the wreckage of the cabin for his sword.

 He came upon the limp carcass of Cellur's 
metal vulture: like the young Courier, it had been 
torn open by a shard of crystal; its eyes were 
lifeless, and pieces of tiny, precise machinery 
spilled out of its breast when he picked if up. He 
felt an absurd sympathy for it. He wondered if so 
perfect an imitation of organic life might feel a 
perfect imitation of pain. He smoothed the huge 
pinions of its wings.

 "Yes, Lord Cromis," whispered the Young 
Queen. "This morning, the rebels rose again. 
Canna Moidart will find resistance only in 
Duirinish. Viriconium is in the hands of her 
supporters — 


 "My Lords," she appealed. "What will become 
of those people? They have embraced a viper — "


 And she wept openly.

 "They will be bitten," said Birkin Grif. "They 
were not worthy of you, Queen Jane."

 She wiped her eyes. The Rings of Neap 
glittered on her thin fingers. She drew herself up 
straight and gazed steadily at him.

 "You are too harsh, Birkin Grif. Perhaps the 
failure was not in them, but in their Queen."

 They drifted for some hours over the Waste, 
heading south. Tomb the Dwarf nursed his failing 
vehicle with a skill almost matching that of his 
tutor and master (no one knew if Paucemanly had 
actually attempted the Moon-trip in his legendary 
boat Heavy Star: certainly, he had vanished from 
the face of the Earth after breaking single-handed 
Carlemaker's air-siege of Mingulay, and most 
fliers had a fanatical faith in the tale . . .) and 
brought them finally to Ruined Drunmore in the 
Pass of Methedrin, the city thrown down by 
Borring half a century before.

 During that limping journey, they discussed 
treachery:

 "If I had Norvin Trinor's neck between my 
hands, I would break it lightheartedly," said 


Birkin Grif, "even with pleasure, although I liked 


him once."

 He winced, binding up his leg.

 "He has blackened all of us," murmured 
Cromis. "As a body, the Methven have lost their 
credibility."

 But the Queen said, "It is Carron Ban who has 
my sympathy. Women are more used to betrayal 
than men, but take it deeper."

 It is the urgent and greedy desire of all wastes 
to expand and eat up more fertile lands: this 
extension of their agonised peripheries lends them 
a semblance of the movement and life they once 
possessed. As if seeking protection from the slow 
southward march of the Rust Desert, Ruined 
Drunmore huddled against an outflung spur of the 
Monar Mountains.

 In this, it failed, for drifts of bitter dust topped 
its outer walls, spilling and trickling into the 
streets below every time a wind blew.

 The same winds scoured its streets, and, like an 
army of indifferent house-keepers, swept the sand 
through the open doors and shattered roofs of the 
inner city, choking every abandoned armoury and 
forge and barracks. The erosion of half a 
millennium had etched its cobbled roads, 


smoothed and blunted the outlines of its ruins, 
until its once-proud architecture had become 
vernacular, fit for its equivocal position between 
the mountains and the Waste.

smoothed and blunted the outlines of its ruins, 
until its once-proud architecture had become 
vernacular, fit for its equivocal position between 
the mountains and the Waste.

 Towards the end of the flight, a wide rift had 
appeared suddenly in the deck of the airboat, 
exposing the ancient engines. Now, as they 
hovered over the city, flecks of coloured light, 
small writhing worms of energy, rose up out of 
the crack, clung to the metal surfaces of the 
command-bridge, fastened on the inert carcass of 
the mechanical vulture, and clustered about the 
Queen's rings.

 Tomb grew nervous. "Corpse lights," he 
muttered. He brought the machine down in 
Lnuthos Plaza, the four-acre field of 
Time-polished granite from which Borring had 
organised the destruction of Drunmore so many 
generations before.

 Grif and Cromis dragged the dead courier 
from his ruined ship and buried him in a deep 
drift of loess on the southern side of the Plaza. It 
was a queer and sombre business. The Queen 
looked on, her cowl pulled forward, her cloak 


fluttering. They were impelled to work slowly, 
for they had only their hands for shovels. As they 
completed the interment, great white sparks began 
to hiss and crackle between the shattered crystal 
hull and the surrounding buildings.

fluttering. They were impelled to work slowly, 
for they had only their hands for shovels. As they 
completed the interment, great white sparks began 
to hiss and crackle between the shattered crystal 
hull and the surrounding buildings.

 Under the one unbroken roof that remained 
(like a static stone haunting, like a 
five-hundred-year memory) in the city, amid piles 
of dust younger than the Waste but older than the 
empire, they lit a fire and prepared a meal from 
the miserable stores of the wrecked machine. 
Shadows danced crudely, black on the black 
walls. The sun had gone down in a gout of blood.

 At the prompting of some impulse he did not 
quite understand, Cromis had rescued the corpse 
of Cellur's bird from the ship. While they ate, he 
explained its nature to the Young Queen, and 


Tomb probed its mechanisms with a thin steel 
knife.

Tomb probed its mechanisms with a thin steel 
knife.

 Birkin Grif chewed a strip of dried meat. He 
laughed.

 "That is pure conjecture," he said.

 "It is the only hope we have, Grif. There is 
nothing else."

 "He is very clever with his hands," cackled 
Tomb the Dwarf, poking at the innards of the 
bird. He thought for a moment. "Or, like Canna 
Moidart, good at digging."

 "So, if you do not object, My Lady, we will 
travel to Girvan Bay and solicit his aid. Should 
there be some secure place to which we can 
deliver you first — "

 "Places do not guarantee security, Lord 
Cromis, only people — " Here, she smiled at him 
" — a thing we have both learned recently, I think 

— " He reflected ruefully that it was unwise to 
forget the astuteness of the House of Methven " 
— and besides, I have been safe for seventeen 

years. I think I would like to be at risk for a 
while."

years. I think I would like to be at risk for a 
while."

 "Madam," he said, "you have the courage of 
your father. That is a brave attitude." He sat down 
again. "Mind you," he added in a low voice to 
Tomb, "it's a bloody long trip for a man in my 
condition."

 Queen Jane of Viriconium laughed for the first 
time since she had lost her empire. Which shows 
at least, thought Cromis, the resilience of youth. 
He did not mean to condescend.

 They stayed in that city for five days. A 
processing-centre in the heyday of the Northmen, 
perhaps it welcomed the ring of Tomb's hammer 
as he worked on his damaged armour — a loop in 
Time, a faint, distorted echo from a past in which 
other mechanics had beaten the subtle artifacts of 
the Afternoon Cultures into cruder, more vital 
forms.

 Grif's leg was slow to heal; exertion reopened 


it; the blood seemed slow to clot, and he found 
walking difficult. Like a convalescing child, he 
was prone to brief, silly rages. He limped and 
fretted about, railing at his own limitations. 
Finally, he forced himself to walk to the wreck in 
Lnuthos Plaza, tear a slim cobalt girder from the 
destroyed engine-housing, and bend it into a 
crutch.

it; the blood seemed slow to clot, and he found 
walking difficult. Like a convalescing child, he 
was prone to brief, silly rages. He limped and 
fretted about, railing at his own limitations. 
Finally, he forced himself to walk to the wreck in 
Lnuthos Plaza, tear a slim cobalt girder from the 
destroyed engine-housing, and bend it into a 
crutch.

 They took to cutting each other dead in the 
bleak streets.

 "You are preposterous," Cromis told them.


 To Methvet Man he said, "They are bored with 
inaction, we will leave here tomorrow"; but later 
that day two airboats bearing the Moidart's sigil 
ghosted in off the Waste and hung over the Plaza. 
Northmen swarmed down rope ladders to 
examine the burnt-out launch, kicked noisily 


through the wreckage, looking for survivors.

through the wreckage, looking for survivors.

 They began their journey down the Rannoch:


 It was a land of immense, barely-populated 
glacial moors, flanked by the tall hills — of bogs 
and peat-streams — of granite boulders split from 
the Mountains of Monar during slow, 
unimaginable catastrophes of ice, deposited to 
wear away in the beds of wide, fast, shallow 
rivers;

 Of bright green moss, and coarse, olive-green 
grass, and delicate, washed-out winter flowers 
discovered suddenly in the lee of low, worn 
drumlins — of bent thorn and withered bullace, 
of damp prevailing winds that searched for voices 
in stands of birch and pine;

 Of skylines, wrinkled with ridges;

 Of heather and gorse, grey cloud and weather 
— of sudden open stretches of white water that 
would swell in Spring, dwindle and vanish with 


the coming of Summer — mysterious waterways;


 It was green and brown, green and grey; it 
grew no crops; it constituted one quarter of the 
Empire of Viriconium.

 At dawn each day, Cromis would leave his 
blankets, shivering, to inspect whatever snares he 
had set the night before: generally, he caught 
rabbits and waterlogged his boots: but he took a 
morose pleasure in these solitary outings. 
Something in the resigned, defeated landscape (or 
was it simply waiting to be born? Who can tell at 
which end of Time these places have their 
existence?) called out to his senses, demanded his 
attention and understanding.

 He never found out what it was. Puzzling, he 
would return with his catch, to wake the camp 
and initiate another day of walking.

 They were a ragged crew, a queer crew to be 
walking down the Rannoch like that: Tomb 
crucified in his leather leggings against the metal 
tree of his exoskeleton, never tiring, going like a 
machine over bog and river, leaping ravines and 
cutting down whole spinneys with his axe; Birkin 
Grif in the ruins of his splendid cobalt mail, 
hopping and lurching, cursing his crutch like a 
mad scarecrow; Cromis, his beautiful black hair 


lank in the damp wind, the dead metal bird 
dangling limply by its neck from his belt, stopping 
to gaze at waterworn stone by the hour —

lank in the damp wind, the dead metal bird 
dangling limply by its neck from his belt, stopping 
to gaze at waterworn stone by the hour —

 In this way, they covered twenty miles a day.


 During the third week, it snowed. Ice crusted 
the rivers, rock cracked and broke above the 
thousand-foot line of the flanking hills. Cromis 
found his traps full of white hares and albino 
foxes with red, intelligent eyes. Birkin Grif killed 
a snow-leopard with his crutch: for ferocity, it 
was an even match until the last blow.

 For a week, they lived with a community of 
herders, small, dark-haired folk with strange soft 
accents, to whom the war in the north and west 
was but a rumour. They gave the Queen a 
sheepskin coat, they were shy and kind. As a 


measure of gratitude, Tomb the Dwarf cut wood 
from dawn to dusk; while Grif sat with his bad 
leg stretched in front of him, and split it into 
enough kindling for a year (they became friends 
again as a result of this: neither of them loved 
anything better than cutting and chopping).

measure of gratitude, Tomb the Dwarf cut wood 
from dawn to dusk; while Grif sat with his bad 
leg stretched in front of him, and split it into 
enough kindling for a year (they became friends 
again as a result of this: neither of them loved 
anything better than cutting and chopping).

 After seven days of that, and a further fortnight 
of travel in the grim mountains at the southern end 
of the Rannoch, he was glad to see the arable 
lands around Lendalfoot and catch a glimpse at 
last of the grey sea breaking on the dark volcanic 
beaches of Girvan Bay.

