The Seven Altars of DûsarraBook Two of the Lords of Dûs SeriesCopyright 1981 
by Lawrence Watt-EvansCHAPTER ONEThe rider paused at the top of the low ridge; 
the plain that lay just beyond was spread out before him under the pale stars 
of late summer. Directly before him there was an interruption of the flat 
earth; jagged silhouettes rose in black humps, huddled together within an 
uneven stone zing. The circle was broken at the point nearest him, and a 
single shattered wall rose to mark what had once been a substantial gatehouse; 
beside that wall flickered an orange flame, as warm as the stars were cold. 
Although he was still too far away to discern any details, he knew that this 
was the town of Skelleth, and that the single light was the watch fire of the 
guardsman at the ruins of the North Gate. He had been here before, and knew 
that of the five gates in the crumbling city wall only this one was guarded. 
It was guarded against him and his kind. There was no sign of life other than 
the lonely fire, and even had the man posted there been fully alert-as he 
undoubtedly was not at this hour-he could not have seen the rider or his party 
at such a distance in the dark. Their approach was undetected. The mounted 
figure sat for a moment, his face invisible in the darkness and the shade of 
his trader's hat, studying the panorama; he glanced up as a nightbird flew 
overhead, and his eyes shone a baleful red with reflected starlight. His 
hollow-cheeked face had no nose, but only close-set slit nostrils; ragged 
black hair hung almost to his shoulders, but there was no trace of a beard on 
the leathery brown hide of his jaw. He was inhumanly tall and correspondingly 
broad. He was, in short, not human, but overman. His long-fingered hand, 
with its oddly jointed thumb and opposable fifth finger, grasped the 
guidehandle of his mount's harness, an unnecessary precaution; his warbeast 
was trained to obey verbal commands or the pressure of its rider's feet, and 
moved with such feline smoothness that there was no danger of dislodging its 
master. The creature was blacker than the night sky, and as silent; its golden 
eyes and polished fangs were the only discernable features. It stood the 
height of a man and, from its stubby whiskers to lashing pantherlike tail, 
measured a good eighteen feet. Its triangular ears were up and alert, but it 
gave no warning growl. Accordingly, the overman raised his arm in the signal 
to advance and led his companions over the final ridge and down onto the 
plain. His warbeast moved with silent catlike grace, its great padded paws 
disturbing not a single stone; the rest of the party was not so circumspect. 
There were four in the party, all grown overmen, but only the leader rode a 
warbeast; his three followers made do with yackers, the universal beast of 
burden of the Northern Waste. Each rode upon one of the ugly creatures and led 
another heavily laden with the goods they hoped to trade in Skelleth. There 
was something slightly ludicrous in the stately dignity of the overmen as they 
perched stiffly upright upon the broad backs covered with ropy, matted brown 
hair, and guided their beasts with finely tooled silver bits in slobbering 
black-upped mouths full of uneven yellow teeth. The yackers' hooves rattled on 
every pebble, it seemed, and there was a constant snorting and rumbling from 
the six shaggy, drooping heads. They were travelling the ancient Wasteland 
Road, which led straight to Skelleth's North Gate; as the last yacker reached 
the foot of the ridge, the leader turned his warbeast off the road, heading 
west instead of south. "Hold, Garth!" called the second in the procession. 
The leader tapped a signal with his heel and the warbeast halted. "What is 
it?" His companion drew up beside him and asked, "Where are we heading? 
Is that not Skelleth?" He pointed to the flickering watch fire. The third 
overman pulled up beside them as well as Garth replied, "Yes, of course that 
is Skelleth, and that is where we're going." "Then why have we left the 
road? These yackers are quite slow enough as it is." It was, the third 
overman who replied, "Larth, did not Garth explain our situation to you?" 
"I remember nothing that explains our turning away from our destination." 
"Then you remember nothing. We are to enter the town in secrecy." "It was not 
you I asked, Galt." "Galt, however, speaks correctly," Garth said. "The 
Baron of Skelleth does not want overmen in his town; most especially, he does 
not want me there. When last I saw him he ordered his guards to kill me on the 



spot. Fortunately, they did not cooperate. However, if we can present the 
Baron with a peaceful trading caravan in the market square, not as a 
possibility but as an accomplished fact, I think he can be made to see reason 


and accept us." "So we are to sneak in like thieves?" "Why else are we 
travelling by night?" Galt's tone was sweetly reasonable. "It is not 
dignified!" "And what would be dignified?" Garth inquired. "To ride directly 

in by daylight, and demand as our due that we be allowed to trade." Galt 
snorted. "That might be dignified, but it would also be stupid, perhaps 
fatally so. Garth says there are more than thirty guardsmen in Skelleth; true, 
they are mere humans, and none too well equipped by his account, but there are 
only four of us, and we are not exactly well armed either." Garth added, 
before Larth could reply, "It would not do for friendly traders to be 
bristling with weapons; we cannot risk incidents involving bloodshed. That is 
why I required that you three be unarmed, and I will conceal my own weapons 
before we begin our dealings with the people of Skelleth." "Quite correct." 
Galt nodded in agreement. Larth continued to look unconvinced. "Still," he 
demanded, "why have we left the road?" His answer came from the fourth and 
youngest overman, who had not yet spoken, showing the proper deference to his 
elders; he could not, however, refrain from replying, "Because there's a guard 
on the road, stupid!" Larth's voice was emotionless as he said, "Galt, 
restrain your apprentice." As all knew quite well, that flat tone was 
indicative of building rage; Galt did not hesitate to order his underling to 
shut up. When Larth had calmed somewhat, he asked, "How do you know that we 
can find another entrance unguarded?" "I don't know for certain," Garth 
said. "But when I was here before, they guarded only the north; the West Gate 
opens on a road that leads only to the Yprian Coast, which has reputedly been 
deserted for centuries, so what need to guard it? Therefore, we will enter 
through the West Gate. We will reach it by circling wide around, well out of 
sight and sound of the guard at the North Gate. Now, if we are to reach the 
market square before dawn we must move onward, so let there be no further 
debate." His warbeast, in response to a signal undetectable to the others, 
strode onward. "Very well," Larth said. It took rather more to get his 
yackers moving once again, but a moment's prodding eventually registered with 
their dim brains and they resumed their plodding and snuffling. Galt and his 
apprentice were not far behind. There was still an hour remaining before 
first light when the little caravan reached the West Gate-which was, as Garth 
had expected, unguarded. It was also in such a state of total ruin that only 
the fading trace of an ancient road leading through the rubble showed where it 
had been, and it was only under protest that the yackers could be compelled to 
make their way across the jagged bits of broken stone. Garth's war beast paid 
this minor inconvenience no heed whatsoever. Once inside the wall, there 
was little immediate improvement in their surroundings. On either side of the 
road stood nothing but ruins. Gaping holes half-filled with rubble showed 
where cellars had been of old, sometimes rimmed with uneven remnants of walls 
of stone or wood or plaster, and between these pits were the broken pieces of 
buildings that had had no cellars and now lay in heaps upon bare earth. Galt 
commented, in a careful whisper, "Hardly the awesome fortress that our 
ancestors described." Larth, in a rather less cautious mutter, replied, "Who 
can tell in this darkness? It looks deserted; Garth, are you sure this is 
Skelleth?" "Yes, I'm sure; only the central portion is still inhabited. When 
the wars ended so did the town's reason for existence, and so did the supply 
trains from the south that kept it going. It's been slowly dying ever since. 
That's why I think the people will welcome trade, even if it's with overmen." 
"I hope so." Larth's voice sank into an, incoherent mumble. The party moved 
on, and around them the buildings became less ruinous; on either side stood 
sagging, abandoned houses and shops-derelict, but still upright. Rotting 
shutters hung from bent hinges; broken doors stood open, revealing only 
blackness. Then, as they approached the surviving center, more and more doors 
were closed, even barred, and fewer shutters missing or broken. Before too 
long the only openings on either side were other streets, rather than empty 



lots where buildings had been razed or had fallen in. Everything was dark, 
however; the people of Skelleth were clearly all still abed. Finally the 
street debouched into the market square that occupied the town's exact center; 
it, too, was dark, silent, and empty. Garth was pleased to see that the 
Baron's mansion, which occupied the entire north side of the square, was as 
dark as any other building. He stopped his warbeast in the center of the 
market and motioned for Galt to join him. When Galt obeyed, he whispered. 
"This is the place, trader; that is the seat of the local government. Where 
would you suggest we set up?" Galt studied the square carefully, and finally 
pointed to the southeast corner. "That looks good." Garth nodded. "Then you 
three set up there. It occurs to me that a warbeast will not be a welcome 
sight in Skelleth, and I am going to put Koros and my weapons somewhere out of 
sight. I would suggest that you do the same with the yackers; just tie them up 
in an alley somewhere, where they won't upset the merchants. Koros, I think, 
had best go somewhere further out; I'll find a ruin somewhere on the West 
Road." "As you wish." "I'll be right back. Just remember, keep it 
peaceful." Galt nodded. Garth turned and rode back along the route they had 
just come, while the others made their way to the southeast corner of the 
market and dismounted, stiff from their long ride. Galt studied the 
location with a practiced eye, then indicated a spot in front of a tightly 
shuttered shop, just beside the mouth of a narrow street. His apprentice 
immediately hauled a bundle off one of the yackers and began spreading 
blankets on the ground designated. Larth stood nearby, peering apprehensively 
about in the gloom, and Galt found himself grateful that Garth had made sure 
the party was unarmed; Larth was plainly nervous enough to have drawn sword at 
the slightest sound, which would simply not do. Of course, that was Larth. He 
himself was not so easily bothered, nor so easily commanded. The dagger in his 
boot was simply a sensible precaution, and none of Garth's business. 
Leaving Larth to his anxiety, he began hauling bundles off yackers. In a 
matter of moments the ugly beasts were unburdened. Galt whispered to his 
apprentice, "Tand, you start spreading out our wares. Get Larth to help you if 
you can, but don't start an argument. I'll be back in a moment." He gathered 
up the lead ropes from the six harnesses and began coaxing the yackers down 
the narrow street, out of the market. The beasts were not actively 
uncooperative, but it was still difficult to manage all six of them, so that 
he was several minutes at the task. Finally he managed to get them arranged in 
a circle, their lead ropes tied together. Although they could still move 
about, they were far too stupid to move all in the same direction; this 
arrangement should keep them more or less in the same place for quite some 
time. It did block the street, but Galt hoped that wouldn't matter much. It 
didn't look like a major thoroughfare. Besides, that meant that the overmen 
could not be taken from behind by enemies coming up this street; even if they 
got past the yackers, the inevitable noise would serve as a warning. The 
yackers were a new problem for him. Though he was a master trader, all his 
previous experience had been gained on expeditions to Lagur, since that was 
the only place the overmen of the Northern Waste currently traded. There were 
no yackers used on such expeditions, since all trade with Lagur went by sea. 
Once the beasts were taken care of, he returned to the square. He could hear 
the sounds of furs being unpacked; either Tand was working incredibly fast, or 
he had gotten Larth to help him, judging by the noise. Then, just as he 
was about to turn the corner into the market, the sounds stopped abruptly. So 
did he. Something was happening, obviously. Peaceful, peaceful, he reminded 
himself; he fixed his most nearly human smile upon his face and strolled 
forward as casually as he could. Larth and Tand knelt motionless amid heaps 
of furs and carved whalebone, staring off to their right. Following their gaze 
he saw a ragged human farmer, pulling a rickety cart half-full of squash, 
standing motionless in a street opening into the eastern end of the market. 
The farmer's mouth hung open and his eyes were wide, the whites palely visible 
in the first light of morning-light which had crept up while Galt was securing 
the yackers without his noticing it. It appeared very much as if this man had 



never seen an overman before, and quite possibly he hadn't. Larth and Tand 
were also staring, and it occurred to Galt that it might well be that neither 
of them had ever seen a human being before. This, Galt knew, was the 
decisive moment. Secrecy was gone. Now, if their mission was to succeed, they 
needed to convince the humans that there was nothing out of the ordinary about 
overmen trading in their marketplace. Garth had hired him as an expert on 
dealing with humans, and he knew that humans could be convinced of anything if 
only approached properly. He waved gaily, broadened his smile, and called, 
"Greetings, good sir! Would you care to see our wares?" The man turned his 
gaze from the others to Galt, but his mouth remained open and his eyes wide. 
Galt gestured at the heaps of trade goods. "We have fine furs, such as are 
rarely seen in these lands; we have fine carved implements of use in any home. 
Come and look, friend!" The man's mouth slowly closed. He swallowed, and 
looked back and forth between the overmen. His eyes roved around the market 
square and found no one else and nothing out of the ordinary-except the party 
of overmen. Galt judged him to be recovered from his shock and considering the 
situation. He would not turn and run, because that would mean abandoning his 
cart; it had been a stroke of luck that the first human to find them had been 
so encumbered. He had two sensible options; he could behave as if the overmen 
belonged there, or he could raise an alarm. It was Galt's job to convince him 
the former was the better course. Still smiling, he called, "It costs 
nothing to look, sir, and should something catch your eye, our prices are 
reasonable." They certainly were! This trip was, not expected to make a 
profit, nor break even, but only to establish an opening; accordingly, he and 
Garth had agreed that they would refuse no serious offer-though they would 
haggle, of course; that was expected, and suspicion would be aroused if they 
did not-and would even give away goods free if it seemed advisable. "If you 
haven't brought any money, we might trade for those fine vegetables." That 
decided him. The man found his voice and called, "Wait a moment, and I'll come 
look." He began moving again, wheeling his creaking cart into the square. 
As he did, a shuttered window in the second story of the building the overmen 
had chosen to set up in front of opened, and a head was thrust out. "What's 
all the yelling? It's not yet dawn!" Galt doffed his hat politely and 
called up, "My apologies, good lady; it was thoughtless of me to bellow so." 
The head, which was indeed female-Galt hadn't been completely certain-turned 
to look at him. There was a moment of silence save for the creaking of cart 
wheels as the farmer positioned his wares. Then the woman asked, 
conversationally but in an unsteady voice, "You're an overman, aren't you?" 
"Yes, good lady, my companions and myself are overmen, come to trade 
peacefully. We have fine furs and jewelry that would surely please one as 
lovely as yourself; Tand, hold up that white fox for the lady." Tand was 
still motionless with surprise, but picked up his cue with only the briefest 
hesitation and stood, displaying an excellent fur. The woman noticed Larth 
and Tand for the first time but paid them little heed, looking instead at the 
stacks of furs. There was a pause, and then she said, "I'll be right down." 
Her head vanished from the window, and Galt's false smile relaxed into a 
genuine one. The danger was past. They had been accepted. When Garth 
returned several minutes later he found a small crowd clustered around his 
companions, bickering cheerfully over quality and price.CHAPTER TWOGarth 
glanced apprehensively at the door to the Baron's mansion as it swung open for 
the first time that morning. So far whatever gods there might be had smiled 
upon his little caravan; they had had no trouble on the road from Ordunin, nor 
with the merchants and farmers who had so far entered the market. The 
reactions of the villagers to a quartet of overmen sitting calmly in their 
midst amid displays of furs and carved whalebone had varied from simple 
acceptance to astonishment and horror-which could usually be soothed by a few 
quiet words and perhaps a gold coin or two. The fact that those already there 
appeared unconcerned had been a major factor in preventing general alarm or 
even a-riot. Unfortunately, Garth knew the Baron of Skelleth and his 
guards would not be so easily swayed. His previous visit to this northernmost 



outpost of humanity had ended messily, and the Baron had ordered his death, 
more for being an overman and uncooperative than for any specific crime. 
Of course none of Skelleth's pitiful guardsmen were likely to try and tackle 
four overmen; Garth thought it unlikely that the village's full complement of 
three dozen would have been a match for his party if he hadn't insisted his 
companions be unarmed. They were on a peaceful trading mission, and he was 
determined to see that it stayed peaceful. For far too long had the overmen of 
the Northern Waste been dependent upon the sea traders of Lagur, who missed no 
opportunity to exploit their monopoly; if Garth succeeded in opening a land 
trade route through Skelleth the monopoly would be broken, and his people 
would have their first chance at a decent life since the bitter Racial Wars of 
three centuries earlier-and incidentally Garth would be honored and wealthy, 
which would be enjoyable. The door was open now, and three guardsmen 
stepped through, blinking in the bright summer sunlight; Garth recognized one 
of them. The tall one in the steel helmet was Herrenmer, captain of the guard. 


The unknown pair took up their posts, one on either side of the door. 
Herrenmer, having stationed his men, took a casual glance around, his duty 
done for the moment. His gaze fell on the overmen and Garth saw him tense. He 
spoke to his men, but Garth could hear nothing over the noise of the market; 
then all three started across the square toward the outlanders, Herrenmer in 
the lead, all three with hands near their swords. Garth put down the 
wolfskin he had been showing to an overweight woman and said, "Larth, keep an 
eye on my goods while I speak to these men." He stood and stepped forward to 
meet the soldiers. The trio stopped a dozen paces from the displays; 
Garth stood halfway between. There was a moment's pause, then Herrenmer 
demanded, "What are you doing here?" "We have come to trade." "You 
know that the Baron wants no overmen in Skelleth." "I was aware that he 
wanted no armed overmen adventurers, an attitude I can fully understand, since 
such would tend to disturb the peace of your town; but surely he can have no 
objection to four unarmed traders, whatever their race or nation!" Garth had 
carefully thought out this little speech in advance, and was pleased to see 
that it had the desired effect, leaving Herrenmer momentarily confused and 
speechless. He pressed his advantage. "I have heard the Baron himself 
express dismay at Skelleth's poverty and lack of trade; surely, then, he will 
be glad to have a whole new people eager to deal with Skelleth. We have gold 
and furs and other goods to trade for our needs, which will make Skelleth's 
merchants wealthy when sold in the south, where we dare not venture. Surely 
the Baron cannot object to that, for where the merchants are wealthy the 
government cannot fail to profit thereby." "I know nothing of that; it is 
not my concern." Herrenmer paused, considering, then went on, "I will speak 
with my lord further about this." He turned and strode angrily back to the 
mansion; his two men followed, and when Herrenmer vanished through the 
still-open door, slamming it behind him, they took up their posts once more. 
Garth watched them go, then turned back toward his companions. Before he could 
take a step, however, he heard his name called. He stopped and looked about 
for the source. A waving hand caught his eye, and he recognized a man 
approaching across the market. "Greetings, Saram," he called. "Greetings, 
Garth," the man replied. Saram was heavily built, of medium height; he 
wore his hair short and kept his full black beard neatly trimmed, though he 
claimed it was not from vanity but practicality. When last Garth had seen him, 
he had worn the mail shirt and short sword of the Baron's guards, with iron 
studs in his leather helmet marking him as a lieutenant; now he wore a ragged 
but clean tunic of gray homespun and went bareheaded. Only the leather pants 
and heavy boots remained the same. He drew up within convenient speaking 
distance and remarked, "So you have returned as you promised." His tone was 
casual, but his green eyes flicked warily about, missing nothing. "I have," 
Garth answered politely. Saram had done him considerable good when last he was 
in Skelleth by refusing to attempt to kill him. "The old man said you would." 
Saram's eyes focused on Garth's face as he spoke. The overman shrugged, 
his face impassive, and said nothing. "I had my doubts, but here you are. 