 Lendalfoot was a fishing town built of pale 
fawn stone, a cluster of one-roomed cottages and 
long drying-sheds, their edges weathered, blurred 
by accumulations of moss and lichen. Here and 
there rose the tall white houses of local 
dignitaries. In the summer, fine pink sand blown 
off the shifting dunes of Girvan Bay filled its 


steep, winding streets; the fishwives argued 
bare-armed in the sun; and creaking carts carried 
the catch up the Great South Road into 
Soubridge.

steep, winding streets; the fishwives argued 
bare-armed in the sun; and creaking carts carried 
the catch up the Great South Road into 
Soubridge.

 Determined that news of the Young Queen 
should not travel North by way of the fish-route, 
Cromis sent Tomb into Lendalfoot to pose as a 
solitary traveler and gather certain information 
(he stumped off sulkily, stripped of his 
power-armour so as not to alarm the fishermen, 
but refusing to give up his axe) then retired with 
Methvet Nian and Birkin Grif to a barren basalt 
hill behind the town.

 The Dwarf returned jauntily, throwing up and 
catching a small, wizened apple, which had been 
given to him (he said) by an old woman. "She was 
as dried up as her fruit," he laughed. "She must 
have thought I was a child." More likely, he had 
stolen it.

 "It was a good thing I went alone: they are 
frightened and surly down there. News has come 
down the road to Soubridge." He crunched the 


apple. "The Moidart has taken Low Leedale, 
thrown down Duirinish — with great loss of life 

apple. "The Moidart has taken Low Leedale, 
thrown down Duirinish — with great loss of life 
and now marches on Viriconium. 
"Between the Pastel City and Soubridge, the 
geteit chemosit are abroad by night, killing with 
no reason."

 He ate the apple core, spat the pips 
imprudently at Birkin Grif — who was 
sharpening his sword with a piece of sandstone he 
kept in his belt for that purpose — and lay down 
on his exoskeleton. "They have given me 
directions, more or less precise." He strapped 
himself up, rose to his feet, once more a giant. He 
pointed out over the basalt cliffs, his motors 
humming.

 "Our goal lies East and a little inland. The 
fishermen cooled further toward me when they 
learnt of my destination: they have little like of 
this Cellur. He is seen rarely, an old man. They 
regard him superstitiously, and call him 'The Lord 
of the Birds'."

 Chapter Eight

 In each of them had grown a compulsion to 
avoid roads and centres of population: by this, 


they were driven to travel the wilderness that 
stretches from Lendalfoot to the Cladich Marshes; 
a hinterland ruined and botched when the 
Afternoon Cultures were nothing but a dream in 
the germ-plasm of an ape; a stony wreckage of 
deep ravines and long-dormant volcanic vents.

they were driven to travel the wilderness that 
stretches from Lendalfoot to the Cladich Marshes; 
a hinterland ruined and botched when the 
Afternoon Cultures were nothing but a dream in 
the germ-plasm of an ape; a stony wreckage of 
deep ravines and long-dormant volcanic vents.

 No one answered her, and she drew her hood 
over her face.

 It had not snowed in the South, but a continual 
rain lashed the grey and leafless vegetation, 
glossed the black basalt and pumice, and made its 
way in the form of agitated streams through the 
ravines to the sea. At night, electrical flares 
danced about the summits of the dead volcanoes, 
and the columnar basalt formations took on the 
aspect of a giant architecture.

 As they went, they were shadowed and 
haunted by birds — ominous cruciform 
silhouettes high against the angry sky.

 They reached the tower of Cellur in the 
evening of the second day. Cresting a ridge of 
pitted dolerite, they came upon the estuary of one 
of the unnamed rivers that runs from the 


mountains behind Cladich. Luminous in the fading 
light, the water spread itself before them like a 
sheet of metal. High black escarpments dropped 
sheer to its dark beaches; the cold wind made 
ephemeral, meaningless patterns on its surface.

mountains behind Cladich. Luminous in the fading 
light, the water spread itself before them like a 
sheet of metal. High black escarpments dropped 
sheer to its dark beaches; the cold wind made 
ephemeral, meaningless patterns on its surface.

 Out of the pines, like a stone finger diminished 
by distance, rose the tower. It was five-faced, 
tapering: black. A tiny light shone near its 
summit, a glow that flickered, came and went. 
Birds wheeled about it, wailing mournfully, 
dipping to skim the water — fish-eagles of a 
curious colour, with wings like cloaks in a gale.

 "There is nothing for us here," said Birkin Grif 
abruptly. "Only a lunatic would choose to live 
here. Those fishermen had the right of it."

 But Cromis, who understood isolation, and 
was reminded of his own tower among the rowans 
of Balmacara, shook his head. "It is what we 
came for, Grif. Those birds: look, they are not 
made of flesh." He touched the corpse of the 
iridium vulture hanging from his belt. "We will go 
down." 


 The estuary was filled with a brown, 
indecisive light, the island dark and ill-defined, 
enigmatic. The creaking of the dead pines came 
clearly across the intervening water on the wind. 
From a beach composed of fine basalt grit and 
littered with skull-sized lumps of volcanic glass, 
they mounted the causeway. Its stones were soapy 
and rotten; parts of it were submerged under a 
few inches of water.

 The estuary was filled with a brown, 
indecisive light, the island dark and ill-defined, 
enigmatic. The creaking of the dead pines came 
clearly across the intervening water on the wind. 
From a beach composed of fine basalt grit and 
littered with skull-sized lumps of volcanic glass, 
they mounted the causeway. Its stones were soapy 
and rotten; parts of it were submerged under a 
few inches of water.

 With damp feet, they stood before the tower.


 It had been formed in some unimaginable past 
from a single obsidian monolith two hundred feet 
long by seventy or eighty in diameter; raised on 
its end by some lost, enormous trick of 
engineering; and fused smoothly at its base into 
the bedrock of the island. Its five facets were 
sheer and polished; in each was cut twenty tall, 
severe windows. No sound came from it; the light 
at its summit had vanished; a stony path led 


through the ghostly pines to its door.

through the ghostly pines to its door.

 "Come out!" he shouted: "Come out!" He 
kicked it, and his metal leg rang with the blow; 
but no one came. Up above their heads, the 
fish-eagles made restless circles. Cromis felt 
Methvet Nian draw closer to him. "Come on out, 
Birdmaker!" called Tomb. "Or I'll chop your gate 
to matchwood," he added. "Oh, I'll carve it!"

 Soft but distinct in the silence that followed 
this threat, there came a dry, reedy laugh.

 Birkin Grif cursed foully. "At your backs!" he 
bellowed, lugging out his heavy blade. Horrified 
by his own lack of foresight, Cromis turned to 
meet the threat from behind. Sweat was on his 
brow, the nameless sword was in his hand. Up 
above, the fish-eagles gyred like ghosts, 
screaming. The pathway through the pines 
yawned — a tunnel, a trap, a darkness. He aimed 
a savage overhand stroke in the gloom, a cut that 


was never completed.

was never completed.

 The Lord of the Birds was so old that he 
seemed to have outstripped the mere physical 
symptoms of his age and passed into a 
Timelessness, a state of exaltation.

 His long, domed skull was fleshless, but his 
skin was smooth and taut and unwrinkled; so fine 
and tight as to be almost transluscent. His bones 
shone through it, like thin and delicate jade. It had 
a faint, yellow tint; in no way unhealthy, but 
strange.

 His eyes were green, clear and amused; his lips 
were thin.

 He wore a loose, unbelted black robe — 
quilted in grouped arrangements of lozenges — 
upon which was embroidered in gold wire 
patterns resembling certain geometries cut into the 
towers of the Pastel City: those queer and uneasy 
signs that might equally have been the visual art 
or the language or the mathematics of Time itself.

 They had this property: that, when he moved, 
they seemed to shift and flow of their own accord, 
divorced entirely from the motions of the cloth of 
which they were a part. 


 "Hold your weapon, my lord," he murmured, 
as the point of the nameless sword hovered 
indecisively at his old throat. He eyed the dead 
lammergeyer dangling from Cromis' belt.

 "Hold your weapon, my lord," he murmured, 
as the point of the nameless sword hovered 
indecisively at his old throat. He eyed the dead 
lammergeyer dangling from Cromis' belt.

 "Come. We will go in — " he indicated his 
tower. "You must introduce me to your energetic 
friend with the power-axe. He would like to kill 
me, I feel; but he must save that pleasure. No 
dwarf likes to be made a butt. Ah well."

 Stubborn Grif, however, would have none of 
it.

 When Cromis put up his sword, he showed no 
sign of following. He confronted the old man.

 "You are either fool or malefactor," he said, 
"to risk death, as you have just done, for such a 
silly trick. In coming here, we have killed more 
men than you have eaten hot meals; and many for 
less than that practical joke.

 "I should like proof that you are the former, 
senile but well-meaning, before I enter your 
house. 


 "How, for instance, would any of us know that 
you are Cellur of Lendalfoot, and not some 
reproduction as cunningly-fashioned as the bird?"

 "How, for instance, would any of us know that 
you are Cellur of Lendalfoot, and not some 
reproduction as cunningly-fashioned as the bird?"

 "You would know by this, perhaps — "

 He raised his arms and tipped back his head 
until he was gazing up into the darkening spaces 
where the fish-eagles flew. The diagrams on his 
robe appeared to fluoresce and writhe. From his 
throat he forced a wild, loud cry, a shriek 
compounded of desolation and salt beaches, of 
wind and sea — the call of a sea-bird.

 Immediately, the eagles halted their aimless 
gyring about the summit of the tower. One by one, 
they folded their great ragged wings, and, 
returning the cry, fell out of the sky, the wind 
humming past them.

 For a moment, the air about the Birdmaster 
was full of sound and motion. He vanished in a 
storm of wings: and when he reappeared, it was 
with an eagle perched on each of his outspread 
arms and ten more on the earth before him.

 "They have been constructed, you see," he 
said, "to respond to a vocal code. They are very 
quick."

 Birkin Grif sheathed his weapon. "I 


apologise," he said.

apologise," he said.

 "Fool or no, that is a trick I should like to 
learn." He studied the perfect indium plumage of 
the birds. "We will make a pact, old man. Teach 
me to build such things, and I will forget that I am 
a sensitive and evil-minded dwarf. I am sorry I 
threatened to mutilate your door."

 Cellur inclined his head gravely.

 "I regret that it would have been impossible 
anyway. You shall learn, my friend. It is necessary 
that one of you be taught . . . certain operations. 
Come."

 He led them into the tower.

 It was an ancient place, full of the same 
undersea gloaming that haunted the airboats of the 
Afternoon Cultures. There were ten floors, each 
one a single pentagonal room.