Where is your warbeast? I was sure you'd bring it if you came." Saram glanced 
idly about. "It's hidden nearby. I saw no need to frighten your townspeople." 
"Wise of you, no doubt. And you brought friends with you this time." 
"Companions, rather; I am not myself adept at the ways of buyer and seller, so 
I brought the master trader Galt, his apprentice Tand, and my double-cousin 
Larth." He pointed out each of the other overmen as he named them; young Tand 
and stolid Larth did not notice, but Galt nodded in acknowledgment. 
"Pleased to meet them all, I'm sure. Gods, what are those?" This last was in 
response to glimpsing the yackers, just visible from where he stood. Garth 
was startled. "Yackers. Don't you know them?" He glanced down the alley at the 
great beasts of burden, which stood quietly meditating, safely out of the 
bustle of business. "No. I never heard of them." Saram stared at them 
momentarily, then turned back to the overman and said, "Garth, I have a 
message for you. The old man wants to talk to you." Garth replied, "I don't 
want to talk to him." "No? He claims to have a proposition for you." "I am 
not interested; when last I made a bargain with him it resulted in nothing but 
deaths and difficulties." "Just as your agreement with the Baron did him 
little good," Saram said smiling crookedly, "Yet you expect him to listen to 
your explanations about your renewed presence in his domain." There was a 
moment of silence. Then Garth said, "Your point is made. I will hear the King 
out. Where is he?" "Need you ask?" "No. A moment, then." He turned and 
called to his companions, "I have an errand; Galt, you take charge here." Then 
to Saram he said, "Come on," and the pair ambled off across the market square. 


Their goal was an ancient tavern called the King's Inn, though no one 
knew of any connection between the inn and any recognized monarch; it stood on 
an alley that had once been but a few steps from the village market, but which 
had been cut off and left to die when the first Baron of Skelleth erected his 
mansion across the north side of the square, leaving no opening to the streets 
beyond. The alley, now accessible only by a winding route through the maze of 
byways that made up most of Skelleth, had sunk into a state of decay and filth 
unequaled throughout the known lands; yet the King's Inn remained an island of 
comfort amid the surrounding squalor and retained a steady clientele. Among 
its regular patrons, so regular in fact that he had never been seen outside 
its walls, was a strange old man, so very old that none remembered a time when 
he had not been there daily, crouched silently over his corner table. This man 
Garth knew as the Forgotten King, having been given this title for him by the 
Wise Women of Ordunin, but the townspeople had no name for him at all. Until 
the overman first came, some three months earlier; few ever spoke to him, 
fewer received an answer, and none sought him out; but in recent days, since 
being expelled from the Baron's guards for insubordination, Saram had spent 
many hours sitting at his table, trying to coax him into conversation and 
receiving only a few cryptic words for his trouble. Among those few words were 
instructions that when-not if, but when-Garth returned, Saram should bring him 
immediately to speak with the mysterious ancient. Saram led the way 
through the stinking streets, fortunately dry from the recent lack of rain, 
and Garth followed, his reluctance concealed by the casual stroll he affected. 
The slanting sunlight had not yet made its way past the upper story of the inn 
in its slow daily crawl down the building's sagging half-timbered facade; the 
ordure that lined the alley was still hidden by shadow, but its smell was not 
so easily to be concealed and not for the first time Garth marveled that 
humans could live with it. He held his breath as he and Saram picked their way 
to the door and wiped their feet on the stone step before entering. The 
tavern's interior was a welcome change from the filth of the alley; not so 
much as a speck of dust marred the ancient floor, worn by centuries of 
shuffling feet into a subtle wooden landscape of low hills and gentle valleys 
that showed clearly that its furnishings had not shifted nor its patrons 
changed their habits in many a long year. Each table crowned a hillock, each 
chair rested in wide grooves cut by the dragging of its legs. The great 
barrels of ale and wine that lined the western wall loomed above flooring so 
stained and worn that Garth wondered how it still held-he had no way of seeing 



the thickness of wood beneath, but only that this most popular part of the 
room had a good two inches less floor remaining than elsewhere. The slate 
hearth that stretched along half the eastern wall before the vast cavernous 
fireplace showed little wear, being harder stuff than the soft floorboards; 
curiously, the ancient stair that crossed the back wall had only the slightest 
indentation in each tread. Plainly, it was as a tavern rather than an inn that 
the establishment survived, since those stairs were the only access to the 
rooms upstairs. Though every inch of the room was clearly old, worn, and 
well-used, none could ever think it deserted for it was spotlessly clean, save 
for the oft-scrubbed stains left by centuries of spilled wine. The morning sun 
had not yet climbed high enough to pour unchecked through the polished and 
age-purpled windows, yet the brass fittings on the barrels gleamed dully, the 
stacked mugs of pewter and china and glass glistened on their shelves, the 
blackened hearth shone dimly. The only spots of uncleanliness were two drunken 
farmers adorning opposite sides of a small table near the door, clad in dirty 
gray homespun, with greasy hair and smudged faces, who slouched forward 
muttering to one another. The innkeeper, though a plump middle-aged man 
wearing a well-stained apron, gave the impression not of disarray, but like 
his tavern, of well-worn comfort. The room's only other occupant, sitting 
alone in the corner between chimneypiece and stair, seemed somehow beyond such 
mundane concerns as cleanliness. It was this lone figure that Garth and 
Saram were interested in. The innkeeper watched apprehensively as the pair 
entered and crossed the room, and twice opened his mouth to protest their 
presence, but each time lost his nerve and remained silent. When they had 
seated themselves across from the old man, he gradually relaxed and returned 
to his task of polishing mugs that already showed a flawless silken sheen; but 
he polished the same mug for a good fifteen minutes with short, nervous 
strokes, and cast frequent glances at the overman who had intruded upon the 
peace of his place of business. For a moment after they had settled in 
their chairs neither Garth nor Saram spoke; they considered the strange figure 
across from them, who sat motionlessly, seemingly oblivious of their presence. 


The old man whom Ordunin's oracles hail called the Forgotten King wore 
tattered yellow rags from head to foot, and despite the summer warmth he kept 
them wrapped tightly about him, his cloak closed and his hood up, so that its 
shadows hid much of his face. A long, scraggly white beard reached down across 
his sunken chest, and what could be seen of his hands and face was skin as dry 
and wrinkled as that of a mummy, with as little evidence of anything between 
skin and bone. His eyes were lost in darkness; in all their conversations with 
him neither Garth nor Saram had ever seen his eyes, and only on the rarest 
occasions had either so much as caught a glimmer of light from them. The 
shadows gave the illusion that he had no eyes, but only empty sockets; perhaps 
that, more than anything else, was why generations of taverngoers had seen fit 
to leave him sitting alone and unmolested. Garth studied him, but saw 
nothing he had not seen before. Garth was a typical member of his species in 
most respects, and as such he was not particularly good at recognizing human 
faces or reading emotion in them; still, there was something about the 
Forgotten King's face that made him uneasy. He shifted in his chair, which 
creaked beneath his weight. He was out of proportion with his surroundings in 
a tavern designed for mere men; he towered above the others, his natural 
height of near seven feet augmented by a woolen trader's hat that not only 
shaded his red-eyed, sunken-cheeked horror of a face, but hid a steel 
half-helmet. Peaceful mission or no, Garth was given to caution; despite his 
orders to his companions and hiding most of his armor and weaponry with his 
warbeast, his flowing brown cloak concealed a sturdy mail shirt, and a 
stiletto lurked in his right boot-top-the latter a precaution that was 
incidentally rather uncomfortable, as its hilt, though safely hidden by his 
leggings and the sparse black fur that adorned his leathery hide, chafed when 
he walked. He studied the old man, but said nothing. Beside him Saram glanced 
from the overman to the King and back again, his finger poking idly at a small 
circle of mismatched wood in the table-top-a circle that was the sawn-off 



shaft of a crossbow bolt Saram had fired at Garth, on the Baron's orders, 
during Garth's previous stay in Skelleth. The overman had used the table as a 
makeshift shield, and the barbed quarrel had proven impossible to remove, so 
that the innkeeper had cut it off and sanded it down to blend with the oak. 
After a moment, when it appeared that neither Garth nor the old man was 
willing to speak first, the ex-soldier cleared his throat and said, "I have 
brought Garth here, as you asked." The old man nodded very slightly, but gave 
no other sign that he was aware of the presence of others at his table. There 
was another pause, this one briefer than the first. It was broken when the 
overman finally announced, "I am here at your request. Speak, then, and tell 
me what you want of me. I have business to attend to." The old man spoke, 
in a voice like the rustling of long-dead leaves. "Garth, I would have you 
serve me further." The overman suppressed the shudder that ran through 
him at the sound of that voice; he had heard it before, but it was something 
that one could not truly remember-or want to remember. He replied, "I have no 
desire to serve you, nor any person other than myself." The Forgotten King 
raised his head slightly and spoke again. "There are very few in these waning 
years of the Thirteenth Age who are fit to serve me. I do not care to wait for 
another." "That may be; I do not deny that you may have uses for me. But why 
should I serve you? You offer me nothing, and I have little cause to trust you 
after the outcome of my last venture in your service." "What would you 
have?" "I would have nothing of you but to be left alone. When you 
promised me fame, my service yielded nothing but a dozen deaths and much 
trouble to no purpose." "I did not slight you." "Is my fame then so great? I 
see little evidence of it, old man." "Did you then fulfill your service 
to me with a single trial?" "No. I saw my folly after the single trial and 
went home." "Yet you have returned, upon my advice." Garth paused. That much 
was true; it had been the Forgotten King who pointed out the possibility of 
trade through Skelleth and its potential benefits. "What of it? I did you a 
service, and you paid me with a simple suggestion I should have thought of for 
myself-but did not, I admit. We are even, then. I have no wish to serve you 
further. Hire Saram, here!" Saram was startled out of his silence. "I? Oh, 
no; I am no adventurer." The Forgotten King ignored Saram and said, "Is 
there then nothing that you seek, Garth? Are you content with your lot?" 
There was a moment of silence; Garth contemplated the shadowed face while 
Saram looked back and forth, and neither could see where the old man's gaze 
fell. Finally the overman admitted slowly, "No, I am not content. I still seek 
what in truth I sought before; I want to know that I am not insignificant, not 
merely a meaningless mote in an uncaring cosmos. I sought eternal fame because 
it seemed to me that that was as close as I could come to making a real 
difference, and my nearest approach to immortality. I see little point in 
wealth or power or glory that will last only so long as I live. What, then, 
can you offer me? I no longer feel that the promise of undying fame will 
suffice to comfort me; can you offer more?" "Under the proper 
circumstances I can give you whatever you want. If you fear death, I can 
promise you life to the end of time. If you seek to give your life a 
significance beyond the norm, then we are at one, for it is to work a 
fundamental change in the nature of our world that I seek your aid." There 
was another moment of silence; then Garth asked, "What is this change you 
seek? You speak around your purpose. When I served you before you had me fetch 
you the basilisk and would not say why you wanted it; was it for this same 
mysterious goal?" "My goal is unchanged." The harsh monotone of the old man's 
voice was likewise unchanged, but his head sank slightly, deepening the 
shadows that hid his face. Garth sat back, considering. He had concluded, 
after much thought, that the Forgotten King's use for the basilisk-a use for 
which it had proven inadequate-included the old man's own death. He had no 
idea why the ancient would want to die; had he perhaps wearied of his long 
life? Nor had he any idea why a single old man should have difficulty in dying 
should he choose to do so, yet it was indisputable that he had survived 
whatever he had done with the basilisk. Perhaps, Garth thought, he had somehow 



misinterpreted previous events, for how could one lonely old man's suicide 
have cosmic repercussions? That assumed, of course, that the old man spoke 
the truth. It was possible that he was indeed under some sort of curse of 
immortality which he hoped to break with Garth's aid-and dead men are under no 
obligation to fulfill their promises, so that he would offer whatever the 
overman wanted, knowing that he would never have to pay. Then again, it was 
possible that the old man-who was very probably a wizard of some sort-really 
was attempting some world-shaking magic. That did not mean that his purposes 
were anything Garth sympathized with. "What is this goal? Why will you not 
tell me? It could be some monstrous evil, some affront against nature and the 
gods." "I seek only to fulfill that purpose the gods have given me, 
Garth; I swear this to be true." "You still do not say what it is." "Nor 
will I." "And yet you ask me to serve you in this, without knowing?" The 
old man said nothing, but nodded very slightly, once. "I must consider this 
carefully. I will speak with you again when I have decided." Garth rose and 
strode from the table; Saram stirred, but reseated himself, and when the 
overman had left the tavern and the door had closed behind him, he turned back 
to the Forgotten King. "It seems you offer a bargain only a fool would 
accept, full of vague terms and mysteries." The Forgotten King said 
nothing, but Saram detected a faint shrug of his sagging shoulders.CHAPTER 
THREEAs Garth rounded the last corner and came in sight of the marketplace, he 
saw Galt standing talking to someone. His fellow overman towered over the 
surrounding crowd, readily distinguishable, but at first Garth could not see 
who it was he was speaking with; then, as he began threading his way into the 
throng, he caught the glint of sunlight on a steel helmet and realized that 
Herrenmer had returned, presumably bearing the Baron's decision. He hastened 
his pace; the villagers, awed by his size and terrified by his face, parted 
before him, so that a brief moment later he was at Galt's side. "Ah, Garth, 
it would seem that the local government wishes to speak with you and you 
alone. I offered myself as your representative, but was refused." Galt spoke 
smoothly and quickly, in a light tone, but Garth recognized a note of tension 
in his voice and saw that Herrenmer's hand was on his sword hilt. Behind their 
captain stood a full dozen guardsmen and, though no weapons were actually 
drawn, it was plain that a confrontation had been brewing. "Oh? I apologize 
for my absence, Captain Herrenmer, but one of your townsmen wished to speak 
with me in private." "The Baron also wishes to speak with you, overman; 
immediately." The man's voice shook slightly. "I will oblige him 
momentarily. Larth, I leave you in charge. Galt, you come with me, in case we 
need to discuss business." The other overmen nodded; Garth took a step toward 
the mansion, but was halted by Herrenmer's hand raised in restraint. "Wait 
a minute; I was told to bring you, not this other monster." "But Galt is the 
business manager for our party. Should we need to discuss exact terms I will 
want his advice." "If it will ease your mind, Captain, I will promise not to 
speak unless spoken to." Galt's voice was honeysmooth. Herrenmer looked 
from one hideous face to the other, from Garth's crimson eyes to Galt's golden 
ones, and at last shrugged and led the way across the square. The Baron's 
audience chamber was much as Garth remembered it, a fairly spacious room hung 
with old tapestries, with three small windows high in the northern wall behind 
the Baron's seat providing the only light. The Baron's seat was a simple oaken 
chair, and the Baron himself sat slouching in it, a small, slender man wearing 
a richly embroidered scarlet robe, with a circlet of gold on his brow. He 
fingered his thin black beard for a moment, then spoke. "So it's true; you 
have returned." This being self-evident, no reply seemed necessary, but 
Garth did not care to antagonize the Baron further with insolent silence; he 
replied simply, "Yes." "I had not thought you would have had the gall to do 
so, despite your boast to that scum Saram, yet here you are. You have even 
brought others of your filthy race." "We have come on a peaceful trading 
mission." "So I am told. Are you aware that you are under sentence of death 
here, on charges of trespass, espionage, and crimes against the state? And 
that all your stinking species are enemy aliens?" "I was aware that you 



were not eager to have us here. I hope to convince you that it would be to 
your advantage to welcome us." "And how do you plan to do that?" "In 
two stages: firstly, I will convince you that a regular trade between Skelleth 
and the Northern Waste will be very much in your own interests; and secondly, 
that killing me or otherwise thwarting me would make that trade impossible." 
"Very well, then, I will listen. Why should I allow you monsters to trade on 
my lands?" "Because we have much gold, from hidden mines in the northern 
mountains, with which to pay for what we want. Surely, much of this gold will 
find its way to you, in the form of taxes and tariffs. You told me once that 
you were not happy with your inheritance and hoped to improve your lot by war 
and plunder; would it not be equally satisfying to make yourself rich by 
peaceful means? Or even if it is the blood and glory of war you seek, will not 
our gold help to finance such an ambition? The terms of our former agreement, 
which you apparently feel I violated but which I feel I merely interpreted 
differently from yourself, included a statement that all overmen crossing your 
lands would pay what tribute you might rightfully demand; we will honor that, 
so long as such tribute does not make our trade prohibitively expensive. 
Surely you cannot refuse such an opportunity!" "Dare not tell me what I can 
or cannot refuse, overman! Still, you make it sound very tempting. If your 
gold is as plentiful as you imply, I could indeed find uses for it." The Baron 
mused for a moment and then went on, "But then, to your second point, your own 
life; why should I not accept trade arrangements with your people, but still 
put you to death? I could easily demand your life as the necessary tribute; 
would not overmen give up a single life for a new trade route?" "Perhaps 
they would under certain circumstances, but they will not give up my life, for 
I am the hereditary Prince of Ordunin, and the life of a reigning prince is 
not within your rights to demand." Garth was relying on the Baron's ignorance 
of the culture of the overmen of the Northern Waste in this, for in fact the 
title he claimed, though genuine, was strictly a ceremonial honor with no real 
significance beyond the privilege of speaking first in the City Council; a 
privilege it was customary to waive. There was a moment of silence as the 
Baron considered this. Then he shifted his gaze to Galt and demanded, "You! 
Who are you?" "I am Galt, my lord, a trader out of Ordunin." "And who is 
this?" He pointed at Garth. "That is Garth, Prince of Ordunin, a lord of the 
Overmen of the Northern Waste." Galt spoke casually, his pale blue cloak 
draped across one arm, his wide-brimmed hat shading his yellow eyes, looking 
completely at ease and unconcerned. Long years of experience had taught him 
that such a pose was most desirable in almost every sort of dealings with 
humans, be it trade, diplomacy, or less formal activities. "You will swear to 
that?" Galt blinked, and smiled a lipless smile. "If you wish." "I 
do." "I swear by my head that this overman is Garth, hereditary Prince of 
Ordunin, son of Karth and Tarith, known to me as such for many years and so 
recognized by all my people." "There were more of you, were there not?" "Yes." 