 Three of these were given over to personal 
space, couched and carpeted; the remainder 
housed equipment of an equivocal nature, like the 
sculptures unearthed from the Waste. Light 


curtains hung and drifted; there were captured 
electrical voices whose function was obscure —

curtains hung and drifted; there were captured 
electrical voices whose function was obscure —

 Tomb the Dwarf walked among them, his 
expression benign and silly. Suddenly, he said, "I 
have wasted forty years. I should have been here, 
not picking over the detritus of deserts — "

 Incomplete carcasses of metal birds lay on the 
workbenches; there were eagle owls, and martial 
eagles, and a black-shouldered kite complete but 
inert, awaiting some powering-up ritual that 
would put life into its small and savage eye.

 And in the last room, at the summit of the 
tower, there were five false windows, most 
precise duplicates of those that lined the throne 
room at Viriconium and showed landscapes to be 
found nowhere in the Empire. . .

 There, after they had refreshed themselves, 
Cellur the Birdmaker told them in his dry manner 
of the geteit chemosit, and his own strange life:

 I have (he said) waited for some time for your 
arrival. You must understand that there is very 
little time left. I must have your co-operation if 
my intervention in this affair is to become 
concrete and positive. I should have had it earlier. 


Never mind.

Never mind.

 This threat I must make clear: to do that — 
and, simultaneously — I must set your minds at 
rest about my own position — I must tell you a 
little about myself and my queer abode. Please, 
sir, do not interrupt. It will speed things if you 
save your questions until I have outlined the broad 
picture.

 Well.

 Firstly, I want to make it clear that my 
involvement in this war is in no way political; the 
victory of Viriconium is as unimportant to me as 
the victory of the Northmen, except in one 
particular — please, Lord Grif, sit down and 
listen — with which I shall deal presently.

 What concerns me is the preservation of the 
human race on Earth, by which I mean, on this 
continent, for they are one and the same thing.

 Certainly, you may ask who I am, my lord — 



 It is my tragedy that I do not know. I have 
forgotten. I do not know when I came to this 
tower, only that I have been here for at least a 
millennium.

 It is my tragedy that I do not know. I have 
forgotten. I do not know when I came to this 
tower, only that I have been here for at least a 
millennium.

 I have no doubt also that I am either immortal 
or cursed with an extreme longevity: but the 
secret of that is lost in Time. Whether it was a 
disease that struck me, or a punishment that was 
conferred upon me, I do not know. My memory 
extends reliably for perhaps two hundred years 
into the past. No further.

 That is the curse of the thing, you see: the 
memory does not last. There is little enough space 
in one skull for a lifetime's memories. And no 
room at all for those of a millennium. 

I do not even remember if I am a man.

 Many races came — or were brought despite 
themselves — to Earth in the prime of the 
Departed Cultures. Some stayed, marooned by the 
swift collapse of the environment that gave rise to 


the Rust Deserts, caught when the global economy 
could no longer support a technology and the big 
ships ceased to fly.

the Rust Deserts, caught when the global economy 
could no longer support a technology and the big 
ships ceased to fly.

 It may be that I represent a third.

 However.

 That is secondary to our purpose here. If you 
will consider the screens that face you, I will 
attempt to give you some idea of what we may 
expect from the mechanical servants of the Old 
Queen.

 Yes, madam, the "windows," as you call them, 
have been here at least as long as myself. I may 
have constructed them, I cannot remember. Until I 
discovered certain properties of light and sound, 
they, too, showed only fixed views of places not 
to be found in the kingdom. Now, each one is 
connected — by a principle of which I have 
recently gained a little understanding — to the 
eyes of one of my birds.

 Thus, wherever they fly, I see.

 Now. We will operate the first screen. As you 
can see, Canna Moidart had little trouble in 
taking Duirinish — 


The huge metal doors are buckled; they swing 
to and fro in a wind that cannot be heard. 
Beneath the overhanging walls, a mountain of 
dead, Northmen and Viriconese inextricably 
mixed. The battlements are deserted. Moving 
into the city, a patrol of scavengers, dressed in 
looted furs. Fire has blackened the squat 
armouries of the city. On the edge of Replica 
Square, the Blue Metal Discovery lies in ruins. A 
dog sniffs at the still huddled, headless figure in 
the centre of the square. It is a dead merchant . . 
.

The huge metal doors are buckled; they swing 
to and fro in a wind that cannot be heard. 
Beneath the overhanging walls, a mountain of 
dead, Northmen and Viriconese inextricably 
mixed. The battlements are deserted. Moving 
into the city, a patrol of scavengers, dressed in 
looted furs. Fire has blackened the squat 
armouries of the city. On the edge of Replica 
Square, the Blue Metal Discovery lies in ruins. A 
dog sniffs at the still huddled, headless figure in 
the centre of the square. It is a dead merchant . . 
.

The Pastel City. Five thousand Northmen 
march the length of Proton Circuit, their faces 
flushed with triumph. A tavern in the Artist's 
Quarter; spilt wine, sawdust, vomit. A line of 
refugees. The Pastel Towers, scarred in the final 
battle, when the last ship of the Queens Flight 
detonated the power-source of the last remaining 
energy-cannon in the Empire, in a vain attempt 
to repeat Benedict Paucemanly's relief of the 
siege of Mingulay. . . 


 She was quick to move South. Here, we see 
the geteit chemosit in action against a group of 
guerillas, survivors of the Soubridge massacre — 

 She was quick to move South. Here, we see 
the geteit chemosit in action against a group of 
guerillas, survivors of the Soubridge massacre — 

 Mark that. That is the real enemy of 
Viriconium. I am sorry, Lord Cromis: I did not 
intend to cause Her Majesty so much distress. We 
will dispense with the fourth screen, my lady, and 
move on to the most important. This is taking 
place now in Lendalfoot, the town you have just 
left — 

Night. The unsteady flare and flicker of 
torches in the main street of the town. Then light 
outlines a group of fishermen, bending over 
something laid out on the cobbles. The scene 
jerks. An overhead view; a white, shocked face; 
tears, a woman in a shawl. There on the cobbles, 
a child, dead, the top of its head cut neatly away, 
its skull empty . . . 


 Finally, let us examine the history of what you 
know as the chemosit, and discuss my purpose in 
inviting you here. No, Lord Grif, I will be 
finished shortly. Please hear me out.

 Finally, let us examine the history of what you 
know as the chemosit, and discuss my purpose in 
inviting you here. No, Lord Grif, I will be 
finished shortly. Please hear me out.

 Immersed in a tank of nutrient, his cortex 
could be used as a seed from which to "grow" a 
new body. How this was done, I have no idea. It 
seems monstrous to me.

 The geteit chemosit were a result of 
escalation. They were built not only to kill, but 
also to prevent resurrection of the victim by 
destroying his brain tissue. As you remark, it is 
horrifying. But not a bad dream, those are not 
words I would use; it is a reality with which, a 
millennium later, we have to deal.

 It is evident that Canna Moidart discovered a 
regiment of these automata in the north of the 
Great Brown Waste, dormant in some 
subterranean barracks. I became aware of this 
some years ago, when certain elements of my 


equipment detected their awakening. (At that time 
I was unsure precisely what it was that the 
detectors were registering — a decade passed 
before I solved the problem; by that time, the War 
was inevitable.)

equipment detected their awakening. (At that time 
I was unsure precisely what it was that the 
detectors were registering — a decade passed 
before I solved the problem; by that time, the War 
was inevitable.)

 My tower's records are clear on one point, and 
that is this: once awakened, those automata have 
only one inbuilt directive —

 To kill.

 Should Canna Moidart be unable to shut them 
down at the end of her campaign, they will 
continue to kill, regardless of the political 
alignment of their victims.

 The Old Queen may very well find herself in 
full possession of the Empire of Viriconium.

 But as soon as that happens, as soon as the last 
pocket of resistance is finished, and the geteit 
chemosit run out of war to fight, they will turn on 
her. All weapons are two-edged; it is the nature of 
weapons to be deadly to both user and victim — 
but these were the final weapon, the absolute 
product of a technology dedicated to exploitation 
of its environment and violent solution to political 
problems. They hate life. That is the way they 
were built. 


 Chapter Nine

 Chapter Nine

 "That is a black picture — " Tomb the Dwarf 
drank wine and smacked his lips. He was the least 
affected by them. "But I would guess that you 
have a solution. Old man, you would not have 
brought us here otherwise."

 Cellur smiled thinly.

 "That is true," he said.

 Tomb made a chopping gesture with one hand.

 "Let's get to the meat of it then. I feel like 
killing something."

 Cellur winced.

 "My tower has a long memory; much 
information is stored there. Deciphering it, I 
discover that the geteit chemosit are controlled by 
a single artificial brain, a complex the size of a 
small town.

 "The records are ambiguous when discussing 



its whereabouts, but I have narrowed its location 
down to two points South of the Monadliath 
Mountains. It remains for someone to go there — 
"

its whereabouts, but I have narrowed its location 
down to two points South of the Monadliath 
Mountains. It remains for someone to go there — 
"

 "And perform certain simple operations that I 
will teach him."

 Cellur stepped into a drifting column of 
magenta light, passed his palms over a convoluted 
mechanism. One by one, the false windows died, 
taking their agony with them. He turned to 
tegeus-Cromis.

 "I am asking one or all of you to do that. My 
origin and queer life aside, I am an old man. I 
would not survive out there now that she has 
passed beyond the Pastel City."

 Numbed by what he had witnessed, Cromis 
nodded his head. He gazed at the empty windows, 
obsessed by the face of the dead Lendalfoot child.


 "We will go," he said. "I had expected nothing 
like this. Tomb will learn faster than Grif or I, 
you had better teach him.

 "How much grace have we?"

 "A week, perhaps. The South resists, but she 
will have no trouble. You must be ready to leave 
before the week is out." 


 During the Birdmaker's monologue. Methvet 
Nian had wept openly. Now she rose to her feet 
and said:

 During the Birdmaker's monologue. Methvet 
Nian had wept openly. Now she rose to her feet 
and said:

 "How could they have constructed such things? 
Why, when they had the stars beneath their 
hands?"

 The Birdmaker shrugged. The geometries of 
his robe shifted and stretched like restless alien 
animals.

 "Are you bidding me remember, madam? I 
fear I cannot."

 "They were stupid," said Birkin Grif, his fat, 
honest face puzzled and hurt. It was his way to 
feel things personally. "They were fools."

 "They were insane toward the end," said 
Cellur. "That I know."

 Lord tegeus-Cromis wandered the Birdmaker's 
tower alone, filled his time by staring out of upper 
windows at the rain and the estuary, making sad 
and shabby verses out of the continual wild crying 
of the fish-eagles and the creaking of the dead 
white pines. His hand never left the hilt of the 


nameless sword, but it brought him no comfort.

nameless sword, but it brought him no comfort.

 Inaction bored the soldier; moroseness 
overcame the poet; a wholly misplaced sense of 
responsibility possessed the Queen; in their 
separate ways they tried to meet and overcome 
the feeling of impotence instilled in them by what 
they had learned from the Lord of the Birds, and 
by the enigma he represented. To a certain extent, 
each one succeeded; but Cellur ended all that 
when he called them to the topmost room of the 
tower on the afternoon of the fifth day since their 
coming.

 They arrived separately, Cromis last. "I 
wanted you to see this," Cellur was saying as he 
entered the room.