"Will they so swear?" "Undoubtedly. Larth is Garth's double-cousin, 
and Tand has known him since childhood." The Baron turned back to Garth. "Why 
did you not let me know this before, that I might have treated you as your 
rank deserved?" "Why should I tempt you with a prince's ransom?" "Are 
you not doing so now?" "No, for I am not alone this time, and furthermore my 
people are now aware that Skelleth is no longer the mighty fortress that 
repelled our ancestors' attacks. Even should you take all four of us captive, 
there would be no ransom but fire and sword. As you surely realize, paying out 
ransoms sets a bad precedent." The Baron scowled and slumped back in his 
chair. After a thoughtful pause he said, "It seems that you have the better of 
me in this matter; to indulge my whims would be far too costly, so I must let 
you live and go free. However, if you are in truth the reigning Prince of 
Ordunin, then there are other demands I may make. You seek for your people the 
free use of roads and rights of way that I happen to have proprietary rights 
upon. Our two nations are technically still at war, however, so that I cannot 
under ordinary circumstances grant such permissions as you seek without being 
untrue to my own oaths as vassal to the High King at Kholis; this is true 



though it would obviously be of great advantage to me personally and to my 
realm, and though our war has been unfought these three hundred years. Had you 
considered this?" "Not in detail," Garth replied; he hesitated, and then 
continued, "I am not fully conversant with the laws of Eramma and I assumed 
that reasonable beings such as ourselves could find some way around such an 
obstacle." "And I think we shall, Garth, I think we shall." The Baron 
grinned. "There are conditions under which I may make a separate peace, 
without the intervention of the High King; specifically, I can accept your 
surrender and your oath of fealty to me as a vassal prince." "What?" 
Garth's reply was startled from him. "Yes. You see, that would finish off 
the war very neatly, and remove any obstacles it might create. Under the terms 
of my own commitment to the High King I cannot surrender myself to you unless 
defeated in battle, but there are no such constraints upon you. Were you my 
vassal and loyal servant, our two peoples would no longer be at war." The grin 
widened. "Furthermore, as my vassal, your underlings would of course have full 
access, free of tariff, to all my lands. They would of course be required to 
pay the customary taxes, and tolls for the use of some highways, but only at 
the same rates as my human subjects. In short, your goal of establishing open 
trade would be achieved." Garth was too shocked to speak. After a pause, 
the Baron said, "Come, now, overman, is this so unreasonable? You offered any 
reasonable tribute; is a simple oath of fealty and the consequent obligation 
unreasonable? The hundred barons of Eramma do not think so." Garth 
stammered, then fell silent. He gathered his wits and replied, "I cannot give 
you an immediate answer. I cannot make such a commitment without consulting my 
City Council." His initial astonishment was fading, to be replaced with a 
growing outrage; how dare this mere human even consider making himself lord 
over overmen? Still, it would be well to remain diplomatic; perhaps some lip 
service could be paid to such an arrangement briefly, until a more sensible 
agreement could be worked out. It was a matter that did, indeed, warrant the 
consideration of the City Council. "Oh? Your Council? Very well. I had hoped 
to conclude this matter here and now, but I suppose I can tolerate some delay. 
Where is this Council?" "In Ordunin." Garth stopped himself from adding, "Of 
course." "Of course. In that case, it seems to me that the sooner you are 
on the way back to Ordunin, the better. I will give you twenty-four hours to 
be out of Skelleth on the Wasteland Road, and I will have you swear, here and 
now, that you will present my proposal to this Council as soon as you reach 
Ordunin, and that you will present it fairly and reasonably, as I have 
presented it to you. Agree to these terms, and your companions may remain and 
trade in peace." Garth suppressed an impulse to lash out in rage. His 
expression, as always, remained blank and calm. It required an effort, though, 
for him to say, "I do so swear that I will present your proposal fairly to the 
City Council immediately upon my return to Ordunin." "Good! I think our 
business is done then; begone! I would talk to this trader." The Baron waved 
him away peremptorily. Garth bowed, giving no sign of his fury, and departed, 
the Baron's guards stepping quickly out of his way. The Baron watched him go 
and smiled to himself. The overman would meet his terms, he was sure; he would 
swear the oath of fealty, thinking that he was committing himself to a few 
demeaning ceremonies and light taxation, service in name more than fact. It 
would be thoroughly delightful then to spring upon him the actual reason for 
his oath-an oath that included the obligation to provide his lord with all the 
military force at his disposal. It would be a simpler matter to pick a fight 
with that half-wit lord of Ur-Dormulk, who would march his army to Skelleth 
expecting an easy victory only to be met, not by three dozen half-trained 
farmers, but by warbeasts and overmen. Never again would that fat fool laugh 
at Doran of Skelleth! Never again would he be ignored and ridiculed, seated at 
the foot of the High King's table at the decennial meetings in Kholis! A 
hundred overmen in full armor, a hundred warbeasts, would make him the most 
powerful baron in Eramma. That was the tribute he intended to exact from this 
absurd commerce! When the door had closed Garth away from sight, he bestirred 
himself from his daydreams of power and glory and waved Herrenmer up to his 



side. He whispered a few words in his captain's ear, then turned his attention 
to Galt. "So, trader, you seek to bring wealth to our two lands. What would 
you consider a fair tax upon your receipts?" As Galt roused himself to 
begin negotiations, Herrenmer slipped from the room; the overman paid him no 
heed. A moment later Garth was halfway across the market square, returning to 
his two companions, when he heard the clink of mail and the thudding of booted 
feet running behind him. He turned to see Herrenmer hurrying after him. "Did 
you seek me?" The guardsman caught his breath, then replied, "Yes. I am to 
accompany you until you are outside the walls." "I have twenty-four hours." 
"I know; nonetheless, I am not to let you out of my sight until you leave 
Skelleth." Overmen do not show anger in their facial expressions, a natural 
concealment that is ordinarily an aid to survival, since it permits them to 
utilize the element of surprise more readily even in a state of unreasoning 
fury. Perhaps the only drawback is that it leaves them inexperienced in 
reading the faces of other species, such as humans. It was definitely for the 
best at this particular moment that Herrenmer took Garth's impassive 
expression for a mild contemplation of the situation; had he known the 
seething rage that was building he would have had his sword drawn and been 
calling for reinforcements. Instead he shrugged, and looked away from the 
overman's hideous face, preferring to watch the ragged farmers and peasants 
rather than gaze at that leather-hided skull. Garth had been annoyed by the 
Baron's apparent ingratitude in response to the promise of vast wealth he had 
done nothing to earn; he had been further irritated by his lack of trust in 
demanding that Galt-Galt, and not Garth-swear to Garth's identity and title; 
he had been appalled and infuriated at the suggestion that he swear fealty to 
this petty human tyrant, and disgusted that the Baron was so insistent upon 
haste. He had stood for it all and resisted the temptation to fling the dagger 
in his boot through the man's heart, or simply to tear him limb from limb, 
only to have this final insult thrust upon him. He was to be escorted from the 
town like an outlaw or some other undesirable! It robbed him of all privacy 
and dignity, and as such it was the pebble that sank the barge. He could not 
quietly accept this! He would not go slinking back to Ordunin like this, 
cast out of Skelleth until he declared himself servant to a scurvy madman, 
sworn to beg the City Council for permission to degrade himself and his 
people! He would defy the Baron, somehow. Unfortunately, it would not do for 
him to do so openly; the Baron was essential to the development of peaceful 
trade. If Garth killed him or otherwise seriously harmed him, it might well 
bring down the wrath of all Eramma upon not just himself, but all overmen, as 
untrustworthy brigands. It might even be enough of an incident to start up the 
long-dead Racial Wars again. A subtle poisoning might escape detection and do 
no harm to the prospects of peaceful trade-but it would also be thoroughly 
unsatisfying. He wanted the Baron to know what his effrontery had done. Was 
there perhaps some way he could exploit the Baron's madness? As he had seen on 
his previous venture, and as all Skelleth knew, the Baron periodically lapsed 
into fits of depression so intense that he was unable to move himself at all, 
even to eat, so that he had to be carefully tended, like an infant, until the 
spell passed. Between these depressions his moods ranged from the alert 
intelligence he had displayed today to surly silence or screaming rage; Garth 
had seen all these moods, though not enough to see whether there was any 
pattern to them. He had also heard it said that there was an annual cycle, and 
that the Baron was at his worst in the spring. He considered all this as he 
continued across the square to where Larth and Tand sat; Herrenmer stayed at 
his side, but said nothing. He stood over his seated companions, who were 
engaged in quiet conversation, having no customers at the moment. "I have been 
ordered to return to Ordunin; there are matters I am to present to the Council 
there." The two looked up, startled. After a second's pause Larth asked, 
"Should we pack up, then?" "No; the Baron requires no departure save my 
own. You two and Galt will stay until you have completed the disposal of these 
goods and the arrangements for future caravans. I leave Galt in charge; Larth, 
you will handle my share of the goods and proceeds and deliver it to Kyrith." 



"Kyrith? Your wife? Will you not be in Ordunin?" Garth glanced at 
Herrenmer, standing well within earshot. "Do not concern yourself with my 
whereabouts." "Are you to leave immediately?" Larth asked. "I have 
until tomorrow, but there are other matters I must attend to, and I will be 
home by year's end, most likely." He actually had no idea when he would be 
home, but as it was still summer and the year was reckoned to end with the 
vernal equinox, it would almost certainly be before that. He had as yet no 
idea where he was going; he only knew that it would not be Ordunin. The Baron 
had required him to leave Skelleth, and to swear that he would speak to the 
Council immediately upon reaching Ordunin-but neglected to make sure that he 
would in fact go to Ordunin. Garth had no intention of going back to Ordunin 
under the present circumstances; another annoyance to be credited to the 
Baron. He would have said as much, and explained the entire situation to his 
companions, had Herrenmer not been so close at hand, spying for his master. 
He stood for a moment longer but thought of nothing more worth saying, and 
neither Larth nor Tand volunteered any more questions; then he spun on his 
heel and strode off toward the King's Inn at a pace that left Herrenmer 
half-running after him. At first he did not seek out the Forgotten King's 
table, but merely sat alone near the front window, gazing out at the garbage 
that lined the alley and the back wall of the Baron's mansion while he poured 
mug after mug of good cold ale down his throat. Herrenmer attempted to sit at 
the same table, but Garth picked him up by the neck with one hand and forcibly 
seated him elsewhere, despite his protests. The captain did not care to argue 
further, and instead sat where he had been placed, glowering at the overman. 
He was joined by Saram, who had still been at the shadowy table in the back 
corner, and the two men discussed that morning's events, Herrenmer providing 
the facts of the overman's audience with the Baron while Saram embellished 
them with comments on the Baron's crafty nature and underlying insanity, and 
the probable benefits of allowing northern gold into the village. It was well 
after noon when Garth finally made his decision; he would not undertake to 
swear his allegiance to any master, but he had no doubt that the Forgotten 
King's service would be less galling than that of the Baron. He would, 
accordingly, arrange a new bargain with the old man, the fulfillment of which 
would undoubtedly take him off to some foreign realm and provide him with 
something to do other than return to Ordunin. Something might come up that 
would show him a satisfactory solution to his current quandary. As time had 
slipped past, sunlight had crept across the floor and slanted into the depths 
of the fireplace in the eastern wall, and several other patrons had drifted 
in, to find themselves congenial company and comfortable seats or merely to 
drink a pint and drift out once again. Garth paid none of them any heed as he 
rose and made his way to the corner where the old man still sat, unmoving, as 
if mere seconds had passed since the overman had departed, and not half a day. 


Herrenmer saw his charge rise, and rose himself to follow. He found, to 
his astonishment, that his feet refused to obey him; he could stand, and move 
freely to either side, but when he attempted to take a step toward the 
overman's retreating form, it was as if his boots were glued to the floor's 
ancient planking. He stared at Garth's back, then looked beyond to the 
yellow-cowled figure that sat, still unmoving, in the corner. A tattered edge 
of the old man's hood flapped, though there was no wind in the tavern, nor any 
open door or window that might admit a breeze; Herrenmer caught a glimpse of 
light glinting from a hidden eye. He could not see the eye itself, but only 
that single fleeting sparkle in the shadowed socket; he felt a chill sweep him 
from head to toe, and he told himself that he really had no interest in 
approaching the strange old fellow. He reseated himself at his table; after 
all, he reassured himself, there was only the one door. He could keep an eye 
on Garth perfectly well from where he was, and need not worry about him 
slipping out another way. An involuntary shudder ran through him, and he 
decided that he would just as soon not even watch the overman's conversation; 
he would watch the door. He turned his attention back to Saram, who had 
watched the whole brief byplay with intense interest, but now resumed regaling 



his former superior with the unlikely tale about his current mistress that 
Garth's move had interrupted. Neither Saram nor Herrenmer noticed that someone 
else had also observed the captain's curious hesitation, and now watched with 
interest the overman's conversation with the mysterious yellow-clad figure. A 
dour old man wearing clothes the color of drying blood, this observer sat near 
the fireplace, ostensibly drinking his luncheon; his eyes, however, flicked 
swiftly about, missing nothing that happened in the taproom, but always 
returning to the mismatched pair in the back corner, their conversation just 
within range of his hearing. Garth himself was oblivious to the whole thing; 
he had been facing the wrong direction. He seated himself across from the 
Forgotten King and gazed for a moment at the ragged hood that shaded the 
ancient face; its color was scarcely visible in the sheltered gloom, and the 
overman wondered how yellow could look so dark. From where he sat he saw no 
motion, no glint of light, but only shadows and the old man's wispy beard 
trailing from his withered chin. "Greetings, O King," he said. "Greetings, 
Garth." As always, the hideous voice was an unpleasant surprise. "I have 
considered your proposed bargain." The old man made no reply, but Garth 
thought he might have nodded slightly. "I would know more about what 
services you would require of me." There was a contemplative silence for a 
few seconds, then the old man replied, "I require certain items. I do not at 
present recall exactly which." Garth, not yet over his anger at the 
Baron, felt a twinge of annoyance at the old man's vague reply. "Listen, I do 
not care to waste my time prying words from you. I will not bind myself to 
your service, but at present I seek a way to divert myself while I consider 
what manner of reply to make to your Baron of Skelleth. What are these items, 
and where are they to be found? Would you have me fetch them?" The King was 
again silent for a moment, and Garth's irritation grew; finally, the old man 
said, "You are to bring me whatsoever you find upon the seven high altars of 
the seven temples in Dûsarra." "Dûsarra?" The name was unfamiliar. "A 
city in Nekutta, far to the west." "And will I find upon these altars that 
which you need for your mysterious cosmic purpose?" "You will find the 
solution to your problems with Doran of Skelleth; let that suffice for the 
present." "What? Will one of these altar objects provide some magical means 
of dealing with that madman? You are being deliberately vague." The old man 
shrugged. Garth sat for a long moment, thinking. It was plain that he would 
coax no further explanation out of the Forgotten King, and the task set was 
exasperatingly cryptic. Still, such a quest would undoubtedly be an 
interesting diversion, and the old man had said it would provide a solution to 
his problems-presumably some means of coercing the Baron into behaving 
reasonably, or else a means of carrying out a satisfactory vengeance without 
destroying the fledgling trade. He had never caught the old man in an actual 
lie, and there could be no doubt he had knowledge beyond what was natural. 
And what else was he to do? He could not return to Ordunin under the present 
circumstances. Until he could come up with some way out of his oath to the 
Baron he had nothing better to do and nowhere better to go. Running some fool 
errand halfway across the world would be a welcome distraction. That was all 
he had expected until the King had made his final statement, and he had 
thought it sufficient; the old man's words, curious as they were, could only 
make it more tempting. However, they also somehow made Garth uneasy. "I 
will do it," he said. "I will find this city you speak of, and rob these seven 
altars, and we will see whether my problems are solved thereby." The 
Forgotten King smiled behind his beard. Beside the fireplace, the old man 
wearing dark red nodded to himself. Three days later, in a windowless chamber 
bright with golden tapestries and gleaming lamps somewhere in the black-walled 
city of Dûsarra, the high priest of Aghad sat, sipping bitter red wine and 
studying an ancient text. With a rustle of draperies and robes one of his 
subordinates entered, and stood waiting until such time as her exalted master 
should deign to notice her. The wait was brief; the high priest lowered his 
book and demanded, "Yes, child?" "Darsen of Skelleth sends a message." The 
underling held up a narrow strip of parchment such as could be wrapped on the 



leg of a carrier pigeon. The high priest held out his hand, and the 
acolyte surrendered the note. He read it, then crushed it in one great brown 
hand. "We must see this prospective visitor. Go tell Haggat to ready his 
scrying glass." The acolyte bowed and vanished through the curtains with 
another swift rustle; the high priest picked up his book once again, glanced 
at the page, placed a thin strip of embroidered velvet upon it to serve as a 
bookmark, then closed it and slid it onto a shelf beside a dozen others. 
Fifteen minutes later the priest strode into another windowless room; this one 
was draped in black and deep red, its somber gloom scarcely softened by the 
light of a single immense candle. A plump middle-aged man in a loose black 
robe stood within, holding a great crystal sphere in his hands; the acolyte 
knelt beside him, her face hidden in the shadow of her hood. "She has 
told you what I wish to-see?" The man nodded, and held out the sphere. The 
high priest reached out and took it; he cradled it in his hands and gazed into 
it. The other two maintained a complete silence. Deep within the globe's 
interior, the flickering reflection of the single candle's flame twisted and 
shaped itself into the form of a sunlit path, a narrow road through grassy 
countryside; as the high priest watched, a figure appeared, riding down this 
golden strip of light. Mounted on a huge catlike black beast, clad in helmet, 
breastplate, and flowing brown cloak, the figure was that of a red-eyed 
overman. The priest studied this vision for long minutes, then handed the 
sphere back to its master. "This overman may be useful, perhaps very useful 
indeed. You; Haggat, will inform me of everything you can learn relating to 
him. You may have this acolyte as your personal property, to aid you in this 
and as your reward. Understood?" The man nodded; one hand fell and pulled 
aside the acolyte's hood, then stroked her night-black hair possessively. The 
other hand balanced the crystal sphere, which flashed and glittered strangely. 
Despite the dim and uneven light, fear was plain on the girl's face as she 
looked up at her new master. The high priest turned and left, thinking 
intently; although not the focus of his contemplation, he found himself aware 
that he considered Haggat to be very pleasant company. A man with his tongue 
cut out could not chatter on aimlessly as so many did. He pulled his mind 
away from such distractions, and considered seriously what would be done with 
this thieving impertinent overman.CHAPTER FOURThe sun was sailing low in the 
western sky, as vividly red as Garth's eyes, turning the narrow wisps of cloud 
into a ruddy web of light and shadow. The overman admired the uncanny beauty 
of the scene; the colors seemed brighter, more fiery, than the sunsets of the 
Northern Waste. He mused as to why this should be so. His mount seemed 
unimpressed. It kept its head low, its catlike ears spread, clearly displeased 
with its surroundings. Garth could hear, very faintly, the crunching of 
volcanic cinders beneath the warbeast's huge soft paws, a rather remarkable 
circumstance. Ordinarily the beast moved as quietly as any lesser feline, its 
padded feet as silent as the moon. No wonder, then, that it disliked this 
strange new country! The sound of its own footsteps was alien, a constant 
reminder that it was far from home and all things familiar. Ahead of them, 
dead black against the crimson flushed western sky, there reared up yet 
another mountain range. Already, in the fortnight's journey from Skelleth, 
they had crossed one chain, the highest and most rugged Garth had ever seen, 
through a narrow pass, and made a detour around the southern end of another, 
lesser range. Now they were approaching a third such barrier, this one 
actively volcanic, as evidenced by the red-lit smoke that twined across the 
sunset clouds, and by the thin coating of fresh ash and cinder that lay across 
the countryside, clear proof that there had recently been a minor eruption. 
According to the rough map the Forgotten King had provided, his goal, the city 
of Dûsarra, lay somewhere in the foothills of this range, but as yet he saw no 
sign of it. He wondered that people would live in such a land, with the shadow 
of fiery destruction looming over them, but there was no question that they 
did; for some time now the road he traveled had wound through farmland, 
elaborately irrigated and lush with unfamiliar crops. He had noticed that the 
farmers' houses were all roofed with tile or tin, rather than the more 



customary thatch; plainly, straw was too easily set ablaze by vagrant sparks 
drifting on the breeze that blew steadily down from the mountains, a warm, dry 
wind that brought with it strange new odors, scents he had never known before. 


He had come this far without incident, which pleased him. After agreeing 
to undertake this journey it had been a matter of an hour or so to obtain an 
assortment of bags and pouches, to carry whatever he might find, and a week's 
supply of food and water, which he had augmented on the road by hunting and 
minor thefts from untended fields and wells. Thus equipped, he had allowed 
himself to be escorted out the North Gate, whereupon he circled around to the 
West Gate where he had retrieved Koros and his weapons and other supplies. He 
had then circled further, to the southwestern highway, a branch of which he 
was still following. Unlike his previous quest in the Forgotten King's 
service, which had led across barren, deserted lands inhabited only by 
barbaric little tribes, this journey had wound through league after league of 
settled, civilized countryside, more than he had known to exist upon the face 
of the world; he had dodged a double dozen of villages, and given a wide berth 
to a huge walled city indicated on the old man's map as Ur-Dormulk, all before 
even crossing the first mountains that marked the border between Eramma and 
Nekutta. Five times now he had set Koros free at night so that the warbeast 
could hunt its own food, and each time he had worried that it might not be 
able to find any meat to its liking except human flesh in the form of sleeping 
farmers, as there was not much wildlife to be found in such thickly-settled 
regions. Fortunately, Koros seemed to have managed, preying on stray goats and 
sheep when nothing else was available; Garth was grateful that it remained 
true to its training and avoided killing anything humanoid-when it could be 
avoided. It had, on occasion, eaten people when nothing else edible could be 
found, and it had eaten those it happened to kill in self-defense, but as a 
rule it knew not to. It was an extremely useful animal, the finest product 
of a thousand years of selective breeding and magical shaping, but its 
voracious appetite could be very inconvenient. Ordinarily it was supremely 
obedient, but its loyalty decreased as its hunger increased, and Garth knew 
that five days without food, as opposed to the usual three days it went 
between meals, would render it willing to devour anything that moved, 
including its master. It had fed last night on a pair of plump goats, and 
usually when recently fed it was as placid as a pampered housecat; today, 
though, the harsh landscape and crunching cinders seemed to upset it, and it 
growled softly, low in its throat, as a new twist of smoke drifted up the 
western sky. Garth watched the smoke, and suddenly realized it had risen 
from a point between peaks; he stared at the jagged black shapes and thought 
he made out the curve of a dome amid the irregular constructions of nature. 
The shadows still obscured all color and detail, but the longer he looked the 
more convinced he became that there was, in fact, at least one man-made 
structure in these somber hills. He called the word that Koros recognized as a 
command to halt, as even the smooth grace of the warbeast's stride jogged him 
sufficiently to make it difficult to focus at so great a distance. Yes, 
there was something there. He could not be sure what, as the sun was now 
slipping below the highest peaks, making it harder than ever to distinguish 
anything. He looked about, to rest his eyes, and noticed a farmer, a hundred 
yards away, leaning on a hoe and studying the overman and warbeast. "Ho! 
Farmer!" he called. The man did not move. "Come here! I would speak with 
you!" He motioned. The farmer looked about, as if to see if the overman 
meant someone else, though there was no other living being in sight, only the 
man's own twenty acres and the empty road stretching away in either direction. 
Then he shrugged and came, dragging his hoe casually, to stand a dozen yards 
away. "Farmer, is that Dûsarra?" Garth pointed at the spot where he had seen 
the dome. The farmer followed the direction of the pointing finger and said, 
"I suppose it is." His accent was strange to Garth, harsh and guttural, but 
his words were plain enough. "How far is it?" The farmer shrugged. "Couldn't 
say. You're an overman, I know, but what is that you're riding?" He studied 
Koros closely, from the glittering three-inch fangs in its jaw to the tip of 



its lashing tail, and from its glossy black-furred shoulder to its huge padded 
paws. A good eighteen feet long, the monster resembled nothing so much as an 
overgrown panther, though proportioned differently in order to support its 
greater bulk. It had a cat's golden slit eyes and triangular ears, stubby 
black whiskers on its muzzle, and a long slender tail. No panther had such 
fangs, though, and both legs and face seemed oddly elongated; it stood nearly 
as tall as the farmer himself. Pure black throughout, with no touch of color 
nor single gray hair, its muscles rippled smoothly under its fur; it clearly 
had no trouble at all in carrying the full weight of the armored overman and 
his supplies. "It is a warbeast." Koros growled. The farmer 
suddenly seemed less sure of himself. He had assumed that any animal that 
served as a beast of burden, however formidable it might appear, must be 
docile and harmless-but no peaceful ox nor temperamental cart-goat ever made a 
noise like that. He thought better of previous actions, and said, "Dûsarra is 
ten leagues distant, my lord, along this same road, three leagues past the 
crossroads at Weideth." "Crossroads?" "Yes. It's of no importance, though; 
for Dûsarra you ride straight through on this same road, making no turn." 
"What is Weideth?" "The village at the crossroads; a small town, with no 
wall. You'll have no trouble there." Garth was less certain of that than 
his informant seemed to be. This man seemed to accept an overman and warbeast 
calmly enough, but would an entire village? "Is there no way around it? I 
do not wish to be seen." "Around? No, my lord, not that I know of; the 
terrain thereabouts is very rough, and Weideth lies in a narrow pass, astride 
the road. It's a wonder they don't charge a toll, in truth." "I see. My 
thanks, man." The man bowed and stepped back, and when Garth made no 
further comment nor move to stop him, he turned and departed at a brisk pace. 
This village, Garth thought as he urged Koros forward once again, was a 
nuisance. He did not dare risk losing his way at this point; he would have to 
ride through and hope he did not create too much of a commotion. Ten leagues 
to Dûsarra, and that three leagues past Weideth, the man had said; that meant 
he was seven leagues from the village. Seven leagues was two or three hours 
ride, perhaps a trifle more if the terrain was bad; if he kept riding he would 
pass through the village well after full dark, and reach Dûsarra in the middle 
of the night, while if he stopped and made camp he would arrive at midday 
tomorrow. Midday was scarcely a good time to try and slip unobtrusively 
through a village, nor was it a good time for reconnaissance in Dûsarra. He 
was not tired, and Koros was well-fed; he should have no trouble in completing 
his journey without further delay. If he were to be a thief, then he would 
arrive as a thief in the night; he spoke the command for a trot and the 
warbeast strode on, the only sound the soft crunching of cinders. The moon was 
near full, making it easy to follow the road even after the sun was well down, 
though it was not actually necessary to see it since straying to either side 
would mean passing through the tall grass of late summer, easily two feet in 
height, that flanked the way. Besides the pale light of the moon, Garth 
noticed as well a dim red glow flickering about the mountaintops that grew as 
he approached-volcanic fires, of course. He began to share Koros' dislike for 
this country; such eerie lights seemed threatening. A volcano active enough to 
light the clouds at night could well be active enough to bury its surroundings 
in ash and lava, yet here he was riding ever closer. It was more than two 
hours after he spoke to the farmer, well after the last trace of daylight had 
faded in the west, with only the white moonlight and the red glow of the 
volcano to see by, that he was first spotted by one of the sentries. Garth did 
not see the young woman, nor would he have paid her much heed if he had, but 
she saw him, and studied him closely before slipping from her hilltop post and 
running back to Weideth with her report. The Seer of Weideth was finishing 
his final cup of wine and seriously considering retiring for the night when 
the sentry burst into the village's single nameless inn-which also served as 
the public meeting house and in rainy weather as a makeshift marketplace-with 
her news. She looked about wildly for someone to report her discovery to, but 
the village elders were all long abed; for want of a better audience, she 



directed her shout at the Seer. "There is an overman on the East Road, 
riding upon a creature like none I have ever seen!" The Seer smiled at her 
melodramatics. "Have you, then, seen every sort of beast there is? There are 
frequently overmen on the north and west roads, and they do not all make do 
with horses and oxen." "Yes, but this one is on the East Road, and wearing 
armor!" The Seer started to dismiss her with a wave. "Overmen do not use 
the East Road," he began. "This one does! If you will not listen to me, 
I'll find someone who will!" His hand fell, and for the first time the Seer 
looked directly at the girl's face. He realized that she spoke the truth; a 
part of his talent was knowing the truth when it was spoken, and this young 
woman-she could have seen no more than eighteen years-was not merely excited 
or mistaken. There was an overman on the East Road, which no overman had 


ridden in three hundred years; an overman had come out of the east. "The 
prophecies say that death and destruction lie in the east," he said. "So I 
have heard," replied the girl sarcastically, her hands on her hips. "We 

must wake the elders." The sentry nodded. "They will know what to do." "Yes. 
We cannot let an eastern overman reach Dûsarra." It was several minutes 
later when Garth turned a corner in the winding road, which for the last three 
leagues had twisted its way through the foothills and now led along the bottom 
of a narrow defile, and caught a glimpse of Weideth. It was only a very brief 
glimpse, however, for the village he had thought he saw vanished almost 
instantly, leaving only another few hundred yards of highway that stretched 
out from his warbeast's feet and turned right out of sight behind a hill up 
ahead. He blinked. There was no village. There was no sign of a village; 
there was only the road. He stopped his mount with a word and studied the 
road. There was nothing there. After a moment's consideration, he arrived at a 
few possible explanations for what he thought he'd seen-a neat row of cottages 
on either side of the highway, a widening of the gorge into a respectable 
valley. It could have been a trick of the moonlight, though it had seemed too 
detailed for that. It could have been a mirage caused by some unknown effect 
of the volcano, letting him see a village that in fact lay somewhere else. It 
could have been a hallucination caused by volcanic gases; he had heard of such 
things. It could be that he was more tired than he had known, and his mind or 
his eyes were playing tricks in consequence. Or it could have been magic. 
This last possibility seemed actually the most likely, and it did not bode 
well; still, there was nothing he could do about it sitting where he was. He 
signaled to Koros, and the warbeast strode forward. Nothing unusual happened; 
the barren hills continued on either side. When they had traversed halfway to 
the next turn without incident, Garth relaxed. There seemed to be no danger. 
If it were magic, Garth mused, what sort of magic had it been? Had an entire 
village been transported away in an instant? That seemed unlikely. Perhaps the 
village had been a mere illusion. If so, had it been intended for him, or for 
someone else? As it neared the bend in the road, Koros hesitated; it 
seemed unsure whether to follow the road around to the right, or to proceed 
straight ahead up the side of the defile. Garth turned its head right, and it 
resumed its steady forward progress. This served to distract Garth 
momentarily; it was not typical of the beast's behavior. It usually knew to 
follow the road unless directed otherwise. Ah, he told himself, it meant 
nothing; the creature was tired. Perhaps he had just imagined the village in 
his own fatigue. As he had just been thinking, perhaps the village had been an 
illusion. Or perhaps this deserted gorge was an illusion, and it was the 
village that was real. That thought had a disturbing plausibility, and Garth 
stopped his mount. The village of Weideth was supposed to be around here 
somewhere, yet he had seen no trace of it except perhaps that single fleeting 
glimpse. It was at a crossroads, and Koros had hesitated as if uncertain of 
the correct path-as if at a fork or crossroads. But why, assuming that he was 
in fact in the middle of Weideth, was such an illusion created? He looked down 
at his mount, and at himself; the warbeast's fangs gleamed in the moonlight, 
and his sword slapped his thigh as he moved. He was not, he admitted to 
himself, the sort of character whose appearance inspired confidence in 



strangers. No doubt the villagers had some sort of magician amongst them who 
used illusions of this sort to render the town invisible to any travelers who 
looked dangerous. If it were an illusion, he reminded himself. That could 
be tested, he decided; he ordered Koros to stand and guard, and dismounted 
cautiously. He still seemed to be in a rocky, empty passage through the hills, 
not a village-but there was no reason the illusion should be less effective on 
an unmounted overman than upon one riding a warbeast. He stepped carefully off 
the road; and reached out to touch a convenient boulder. It was there, all 
right, and felt very much like stone. He ran his fingers across it. Yes, it 
was smooth stone. He flattened his palm against it, and slid it downward a few 
inches. One of his thumbs slipped into a crack; he looked more closely. 
Yes, there was a crack visible; he must have missed noticing it in the 
moonlight, if it had actually been there all along. What was under his thumb 
felt very much like mortar. He ran his hand sideways; the crack was dead 
straight and perfectly horizontal. He reached over further, where there 
appeared to be nothing but open air. His hand struck something; he felt 
it carefully. It was glass. It was a small square pane of glass held in 
lead, and beside it was another, and another. He blinked. He was standing 
before a small house built of cut stone, his hand touching a casement window; 
other houses stood to either side. Behind him Koros growled uneasily. He 
whirled. He stood near the middle of a village, just as he had seen it. What 
had appeared to be a turn in the highway was indeed a crossroads. That meant 
that he had been diverted from his route; he had turned north instead of 
continuing westward. He growled in annoyance. He did not like this. He did 
not like magic. He did not like the necessary conclusion that there was 
somebody with unknown preternatural abilities actively trying to deceive him. 
His hand fell to his sword hilt as he looked about, and he mentally commended 
himself upon travelling well-armed since leaving Skelleth-armor was 
uncomfortable, but prudent. The village was still and silent; the only sound 
was his own footsteps. The houses were all shuttered and dark-except for one. 
At the crossroads stood a building rather larger than the average cottage, 
with a signboard hung above its door; whatever message the sign might bear was 
invisible in the darkness, but the place was probably an inn or public house, 
and light showed through its curtained windows. His magical antagonist might 
be working at some distance, or might be hidden in darkness somewhere-but it 
seemed more likely he or she was in that single illuminated room. What, then, 
was he to do about it? He had two choices; he could ignore the incident and 
be on his way, or he could confront whoever lurked behind those curtains. If 
he ignored it he would be leaving a potential danger behind him, able to 
attack from the rear, and sitting on his route home. That would not do. He 
reminded Koros to stay where it was, loosened his sword in its scabbard, and 
marched to the inn. The door stood slightly ajar; he kicked it open and stood 
aside, lest an ambush be prepared for him. Nothing happened; he stepped 
forward again and looked within. A sudden wave of vertigo swept over him; he 
blinked, and looked through the door. He was looking into his own home in 
Ordunin, the rambling stone and wood house that he had built with his own 
hands. For a moment he froze in astonishment, but the incongruity suddenly 
seemed unimportant. He was home! He stepped inside and looked about. 
Through the large window to his right he saw the wide plank terrace and the 
spectacular view of the bay beyond; sunlight sparkled from the waves and 
poured warmly into the room. He listened, and could hear the ocean's roar very 
faintly; nearer at hand a bird sang somewhere. He noticed that he still wore 
his helmet and breastplate, his sword on his belt and axe on his back; such 
precautions were surely unnecessary here in his own domain! He reached up to 
remove the helmet, but paused; how had he come home? He had no memory of the 
journey, and he had not intended to come here; returning home meant that he 
would have to speak to the Council, in accordance with his oath to the Baron. 
Something was peculiar about this, and until he recollected what it was, it 
would do no harm to keep his armor and weapons on. He was not particularly 
uncomfortable-though a trifle overwarm-and he could bear to take such a simple 



precaution. There was a sound somewhere further inside the house; that would 
be one of his family, of course. It would be a pleasure to see them all once 
again. He wondered what the date was; he seemed to have forgotten, yet he 
always kept track of such things, to know when to expect his wives to be in 
heat. He would have to ask. He called out, "Ho! Who goes?" A door opened and 
an overwoman entered; Kyrith, his favorite wife. Her scent reached him, and 
warmth spread through him; she would be ready any time. By human standards 
she was far from beautiful; she was as tall and flat-chested as any overman, 
and her face as inhuman; to Garth, she was a fine, handsome creature. Her 
golden eyes were warm and inviting; her black hair was long, for an overwoman, 
and Garth reached out to run his fingers through it. Her scent was entrancing. 


She smiled, and caught his fingers; he smiled back. He felt his body 
reacting to her odor; that smell was the only sexual stimulus that affected an 
overman, and it was irresistible. He reached out both arms for her; she 
smiled, and poked at his breastplate. "Shouldn't you remove your armor?" 
she asked. He growled playfully, reached up to remove his helmet, and 
stopped. Something was wrong. Something was very, very wrong. Kyrith was 
mute. The real Kyrith was mute, at any rate; she had fallen years ago while 
skiing, a fall that sent slivers of ice through her throat. She had lived, 
with only a slight scar, but her voice was gone forever. This was not her: The 
whole thing was an illusion. He thrust the false Kyrith away and drew his 
sword; the illusionist had made a fatal error in giving Kyrith a voice, but 
there was no doubt that his or her magic was effective. Not only had the image 
of his home been perfect, but the sounds and smells, and his memory had been 
befuddled as well. Garth dared not take any further chances. "Show 
yourself, magician, or I will lay about with this blade until I find you!" 
His home vanished, and he was in a small village tavern; a fire burned low on 
the hearth, and a chandelier held a dozen stubby candles, casting their wan 
light across a dozen empty tables and five human beings. One was an old 
woman who lay sprawled on the floor where he had flung the false Kyrith; she 
wore a hood and cloak of pale blue that spread about her in disarray, 
revealing her bony blue-veined legs and wrinkled face. Her hair was long and 
silvery-white. She made no move to rise, but lay where she was, watching Garth 
with terror in her expression. The other four sat clustered about a 
table. There was a young woman in brown leather helmet and tunic and black 
skirt, a bow leaning against the back of her chair and a quiver of 
white-fletched arrows slung on her shoulder. Beside her sat a man of 
indeterminate age, his face hidden beneath a gray hood, his gray cloak hiding 
all but his hands-muscular hands, one of which clutched the handle of a pewter 
mug. The remaining pair wore pale blue robes that matched that of the woman 
on the floor, and both were likewise old; one was a man with steel-gray hair 
and gray-streaked black beard, the other was another white-haired woman, 
shorter and thinner than her fallen comrade. There was a moment of silent 
consideration, and then Garth demanded, "Why have you beset me?" There was an 
uneasy silence; no one answered him. "Is this the way you treat all 
travelers? Or is it because I am an overman? Because I wear armor? What do you 
want of me?" The old woman at the table said, in a high and broken voice, 
"We meant you no harm." "Then what did you mean? You have twice attacked me 
with your illusions; why?" "We did not attack you; we sought only to have 
you pass through our village without seeing it." "You diverted me from my 
path; I am not bound northward." "We did not know that; we thought you must 
be, for it is to the north that overmen are said to dwell." Garth considered 
that for a few seconds; it did have a logical ring to it. "You attempted to 
deceive me when I entered this tavern." "We sought only to remove your 
weapons, so that we could deal with you more easily." That accorded with the 
facts. Garth relaxed slightly. This handful of humans was no threat to him, 
save for their magic, and he seemed to have beaten that; only one even bore 
arms, and that one a mere girl. "Which of you conjured those illusions?" 
The man in the gray hood, silent heretofore, spoke up. "It is a joint effort; 
no one of us is essential." Garth considered this, and chose to doubt it; 



such a claim was good tactics, and more likely tactics than truth. "Who are 
you all, then?" "I am the Seer of Weideth, and these three are the village 
elders." He indicated the other man and the two old women. "Who is she?" He 
pointed at the girl with his sword. "She is just the one who saw you coming in 
time to warn us. She is no one of importance." "You call yourself a seer?" 
"Yes." "Can you read the future, then?" Garth had heard of such talents, 
and had in fact dealt with an oracle, the Wise Women of Ordunin, who seemed to 
know something of events yet to come; he could see many uses for such an 
ability. "On occasion. I'm afraid I'm not much of a seer, if the truth be 
known. I do have knowledge and talent beyond the ordinary, but I have little 
control over it. I am the last and least in a long line of Seers in Weideth, 
and I spend more time studying the prophecies of my predecessors than making 
my own." That explained why he had failed to foresee that Garth would not 
be deceived by the illusions, and therefore Garth decided to believe it. He 
had the impression that the man was being reasonably forthright. Perhaps a 
similar frankness on his own part would enable him to resolve this episode in 
short order and get on his way once more. He wanted to reach Dûsarra before 
morning; before midnight would be nice. "Listen, then; I mean no harm to you 
or your village. I intend no evil toward any person or community outside the 
village of Skelleth. I bear no ill will for your mistaken attempts at 
self-defense. Let us end our dispute peaceably; I will not harm you, but will 
go about my business. In exchange you will refrain from bothering me further 
with your petty magic. Is this not fair to all, and a desirable conclusion?" 
The Seer said to his comrades, "He speaks the truth as he knows it." There 
was a moment of silent consideration as the elders looked at one another; the 
larger woman clambered to her feet, then, found a chair and seated herself. 
Garth lowered his sword, but did not sheathe it. It was the sentry who 
first spoke, saying, "But what about. the prophecies?" The male elder 
nodded. "There is that." "What prophecies?" Garth said. "I am not an 
unreasonable person. Explain your meaning, and perhaps I can accommodate you." 