 The old man was tired; the skin was stretched 
tight across the bones of his face like oiled paper 


over a lamp; his eyes were hooded. Abruptly, he 
seemed less human, and Cromis came to accept 
the fact that, at some time in the remote past, he 
might have crossed immense voids to reach the 
Earth.

over a lamp; his eyes were hooded. Abruptly, he 
seemed less human, and Cromis came to accept 
the fact that, at some time in the remote past, he 
might have crossed immense voids to reach the 
Earth.

 "We are all here then," murmured the 
Birdmaker.

 Birkin Grif scowled and grunted.

 "Where is Tomb? I don't see him."

 "The Dwarf must work. In five days, he has 
absorbed the governing principles of an entire 
technology. He is amazing. But I would prefer 
him to continue working. He knows of this 
already."

 "Show us your moving pictures," said Grif.


 Ancient hands moved in a column of light. 
Cellur bent his head, and the windows flickered 
behind him.

 "A vulture flew over Viriconium this 
morning," he said. "Watch." 

A street scene in the Artists Quarter; Thing 



Alley, or Soft Lane perhaps. The tottering houses 
closed tight against a noiseless wind. A length of 
cloth looping down the gutter; a cat with an eye 
like a crooked pin flattens itself on the paving, 
slips out its tongue and devours a morsel of 
rancid butter. Otherwise nothing moves.

Alley, or Soft Lane perhaps. The tottering houses 
closed tight against a noiseless wind. A length of 
cloth looping down the gutter; a cat with an eye 
like a crooked pin flattens itself on the paving, 
slips out its tongue and devours a morsel of 
rancid butter. Otherwise nothing moves.

 They have missed a movement in a doorway, 
which will kill them.

 As crooked and silent as the cat, a great black 
shadow slips into the road behind them. The 
immense energy-blade swings up and down. The 
silly, bemused faces collapse. Hands raised 
helplessly before eyes. Their screams are full of 
teeth. And the triangle of yellow eyes regards 
their corpses with clinical detachment . . .

 "It has begun, you see," said the Birdmaker. 
"This is happening all over the city. The automata 
fight guerilla engagements with Canna Moidart's 



people. They do not fully understand what is 
happening as yet. But she is losing control."


 Birkin Grif got to his feet, stared at the false 
windows with loathing, and limped out

 "I would give an arm never to have come here; 
Birdmaster," he said as he left the room. "Never 
to have seen that. Your windows make it 
impossible for me to hate the enemy I have known 
all my life; they present me with another that turns 
my legs to water."

 Cellur shrugged.

 "How soon can we move?" Cromis asked.

 "In a day, perhaps two. The Dwarf is nearly 
ready. I am calling in all my birds. Whatever your 
Lord Grif thinks, I am not some voyeur of 
violence. I no longer need to watch the Moidart's 
fall. The birds will be more useful if I redeploy 
them over the route you must shortly take.

 "Make sure you are watching when they 
return, Lord Cromis. It will be a sight not often 
seen."

 Cromis and Methvet Nian left the room 
together. Outside, she stopped and looked up into 
his eyes. She had aged. The girl had fallen before 
the woman, and hated it. Her face was set, the lips 
tight. She was beautiful. 


 "My lord," she said, "I do not wish to live with 
such responsibilities for the rest of my life. 
Indirectly, all this is my fault. I have hardly been 
a strong Queen.

 "My lord," she said, "I do not wish to live with 
such responsibilities for the rest of my life. 
Indirectly, all this is my fault. I have hardly been 
a strong Queen.

 He had not expected such a positive reaction.


 "Madam," he said, "your father had similar 
thoughts on most days of his life. He knew that 
course was not open to him. You know it, too."


 She put her head on his chest and wept.


 For twenty-four hours, the sky about the tower 
was black with birds. They came hurling down 
the wind from the North: Bearded vultures and 
kites from the lower slopes of the Monar 
Mountains;

 Eagle owls like ghosts from the forests;

 A squadron of grim long-crested hawk-eagles 
from the farmlands of the Low Leedale;

 A flight of lizard buzzards from the reaches of 
the Great Brown Waste;

 A hundred merlins, two hundred fish-hawks — 
a thousand wicked predatory beaks on a long 
blizzard of wings.

 Cromis stood with the Young Queen by a 
window and watched them come out of night and 
morning: circling the tower in precise formation; 



belling their wings to land with a crack of trapped 
air; studding the rocks and dark beaches of the 
tiny island. They filled the pines, and he saw now 
why every tree was dead — Cellur had had need 
of his birds some long time before, and their 
talons had stripped every inch of bark, their steel 
bodies had shaken every branch.

belling their wings to land with a crack of trapped 
air; studding the rocks and dark beaches of the 
tiny island. They filled the pines, and he saw now 
why every tree was dead — Cellur had had need 
of his birds some long time before, and their 
talons had stripped every inch of bark, their steel 
bodies had shaken every branch.
.


 But it was the birds, despite their beauty, that 
destroyed their maker.

 . . . For in the stripped lands South of 
Soubridge, where the villagers had burned their 
barns before the enemy arrived, a hungry 
Northman fired his crossbow into a flock of 
speeding owls. A certain curiosity impelled him: 
he had never seen such a thing before. More by 
luck than judgement, he brought one down.

 And when he found he could not eat it, he 
screwed his face up in puzzlement, and took it to 
his captain . . .

 Dawn came dim and grimy over the basalt 
cliffs of the estuary. It touched the window from 
which Cromis had watched all night, softening his 
bleak features; it stroked the feathers of the birds 
in the pines; it silvered the beaks of the last 
returning flight: seventy cumbersome cinereous 


vultures, beating slowly over the water on their 
nine-foot wings.

vultures, beating slowly over the water on their 
nine-foot wings.

 Cromis was alone; the Queen had retired some 
hours earlier. He watched the ship for a moment 
as it trawled back and forth over the estuary. Its 
shell was scarred and pitted. After two or three 
minutes it vanished over the cliffs to the West, and 
he thought it had gone away. But it returned; 
hovered; spun hesitantly, hunting like a compass 
needle.

 Thoughtfully, he made his way to the 
workshop on the fifth floor. He drew his sword 
and rapped with its pommel on the door.

 "Cellur!" he called. "We are discovered!"

 He looked at the nameless blade then put it 
away.

 "Possibly, we can hold them off. The tower 
has its defences. It would depend on the type of 
weapon they have."

 They had gathered in the upper room, Methvet 
Nian shivering with cold, Birkin Grif complaining 
of the earliness of the hour. Dry-mouthed and 


insensitive from lack of sleep, Cromis found the 

insensitive from lack of sleep, Cromis found the 

 "One such boat could carry fifty men," he said.

 It hung now over the causeway that joined the 
tower to the mainland; like a haunting. It began to 
descend, slowed, alighted on the crumbling stone, 
its bow aimed at the island.

 "Footmen need not concern us," said Cellur. 
"The door will hold them: and there are the 
birds."

 Beneath the weight of the boat, the causeway 
shifted, groaned, settled. Chunks of stone broke 
away and slid into the estuary. In places, a foot of 
water licked the dark hull. Behind it, the hills 
took on a menacing gunmetal tint in the growing 
light. Cellur's fish-eagles began their tireless 
circling.

 Five false windows showed the same view: the 
water, the silent launch.

 A hatch opened in its side like a wound.

 From it poured the geteit chemosit, their 
blades at high port.

 Birkin Grif hissed through his clenched teeth. 
He rubbed his injured leg. "Let us see your home 
defend itself, Birdmaker. Let us see it!"

 "Only two humans are with them," said the 



Queen. "Officers: or slaves?"

Queen. "Officers: or slaves?"

 The birds met them.

 Cellur's hand moved across his instruments, 
and the dawn faltered as he lifted his immense 
flock from the island and hurled it at the beach. 
Like a cloud of smoke, it stooped on the chemosit 
, wailing and screaming with one voice. The 
invader vanished.

 Blades flickered through the cloud, slicing 
metal like butter. Talons like handfuls of nails 
sought triplet eyes. Hundreds of birds fell. But 
when the flock drew back, twenty of the automata 
lay in shreds half in and half out of the water, and 
the rest had retreated to their ship.

 "Ha," said Grif in the pause that followed. 
"Old man, you are not toothless, and they are not 
invulnerable."

 "No." said the Birdmaster, "but I am 
frightened. Look down there. It seems to me that 
Manna Moidart dug more than golems from the 
Desert — "

 He turned to Cromis.

 "You must go! Leave now. Beneath the tower 



are cellars. I have horses there. Tunnels lead 
through the basalt to a place half a mile south of 
here. The Dwarf is as ready as he ever will be. 
Obey his instructions when you reach the site of 
the artificial brain.

are cellars. I have horses there. Tunnels lead 
through the basalt to a place half a mile south of 
here. The Dwarf is as ready as he ever will be. 
Obey his instructions when you reach the site of 
the artificial brain.

 As he spoke, his eyes dilated with fear.

 Despite repeated attacks by the birds, the 
chemosit had gained a little space on the 
causeway beside their ship. In this area, four of 
them were assembling heavy equipment. They 
worked ponderously, without haste.

 "That is a portable energy-cannon," whispered 
Birkin Grif. "I had not thought that such things 
existed in the Empire."

 "Many things exist under it, Lord Grif," Cellur 
told him. "Now go!"

 The tower shuddered.

 Violet bolides issued from the mouth of the 
cannon. Rocks and trees vaporised. Five hundred 
birds flashed into a golden, ragged sphere of fire, 
involuntary phoenixes with no rebirth. Cellur 
turned to his instruments.

 The tower began to hum. Above their heads, at 


the very summit, something cracked and spat. 
Ozone tainted the air. 

the very summit, something cracked and spat. 
Ozone tainted the air. 

 "I have a cannon of my own," said the 
Birdmaker, and there was a smile on his ancient 
face. "Many of those birds were so complicated 
they had learned to talk. That is as good a 
definition of life as I have ever heard."

 The water about the causeway had begun to 
boil.

 Cromis took the Queen's arm.

 "This is no place for us. The old weapons are 
awake here. Let them fight it out."

 The rock beneath the tower trembled 
ominously.

 "Should we not bring the old man with us? 
They will kill him in the end — "

 "I do not think he would come," said Cromis, 
and he was right.

 Tomb the Dwarf was dull-eyed and bemused.


 "I have wasted fifty years of my life," he said. 
"We must go, I suppose."

 One hundred steps led to the caverns beneath.

 It was a queer journey. The horses were 
skittish from lack of exercise, the tunnels ill-lit. 



Moisture filmed the walls, and fungus made 
murals from the dreams of a madman. Huge, silent 
machines stood in alcoves melted from the living 
rock.

Moisture filmed the walls, and fungus made 
murals from the dreams of a madman. Huge, silent 
machines stood in alcoves melted from the living 
rock.
.


 "We are beneath the estuary. It is the underside 
of the world, where the dead men lose their 
bones."

 They were forced to ride through a column of 
cold fire. They discovered these things:

 The white skeletons of a horse and its rider; a 
sword too big for any of them to lift; an immense 
web; the mummified body of a beautiful princess.

 Sounds that were not echoes followed them 
down the twisted corridors.

 "I could believe we are out of Time," said 
tegeus-Cromis.

 Finally, they came up out of the earth and 
stood on the lip of the Western cliffs, gazing 
down. The tower of Cellur was invisible, 
wrapped in a pall of coloured smoke, through 
which the lightnings flashed and coruscated. The 
causeway had sagged, in places its stones were 
melted. Steam hung over the estuary.

 A cold mist drew round them as they turned 
their horses South and West, making for 


Lendalfoot, and then the Forest of Sloths. As they 
left Cellur to his vain battle, one fish-eagle was 
hanging high above the smoke: circling.

Lendalfoot, and then the Forest of Sloths. As they 
left Cellur to his vain battle, one fish-eagle was 
hanging high above the smoke: circling.

 "We waste our lives in half truths and 
nonsense. We waste them."

 Chapter Ten

 Canna Moidart's long thrust into the South 
reached Mingulay and guttered. The town fell, but 
in the bleak streets behind the sea-front, the 
chemosit sensed there was nowhere further to go: 
they slaughtered the civilians, and then, quite 
without purpose or emotion, turned on their 
masters, who died in a smell of blood and fish . . .

 While, in the back alleys of Soubridge and the 
Pastel City, death wore precise, mechanical limbs 


. . . A greater war had begun . . . Or perhaps it 
had never finished, and the automata were 
completing a task they had started over a thousand 
years before . . . The Northmen desperately 
needed enemies . . .

. . . A greater war had begun . . . Or perhaps it 
had never finished, and the automata were 
completing a task they had started over a thousand 
years before . . . The Northmen desperately 
needed enemies . . .

 tegeus-Cromis and Tomb the Dwarf stood at 
the summit of a rainswept ridge in the South of 
that narrow neck of land which separates the 
Monadliath Mountains from the sea.

 The country around them was alkaline and 
barren, an elevated limestone region seamed and 
lined with deep gullies by the almost constant 
rain: in areas, rock strata that had resisted the 
erosion of millennia made tall, smooth, distorted 
columns which stood out above the surrounding 
land.

 "An old road runs through it, according to the 
Birdmaster. What we seek is at the end of it — 
perhaps. You are sure you will recognise it?"

 Above the grotesque spires and limb-shapes of 
the terrain, grey clouds were flung out across a 
drab sky, and the wind was bitter. Tomb tapped 
enormous steel fingers impatiently against the left 
leg of his exoskeleton.

 "How many times must you be told? Cellur 



taught me."

taught me."

 Now, the vanguard of the South Forest barred 
their path.

 The land sloped away from them for five 
miles, growing steadily less tortured as the 
limestone faded out. Low scrub and gorse made 
their appearance, gave way to groves of birch: 
then the black line of the trees — dark, solid, 
stretching like a wooden wall from the 
thousand-foot line of the mountains to the chalk 
pits by the sea.

 "Well," said Cromis, "we have no choice."


 He left the Dwarf staring ahead and made his 
way down the greasy Northern slope of the ridge 
to where Birkin Grif and Methvet Nian huddled 
with their horses under a meagre overhang, rain 
plastering their cloaks to their bodies and their 


hair to their heads.

hair to their heads.

 Within half a day they were lost among the 
green cathedrals.

 There was no undergrowth, only trunks and 
twisted limbs; their horses stumbled over 
interlaced roots, the going was slow. There was 
no movement or sound among the lower branches, 
only the slow drip of moisture percolating from 
the groined grey spaces above. Pines gave way to 
denser plots of oak and ash, and there was no 
path: only the aimless roads their minds made 
through the trees.

 Mid afternoon.

 In a clearing of gigantic, wan hemlock and 
etiolated nettle, Tomb the Dwarf left them.

 "It is a bitch that I have to do your work, too," 
he muttered. "Stay here." And he strode off, 
chopping a straight route with his big axe, 
uprooting saplings out of spite.

 Shaggy mosses grew on the Southern faces of 
the trees that ringed the glade; wet fungoid 
growths like huge plates erupted on their cloven 


massive trunks, bursting putrescently when 
touched. The light was lichen-grey, oppressive.

massive trunks, bursting putrescently when 
touched. The light was lichen-grey, oppressive.

 "The fault is also mine," Cromis admitted.


 Methven Nian shivered. "I hate this place." 
Nothing more was said: voices were heavy and 
dead, conversation fell like turf on a grave, or the 
thud of hooves on endless leaf-mould.

 At dusk, the Dwarf returned, a little less 
sullen. He bowed to the Queen.

 "Tomb, my lady," he explained: "An itinerant 
dwarf of menacing demeanour. Mechanic and 
pathfinder — " Here, he glanced witheringly at 
Cromis and Grif, who had both become interested 
in a thicket of nightshade " — at your service." 
He sniggered.

 He led them to a poorly-defined path 
overshadowed by great rough blackthorn, the 
light failing around them. As the sun died without 
a sound somewhere off behind the trees and the 
clouds, they came to a broad, wasted space 
running to North and South in the mounting 


gloom.

gloom.

 They camped on the road, in the lee of an 
overgrown slab; and their fire, calling across 
Time, perhaps, as well as space, brought out the 
sloths . . .

 "Something is out there," said Birkin Grif.


 He got to his feet, stood with the flames 
flickering on his back, looking into the terrible 
silences of the forest. He drew his broadsword.


 Flames and stillness.

 "There," he hissed. He ran forward into the 
shadows, whirling the long blade round his head. 


"Stop!" cried Methvet Nian. "My lord — 
leave them be!"

 They came shambling slowly into the light, 
three of them. Grif gave ground before them, his 



weapon reflecting the flames, his breath coming 
slow and heavy.

weapon reflecting the flames, his breath coming 
slow and heavy.

 Fifteen feet high, they stared mutely down at 
Grif, their tranquil brown eyes fixed myopically 
on him.

 They swayed their blunt, shaggy heads from 
side to side. Grif retreated.

 Slim and quick as a sword, her hair a 
challenge to the fire, Methvet Nian, Queen and 
Empress, placed herself between him and the 
megatheria.

 "Hello, my old ones," she whispered. "Your 
kindred sends you greetings from the palace."

 They did not understand. But they nodded 
their heads wisely, and gazed into her eyes. One 
by one, they dropped to their haunches, and 
ambled to the fire which they examined 
thoroughly.

 "They are the Queen's Beasts, my lord," said 
Methvet Nian to Birkin Grif. "And once they may 
have been more than that. No harm will come to 


us from them."

us from them."

 Squares and plazas, submerged beneath 
fathoms of filthy water, had become stagnant, 
stinking lakes, their surfaces thickly coated with 
dead brown leaves. Black ivy clutched the 
enduring metals of the Afternoon Cultures, laid its 
own meandering inscriptions over bas-reliefs that 
echoed the geometries of the Pastel City and the 
diagrams that shifted across the robe of Cellur.

 And everywhere, the trees, the fireweed, the 
pale hemlock: Thing Fifty had met a vegetable 
death with thick, fibrous, thousand-year roots.

 Between the collapsed towers moved the 
megatheria, denizens of the dead metropolis. They 
lived in sunken rooms, moved ponderously 
through the choked streets by night and day, as if 
for millennia they had been trying to discover the 
purpose of their inheritance.

 Tomb the Dwarf led the party through the 
tumbled concentric circles of the city.

 "At the very centre," he said, "a tower stands 
alone in an oval plaza." He cocked his head, as if 
listening to a lecture in his skull. "To descend into 


the caverns beneath the plaza, we must enter that. 
Certain defences may still be operating. But I 
have the trick of those, I hope."

the caverns beneath the plaza, we must enter that. 
Certain defences may still be operating. But I 
have the trick of those, I hope."

 "I had not counted on this. The bunkers may be 
water-logged. Run-off from the foothills of the 
Monadliath has done this. Help for the trees, but 
not us."

 He was near the mark, but how near, he could 
not have imagined: and when they reached the 
plaza, none of his new skills were of any use.

 For at the hub of the city of Thing Fifty lay a 
perfectly oval tarn of clear water.

 At its centre, like the stub of one of Tomb's 
own broken teeth, rose the last few feet of a tall 
tower. In its depths, they could see luxuriant 
water-plants rooted in the thick black silt that had 
covered and blocked the entrance to the bunkers.

 Into their stunned silence, Birkin Grif 
murmured, "We are finished here before we 
begin. It is drowned." 


 Methvet Nian looked at Tomb. "What shall we 
do?"

 Methvet Nian looked at Tomb. "What shall we 
do?"

 He stalked off a little way and sat down. He 
threw lumps of dead wood and stone into the 
water that mocked him.

 "We cannot get down there," said Cromis. 
"We will sleep in a drier part of the city tonight, 
and in the morning move on.

 "Cellur told us that the siting of the artificial 
brain was uncertain. We had warning of that. We 
will try our second goal, in the Lesser Rust 
Desert.

 "If that fails, we can come back here — "

 Tomb the Dwarf sniggered.

 "And dive like ducks? You are a fool. We 
have lost the game."

 Cromis fondled the hilt of his sword. "We lost 
the game a long time since, in the Great Brown 
Waste," he said, "but we still live. It is all we can 
do." ' 

"Oh yes indeed," said a soft, ironical voice 
from close behind him. "It is your place to lose, I 
think." 


 Cromis turned, horror blooming in his skull, 
his sword sliding from its leather scabbard.

 Norvin Trinor stood before him.

 Twenty Northmen were at his back, 
forceblades spitting and hissing in their hands.

 "You should have killed me when you had the 
chance, my lord," he said. He shook his head 
theatrically and sighed. "Still, perhaps it was not 
meant to be that way."

 He looked from Cromis to Grif. The scar left 
by Thorisman Carlemaker's knife immobilised one 
side of his face, so that when he smiled only one 
eye and half his mouth responded. He still wore 
the cloak and mail Cromis had last seen on the 
battlefield. Like the leather garments of the 
Northmen, they were stained with blood and 
wine.

 "Hello, Grif," he said.

 Birkin Grif exposed his teeth.

 "Arselicker," he said, "your lads will not save 
you, even though they kill me after I have gutted 
you." He showed Trinor a few inches of his 
broadsword. He spat on the floor. He took a step 
forward. "I will have your bowels out on the 
floor," he promised.

 Cromis put a hand on his shoulder. 


 "No, Grif, no."

 "No, Grif, no."

 "tegeus-Cromis sees it," he said. "Heroism is 
useless against a strategist: Methven taught us all 
that many years ago."

 "You learnt quickest of all," said Cromis 
dryly. "Grif, we could kill him four times over: 
but when we have finished, we will face twenty 
baans. Even Tomb could not stand against them.

 "However well we fight, the Queen will die."


 Norvin Trinor made a sweeping bow in the 
Young Queen's direction.

 "Quite. A splendid exposition, my lord. 
However, there is a way out of this for you. You 
see, I need your dwarf.

 "Let me explain. I am on the same quest as 
yourselves. I am able in fact to tell you that you 
are wasting your time here in Thing Fifty unless 
your interest is purely archaeological.