The humans all turned toward the Seer, making plain that they felt it 
was his place, as Seer, to explain. He obliged. "There are two prophecies that 
led us to be especially wary of your coming, overman. The first, made long, 
long ago, said merely that death and destruction lie in wait in the east, and 
shall come out of the east in their time. The second, made by my immediate 
predecessor-who unlike myself, was one of our greatest Seers and prophets; 
there seems to be an alternation-well, his was an elaboration upon the first, 
and says that when an overman from the east comes to Dûsarra he will unleash 
chaos and catastrophe upon the world. You see, therefore, that we do not wish 
to see you proceed westward from our village, since that road leads only to 
Dûsarra." Garth considered this. It sounded vague to him, and he was 
reluctant to pay it much heed; he had business in Dûsarra. "Does the prophecy 
give my name, or a more exact description?" "No." "Does it say that any 
overman from the east will bring disaster, or that there will be one specific 
one?" "It implies one specific overman, but we prefer not to take chances; you 
are the first overman to come up the East Road in a very long time, the first 
since the prophecy was made." "I have come from the Northern Waste, though, 
not from the eastern lands. I have no intention of unleashing anything." 
"I never heard of the Northern Waste; still, it must lie to the east, or you 
would not have come on the East Road. Your intentions may prove to have very 
little to do with what actually occurs." "Still, I do not think I am the 
overman prophesied, and I intend to go to Dûsarra. I would advise you not to 
try to stop me, nor to obstruct me when I return on my way home." "We will not 
bother you once you have reached Dûsarra; it will be too late by then. 
Anything we might do after that would be pointless revenge, and we are not so 
foolish as to attempt it. However, I beg you to reconsider. Do not go to 
Dûsarra! You may not be the overman we were warned of, but why risk it? You 
are a good man...Ah, I mean a good person. Do not chance bringing destruction 
upon yourself and others!" "I regret that I cannot oblige you. It seems 
that we will not be able to part as friends after all, and in that case I must 



ask this young woman to surrender her bow to me; I have no desire to be shot 
in the back. I will leave it, undamaged, on the road west of the village. I 
must also insist that no further distracting illusions be used; I know where 
and who you are, now, and would take it very ill should you attempt to divert 
me." He reached out for the bow; reluctantly, her eye on the sword in his 
other hand, the girl gave it to him. "My thanks. I take leave of you now, 
and wish you all well. I truly hope and believe that I am not the overman your 
prophets spoke of." He nodded politely, and backed out of the inn, sword in 
hand. No one made any unfriendly move, nor any move at all; all five sat in 
silent dismay. Once outside, he turned and ran toward where he had left 
Koros; he had little doubt that despite his warning, some other attempt would 
be made to stop him, and he wanted to put as much distance between himself and 
the village as he could before the humans could reorganize sufficiently to 
launch their attack. His eyes were no longer accustomed to the darkness 
after his conversation in the lit tavern, and he stumbled on the rough 
roadway; annoyed, he called his warbeast's name. There was an answering 
growl and the beast appeared in the darkness before him, its golden eyes 
gleaming in the moonlight. He sheathed his sword and reached out; Koros 
obediently stalked up to him. He grabbed the harness and swung himself into 
the saddle, then gave the signal for a trot-not the warbeast's fastest pace by 
any means, but Garth thought it would be sufficient and did not care to risk 
more in the darkness. He directed the beast toward the west road, and then 
paused; how could he be sure it was the true west road, and that the humans 
had not used another illusion to confuse him? The moon's position was correct, 
and the red glow of the volcano lay in the right part of the sky, but he 
already knew that their illusions were good enough to encompass such details. 
He carefully reviewed his movements after leaving the inn, and determined that 
they had not in fact turned anything around-unless they had once again twisted 
his memories. He doubted that they had had time to do anything of the sort, 
though of course they could have distorted his time sense as well. He 
could not in fact be certain, but after consideration it seemed that it was 
unlikely the road was illusory, and he had no way of proving whether it was or 
not. Accordingly, he would assume that no illusions were being perpetrated, 
and if it later developed that they were, he would come back here and 
demonstrate to the Seer and the village elders the folly of angering Garth, 
Prince of Ordunin. He signaled for a trot again, and rode swiftly out of 
the village, away from the crossroads and the dimly lit inn.CHAPTER FIVEThe 
farmer had told him that it was three leagues from Weideth to Dûsarra; that 
was over an hour's ride, but a glance at the sky and some calculation 
indicated that he could still make it by midnight, with luck. It depended in 
large part upon how tired Koros was. So far, the creature showed no signs of 
fatigue at all. They were leaving the village, passing the last few houses 
that straggled out along the road, when Garth glimpsed movement from the 
corner of his eye; he ducked, instinctively, and the shadowy batlike form that 
swooped at him swept silently by, its glittering black talons inches from his 
face. The girl's bow was still clutched in one hand; he flung it aside, 
wishing he had taken her arrows as well, and dove from the warbeast's back, 
drawing his sword as he landed rolling on the rocky highway. Ahead and above, 
the bat-thing wheeled and came at him again. He got a good look at it as it 
attacked; it was not a true bat at all. Its wingspread was a good ten feet, 
and though its wings were stretched leathery hide like a bat's, its body and 
head were those of a bird of prey, round black eyes and hooked black beak 
making up the face, outstretched talons gleaming. He ducked under its lunge 
again and brought his sword up to meet it. The sword passed through it 
unhindered, leaving no mark, meeting no resistance. The tension left Garth's 
body; he grinned and stood upright. The thing was another illusion, of course, 
not even a particularly clever one. Did they expect him to cower away from the 
thing without fighting? Apparently they did, or they wouldn't have sent it. He 
turned back toward Koros, preparing to remount, ignoring the bat-thing that 
wheeled and-dove. Its claws ripped his helmet from him and raked bloody 



furrows across the back of his head. He swung around again, sword ready, 
growling in pain and anger; his sudden turn sent spatters of blood flying from 
his wounds. They were real, no doubt about it, and painful, but not deep. The 
elders of Weideth had more magic than mere illusion at their disposal. The 
thing was coming in for another pass; he dodged and swung at it with his 
sword. As before, the blade passed through the monster as if it were a mere 
shadow. Garth growled. On the next pass he dodged again, and lashed out not 
with his sword, but with his free hand, clutching at the thing's leg. His hand 
closed on nothing but air, and the claws raked his wrist. This began to be 
serious; although not too bright, the thing was persistent and would 
eventually tire him out and claw him to pieces. It seemed to possess a curious 
one-way tangibility like nothing Garth had ever encountered. He had thought it 
might have some protection against cold steel when the sword had no effect, 
but his hand had been equally incapable of touching it. Hand and sword had 
passed through its body without touching it, yet its claws had made themselves 
felt twice. Its claws had been felt-but only the claws! Even when Garth had 
left himself completely undefended in the mistaken belief he was dealing with 
an illusion, it had not used its great evil beak, nor struck him with its 
wings-wings that mane no sound and created no wind. As it turned for another 
assault, Garth studied its talons; they glinted in the moonlight unlike any 
claws he had ever seen, a glassy black sheen rather than the sparkling 
highlights of polished bone or nail. They were not smoothly curved, nor scaled 
and jointed, but twisted and jagged. They looked very much like some sort of 
glass or crystal rather than part of a living creature. It swept down upon 
him again, those strange black talons outstretched, and Garth's sword came up 
to meet it, not sweeping through its intangible belly this time, but striking 
at the talons themselves. He was rewarded with a tinkling crash as his 
blade struck and reduced one great spiked claw to a shower of glittering 
splinters. The creature's mouth opened, as though to cry in pain, but no 
sound emerged; it swept up and away from him and circled briefly. He took a 
moment to stoop and pick up a shard of the shattered claw; now that he held it 
in his hand, he could readily identify it. It was obsidian-black volcanic 
glass. It was quite tangible and ordinary. Overhead the thing seemed to 
recover itself, and dove at him again. This time he made no effort to 
dodge, but simply held up his blade horizontally before his face and kept it 
steady with both hands as the full force of the creature's claws smashed into 
it. The obsidian talons shattered spectacularly, sending glassy needles 
spraying in every direction; a few slivers stitched tiny cuts across his hands 
or spattered from his breastplate. His face was protected by the blade, but 
his eyes closed instinctively. When he opened them again the creature was 
gone, the only trace of its existence the splinters of volcanic glass that lay 
scattered about, glistening in the moonlight. He brushed himself off, 
sheathed his sword, retrieved his helmet, and looked about. No new threat was 
apparent, Koros was unharmed, and his own injuries were minor. He mounted the 
warbeast, then turned, and bellowed back toward Weideth. "Seer, if you can 
hear me, be warned! If you send anything else against me, destruction will 
indeed be unleashed, as I will wipe your village from the earth! Hear me, and 
be warned!" There was a faint echo of his shout from the hills on either side, 
but no other reply. He turned westward once more and rode on.CHAPTER 
SIXSomething over an hour later he emerged from between two hills to find 
himself with a clear view of Dûsarra crowning the long, smooth slope that rose 
in front of him. Moonlight glimmered from the city's domes and towers, a soft 
silver that seemed to give no light at all; comparing the silhouetted 
buildings with the smoky red sky behind them, Garth realized that they were 
all dead black in color, and that therefore even the brightest moonlight could 
not illumine them. The city was walled, though Garth thought it unlikely any 
wars were ever fought in such rugged land; the wall, too, appeared to be built 
of the same black stone. In the poor light Garth could not see where the wall 
ended and the ground below began; the slope before him appeared to be a smooth 
sheet of darkness that blended into the city without break. Peering closely, 



Garth realized that the hillside was, in fact, an ancient lava flow; it was a 
single vast slab of stone, where nothing grew. The road he followed ended at 
its foot, leaving the traveler to follow whatever route he chose across that 
rocky expanse. He urged his mount forward onto the stone; Koros obeyed 
without protest. They had come to the end of the fresh cinders a league or so 
back, where the road had curved toward the north; whichever volcano had thrown 
them up, it was apparently not the one that towered above Dûsarra, lighting 
the sky before them a murky red. As they made their way up the slope, 
something caught Garth's eye; there was something about the city wall that 
didn't look right. He stared harder, and saw it again; there was a glimmer of 
light directly in front of them, apparently in the middle of the wall. Could 
someone be camped in front of the gate? It was possible, but the light somehow 
didn't look like a campfire, nor did it look to be on the slope outside the 
walls. A window in the wall, perhaps, with a lighted guardroom beyond? That 
might be, except that it must be an inordinately large window to be so visible 
at this distance; although difficult to judge exactly at night, Garth was sure 
there was still another mile or so of this rocky slope to be climbed. A few 
moments later he realized what it was; the city gates were open, and the 
square just inside was lit all around with torches. It was very nearly 
midnight, yet Dûsarra's gates were wide open, as if it were noon of market 
day. Garth wondered what kind of strange city he was approaching; could this 
be some sort of religious festival? Were they so trusting of strangers that 
they left the gates open at all times? If that was it, then why were the walls 
maintained, and why was the market lit? No, that could not be the reason, for 
he could make out vague shapes moving about; there were people there, just 
exactly as if the city's inhabitants were going about their ordinary business 
in the dead of night. He began to hope that it was, in fact, some kind of 
holiday or religious event; that at least would be understandable. It 
suddenly struck him that his stealthy nighttime approach wasn't going to make 
much difference after all. Well, he thought, at least by torchlight it would 
be less obvious that he was an overman than it would be at noon. But then 
again, a city that lived by night might well sleep by day, and he might have 
done better to approach by daylight. No, that was absurd; there had to be 
some sane reason for this nocturnal activity. He could not imagine what it 
could be, but there must be one. He'd know soon enough; he gave up wondering 
and rode on. Dûsarra, he decided as he rode through the gate, was a very 
strange city, at least by his standards; but then, he had not actually 
traveled that much. Outside his own land he had seen only Skelleth, Weideth, 
and Mormoreth, and from a distance Ur-Dormulk; Mormoreth was a dead city, 
Skelleth might as well be, Weideth was only a village, and Ur-Dormulk he had 
not gone within a mile of. Perhaps Dûsarra was normal, and the others strange. 
He halted his mount, and looked about the square he found himself in. It was 
a fairly conventional marketplace; merchants, stalls lined every side, each 
with torches illuminating it, one or two torches per stall. The market was 
busy; men and women strolled about or rushed, haggled over prices, gossiped 
with friends, and generally did whatever people ordinarily did in a city 
market. Only the stars overhead and the flickering torchlight made the scene 
seem unnatural. Garth noticed with interest that the natives dressed 
differently from the people of Skelleth; where the men of Skelleth wore tunic 
and trousers and the women wore blouse and skirt, here both sexes wore long, 
shapeless robes. The poverty-stricken people of Skelleth could afford only the 
drabbest of dyes, but here Garth saw many attired in blood-red as well as the 
more usual browns, grays, white and black. The majority seemed to be wearing a 
dark blue shade; the current fashion, no doubt, or perhaps representative of 
some social class. Many had hoods pulled up over their heads. Well, he 
should be able to blend in reasonably well; although for most of the journey 
he had worn openly his breastplate, helmet, and mail, with his sword on his 
belt-a welcome change from the scratching hilt of his stiletto, which was 
packed away in his bundle of supplies-he had had the foresight to throw his 
rough brown cloak on before approaching the city. The trader's hat he had worn 



in Skelleth was not appropriate here; none of the natives wore any headgear 
but the loose hood. His cloak naturally included a hood, though he had never 
had occasion to wear it. He pulled it up, then paused; he would already stand 
out as remarkably tall, and should do nothing to exaggerate his height. He 
removed his helmet, then pulled the hood into place before stuffing the 
headpiece into the pack behind him. As yet, he had seen no sign that anyone 
had noticed his presence, which was all to the good; they were all too busy 
with their own concerns. It was odd that there was no guard on the gate, 
though. He dismounted and ambled casually forward, stooping to disguise 
his height, hoping that in the uneven torchlight no one would notice that he 
wasn't human. They would, of course, notice Koros; there was no disguising a 
warbeast. But there was also no cause to object strenuously to a warbeast, 
most particularly since these people probably had no idea what one was. Of 
course, he wouldn't want to take the beast along when he went temple-robbing; 
he would have to find an inn with a good stable. Besides needing a place to 
leave Koros, he was hungry and thirsty, and a tavern would undoubtedly be a 
good place to pick up information about the temples, as well. It seemed 
reasonable that there would be an inn facing on the square, convenient to the 
gate but, studying the shadowy stone facades behind the merchants' stalls, he 
could see no signboards indicating one, nor other evidence of one's existence. 
With a mental shrug, he stepped up to the nearest stall, where a silk dealer 
debated the value of a bolt of his best bleached fabric with a would-be buyer. 


He waited politely until the two arrived at a mutually satisfactory 
price; then, while the customer carefully counted out his hoarded coins, he 
inquired of the merchant, "Is there a good inn to be found near here? I have 
traveled far." The merchant, eagerly watching the small pile of silver 
grow, said, "There's the Inn of the Seven Stars." "Could you direct me 
there, then?" Pointing without looking up, he said, "Take the first street 
on the left." "My thanks." There had certainly been no danger there of 
being spotted as an overman; neither man had looked at him at all. He returned 
to where Koros stood, just inside the gate, and told the warbeast to follow 
him; finding the break in the ring of booths and buildings that marked a 
street, first one on the left, he led the warbeast through the crowd into the 
darkness of what proved little more than an alleyway. No one took undue notice 
of him or his beast; he decided that Dûsarra must be more cosmopolitan than he 
had thought, if its people were so blasé about such creatures in their midst. 
The alley was unlit and almost uninhabited; after the relative glare of the 
market it took his eyes a few seconds to adjust. Like their countrymen in the 
market, the few people who strolled the byway paid Garth and Koros no heed. 
Here all wore their hoods up and pulled well forward, unlike the market where 
the bare-headed predominated. He made his way carefully through the gloom; the 
shadows of the buildings on either side kept the moonlight from lighting the 
way adequately, but the narrow street was clear of obstructions. At least this 
inn stood on a cleaner street than the King's Inn, Garth thought. He rounded a 
slight curve, and found the way brighter; light poured from around a second 
turn, which brought the street back to its original direction. He turned the 
second corner, and had found the inn; the light poured from its broad front 
window, and he could hear voices within. The door stood open, not surprising 
on a warm summer night, and above it hung a sign; the light from the window 
let him make out seven stars arranged in an oval, white paint on blue. A wide 
arch just beyond led, he hoped, to an attached stable. He crossed the field of 
light, and found a boy asleep in the archway. The distinctive odors of horse 
and ox reached his slit nostrils, convincing him that his hopes were correct. 
He prodded the boy gently with a booted toe. The lad woke up immediately 
and sprang to his feet, but said nothing. "I need stabling for my mount." 
"One mark the night, sir, and feed is extra." "I have no local currency; 
will this do?" He produced his smallest gold coin, and dropped it in the boy's 
hand. The lad looked at it, then carried it over to the light that spilled 
from the tavern door. He studied it for a long minute, then asked, "What is 
it?" "A northern gold piece." "Gold?" The boy looked at it again, then 



tested it with his teeth. "Of course it's gold." "Yes, sir; but we see 
little gold here. Most pay in silver. My apologies for the delay; the third 
stall is yours, my lord." He bowed. Garth ignored the stable-boy's 
obsequiousness and led Koros to the indicated stall, which proved spacious 
enough and well lined with straw, though not particularly clean. A bucket of 
passably clear water hung from one side, and in view of its recent feeding 
Garth saw no need to provide the warbeast with any other sustenance. He 
removed pack and saddle and placed them to one side, then told Koros to stay 
and headed for the tavern door. He had no worries that anyone might disturb 
his supplies; anybody fool enough to try would be ripped to pieces 
immediately. A warbeast was a very useful thing to have. Although from the 
street the tavern had seemed brightly lit, once inside Garth found it 
otherwise; the light came from a row of lanterns hung across the window and 
from two low-burning hearthfires, one at either end of the main room, and from 
nowhere else, so that most of the room remained dim and shadowed. The chimneys 
did not seem to draw well either; a haze of smoke seemed to hang over 
everything. A dozen assorted locals adorned the various tables that were 
scattered about, and there was not a lone innkeeper, as Garth had expected, 
but two serving-maids and a boy, all adolescent, distinguishable from their 
patrons by virtue of gray aprons worn over their robes. Probably the 
innkeeper's offspring, he decided, and their father must be in the kitchen or 
ending to rooms upstairs. He beckoned to the nearer girl; she scurried 
over, leaving the spit she had been turning, which held a shapeless lump of 
meat a foot or so above one of the fires. "Yes, sir?" she said. "Bring me 
ale and meat; and have you any fruit? I could use something sweet." Garth 
spoke in a voice well above his natural range and stood stooping to disguise 
his inhuman height, his hood pulled well forward. "Yes, sir." She hurried 
off, and he seated himself at a convenient table. As he waited for his 
food and drink he studied his surroundings; he wanted someone to talk to, 
someone who would tell him about the city and the temples. What he saw were a 
dozen robed, hooded figures huddled over their tables, speaking little to each 
other, let alone to a stranger who would not allow his face to be seen. The 
universal Dûsarran garb made him wonder momentarily if the Forgotten King 
hailed from this strange city, but on consideration he decided it was 
unlikely. The King wore yellow, a color he had not seen displayed anywhere in 
this country, and went in rags despite his claim of royalty, while here, dark 
colors predominated and most wore clothing in far better shape than his own 
travel-worn cloak. Further, the King was pale-skinned, while the Dûsarrans, 
from what he could see, were of a middling shade, lighter than his own hide 
but browner than the men of Skelleth; and finally, the Dûsarran robes tended 
to be loose and flowing, while the King kept his garments wrapped tightly 
about him. But of course, Garth suddenly realized, not everyone in the room 
wore the standard robe and hood; the two serving-maids and their brother; if 
such he was, wore shorter, low-necked robes with no hoods, dark blue in color. 
All three were barefoot, with long brown hair tied back in single braids down 
their backs. The similarity in hair color further convinced Garth that they 
were siblings, as the shade and texture were almost identical. These three 
might be more willing to converse than their customers; filling an eager ear 
would surely be more pleasant to such young folk than carting mugs and plates 
about. He paid them more attention than he had. The boy was the youngest, 
probably well short of his full height, and still totally innocent of any 
beard; Garth was no judge of human ages, but the lad was plainly far from 
maturity. As such, he would probably be limited in his knowledge; among 
overmen, at least, religion and philosophy were not the concerns of children, 
so Garth guessed that the boy would know nothing of the temples. Of the two 
girls, there seemed little to choose, from the overman's point of view; they 
were of about the same size, and presumably therefore near the same age. They 
were as tall as many adult human women; Garth wondered again at the quirk of 
nature that made men and women so different in size, unlike overman and 
overwomen. Women seemed such small, fragile things, things, anal oddly 



proportioned, at that. One girl seemed slightly the more active of the two; 
Garth decided she must be the younger. It was her older sister he had spoken 
to when he arrived, and it would presumably be the older who would bring his 
food. In that case, he would simply speak to her when his meal was ready. 
Even as he decided this, the girl emerged from a door at the rear carrying a 
heaping plate and full mug, which she balanced easily as she crossed the room 
to set them on the table before him. "My thanks." He kept his face hidden 
and his voice high as he looked at his meal; beside the expected slices of red 
meat were three chunks of some pasty yellowish substance, and a curious red 
fruit, like none he was familiar with, adorned one edge. "What are these?" he 
asked, indicating these strangers. "Roast potato, sir. And our last good 
apple; we have no other fruit in store at present." Both names were 
meaningless to the overman; he could not even be sure of their spelling, 
through the girl's thick Dûsarran accent. At least Nekutta spoke the same 
language as Eramma and the other northern lands, even if they spoke it 
strangely. Still, the "apple" was plainly a local fruit; the potato was 
another matter. "What is potato?" "Ah? Oh, you're joking!" "No; I have 
traveled far." "It's...it's a root, a vegetable. Eat it, and see." The girl 
was flustered; Garth was not sure if that was desirable or not. He did have 
her talking. "Here, sit down; I will try this root of yours, but I have 
some questions about your city. Perhaps you can answer them." "But..." 
"I am a paying customer, am I not? You can spare a few minutes." He tapped the 
table with a gold coin, then suddenly realized that it was a mistake to draw 
attention to his inhuman hands; he dropped the coin, and drew his hand back 
out of sight. The girl apparently hadn't noticed anything out of the ordinary; 
she stared at the coin for a moment, then snatched it up and dropped it down 
the neckline of her robe. Garth was amused. He had never before seen a human 
keep anything there, but it seemed a logical place for a woman to put a 
pocket. The coin had been a fullsized gold piece, not one of the little bits 
such as he had given the stable-boy, and he remarked, "That will cover the 
meal as well, will it not?" "Oh, yes!" The girl dropped herself into the 
chair opposite him, smiling. "Good. Tell me of your city; I am a wanderer 
from far to the east." "What is there to say?" "Ah..." Garth had not expected 
that response. He was not experienced in dealing with humans. "Why is the 
marketplace so busy in the middle of the night? And the gate wide open?" 
"It always is." That demolished the religious festival theory once and for 
all. "But why? In most cities business is a matter for daylight, and the night 
is given to sleep." "But this is Dûsarra!" Her tone implied, even to the 
untrained ear of an overman, that he was being purposely dense. He picked up a 
chunk of potato on his knife and ate it, while considering this; the stuff 
seemed edible, but not particularly tasty. "And what is so special about 
Dûsarra?" "You do not know?" "No." "The very name tells you." Garth 
had paid little attention to the name, assuming it nothing but a noise that 
represented this particular place; he considered it a bit more carefully, and 
still saw nothing significant in it. The ending was a standard designation for 
a gathering place, and the root, Dûs, was completely unknown to him. "I do 
not understand." "`Dûsarra' means `the place of the Dark Gods' Here we 
worship the gods shunned by the outside world; mostly Tema, the goddess of 
night. Perhaps, stranger, you have made a mistake in coming here if you did 
not know that." "Perhaps I have." He sat silently for a moment, thinking. 
He should have expected something like this from the Forgotten King. He knew 
very little about human religions, beyond the fact that no two seemed to agree 
about anything, but he had heard of the Dark Gods; they were supposed to 
demand human sacrifices, and to be wholly evil in nature. It had been rumored 
that the Baron of Skelleth was a secret devotee of theirs, and that had been 
considered sufficient grounds for immediate execution if proven; it remained 
only a vague rumor. It was said that, unlike most gods, they still interfered 
directly in mortal affairs, and would grant their followers special powers and 
abilities in exchange for gruesome payments of blood, death, and torture. Evil 
wizards were said to have sold themselves-their souls, to use the human term 



that overmen did not use-to the Dark Gods. And the entire city of Dûsarra 
worshipped these deities? It seemed incredible. How could a thinking being 
worship evil? "Tell me, then, about these gods." At least the conversation 
had taken a turn toward the temples without obviously being steered there. 
"There are seven of them, the seven Lords of Dûs, the counterparts to the 
seven Lords of Eir worshipped elsewhere. I know very little about most of 
them; I am a follower of Tema, like the rest of my family." "How did you come 
to be such?" "I was brought up in the faith, of course." "How did the 
city come to worship these gods?" "I don't know; it always has. My father 
told me once that it was part of a cosmic balance that these misunderstood and 
maligned gods should have one city of their own." "Are they not evil?" 
"Tema is not!" Her face was suddenly animated, and Garth was taken aback by 
her ferocity. "Tema is beautiful! The night is wonderful, cool and calm; I 
would never be a day worshipper! How can people live with all that glaring 
light? And all the sweaty heat? And all the beasts roam by day, and insects. 
The sun is so bright you cannot look at it, and it drowns out all the beauty 
of the flames. There are no stars in the daytime! I..." She subsided suddenly. 
"Forgive me." "No, forgive me; I did not mean to offend you. In other 
lands I have visited, the Dark Gods are thought to be the gods of evil." 
She shrugged. "They are obviously ignorant heathens. There are no evil gods, 
really; evil is just misunderstandings between people, or between people and 
the gods. That's what the priests say." "I see. You worship the 
night-goddess. What of the other six?" "They have their followers, too, but 
I do not heed them. I sometimes think that some of them are evil, despite what 
the priests say. Aghad, for example; his followers make my skin crawl, and his 
priests frighten me. I have seen them gathering at his temple. And of course, 
no one worships The God Whose Name Is Not Spoken, though he has a temple." 
Garth began to have a rather unsettled feeling; he had heard of The God Whose 
Name Is Not Spoken. That was the god of death, known throughout the world; it 
was said that to speak his true name was to die instantly. And they worshipped 
him here? No, the girl had just said that they did not, but that there was a 
temple dedicated to him. Was it one of the seven he would have to rob? It 
must be; everyone seemed to agree that there were only seven temples in 
Dûsarra. Although he would not admit to being in any way superstitious, and 
although his own people insisted that either there were no gods or they did 
not meddle in the affairs of mortals, he did not care to rob the temple of 
Death. On the other hand, his practical sense told him, if there were no 
worshippers, it would be unguarded and the easiest of the lot. "Tell me who 
the seven gods are." "You mean the seven who have temples?" "Are there 
others?" "Oh, yes; there's Tema's daughter Mei, the lady of the moon, and 
any number of others." "Just tell me the seven." "Bheleu, P'hul, Sai, 
Aghad, Andhur Regvos, and Tema." "That's only six, if I heard you rightly." 


"Well and there's the Unnamed God. You know." "Oh, of course." It was 
apparently considered bad luck to mention the death-god too often even by 
circumlocution. "I know him, and P'hul, and you have told me Tema is the 
goddess of the night; who are the others?" "Bheleu is god of destruction 
and war, I think. Andhur Regvos is the god of darkness." "Why has he got 
two names?" "I don't know." "Oh. Go on; what about the other two?" "I 
don't know; Aghad and Sai are secret. Their temples admit no outsiders. They 
both...well, that's just a rumor. Never mind." "And all the city lives by 
night, to accord with their religion?" "Oh, no! Not all! Only the 
worshippers of night and darkness. But we're most of the city. I don't know 
anyone who lives by day, but of course that's partly because I'm asleep all 
day." "I am interested in this; could I visit the temples?" "I don't know 
about the others, but I can take you to the temple of Tema." "Good. But 
first," he said, realizing that he had been talking while his food grew cold 
and that he was ravenously hungry, "I will eat." He did so, and found the 
food and drink good; the girl laughed gaily when he tried to eat the apple 
core and all.CHAPTER SEVENThe temple of Tema was a massive, imposing 
structure; most of its area was covered by a looming black dome, which Garth 



thought was probably the one he had first seen from ten leagues' distance, and 
the entrance was through the base of a tower that stood a good hundred feet in 
height. The entire building was constructed of huge blocks of black stone, 
finely polished, and with elaborate carvings on either side of the wide, open 
doorway. The door was reached by climbing a flight of thirteen black stone 
steps, flanked by balustrades carved into a maze of intertwined black 
serpents. Garth did not particularly care for the place; although undeniably 
impressive, he did not like the impression it gave of looming over one, black 
in the moonlight, and the way its size served to diminish its inhabitants. The 
robed and hooded figures entering the dark portal looked like little children, 
out of proportion with their surroundings. He also didn't like the 
darkness within; not the slightest glimmer of light showed through the door. 
That was appropriate for the temple of the goddess of night, but he still 
didn't like it. The tavern girl was beside him as he mounted the steps; it 
occurred to him suddenly that he didn't know her name. Of course, she didn't 
know his name, either. Ahead of them three other worshippers, robed in 
midnight blue, vanished into the darkness of the doorway. A moment later, he 
and the girl also stepped into the gloom of the interior. Garth paused for a 
moment, to let his eyes adjust, and realized he could detect no trace of the 
three who had entered just ahead of them; no sound of rustling clothing, no 
footsteps, no odor. His psychic discomfort increased. The girl had not 
hesitated, as he had, and was across the room, an antechamber about forty feet 
square; he heard her whisper, "Come on!" He came, and rejoined her, standing a 
pace or two from the inner wall. He had expected a draped doorway, or some 
other opening into the temple proper, but could make out no sign of one; there 
seemed to be merely a blank stone wall. Then, with startling abruptness, a 
portion of the stone wall swung inward; the heavy scent of incense drifted out 
to him. He made out a figure in the opening, darkly clad, but with-pale skin 
and white hair that gleamed in the faint moonlight that reached it. The 
darkness within that opening seemed no more absolute than in the antechamber; 
that was some comfort, anyway. The girl stepped through the opening, and he 
followed, to find himself in the main temple. The odor of incense was almost 
overpowering; its smoke swirled in great clouds, almost invisible in the 
darkness. Moonlight filtered in from somewhere, though he could see no 
windows; the walls were blank and dark behind him, and he could not see the 
far side. The room he found himself in was obviously huge; all about him were 
constant indefinable whisperings and rustlings, which were distorted by 
distance and echoes and which seemed to drift in the smoke. He could not make 
out either the far wall or the roof; his eyes had not yet had time to adjust. 
A change in the movement of the air prompted him to turn, and discover that 
the opening he had entered through had vanished; the wall seemed solid once 
more. The white-haired apparition had also disappeared. He turned to face the 
interior again, and was relieved to see, dimly, the figure of the tavern-girl, 
still only a few paces in front of him. She motioned for him to follow, and 
led the way across the chamber; he obeyed, carefully maintaining his stooped 
posture, and noticed that where she moved silently, his boot heels tapped 
loudly on the stone floor. They went perhaps a hundred feet, then stopped; 
the girl turned slightly, and knelt in a curious submissive position, head 
lowered, hands in front of her. Garth imitated her, and waited for his eyes to 
adapt themselves. He was kneeling at the back of a crowd of humans, all in a 
similar devotional posture; the chamber, he saw, filled the entire interior of 
the great dome, easily two hundred feet across and sixty or seventy feet high 
at the center. The moonlight came from hundreds, perhaps thousands of tiny 
holes that pierced the dome, and which he realized after a moment's study were 
intended to resemble stars, arranged in the constellations that could be seen 
in the middle of a winter night. The great circular floor was cluttered 
with people, both kneeling and prostrate, but none were speaking, not even in 
a whisper; the constant sounds that echoed and reechoed from the dome were the 
inevitable rustlings of the worshippers' clothing, no more. Or at least, 
nothing more he was sure of; some of the sounds seemed too strange to be so 



readily explained. All these people, whether prostrate or upright, faced 
in the same direction; as his eyes continued to adjust, he gradually made out 
the object of their adoration. The figure of a human female was carved 
from the same black stone as wall and dome; it was thirty feet or so in 
height, and a masterpiece of sculpture. She stood against the wall, upright, 
but not stiffly erect; her arms were upraised, spreading her stony cloak above 
the worshipping throng. The cloak itself blended into the wall and dome 
indistinguishably, and Garth saw, looking around, that its folds were 
continued indefinitely, so that the entire chamber was contained within it, 
"stars" and all. The figure itself was depicted as clad in a loose robe such 
as all Dûsarrans seemed to wear, but arranged so that the graceful curves of 
the woman's body could be seen. The face was oval, smooth and serene, and 
surrounded by a halo of drifting hair that blended into the dome in the same 
manner as the cloak. The overall impression, to the overman, was one of grace 
and soothing calm; he was not equipped to appreciate the goddess' sensual 
nature and although the symbolism of the goddess spreading her cloak of night 
across her followers was plain to him, he did not fully comprehend the 
comforting motherliness that the worshippers of Tema found in that image. 
Still, he understood, in an intellectual way, that humans would have little 
trouble in putting their faith in such a deity. No wonder the girl had been 
upset when he called the goddess evil. He was so involved in his study of 
the magnificent idol that it was several minutes before he even noticed the 
altar that stood at her feet. It was a great chunk of meteoric iron, its sides 
still burned and twisted from its fall, but with the top sheared off and 
polished to a gleaming metallic shine perceptible even in the darkness of the 
temple. There was no mistaking that this was the altar that Garth had come to 
rob, and there upon it was what he must steal; he could make out only a vague 
round shape, a foot or so in diameter. There was a spot of light on its 
surface, he noticed; one of the pinholes in the dome was directly in line with 
the moon, and a beam of its light was now falling directly upon that thing 
upon the altar. He wondered whether it was intentional. Then, so suddenly 
that he almost lost his balance in his startlement, the room was filled with 
chanting; the incense swirled more thickly than ever, billowing forth from a 
dozen niches spaced around the wall. Priests appeared behind the altar, 
completely hidden in black robes that exaggerated the usual looseness to near 
parody; one reached forward, and what Garth suddenly realized was a cloth 
cover vanished from the thing on the altar. It immediately blazed up into 
scintillating light, so bright in the darkness as to seem almost blinding; it 
was a great crystal, a sphere with a million facets, which trapped the thin 
beam of moonlight and reflected and refracted it into a glittering display of 
pure white light. Garth thought for a moment that it was a diamond, but 
dismissed that as absurd; no diamond could be so large, and he doubted that 
even diamond could catch the light like that. This was some sort of gem or 
crystal that was totally unfamiliar to him. It was also a gem he would 
have to steal, if he were to perform his errand in Dûsarra. He knelt, 
listening to the priests chant, and wondered how he was ever going to manage 
it.CHAPTER EIGHTThere were words to the chant, and the ceremony undoubtedly 
had some specific significance, but Garth made out none of it; he was too lost 
in his own thoughts to listen, and the echoing dome distorted the singsong 
enough to make it difficult to discern its meaning. It sounded to the overman 
like nothing more than a randomly shifting drone. He paid little attention 
as the dark-robed priests lifted the great crystal and moved it ceremoniously 
through elaborate patterns in the air, alternately sprinkling the crowd with 
sparkles of reflected moonlight and plunging them into darkness; he was 
planning out his actions. There were questions he would have asked the 
tavern-girl, but she was lost in the chanting, her lips moving silently, her 
face enraptured. He saw instantly, when a stray glint of moonlight lit her 
features, that she would be of no use to him for awhile. Since this was the 
temple of night, it seemed a safe assumption that all prayers and worship were 
nocturnal; by day the place should be almost deserted, though probably there 



would be a few priests about. It was already well after midnight; he had 
merely to wait until dawn, grab the crystal, and depart. If possible he would 
wait until no priests were about, but if necessary he could force his way 
through them. There was no sign that they carried weapons of any sort; a drawn 
sword should awe them into letting him pass, most particularly since most 
humans had an almost superstitious fear of overmen, who were, after all, a 
good bit larger and stronger than humans, and by human standards hideous 
monsters. It would be advisable to find some quiet hiding place where he 
could wait until daybreak; if he merely stayed where he was he might draw 
unwanted attention. He considered leaving and then returning at sunrise, but 
rejected it immediately. He had no idea how to open that swinging wall, or 
even whether it could be opened from the outside at all. Even if it could be, 
it might be kept locked by day. The ritual, ended with a simple chant that 
the worshippers repeated along with the priests; every other word was the name 
of the goddess, and it was just six words, but Garth could not make out the 
other three. It was recited three times; then the priest lifted the crystal 
one last time, placed it on the altar, and lifted its cloth cover back over 
it. Its final gleam lit the priest's eyes, despite his overhanging cowl, and 
Garth started with surprise; the priest's eyes were as red as his own! For an 
instant he thought that perhaps the robed figure was another overman, but 
dismissed it; he was too small, by far, and like the person who had admitted 
him to the chamber, his hair was gleaming white, while all overmen had 
coal-black hair. Besides, that quick glimpse had shown him eyes with pupil, 
iris, and white, while overmen had only pupil and iris. No, the priest was 
just a freak of some sort. The ceremony was over, and the tavern-girl rose 
and motioned for him to follow her out; he shook his head. She frowned at him, 
and then shrugged and left. Almost all the worshippers, kneeling or prostrate, 
were getting to their feet and heading toward the entrance, but Garth remained 
where he was, to await the dawn. It was a long, weary wait; he had not 
realized how tired he was, but the effects of a long day's ride were catching 
up to him well before the night was over. When the crowd had departed he was 
left alone in the middle of the stone floor, but the cowled priests, who moved 
with quiet rustlings but no words along the wall behind the altar, paid him no 
heed. Moments after the last of Tema's devoted had departed, new ones began to 
trickle in; by the time a half hour had passed the chamber was becoming 
crowded once again with people kneeling with hands clasped before them, or 
flat on their bellies, all facing the magnificent black stone idol. The 
scattered bits of moonlight that found their way through the holes in the dome 
shifted as the moon crawled across the heavens outside, and an hour or so 
after the tavern-girl's departure a spot of light appeared on the 
cloth-covered sphere atop the altar. A priest withdrew the covering, and the 
chanting began anew. This time it was not his planning that kept Garth from 
hearing the words; it was his efforts to stay awake. His knees hurt from 
kneeling so long without moving on hard stone, his eyes ached from the strain 
of seeing through the unchanging dark, and his whole body was weary from his 
long ride. He knew that to close his eyes would be to fall asleep. He had 
arisen early, before dawn, which meant that when the new day arrived he would 
have gone better than twenty-four hours without sleep; that was no remarkable 
feat, ordinarily, but after a day spent riding and now passing long, dull 
hours crouching in the dark, it began to seem impossible. The second 
ceremony ended, the crowd dispersed, and newcomers trickled in; still he knelt 
there, and still no one paid any attention to him. The priests shuffled about 
at the goddess' feet; all seemed to have long, pure-white hair, and at least 
two had the same strange red eyes. All were pale-skinned, unlike the other 
Dûsarrans Garth had seen; even those whose faces remained completely hidden 
showed their hands on occasion, and those hands were uniformly white and 
apparently hairless. There were few other similarities amongst them; some were 
tall, some short, some fat, some thin. There seemed to be at least one 
priestess among them, judging by what little could be distinguished through 
the flowing robes. Garth had once seen a white wolf, a beast with snow-white 