 "For some time now, we have been a little 
worried about our allies. During certain 
researches in our Good Queen's library — " He 
bowed again " — in the Pastel City, I discovered 
what an unreliable weapon the chemosit are. 
Quite like myself, you understand: they serve only 


themselves. (Hold still a moment, Lord Grif. It 
will not hurt you to listen.) You have learnt this, 
of course. I should like very much to know where, 
by the way.

themselves. (Hold still a moment, Lord Grif. It 
will not hurt you to listen.) You have learnt this, 
of course. I should like very much to know where, 
by the way.

 "Now, I gather from your conversation here 
that the Dwarf has been given information I was 
unable to obtain. In short, I need him to do the 
business for me. I could not take him from you 
without killing him. Persuade him that it is in the 
best interests of all of us that he work for me in 
this matter, and I spare you. The Queen, too."

 Throughout this monologue, Tomb had 
remained sitting on the edge of the tarn. Now, he 
unlimbered his axe and got to his feet. Norvin 
Trinor's wolves stirred uneasily. Their blades 
flickered. The Dwarf stretched to the full eleven 
feet his armour lent him and stood towering over 
the traitor. He raised the axe.

 He said: "I was born in a back alley, Trinor. If 
I had suspected at the battle of Mingulay that you 
would do this to three men who fought alongside 
you, I would have put a baan between your ribs 
while you slept. I will do your job for you 


because it is the job I came to do. Afterwards, I 
will cut off your knackers and stitch them into 
your mouth.

because it is the job I came to do. Afterwards, I 
will cut off your knackers and stitch them into 
your mouth.

 And he let the axe fall to his side.

 "Very well. We declare a truce, then: 
precarious, but it should not stain your finer 
feelings too much. I will allow you to keep your 
weapons." He smiled at Cromis' start of surprise. 
"But a man of mine stays by the Queen at all 
times.

 "I have an airboat parked on the Southern 
edge of the city. We will leave immediately."

 Later, as they entered the black ship, its hatch 
opening directly beneath the crude, cruel sigil of 
the Wolf's Head, Cromis asked:

 "How did you discover us? You could not 
have followed us through the forest; or even 
through the barrens without being seen — "

 Trinor looked puzzled. Then he gave his 
crippled smile.

 "Had you not realised? It was pure luck: we 
were here before you entered the city. That's the 
beauty of it. We had stopped for fresh meat. At 
that time, I anticipated a long sojourn in the 


desert."

desert."

 Cromis looked out at the tangled landscape of 
Thing Fifty.

 "You are an animal," he said.

 Norvin Trinor laughed. He clapped Cromis on 
the shoulder. "When you forget you are an animal, 
my lord, you begin to lose."

 Chapter Eleven

 Brown, featureless desert slipped beneath the 
keel of the drifting airboat: the Lesser Waste, in 
all respects similar to the great dead region North 
of Duirinish, the spoliated remnants of an 
industrial hinterland once administered from 
Thing Fifty.

 tegeus-Cromis, Birkin Grif and Tomb the 
Dwarf, locked in the cargo hold with the dead 
megatheria, paced restlessly the throbbing crystal 
deck. With a power blade at the neck of Methvet 
Nian, Norvin Trinor had forced the Dwarf to give 


up his armour, although he had allowed him to 
keep his axe. He looked like an ancient, twisted 
child.

up his armour, although he had allowed him to 
keep his axe. He looked like an ancient, twisted 
child.

 The boat lurched in an updraught: white 
carcasses slid about the hold. Cromis stared from 
the single porthole down at the desert. Unknown 
to him, his fingers plucked at the hilt of the 
nameless sword.

 "Whatever is done, it must not involve a fight. 
You understand that, Grif? I want no fighting 
unless we can be sure the Queen will remain 
unharmed."

 Grif nodded sulkily.

 "In other words, do nothing," he said.

 As he spoke, the bulkhead door opened. 
Norvin Trinor stepped through, two of his wolves 
flanking him. He pulled at his drooping 
moustache.

 "A commendable plan," he said. "Most wise." 
He looked at Grif for some moments, then turned 
to Tomb. "Dwarf, we have arrived. Look down 
there and tell me if this place was mentioned in 


your information."

your information."

 "It is a desert. Deserts were indeed mentioned 
to me." He showed his rotting teeth. "Trinor, you 
are displaying a traditional foolishness. I can tell 
nothing for sure until we land."

 The traitor nodded curtly, and left. A few 
moments later, the airboat began to descend, 
bucking a little as it entered a low level of wind.

 Trinor's pilot settled the ship on a bare shield 
of black rock like an island in the rolling limbo of 
the dunes. The engines ceased to pulse, and a soft, 
intermittent hissing sound commenced beyond the 
hull. Time is erosion: an icy wind blew streams of 
dust across the surface of the rock. It had been 
blowing for a millennium.

 They stood in the lee of the vehicle, eddies of 
wind wrapping their cloaks about them. Dust in 
their eyes and mouths. Cromis looked at the thin, 
hunched shoulders of the Queen. We are nothing 
but eroded men, he thought, Wind clothing our 
eyes with white ice. Benedict Paucemanly flew to 
the Earth. It is we who live on the barren Moon . 
. .

 "Well?" said Trinor.

 A hundred yards away reared the curving flank 


of a dune. From it poked the ends of broken and 
melted load girders, like a grove of buckled steel 
trees. They were bright, polished and eroded. 
Cromis, eyeing the desolation silently, became 
aware that beneath the muted cry of the archaic 
wind was a low humming: the rock beneath his 
feet was vibrating faintly.

of a dune. From it poked the ends of broken and 
melted load girders, like a grove of buckled steel 
trees. They were bright, polished and eroded. 
Cromis, eyeing the desolation silently, became 
aware that beneath the muted cry of the archaic 
wind was a low humming: the rock beneath his 
feet was vibrating faintly.

 "This is the place," he said. "Begin digging at 
the base of the dune." He grinned cockily at 
Cromis. "The wolves become moles," he said 
loudly. "This would have taken us weeks without 
them. Perhaps we should thank Lord Traitor." He 
strutted off to examine the girder-forest, his long 
white hair knotting in the wind.

 With surly grunts, the Northmen were set to 
work; and by noon of the following day, their 
labours had exposed a rectangular doorway in the 
flank of the dune: a long low slit sealed with a 
slab of the same resistant obsidian stuff as had 
been used to construct the Birdmaker's tower.

 The maker of the door had cut deep 
ideographs in it. Time and the desert had been 
unable to equal him. in this respect: the slab was 


as smooth and the ciphers as precise as if they had 
been made the day before. It seemed a pity that no 
one could read them.

as smooth and the ciphers as precise as if they had 
been made the day before. It seemed a pity that no 
one could read them.

 "We have a door," he said, pulling at his 
moustache. "Now let us see if our dwarf can 
provide a key." He slapped Tomb jovially on the 
shoulder.

 "You forget yourself," murmured the Dwarf.


 He stood before the door, his lips moving 
silently. Perhaps he was recalling his 
apprenticeship on the fifth floor. He knelt. He 
passed his hands over a row of ideographs. A red 
glow sprang up and followed them. He murmured 
something: repeated it.

 "NEEDS YOU," intoned the door abruptly, in 
a precise, hollow voice: "NEEDS YOU, BAA, 
BAA, BAA. OURUBUNDOS — "

 The gathered Northmen dropped their spades. 
Many of them made religious signs with their 
fingers. Eyes round, they clutched their weapons, 
breathing through their open mouths.

 "DOG MOON, DOG YEARS," moaned the 
door: "BAA, BAA, BAA."

 And to each ritualistic syllable, Tomb made a 
suitable reply. Their dialogue lasted for some 


minutes before silence descended and he began 
again the process of moving his hands across the 
ancient script. 

minutes before silence descended and he began 
again the process of moving his hands across the 
ancient script. 

 A brief, intense flare of white light obscured 
the Dwarf. He staggered out of it, beating at his 
clothes. He chuckled. His hair reeked, his 
leggings smouldered. He blew on his fingers.

 "The door mechanism has become insane over 
the years," he said. "It — " Here, he said a word 
that no one knew " — me, but I misled it. Look."

 Slowly, and with no sound, the obsidian slab 
had hinged downwards until it rested like the 
lower lip of a slack mechanical mouth on the dust, 
compacting it; and behind it stretched a sloping 
corridor lit by a pale, shifting pastel glow.

 "Your door is open," he told Trinor. "The 
defences are down."

 Trinor rubbed the scar on his cheek.

 "One hopes that they are," he said. 
"tegeus-Cromis enters first. If there should be a 
misunderstanding between him and the door, the 
Queen will follow."

 There were no accidents.

 As Cromis entered the bunker, the door 
whispered malevolently to him, but it left him 



alone. The light shifted frequency several times as 
he stood there staring at the vanishing-point of the 
gently-sloping passage. Vague, unidentifiable 
musical sounds were all around him. Growing 
from the walls were clumps of crystal that 
reminded him of the Metal-salt Marsh; they 
pulsed regularly.

alone. The light shifted frequency several times as 
he stood there staring at the vanishing-point of the 
gently-sloping passage. Vague, unidentifiable 
musical sounds were all around him. Growing 
from the walls were clumps of crystal that 
reminded him of the Metal-salt Marsh; they 
pulsed regularly.

 "Remain where you are, Lord Cromis." 
Trinor's voice seemed muffled, distant, as though 
affected by passage through the open door. "I 
shall expect to find you when I come through — "

 He entered with sword drawn. He grinned.


 "Just in case you had planned . . . Well, of 
course, I'm sure you hadn't." He raised his voice. 
"Bring the Queen through first."

 When they had assembled, the Northmen 
sullen and silent, keeping their eyes fixed on the 
floor and mis-hearing their orders, he made Tomb 
take the lead. "Any . . . defences . . . you should 
disarm. Remember where the knife is held, 
Dwarf, and who holds it."

 That corridor stretched for two miles into the 
earth. Shortly after they had begun to walk, they 
found that the incline had levelled off. The nature 
of the walls changed: the clumps of crystal were 


replaced by yard-square windows, arranged at 
four foot intervals. Nothing could be clearly 
discerned through them, but they were filled with 
a milky light in which were suspended vague but 
menacing organic shapes.

replaced by yard-square windows, arranged at 
four foot intervals. Nothing could be clearly 
discerned through them, but they were filled with 
a milky light in which were suspended vague but 
menacing organic shapes.

 There were no junctions or side-passages. They 
did not speak.

 They came eventually to a great circular 
chamber, in the centre of which columns of light 
and great rods of shadow wove patterns 
impossible to understand, like spectral dancers at 
the end of Time. Its roof and walls, all of green 
diamond, made a perfect half-globe. Twelve 
corridors, including their own, led off it from 
twelve vaulting arches. Otherwise, it was totally 
featureless.

 Those columns and cylinders of light and 
darkness flickered, intertwined, exchanged their 
substance, reversed their directions of motion. 
Motes of brighter light appeared suddenly among 
them, hovered like insects, and vanished. A single 
musical chord filled the place, a high cathedral 
resonance.