fur and blood-red eyes; a Kirpan scholar had referred to it as "albino." These 
priests must be albino humans. He had not known such existed. And why should 
all the priests be such? It seemed a peculiar requirement, if such it was; why 
were albinos especially suited to serve the goddess of the night? Wondering 
about such trivia managed to keep him awake through a third and final 
ceremony; this time, when the final simple chant ended and the gem was 
covered, the crowd moved more slowly, and for the first time Garth heard 
worshippers speaking amongst themselves. Likewise, the priests ended their 
apparently aimless wanderings; all but three of the half dozen or more he had 
seen vanished, though Garth could not see where they had gone. The remaining 
trio stood motionless behind the altar, the center one with his hands resting 
one on either side of the shrouded crystal. Garth estimated it to be two 
hours before dawn still. Since this new behavior seemed to demonstrate that 
the temple's services were through for the night, he got to his feet; his 
knees stung, as circulation returned to the areas where it had been cut off. 
He gazed up at the idol, as if in adoration, so that no one would question his 
failing to depart. His eyes had long since become adjusted to the faint 
illumination, but now he found himself unable to distinguish details of 
carving that had been clear before; he blinked, but it made no difference. The 
scattered moonlight was not evenly distributed; had it merely shifted? No, it 
was growing uniformly darker. He had a moment of irrational fear that he was 
going blind before he realized what was happening. The moon was setting. 
That, of course, was why there were to be no more ceremonies, and why everyone 
was departing; with the moon down, the temple would be far too dark for use. 
People would run into one another, face the wrong way, and generally be unable 
to behave appropriately; even night-worshippers recognized that. He wondered 
what they did on moonless nights; were there no services at all? The starlight 
was plainly inadequate. Or what of overcast nights? Would torchlight from the 
streets or the glow of the volcanoes reflected off the clouds be enough? There 
would be no beam of moonlight falling on the great crystal. Well, interesting 
as they might be, such considerations were irrelevant, since this night had 
been clear and moonlit. The spreading darkness would actually work to his 
benefit, since no one would be able to see him steal the gem; he studied the 
altar, measuring the distance between it and himself, so as to reach it 
quickly in the dark. The three priests still stood behind it; the last 
worshippers had drifted out, and Garth realized they were looking at him, 
noticing this last straggler. That was not what he wanted. He turned and 
headed for the door, but stopped a foot from it, and turned to look again, 
hoping that anyone who saw him would not think that unusual. Apparently 
the priests didn't, if they were able to see at all in the deepening gloom; 
Garth doubted they could see him any more, as he could no longer see them. 
Although he did not know for sure, it seemed unlikely that those squinty 
little human eyes could be as good as an overman's-though of course the 
priests' eyes were not quite normal. A gong sounded somewhere, and the 
stone door swung slowly shut; whoever worked it thought Garth had left. He 
stepped away from it and lost himself in the darkness. There were 
rustlings and whisperings in the blackness, which was now almost total; the 
moon was down. Although the dome made it very hard to locate sounds" Garth 
judged that the three priests were moving away from the altar. In a moment the 
sounds were cut off" as if a curtain had dropped across a doorway; straining, 
Garth could hear faint footsteps departing. The priests were gone. Moving 
with all the stealth he could contrive, Garth inched across the broad stone 
expanse that lay between him and the altar; he could not see more than a few 
inches in front of him, and the quiet shuffling of his boots seemed magnified 
into a low roar by the echoes. After what seemed hours, his outstretched 
hand touched something; he studied it with his fingertips, and decided it was 
a fold in the idol's cloak; he had missed the altar and hit the wall, off to 
the left. Cautiously, he felt his way along the fold until it swooped up out 
of reach, then moved on along the wall until he came to the idol's slippered 
feet, which he knew to be immediately behind the altar. He turned until he 



faced directly away from the wall, and peered into the darkness; he thought he 
could see the dim outline of the altar. He took a step forward and felt in 
front of him, reaching down to the height he estimated the altar to be; his 
hand brushed against a polished surface. Using both hands he groped about the 
altar-top and found the cloth-covered stone. He picked it up, cover and all, 
and tucked it under his cloak. Now he had only to get out of the temple 
undetected. He knew that the concealed door to the antechamber was directly 
opposite the altar. He considered feeling his way along the wall until he 
found it, but rejected that idea; he might walk right into priests reentering 
the chamber, or at the very least be heard through whatever doorways they had 
departed by. Instead, he aimed himself by dead reckoning and set out across 
the floor. Again, it seemed to take hours to cross; but at last an 
outstretched hand touched stone. He came up within inches of the wall, but 
could see only blackness; he felt along it with his hand, seeking a latch or 
seam or hinge. His left hand was occupied in holding the pilfered altar-stone 
under his cloak; it took a long time to cover an area with only his 
unencumbered right. He worked his way along, first three paces to the right, 
then twice that distance to the left, then back to the right once more; a 
feeling of desperation crept into him as his fingers found nothing but yard 
after yard of smooth stone. Suddenly there was a sound behind him; he 
whirled, his right hand dropping automatically under his cloak to the hilt of 
his sword, but could see nothing in the darkness. "If you return the stone 
you may go in peace, thief." He recognized the voice as one of the priests. He 
made no reply. "You cannot open the door; only the priests of Tema know its 
secret." Garth wondered how many were there, and how they had gotten so 
close to him without being heard; he judged the voice-for so far only one had 
spoken-to be ten, perhaps fifteen, not more than twenty feet away. 
"Return the gem." He needed time to devise an escape. "And if I do not?" he 
asked. "Then you will die here." Garth adjusted his grip, hugging the 
crystal closer to him, and drew his sword. "I have a counterproposal. You will 
open the door for me, or you will die, not I." There could be no doubt that 
the priest or priests had heard and recognized the scrape of steel on leather 
as the blade left its sheath; there was a pause before the voice spoke again. 
"It is possible that you may kill one or two of us before you yourself perish; 
if so, we will die in the sure knowledge that we have served our goddess and 
will be admitted to her realm for all eternity. You, on the other hand, will 
die damned forever for your sacrilege. I ask again, return the stone; it is 
not too late. Return it, and we will yet let you depart peacefully, even 
though you have drawn a weapon in our sanctuary." Garth made no answer for 
a long moment, and the priest said nothing, apparently granting the thief time 
to consider the hopelessness of his position. The overman, however, was not 
considering options or the lack thereof, but rather was noticing that he could 
distinguish, very faintly, the outline of a lone figure a dozen feet in front 
of him. This was not the result of any adjustment; his eyes had long been at 
their extreme of sensivity. No, there was new light filtering in, the first 
dim gray of approaching dawn. That reminded him how long it had been since he 
last slept, and he suddenly felt weary even as he considered how the growing 
light would work to his advantage. The priests were undoubtedly accustomed to 
living almost entirely in darkness; they would not do well outside their 
temple in daylight, if he could once get out into the streets. He wondered 
if the priest could see him at all; the light was not evenly distributed. 
Further, was he aware that he, himself, was visible? And it was now apparent 
that the priest was alone. Probably the lone man had been making a final 
inspection round of some sort, and tried to bluff out the intruder; 
unfortunately for him, his bluff was now ruined. Knowing that he faced a 
single opponent, Garth finally struck upon a scheme. "If I hand you the 
crystal, will you then open the door and let me go, unpursued?" "Yes." 
"Will you swear it, by your goddess?" "I swear it, by Tema." "Very well." 
With a great show of reluctance, Garth held out the gem with his left hand, 
purposely extending his arm not directly toward the priest but a little to one 



side, as if he still could not see where the man was. His sword remained ready 
in his right hand. The priest stepped forward, and carefully lifted the 
stone, using both hands. He stood for a moment, and Garth demanded, "Now open 
the door." "Let me return the stone to the altar first." "No! You said you 
would open the door when I returned the stone." He lifted his sword as if to 
slash blindly in front of him; although the light was actually growing 
steadily, and already permitted him to distinguish such details as the cracks 
in the floor and the folds of the priest's robe, he hoped to continue his ruse 
of blindness a few moments longer. He had no specific reason for it; he was 
merely snatching every advantage he could, as his training in war and 
statecraft had taught him. "If you insist." The priest tucked the crystal 
under one arm and crossed to the wall; his free hand brushed across the black 
stone surface and caught something Garth could not make out. With a 
considerable effort, the priest pulled; the section of wall swung open, and 
gray light poured in. Garth had forgotten that the great portal faced east, 
but such was the case; and although the sun was still below the horizon, the 
sky above it was already warmly pink. The spacious antechamber was much less 
ominous in the cold morning light than it had been by moonlight, merely a 
large, bare room, with half one wall opening onto a stair to the street. 
Garth smiled with satisfaction. Moving with superhuman speed, he leapt across 
the few feet separating him from the priest; in scarcely a second from the 
opening of the door, his sword was at the man's throat. "Now, O priest, 
you will give me back the stone. I have handed it to you, and you have opened 
the door; now I will take it again and go, unpursued," "No!" "Yes." 
"You cannot take it!" "You will die if you do not give it to me." "My 
brothers will find you." "What of your oath? You swore I would not be 
pursued." "No! I swore you would leave unpursued, not that there would be no 
pursuit after your departure. If you take the altar-stone, the followers of 
Tema will seek you out, wherever you go." "Perhaps. I will risk it. Now give 
me the stone, and I will go." "No!" "Listen, fool, if you give me the stone I 
will leave you alive, and you may lead the pursuit; if you force me to kill 
you, there will be no one who knows who took the stone. It would be to my 
advantage to slaughter you out of hand, but that is not my wish. Give me the 
stone and live." "You could kill me anyway." "Why should I wait? Give me 
the stone!" "No! Help! Brothers! Thief, murderer!" The priest began shouting 
at the top of his lungs. Disgusted, Garth grabbed for the crystal, and got a 
tenuous hold with the long fingers of his left hand; his superior reach had 
caught the human by surprise, and the priest's own grip slipped for an 
instant. That was all the time Garth needed; he snatched his hand back, the 
stone clutched as tightly as he could manage. With a scream that echoed and 
reechoed from the dome, the priest lunged for it, and automatically, without 
thinking, without meaning to, Garth reacted as a warrior reacts; he ran the 
man through, impaling him on his broadsword. Blood spattered the wall behind 
the priest, and Garth exclaimed in disgust, a wordless noise in his throat. 
There was no doubt that the man was dead, or as good as dead; Garth's reflexes 
were as reliable as ever, and if he had not put his blade straight through the 
heart it had been a very near miss indeed. He had the stone, though. Now he 
had only to get away with it; the other priests must have heard the shouting, 
especially that final scream. He yanked his sword out of the priest's body; a 
good foot of the blade had protruded through the back of the robe, and it took 
a second pull before it came completely free, allowing the unfortunate man to 
fall to the floor. His hood fell aside, and for the first time Garth saw his 
face; a thin, pale face, red eyes wide and glazed in death, mouth gaping and 
filling with sluggishly flowing blood. Long white hair was flung across his 
features, tangling with a skimpy white beard; he had been a young man, perhaps 
only a novice rather than a full priest. Garth was not at all pleased. He had 
hoped to avoid killing anyone on this errand. He wiped his sword on the hem of 
the man's robe and stepped across the corpse into the antechamber, carefully 
avoiding the spreading pool of blood, then paused for a moment to sheathe his 
sword. There was a cry from behind him; he glanced back and saw nothing 



but darkness. Nonetheless, he sprinted for the steps. More shouts sounded, and 
something whistled through the air by his ear; disdaining dignity he dove 
forward, curling into a ball around the stolen altarstone and rolling down the 
thirteen steps to the street, where he sprang up and ran, paying little heed 
at first to direction but merely dodging at random from alley to street to 
alley. His hood flew back, revealing his inhuman visage, but none of the 
startled passersby attempted to stop him. At last, well after the shouting was 
lost in the distance, he slowed; he paused in an unoccupied alleyway to 
restore his obscuring cowl and height-disguising crouch, and hobbled out, 
doing his best to appear a harmless old man. The altar-stone was under his 
cloak, hidden by his crouch. It took him half an hour to find himself on a 
street he recognized; from there he made his way to the market place, and 
thence to the Inn of the Seven Stars. He dared not enter the tavern, as the 
followers of Tema might find him there; instead he went to Koros' stall in the 
adjacent stable. There he decided to take a look at his booty, and pulled the 
great crystal from under his cloak. It sparkled eerily in the morning light; 
he gazed at it in fascination. It was very beautiful, an intense, cold beauty. 
He found himself studying its depths raptly, searching for something he could 
feel there; he had a sensation of being observed, and of unearthly power, as 
if the night-goddess herself were watching him from within the gem. He was 
unaware of anything but the gem, and the deep cold gleaming light within; he 
lost his sense of time, and felt as if he had been looking into the 
crystalline glow for all eternity, trying to meet the gaze of Tema. A cool 
stillness, like the air of a clear night, absorbed him, and he knelt utterly 
motionless. With the abruptness of a lightning bolt he felt a warm touch on 
his face, like a flame on ice; he turned away from it involuntarily, and the 
spell was broken as the gem ceased to be the center of his direct gaze. He 
blinked, and realized he was kneeling foolishly in the straw of the stall 
holding the stone while Koros nuzzled him curiously, wondering why he did not 
move. He had survived hypnotic spells before, and had a healthy respect for 
them; he covered the great crystal with straw, being very careful not to look 
directly at it. The straw would also hide it adequately; no one would be able 
to come close enough to find it without first disposing of the warbeast. Garth 
pitied anyone who might attempt such a feat. His booty secured, he paused 
for a moment to decide his next action; he seated himself comfortably on a 
pile of straw, his mount standing placidly over him. Long before he could 
reach any decision his fatigue caught up with him, and he slept.CHAPTER NINEHe 
awoke slowly, his mind fuzzy; there were voices somewhere nearby. It took him 
several seconds before he recognized his surroundings as Koros' stall in the 
inn's stable; more seconds passed before he remembered that he had fallen 
asleep there unintentionally. His neck ached; he had slept with his head 
propped awkwardly against the side of the stall. He rubbed it absently and 
listened to the voices. There were two of them, both young human males; they 
were arguing about something, apparently the ownership of some item. A small 
item, it seemed, since the one who possessed it apparently carried it on his 
person. Garth sat up and looked around; it was daylight, and judging by 
the shadows either very early or very late. He thought for a moment, 
calculating the orientation of the stable, and decided that it was late 
afternoon. He had slept most of the day away, which was probably just as well. 
He had needed the rest. He recalled the events of the night before, and 
checked to be sure his loot was still secure; it was. He had thought that the 
crystal was clear, but looking at it in the sunlight being very careful not to 
let it trap his attention once again-he saw that it was milky white. Not that 
it made any difference, he thought; he had no use for the thing. He covered it 
over with straw again. The argument outside was winding down; some sort of 
compromise had apparently been reached. It was none of his concern. He 
clambered to his feet, promising himself that never again would he sleep 
wearing mail; every link seemed to have left a permanent impression on his 
back, despite the quilting underneath and the breastplate on top. Reminded of 
the breastplate's presence, he removed it; mail alone should certainly be 



sufficient for anything he was likely to encounter in the city. He was still 
wearing his sword as well, he realized when he almost tripped over it. Koros 
growled a greeting, and the voices outside suddenly stopped. Then one asked, 
"What was that?" The other replied, "I don't know. Dugger said there was some 
kind of foreign monster in number three, but I figured he was lying as usual." 


There was a pause. Garth patted the warbeast's nose, and reached down to 
his pack for the wire brush he used for cleaning the monster's ears, which had 
a habit of picking up burrs and other such unpleasant little items. The first 
voice spoke again. "Should we check?" "I don't know." "I'm going 
to look. Come on." "Go look yourself." "Oh, come on." "Well, all 
right. If you want." There was the sound of footsteps approaching; light 
footsteps. Definitely young humans, Garth thought, as he stood with brush in 
hand. A moment later two adolescent faces peered over the stall door, and 
almost immediately vanished again. Garth grinned to himself. Then, slowly, 
first one face and then the other inched back into sight. "Greetings," Garth 
said. "Uh...greetings," said the taller of the two boys. "I hope my beast 
didn't upset you." "No." Then, after some hesitation, the lad went on, 
"You're an overman, aren't you?" "Yes." There was no point in denying the 
obvious, since his cloak and hood were lying in disarray on the straw, leaving 
his noseless, leathery face and black mail in plain sight. "Oh." The other 
boy asked, "What's that?" pointing timidly at Koros. "A warbeast." "Oh." 
"How'd you get in here? I've been here all day." Garth shrugged. "I got 
in." The boy decided further questions were not in order; instead, he 
explained, "But I'm supposed to watch the stable and make sure everyone pays 
their bills." "You needn't worry; I will pay. I paid the other boy for the 
first day." "Dugger? Oh." There was silence for a moment; the two had 
apparently exhausted their questions for the moment. Garth began cleaning the 
warbeast's ears with the brush; there were no burrs or thorns visible, but the 
creature seemed to enjoy it anyway. When the silence seemed to be becoming 
uncomfortable, he asked, "What's the news today? I have been busy since dawn." 