 Cromis saw nothing he recognised as a 
machine. 


 "You had better begin," said Trinor to the 
Dwarf, looking uneasily about. His voice was 
taken by the diamond walls and flung about. As if 
in response, the visual display of the brain 
increased its activity. "It is aware of us. I would 
like to leave here as soon as possible. Well?"

 "You had better begin," said Trinor to the 
Dwarf, looking uneasily about. His voice was 
taken by the diamond walls and flung about. As if 
in response, the visual display of the brain 
increased its activity. "It is aware of us. I would 
like to leave here as soon as possible. Well?"

 "My lord," he said satirically, "you ask too 
much. It will take a century to understand this." 
He shrugged. "Ah yes, you hold the knife, I 
remember." He shook his head sadly. "I can shut 
it down in a week — perhaps a little more. It is a 
matter of finding the right . . . combination. A 
week: no less."

 Trinor fingered his scar.

 For the next few days, Cromis saw nothing of 
Tomb or the Queen: they were kept in the central 
chamber of the complex, constantly under the 
eyes and swords of the reluctant Northmen, while 
he and Grif were limited to the cargo hold of the 
airboat, and lived out a dreary captivity among 
the dead sloths. 


 Each day, a Northman brought them food.


 Cromis' in-turning nature enabled him to come 
to terms with this — he made verses while gazing 
from the porthole at the unchanging waste: but it 
betrayed him also in the end, in that it kept him 
unaware of Birkin Grif's shift of mood.

 Confinement chafed the big Methven. He grew 
irritable and posed questions without answer. 
"How long do you suppose we will live after the 
shutdown? Tell me that." And: "The Dwarf cares 
only for his machines. Are we to rot here?"

 He took to sharpening his broadsword twice a 
day.

 Later, he lay morose and withdrawn on a pile 
of bloody pelts, humming songs of defiance. He 
tapped his fingers dangerously.

 Each day, a Northman brought them food.


 On the sixth day after the discovery of the 
central chamber, Birgin Grif stood behind the 
door of the hold, honing his sword.

 The door opened, their jailor entered.

 He had an energy-blade in his right hand, but it 
did him no good.

 Grif stood over the folded corpse, eyeing with 
satisfaction its pumping stomach wound. He 
wiped his broadsword on the hem of its cloak, 


sheathed it. He wrested the flickering 
power-blade from its tightening grip. A terrible 
light was in his eye.

sheathed it. He wrested the flickering 
power-blade from its tightening grip. A terrible 
light was in his eye.

 Cromis found himself dulled and slowed by 
horror.

 "Grif," he murmured "you are mad."

 Birkin Grif stared levelly at him.

 "Have we become cowards?" he said.

 And he turned and ran from the hold, quick 
and silent.

 Cromis bent over the ruin that meant death for 
the Queen. In the distance, cries of pain and 
surprise: Grif had come against the Northmen in 
the forepart of the ship, berserk.

 The nameless sword in his hand, Cromis 
followed the trail of slaughter. On the 
command-bridge, three dead men. They sprawled 
grotesquely, expressions of surprise on their faces, 
their blood splashed over the walls. The place 
stank. The open hatch yawned. Wind blew in 
from the desert, filling the dead eyes with fine 
dust.

 Outside, the wind tugged at him. A fifth corpse 
lay at the entrance to the bunkers. The door 
moaned and hissed as he entered. 


"OURUBUNDOS," it said. It snickered. Cromis 
caught up with Grif halfway down the corridor 
that led to the brain-chamber — too late.

"OURUBUNDOS," it said. It snickered. Cromis 
caught up with Grif halfway down the corridor 
that led to the brain-chamber — too late.

 Trinor acknowledged Cromis' arrival with an 
ironical nod.

 "I did not expect quite such stupidity," he said. 
"I will make no more contracts with you. I see 
they are worthless."

 Birkin Grif ground his heel into the chest of 
the dead Northman. His eyes sought Trinor's, held 
them.

 "You have killed your Queen," Trinor said. 
"Yourself, too."

 Grif moved a pace forward.

 "Listen to me, Norvin Trinor," he whispered. 
"Your mother was had by a pig. At the age of ten, 
she gave you a disease. You have since licked the 
arse of Canna Moidart.

 "But I will tell you this. There is still Methven 
enough in you to meet me now, without your dirty 
henchmen — " 


 He turned to the Northerners. "Make a combat 
ring," he said.

 He turned to the Northerners. "Make a combat 
ring," he said.

 Birkin Grif dropped the stolen energy-blade 
and slid his broadsword from its scabbard.

 The dead Northman was dragged away. In the 
strange milky light from the windows of the 
corridor, the combatants faced each other. They 
were not well matched. Grif, though a head taller, 
and of longer reach, had expended much of his 
strength in the cabin of the airboat: and his slow, 
terrible rage made him tremble. Trinor regarded 
him calmly.

 In the days of King Methven, both of them had 
learned much from tegeus-Cromis — but only one 
of them had ever matched his viperish speed.

 They clashed.

 Behind the windows, queer objects stirred and 
drifted, on currents of thick liquid.

 Two blades were white webs in the air. The 
Northmen cheered, and made bets. They cut, and 



whirled, and leapt — Grif cumbersome, Trinor 
lithe and quick. Fifteen years or more before they 
had fought thus side by side, and killed fifty men 
in a morning. Against his will, Cromis drew 
closer, joined the combat-ring and marked the 
quick two-handed jab, the blade thrown up to 
block . . .

whirled, and leapt — Grif cumbersome, Trinor 
lithe and quick. Fifteen years or more before they 
had fought thus side by side, and killed fifty men 
in a morning. Against his will, Cromis drew 
closer, joined the combat-ring and marked the 
quick two-handed jab, the blade thrown up to 
block . . .

 A thin line of blood was drawn across his 
chest. He swore and hacked.

 Trinor chuckled suddenly. He allowed the 
blow to nick his cheek. Then he ducked under 
Grif's outstretched arms and stepped inside the 
circle of his sword. He chopped, short-armed, for 
the ribs.

 Grif grunted; threw himself back, spun round; 
crashed unharmed into the ring of Northmen.

 And Trinor, allowing his momentum to carry 
him crouching forward, turned the rib-cut into an 
oblique, descending stroke that bit into the torn 
mail beneath his opponent's knees, hamstringing 
him.

 Grif staggered.

 He looked down at his ruined legs. He showed 
his teeth. When Trinor's sword couched itself in 
his lower belly, he whimpered. A quick, violent 


shudder went through him. Blood dribbled down 
his thighs. He reached slowly down and put his 
hands on the sword.

shudder went through him. Blood dribbled down 
his thighs. He reached slowly down and put his 
hands on the sword.

 Blood filled his mouth and ran into his beard.


 tegeus-Cromis, sometime soldier and 
sophisticate of the Pastel City, who imagined 
himself a better poet than swordsman, clenched 
his long, delicate fingers until their rings of 
intagliated, non-precious metal cracked his 
knuckles and his nails made bloody half-moons on 
his palms.

 A huge, insane cry welled up out of him. 
Desolation and murder bloomed like bitter 
flowers in his head.

 "Trinor!" he bawled. "Grif! Grif!"

 And before the turncoat's hand had time to 
reach the energy-blade his victim had discarded 


— long, long before he had time to form a stroke 
with his arm, or a word with his lips — the 
nameless blade was buried to its hilt in his mouth, 
its point had levered apart the bones of his neck 
and burst with a soft noise through the back of his 

skull.

skull.

 "You were never good enough, Trinor," he 
said, savagely. "Never."

 He turned to face his death and the death of 
the world, weeping.

 "Come and kill me," he pleaded. "Just come 
and try."

 But the Northmen had no eyes for him.

 Chapter Twelve

 His face fired up with hate and madness, the 
nameless sword quivering before him, he watched 
them back away, toward the chamber of the brain. 
So he kicked the stiff, bleeding face of their dead 
captain. He crouched like a wolf, and spat: he 
presented them with lewd challenges, and filthy 
insults.

 But they ignored him, and stared beyond him, 
their attitudes fearful; and finally he followed the 
direction of their gaze.

 Coming on from the direction of the door, 



moving swiftly through the milky light, was a 
company of men.

moving swiftly through the milky light, was a 
company of men.

 At their head strutted Tomb the Dwarf.

 His axe was slung jauntily over his thick 
shoulder, his hair caught back for battle. He was 
whistling through his horrible teeth, but he 
quieted when he saw the corpse of Birkin Grif.

 With a great shout he sprang forward, 
unlimbering his weapon. He fell upon the 
retreating Northmen, and all his strange and 
beautiful crew followed him. Their curious blades 
hummed and sang.

 Like a man displaced amid his own dreams, 
Cromis watched the Dwarf plant himself securely 
on his buckled, corded legs and swing his axe in 
huge circles round his head; he watched the 
strange company as they flickered like steel 


flames through the Northmen. And when he was 
sure that they had prevailed, he threw down the 
nameless sword.

flames through the Northmen. And when he was 
sure that they had prevailed, he threw down the 
nameless sword.

 When Methvet Nian discovered him there, he 
had regained a measure of his self-possession. He 
was shivering, but he would not take her cloak.

 "I am glad to see you safe, my lady," he said, 
and she led him to the brain chamber. He left his 
sword. He saw no use for it.

 In the centre of the chamber, a curious and 
moving choreography was taking place.

 The brain danced, its columns of light and 
shadow shifting, shifting; innumerable subtle 
graduations of shape and tint, and infinitely 
various rhythms.

 And among those rods and pillars, thirteen slim 
figures moved, their garments on fire with flecks 
of light, their long white faces rapt.

 The brain sang its single sustained chord, the 
feet of the dancers sped, the vaulting dome of 
diamond threw back images of their ballet.

 Off to one side of the display sat Tomb the 
Dwarf, a lumpen, earthbound shape, his chin on 
his hand, a smile on his ugly face, his eyes 


following every shade of motion. His axe lay by 
his side.

following every shade of motion. His axe lay by 
his side.

 Tomb chuckled.

 "To say that I appreciated that would be a lie. 
I suspect they have a method of communication 
with the brain many times more efficient than 
crude passes of the hand. In a sense, they are the 
brain at this moment — "

 "Who are they, Tomb?"

 "They are men of the Afternoon Cultures, my 
friend. They are the Resurrected Men."

 Cromis shook his head. The dancers swayed, 
their cloaks a whirl of emerald and black. "You 
cannot expect me to understand any of this."

 Tomb leapt to his feet. Suddenly, he danced 
away from Cromis and the Queen in a queer little 
parody of the ballet of the brain, an imitation full 
of sadness and humour. He clapped his hands and 
cackled.

 "Cromis," he said, "it was a master-stroke. 
Listen — "

 He sat down again. 


 "I lied to Trinor. Nothing was simpler than 
dealing with the geteit chemosit. Those golems 
stopped operating twenty minutes after I had 
entered this room. Wherever they were, they 
froze, their mechanisms ceased to function. For 
all I know, they are rusting. Cellur taught me that.

 "I lied to Trinor. Nothing was simpler than 
dealing with the geteit chemosit. Those golems 
stopped operating twenty minutes after I had 
entered this room. Wherever they were, they 
froze, their mechanisms ceased to function. For 
all I know, they are rusting. Cellur taught me that.

 "Cromis, Cellur was wrong. One vital flaw in 
his reasoning led to what you have seen today. He 
regarded the chemosit as simple destroyers: but 
the Northmen were nearer to the truth when they 
called them the brain-stealers. The chemosit are 
harvesters.

 "It was their function in the days of the 
Afternoon Cultures not to prevent the resurrection 
of a warrior, but to bring the contents of his skull 
here, or to a similar centre, and give it into care of 
the artificial brain. This applied equally to a dead 
friend or a foe actually slain by the chemosit — I 
think they saw war in a different way to 
ourselves, perhaps as a game.

 "When Canna Moidart denied the chemosit 
their full function by using them solely as fighters, 
she invited destruction. 


 "Now. Each of the 'windows' in this place is in 
reality a tank of sustaining fluid, in which is 
suspended the brain of a dead man. Upon the 
injection of a variety of other fluids and nutrients, 
that brain may be stimulated to reform its 
departed owner.

 "Now. Each of the 'windows' in this place is in 
reality a tank of sustaining fluid, in which is 
suspended the brain of a dead man. Upon the 
injection of a variety of other fluids and nutrients, 
that brain may be stimulated to reform its 
departed owner.

 "On the fourth day, Bellin, and Mader-Monad, 
and Sleth. See how those three dance! And 
yesterday, the rest. The brain then linked me to 
their minds. They agreed to help me. Today, we 
put our plan into effect.

 "Twelve corridors lead from this chamber, like 
the spokes of a wheel miles in diameter: the 
Resurrected men were born in the north-western 
corridor. At a given signal, they issued from their 
wombs, crept here, and slew the guards Trinor 
had left when he went to his death. The fourteen 
of us stepped into the light-columns. From there, 
by a property of the brain-complex, we were — 
shifted — to the desert outside.

 "We waited there for Trinor and his men. By 
then, of course, he was . . . otherwise involved. 
We eventually re-entered the bunker, and arrived 


in time to save you from yourself."

in time to save you from yourself."

 "That was well done, Tomb. And what now? 
Will you send them back to sleep?"

 The Dwarf frowned.

 "Cromis! We will have an army of them! Even 
now, they are awakening the brain fully. We will 
build a new Viriconium together, the Methven 
and the Reborn Men, side by side — "

 The diamond walls of the chamber shone and 
glittered. The brain hummed. An arctic coldness 
descended on the mind of tegeus-Cromis. He 
looked at his hands.

 "Tomb," he said: "You are aware that this will 
destroy the Empire just as surely as Canna 
Moidart destroyed it?"

 The Dwarf came hurriedly to his feet.

 "What?"

 "They are too beautiful, Tomb; they are too 
accomplished. If you go on with this, there will be 
no new Empire — instead, they will absorb us: 
and after a millennium's pause, the Afternoon 
Cultures will resume their long sway over the 
Earth.

 "No malice will be involved. Indeed, they may 
thank us many times over for bringing them back 


to the world. But, as you have said yourself, they 
have a view of life that is alien to us; and do not 
forget that it was them who made the waste 
around us."

to the world. But, as you have said yourself, they 
have a view of life that is alien to us; and do not 
forget that it was them who made the waste 
around us."

 "Tomb, I want no part of this."

 As he walked toward the arch from which they 
had issued, his head downcast so that he should 
not see that queer dance — so that he should not 
be ensnared and fascinated by its inhumanity — 
Methvet Nian, Queen Jane of Viriconium, barred 
his way. Her violet eyes pierced him.

 "Cromis, you should not feel like this. It is 
Grif's death that has brought you down. You 
blame yourself, you see things crookedly. Please 

— " 
tegeus-Cromis said: "Madam, I caused his 
death. I am sick of myself; I am sick of being 
constantly in the wrong place at the wrong time: I 
am sick of the endless killing that is necessary to 


right my mistakes. He was my friend. Even Trinor 


was once my friend.

 "But that is not at issue.

 "My lady, we regarded the Northmen as 
barbarians, and they were." He laughed. "Today, 
we are the barbarians. Look at them!"

 And when she turned to watch the 
choreography of the brain, the celebration of ten 
thousand years of death and rebirth, he fled.

 He ran toward the light. When he passed the 
corpse of his dead friend, he began to weep again. 
He picked up his sword. He tried to smash a 
crystal window with its hilt. The corridor 
oppressed him. Beyond the windows, the dead 
brains drifted. He ran on.

 "You should have done it," whispered Birkin 
Grif in the soft spaces of his skull; and, 
"OURUBUNDOS!" giggled the insane door, as 
he fell through it and into the desert wind. His 
cloak cracking and whipping about him, so that 
he resembled a crow with broken wings, he 
stumbled toward the black airboat. His mind 
mocked him. His face was wet.

 He threw himself into the command-bridge. 
Green light swam about him, and the dead 
Northmen stared blindly at him as he turned on 


the power. He did not choose a direction, it chose 
him. Under full acceleration he fled out into the 
empty sky.

the power. He did not choose a direction, it chose 
him. Under full acceleration he fled out into the 
empty sky.

 Neither was he witness to the fall of 
Soubridge, when, a month after the sad death of 
Birkin Grif, Tomb the Giant Dwarf led the 
singing men of the Afternoon Cultures against a 
great army of Northmen, and took the victory.

 He was not present when the Wolves burned 
Soubridge, and, in desperation, died.

 He did not see the Storming of the Gates, 
when Alstath Fulthor — after leading a thousand 
Resurrected Men over the Monar Mountains in 
the depths of Winter — attacked the Pastel City 
from the north-east;

 Or the brave death of Rotgob Mungo, a 
captain of the North, as he tried in vain to break 
the long Siege of the Artists' Quarter, and bled his 
life out in the Bistro Californium;

 Nor was he there when Tomb met Alstath 
Fulthor on the Proton Circuit, coming from the 



opposite end of the City, and shook his hand.

opposite end of the City, and shook his hand.

 He did not break with them into the inner 
room of the palace, there among the drifting 
curtains of light; or discover beneath the dying 
wreck of Usheen the Sloth, the Queen's Beast, the 
cold and beautiful corpse of Canna Moidart, the 
last twist of the knife.

 It is rumoured that the Young Queen wept 
over the Old, her cousin. But he did not see that, 
either.

 Epilogue

 Methvet Nian, the Queen of Viriconium, stood 
at early evening on the sand-dunes that lay like a 
lost country between the land and the sea. Swift 
and tattered scraps of rag, black gulls sped and 
fought over her downcast head.

 She was a tall and supple woman, clad in a 
gown of heavy russet velvet, and her skin was 
neither painted nor jewelled, as was the custom of 
the time. The nine identical rings of Neap 


glittered from her long fingers. Her hair, which 
recalled the colour of autumn rowans, hung in soft 
waves to her waist, coiled about her breasts.

glittered from her long fingers. Her hair, which 
recalled the colour of autumn rowans, hung in soft 
waves to her waist, coiled about her breasts.

 She led her grey horse by its white bridle 
across the dunes, and found the stone path to the 
tower which had no name: though it was called by 
some after that stretch of seaboard on which it 
stood, that is, Balmacara.

 Balmacara was broken: its walls were 
blackened, it was like a broken tooth; and despite 
the Spring that had brought green back to the land 
after a winter of darkness and harsh contrasts, the 
rowan woods that surround it were without life.

 Among them in the growing gloom of twilight, 
she came upon the wreck of the crystal launch that 
had brought down the tower. It was black, and a 
wolf's head with wine red eyes stared at her from 
its buckled hull — quite without menace, for the 


paint was already beginning to peel.

paint was already beginning to peel.

 She called out, but there was no answer.

 She climbed fifty stone steps, and found that 
night had already taken the husk of the tower. 
Dusk was brown in the window arches, heaped up 
in great drifts in the corners. Her footsteps echoed 
emptily, but there was a strange, quiet music in 
the tower, a mournful, steely mode, cadences that 
brought tears to her violet eyes.

 He sat on a wall-bed covered with blue 
embroidered silks. Around him on the walls hung 
trophies: a powered battle-axe he had got from his 
friend Tomb the Dwarf after the sea-fight at 
Mingulay in the Rivermouth Campaign; the gaudy 
standard of Thorisman Carlemaker, whom he had 
defeated singlehanded in the Mountains of 
Monadliath; queer weapons, and astrological 
equipment discovered in deserts.

 He did not look up as she entered.

 His fingers depressed the hard strings of his 
instrument; its tone was low and melancholy. He 
recited the following verse, which he had 
composed on the Cruachan Ridge in Monar:

 "Strong visions: I have strong visions of this 



place in the empty times . . . Far below there are 
wavering pines . . . I left the rowan elphin woods 
to fulminate on ancient headlands, dipping slowly 
into the glasen seas of evening . . . On the 
devastated peaks of hills we ease the barrenness 
into our thin bones like a foot into a tight shoe . . . 
The narrative of this place: other than the smashed 
arris of the ridge there are only sad winds and 
silences. . . . I lay on the cairn one more rock. . . . 
I am possessed by Time . . ."

place in the empty times . . . Far below there are 
wavering pines . . . I left the rowan elphin woods 
to fulminate on ancient headlands, dipping slowly 
into the glasen seas of evening . . . On the 
devastated peaks of hills we ease the barrenness 
into our thin bones like a foot into a tight shoe . . . 
The narrative of this place: other than the smashed 
arris of the ridge there are only sad winds and 
silences. . . . I lay on the cairn one more rock. . . . 
I am possessed by Time . . ."

 In the gloom, he smiled. He still wore his torn 
cloak, his ragged, dented shirt of mail. The 
nameless sword was at his side. He had this 
mannerism: that when he was worried or nervous, 
his hand strayed out unknown to him and caressed 
its hilts.

 He said with the grave politeness of his time, 
"Lady, I would have come had I felt there was 
any need for me."

 "Lord Cromis," she answered, "you are 
absurd." She laughed, and did not let him see her 
pity. "Death brought you here to sulk and bite 
yourself like an animal. In Viriconium, we have 
ceased to brood on death." 


 "That is your choice, madam."

 "That is your choice, madam."

— the Empire is dead. 
"But so are the Afternoon Cultures. And 
something wholly new has replaced them both." 
He rose, and went to the window. His tread 
was silent and swift. He faced her, and the sun 
bled to death behind him.

 "Is there room in this New Empire for an 
involuntary assassin?" he asked. "Is there?"

 "Cromis, you are a fool." And she would allow 
him no answer to that.

 Later, he made her look at the Name Stars.


 "There," he said. "You will not deny this: no 
one who came after could read what is written 
there. All empires gutter, and leave a language 
their heirs cannot understand."

 She smiled up at him, and pushed her hair back 
from her face. 
"Alstath Fulthor the Reborn Man could tell 
you what it means," she said. 
"It is important to my nature," he admitted, 
command him to keep a close mouth, I will come 
back."