"Oh! Then you haven't heard! Someone murdered a priest in Tema's temple, 
and half the city is hunting for him." " "Who did it?" "No one knows. 
Mernalla says she took a stranger to the temple last night, an old man with a 
funny accent, so they're looking for him, but the priest was killed with a 
single sword-thrust, so it probably wasn't anyone old. It must have been a 
warrior." "Why would anyone kill a priest?" "I don't know; I think there's 
some kind of secret about it." Garth noticed from the corner of his eye that 
the boy who hadn't spoken as much was looking at him strangely, paying 
altogether too much attention to the sword on his belt. The youth suddenly 
fell back out of sight, and a moment later, apparently in response to a tug, 
the other followed. Inevitable, Garth thought to himself as he put the 
brush away. Still, there was no proof of any sort against him. No one had seen 
him clearly. It was interesting that the temple priests had not revealed the 
loss of the altar-stone. Perhaps it would be wise to remove himself from 
the premises, at least for the present; perhaps he should move Koros, too. He 
was unfamiliar with the city, though, and hiding places might be hard to come 
by. This stable was convenient, and as yet there was no real evidence against 
him; with luck he would not be bothered. He reminded himself to do a proper 
job of cleaning his sword at the first opportunity. He also reminded himself 
that he had six more temples to rob. Furthermore, since as a stranger he would 
automatically be under suspicion, the sooner he finished his task and departed 
the better. Therefore, he should get on with it. First, however, he would 
get himself a meal; he had not eaten since the preceding midnight, more or 
less, and the sun was now well down the western sky. He debated whether or 
not he should wear his cloak; the boys had not reacted negatively to the 
presence of an overman, but that said nothing about the reaction of adults. He 
picked up the garment, and saw to his disgust that there were bloodstains on 
it; he had not seen them in the dim morning light, as they blended with the 
brown fabric. There was the evidence to convict him of murder and sacrilege. 
The cloak would have to be promptly disposed of; he rolled it up and tucked it 



under his arm, making sure the stains were not in any way visible. He would 
have to do without it; he hoped that overmen were not utterly abhorred in 
Dûsarra. To the best of his recollection, Nekutta had not fought in the Racial 
Wars, but of course history had never been his favorite subject of 
conversation. And even if it had, no word of anything significant had reached 
the Northern Waste for three centuries; anything could have happened in that 
time. Still, so far as he knew, no overman had been seen in this part of the 
world since the wars; the humans would probably be too surprised to do 
anything much about him. Besides, he had no choice. He had only brought 
the one cloak, since he had planned on a trading journey to Skelleth, not a 
long adventure. With a word of praise to Koros, he opened the stall door and 
stepped out into the stableyard. The sun was even lower than he had 
realized, and the western sky a smoke-streaked expanse of crimson. He could 
hear the clatter and conversation in the Inn of the Seven Stars, and faintly, 
in the distance, the sounds of the marketplace; through the archway that was 
the only connection between the stable and the outside world he glimpsed 
occasional passersby, hurrying or strolling, striding, ambling, or strutting 
about their business. He had seen little of the stable the night before, for 
want of proper illumination; he looked about him, hoping to see some 
convenient place to dispose of the incriminating cloak. The yard was a 
long, narrow strip of bare dirt, with half a dozen large box stalls on either 
side, built of rough unpainted wood and roofed with red tile. One end was the 
archway to the street; the other end was a blank gray stone wall. Against the 
stone wall was a trough, itself carved from the same gray rock, presumably 
intended for watering whatever beasts of burden used the stable. Garth 
strolled along the yard, peering into the stalls; most were empty, but three 
contained horses, the creatures that the overmen of the Northern Waste had 
long considered merely a legend. Garth had encountered such animals once 
before, far to the east; he had not expected to see them here. He 
considered burying the cloak in the straw that lined the stalls, and rejected 
it; it was too likely to be found, drawing suspicion on the patrons of the 
inn, and possibly resulting in the conviction and death of whatever innocent 
happened to be renting the stall he chose. He reached the end of the row 
of stalls without striking on any better solution, and saw that the stone 
trough was empty and apparently had been for quite some time; a spider had 
spun its web across one corner. It occurred to him that probably no one 
had even noticed that the trough was here for years; people became accustomed 
to their surroundings and forgot the parts that did not concern them. He 
dropped the bundled cloak into the trough. There was still a fair chance 
that some person-perhaps one of the stable-boys-would find it; but the trough 
was deep, and the cloak was material that would burn, but not too brightly. 
The flames would not show, and with luck no one would notice another wisp of 
smoke in this smoke-shrouded city. He had tinder, flint, and steel in a pouch 
on his belt, as always; it was a moment's work to set the garment afire. 
Whatever ashes might remain would not be particularly noticeable in the 
accumulation of dust and debris in the bottom of the trough, and the 
bloodstains would certainly not be recognizable; the matter was dealt with. He 
rose, and started toward the arch. Before he was halfway down the yard he 
heard voices approaching; before he was more than a pace or two past Koros' 
stall four figures appeared, not merely passing by on the street but coming 
through the arch toward him. He stopped. Two of the four were the two boys; a 
third was the girl who had taken him to Tema's temple, and the fourth was a 
large man, clad in the usual Dûsarran robe, black in this instance, but belted 
about the waist and with a long, straight sword and sheath hanging from that 
belt. "Greetings." Garth spoke politely. "Greetings, stranger." The foursome 
stopped, a few feet into the yard. Garth nodded, then started walking again, 
as if to pass them by and depart. "Wait, stranger." The man's hand fell to 
the hilt of his sword. Garth stopped again. The man kept his gaze on the 
overman as he asked his companions, "Is he the one?" Both boys replied, 
"Yes." The girl said nothing. "Mernalla?" "I don't know. I don't think so." 



"Could it have been he?" "No...no, it couldn't. The man was shorter, with 
a higher voice, and he wore a dirty brown robe." "You said he was tall." 
"For a man, yes." Garth interrupted, "Might I ask, sir, why you are interested 
in me?" "We're looking for a murderer." "What has that to do with me?" 


"You are an armed stranger; naturally, that makes you suspect." "I 
suppose it does. When was this murder done? I only arrived in Dûsarra last 
night." "A priest was slain early this morning." "A priest? Could it not 
have been an internal matter?" "The priests of Tema do not kill their 
own." "Then perhaps some rival cult is responsible?" The man started to 
reply, then stopped himself. The girl looked at him as he considered the 
suggestion, while the two boys continued to stare at Garth. At last, after a 
long pause, he said, "You have a good point. It could have been them. It could 
well have been." Garth was pleased to see that the man was accepting his 
decoy so readily. "After all," he said, "what cause could a stranger have to 
commit such a sacrilege? I am in Dûsarra to obtain some goods for my employer; 
what have I to do with temples, or with murders?" "Nothing, I am sure." 
The man smiled. "My apologies for detaining you." He stepped aside, making 
room for Garth to pass. One of the boys demanded belligerently, "What have you 
got that sword for, if you're a trader?" "What?" Garth looked at his waist in 
feigned surprise. "Oh. Just habit, I assure you; an adventurer such as myself 
is accustomed to travelling armed." The man swatted the boy on the shoulder 
and said, "Come now, there's no law against wearing a sword, else I'd be a 
criminal myself. From what I hear, travelling the Yprian Coast without a good 
blade is akin to suicide." He smiled at Garth again. Garth smiled back, 
unenthusiastically, and moved on past the foursome. He turned into the 
adjacent tavern and found himself an unoccupied table. The swordsman's final 
comment was bothering him. Why should the fellow assume that Garth had come by 
way of the Yprian Coast? Why was no one particularly surprised at the presence 
of an overman in Dûsarra? Could it be that other overmen came to this 
city? Could there be an established trade route through the Yprian Coast? 
A middle-aged man took his order for a meal and a drink. If any overmen had 
come here from the Northern Waste, he should have heard of it; he was, after 
all, high in the councils at Ordunin, to which all his people swore 
allegiance. Perhaps there were renegades, along the western shores of the 
Waste? His ale arrived, and the innkeeper assured him that his food would 
soon follow. Another possibility finally struck him; could there be 
overmen living outside the Waste? On the Yprian Coast itself, perhaps? That 
explanation worked quite well; should such overmen exist, Dûsarra would be a 
natural place for them to trade with Nekutta and the other southern lands. The 
map showed the coastal plain lying just the other side of this volcanic 
mountain range; although the road across the mountains would most likely be 
rougher travelling than the routes east into Eramma, the Yprians, if they 
existed, would probably not dare to venture into Eramma. The overmen of the 
Northern Waste had not dared to do so for three centuries; the bitter memories 
of the Racial Wars had kept them out as effectively as any physical barrier. 
Likewise, the northerners had never ventured to the west, across the Gulf of 
Ypri; their histories taught that the western lands were empty and desolate. 
Undoubtedly, the Yprians were taught that the Northern Waste was an 
uninhabited wasteland, as it actually had been until three hundred and fifty 
years ago. This was a matter that would bear investigation when he returned 
home; he considered abandoning his quest and leaving Dûsarra immediately. He 
could drop off his one piece of booty with the Forgotten King in Skelleth on 
the way... No, he couldn't. He could not return to Ordunin yet; he was still 
bound by his oath. Nor could he reenter Skelleth without first going to 
Ordunin; the Baron would not tolerate that. He could perhaps sneak into the 
village, but to skulk about thus, and to bring only one of the items he had 
been sent for... No, his pride would not allow that. He would complete his 
task here in Dûsarra first. The innkeeper was at his elbow, setting a plate 
heaped with steaming mutton and those vegetables-potatoes?-before him. He 
pulled a gold coin from the pouch on his belt and said, "Is there a room 



available?" "Oh, yes; my lord. I'll fetch the key." He took the proffered coin 
and vanished again. There were six temples remaining; if he recalled the 
girl's words correctly, one of them was as nocturnal as Tema's, and inasmuch 
as it would be dark by the time he finished his meal, that would be his next 
target. The worshippers of darkness, of course; the god with two names. Andhur 
something. That was the one. Time enough to find it later; he turned his 
attention to the food. The mutton was excellent.CHAPTER TENThe temple of 
darkness was a huge black pyramid, topped by a small dome that replaced the 
apex, and surrounded by a wide, empty plaza paved with basalt. Upon receiving 
directions from a passing Dûsarran, he had had no trouble at all in finding 
it; it stood near the center of the city, and several broad streets ended at 
the stone plaza. Unlike the temple of Tema, this structure had no imposing 
tower, no vast open doorway; it was stark and simple, completely unornamented, 
and the only entry Garth could see was a single small door in the center of 
one side of the broad base. There were no steps; it opened directly onto the 
plaza. The whole area seemed deserted; only a very few pedestrians made 
their way around the perimeter of the pavement, moving from one street to the 
next. None approached the temple. Perhaps, Garth thought, it was because the 
twilight still lingered; the western sky was still rosy, though overhead the 
sky was dark indigo, and in the east it was almost black and sprinkled with 
stars. He still couldn't recall the god's second name; he had merely 
inquired after the temple of darkness, which had been sufficient. Even if the 
god's devotees thought it too early, Garth was impatient; he crossed to the 
door, and found it open. Inside he could see nothing but darkness; that was to 
be expected. Cautiously, he stepped inside. He was in a small antechamber, 
scarcely ten feet across; enough light trickled in from the door behind him to 
show him that. Another door was in the center of the opposite wall; there was 
no other opening in the bare stone. With a shrug, he crossed the room and 
tried the inner door. It was unlocked, but held with a simple latch; he 
pressed the latch button, but before he could pull on the handle a sound 
behind him startled him into releasing it. The door to the outside had 
slammed shut when he squeezed the latch, which perhaps wasn't as simple as he 
had thought; apparently there were mechanisms to make sure no light was 
permitted beyond this chamber. He was now surrounded by total blackness, a 
darkness so complete that his eyes could not adjust no matter how long he 
waited. He could not see his hand in front of his face, he discovered. By 
feel, he found the handle of the inner door once more, and swung the portal 
open. The darkness beyond was just as total; cautiously, he stepped through. 
With arms outstretched before him, he took a second step; his fingers struck 
stone. He turned right; another step, and again he hit stone. Turning full 
about, he tried the one remaining direction, and again encountered a wall. 
He stopped. Had he walked into a closet? There was a rustle of garments; he 
could not identify the exact direction from which the sound came. He listened 
more closely, and made out the faint sound of breathing. Someone was in this 
tiny room with him. "Is someone there?" he asked. "Who are you?" The voice 
was soft and hissing. "I am but a curious stranger. What is this place?" 
"This is the central shrine of Andhur Regvos, Lord of Darkness and Master of 
the Blind. Why have you come here?" "I was curious, good sir." "Is it the 
custom in your land to enter holy places unhidden?" "I was unaware of your 
temple's nature; I meant no harm." "Very well; then you may depart in peace." 


"Sir, are you a priest of this temple?" "I am." "Could you, 
perhaps, permit me to stay? I am as yet uncommitted to the worship of any god, 
and I would learn more of your cult, for I may want to pursue your creed." 
The priest said nothing for a long moment, and Garth wished he could see the 
man's face. Finally, the priest replied, "I know no reason this should not be; 
though I doubt very much if you will choose to follow the path of Regvos, I 
have no desire to turn away a seeker of truth, even one as casual as yourself. 
Give me your hand." Garth held out his hand, and almost immediately felt a 
bony grip upon it; he wondered if the priest had some magical means of seeing 
in the dark. He said nothing as he was led through a door he would have sworn 



was not there a moment ago when he felt the wall. Beyond, he judged that he 
and the priest were passing through a narrow corridor; it turned and twisted 
unmercifully, doubling back on itself, turning at unexpected angles, and 
generally giving the impression of being designed to confuse. Garth held out 
his free hand to avoid collisions with walls and pillars, and discovered by so 
doing that they were passing by several branching corridors; they were winding 
their way through a maze, there could be little doubt. Garth became 
disoriented, despite his best efforts, and was astonished when a final turn 
left them standing in a room he judged to be quite sizable, from the echoes 
and the feel of the air, where he would have expected the blank outer wall of 
the temple to be. The priest released something, and Garth felt a heavy velvet 
curtain fall upon him; he stepped forward and it slid behind him, closing off 
the winding passages from the chamber he now stood in. "Have you a 
tinderbox, or other agent of light?" The priest's voice distracted Garth 
from his attempt to estimate the size of the chamber; he admitted, "Yes, I 
do." "Such are not permitted here; surrender it, please." Reluctantly, Garth 
took the pouch containing flint, steel, and tinder from his belt and handed it 
over. "Thank you. Now, I must return to my duties; I leave you to contemplate 
the darkness. Another will be with you, in time." The priest's hands were 
gone; Garth heard three footsteps, and then, without so much as a rustle of 
garments, the priest was gone. Garth could hear nothing of him; no breathing, 
no heartbeat, no movement. Unsettled, he took a few tentative steps 
forward; gauging the echoes of his boots on the stone floor, he judged the 
room he was in to be very large indeed, though not as immense as that under 
the dome of Tema's shrine. The air was chilly; he could feel that even through 
his armor and padding. This was, then, most likely the temple sanctuary. 
Altar and idol would be in this chamber, somewhere-if they existed. It 
occurred to him that there was no need of an idol, to the god of darkness when 
this chamber was full of the presence of the god himself. Even an altar might 
be thought unnecessary; how would he explain that eventuality to the Forgotten 
King? Before he started worrying about that, he told himself, he should be 
sure it was the case. Arms outstretched, he took another few steps. Nothing 
there. A voice suddenly spoke, not a dozen feet away. "Greetings, 
stranger. Welcome to the shrine of Andhur Regvos. I am told you seek 
instruction; the best instruction is the darkness itself." "What?" Garth 
realized his response was scarcely diplomatic, but it escaped him before he 
could control it. "The best proof of our faith is felt in the darkness; do you 
not feel it? In this absolute darkness, do you not feel the sensation of 
supernatural presence? Does not a subtle fear, a certain respect, find its way 
into your heart?" "I...I am not sure" "That very uncertainty is a sign of 
the awe that our lord inspires; you, an unbeliever, feel only the lightest 
touch of his power. You have known only Andhur, the darkness that passes; 
before entering this shrine, you have most likely never even known what full 
darkness was like, for in the outside world the light creeps in everywhere, 
continuing the eternal battle. Here, though, is the fortress of Andhur, where 
the darkness does not pass, but endures forever. The darkness goes on, though 
you and others like you may leave and return once again to the light." "You 
speak of Andhur; I thought your god's name was Andhur Regvos?" "The two 
names identify the two aspects of the deity; Andhur, the lesser of the two, is 
that darkness which may be penetrated by light, the darkness that is external. 
Regvos is internal darkness, that darkness of body and soul which does not 
pass; you would call it blindness. As darkness comes in many forms-night, 
shadow, and shade-so does blindness. We, the priests of Andhur Regvos, are 
seekers after the totality of blindness, as we have, in this temple, achieved 
the totality of darkness." Garth was becoming confused; this bizarre 
philosophy was distracting him from his purpose. He suppressed the urge to say 
he did not understand, for fear of triggering a long explanation. Instead, he 
said, "And what of your rituals?" "Our ceremonies are of no concern to 
outsiders." "Have you an idol; as do most shrines?" "No; what need we with 
some stone image when the palpable presence of our divinity is all around us?" 



"An altar, then, where the rites are performed?" "Yes, we have an 
altar, only a dozen paces away from you. Fortunately, our god keeps it safe 
from your defiling gaze. I see that you have not the makings of a worshipper 
of darkness; you are too concerned with mundanities." "Perhaps you are right. 
Pardon me, then." Garth strode on recklessly in the same direction he had 
headed before, which he believed to be directly toward the center of the 
chamber; he hoped to locate the altar and remove whatever it held before the 
priests could do anything to stop him. After all, would not the darkness 
hinder them, too? True, they lived in it much or all of the time and were 
fully familiar with the temple, as he was not; still, finding and stopping a 
thief in utter blackness would not be easy. He had gone only eight paces, 
rather than the dozen the priest had suggested, when his leg struck a low 
obstruction. He felt about, and decided it was indeed the altar, about three 
feet high, ten feet long, and perhaps five in width. In its center his groping 
hands found an object, vaguely spherical and covered with cloth, perhaps a 
foot in diameter. Another stone, no doubt, like the one he had taken from the 
temple of Tema. Curious. "Hold! What are you doing?" "I merely wished 
to touch the altar." He picked up the stone; having no cloak to hide it under, 
he tucked it under his left arm. It wouldn't matter that it was visible until 
he was out of the temple, and in the open streets he would rely on his 
superior speed to escape. He had what he came for, and in the darkness no 
one would even know it was gone until the ceremonies began. He returned the 
eight paces to where he had stood before, and said, "My apologies if I 
startled you." There were rustlings behind him; a new voice spoke. "The 
stone is gone! He has the stone!" Garth growled, wishing he knew an 
appropriate curse; his people, being atheistic, used none. Suddenly there 
were rustlings on all sides; there were priests all around him. Had they been 
there all along? "Return the stone to its place, defiler." The voice was that 
of his instructor, but lower, more authoritative in tone. Garth ignored it; 
if he spoke it would only help them to locate him. He crept toward the 
entrance. A dozen hands clutched at him; fingers curled around his wrist. 
With a bellow, Garth leapt back and drew his sword, keeping his left arm 
firmly around his prize. "Away!" he shouted. "No, desecrator; you 
must return the stone." "I have no wish to harm you, but I will if I must" 
"Yes, thief, we heard you draw your sword; but can you use your blade in the 
dark? There are many of us and but one of you. We can find you, for we have 
lived all our lives in darkness, but how can you find us? Here, of all the 
world, the blind rule and the sighted serve." Garth slashed out blindly with 
his sword, but hit nothing. Again, unseen hands clutched at him; he tore free, 
and slashed again. He wished he had not so willingly surrendered the flint and 
steel that had been his only means of making light; if he could see, he would 
have the advantage. At least, he so assumed; so far he had detected no 
weapons. Certainly none had been used against him, and how could the priests 
risk them in the dark? It would be far too likely that they would hit their 
companions instead of them opponent. And if the priests were blind, as the 
voice had implied, light would give him a truly immeasurable advantage. "Give 
up, defiler. You cannot get away from us; even should you somehow slay us all, 
you will never escape. The only exit is through the maze, and without a guide 
you will never find the true path." Garth made no answer, but swung the sword 
again, and again struck nothing. Fingertips brushed his arm, and he moved 
instinctively away. He was no longer sure of his location relative to altar 
and entrance; escaping the priests' attempts to capture him had distracted him 
and moved him he knew not where. "Do you know what will happen, defiler, if 
you do not surrender? You will tire eventually; you will fall, and sleep, and 
when you do we will capture and bind you." Garth slashed again, and 
thought he nicked something; perhaps a sleeve. Not flesh, unfortunately. 
"Then, when you are securely bound, you will make a sacrifice. Not to Andhur, 
the darkness that passes, but to everlasting Regvos; you will become one of 
us." Instead of a sweeping slash, Garth tried a lunging jab; he was lucky, 
and a yelp of pain answered him. He doubted he had inflicted a serious wound; 



there was as much of surprise as pain in that cry. He had probably pinked 
someone's arm. "Blasphemer! Do you know how the sacrifice is performed, in 
cases such as yours? A rope, a thick rope knotted twice, is placed around your 
head, with the knots resting upon your closed eyelids." Garth attempted 
another jab, this time aiming for where he judged the voice to be coming from; 
the speaker paused as steel whistled near him, but the blade did not connect. 
When next the voice spoke it had moved well to one side, although Garth had 
heard no footsteps or rustling garments. "Then we will begin the Great 
Ritual, and with each chant the rope will be twisted a half-turn tighter, 
until the knots crush..." A particularly fast, vicious lunge tore cloth 
audibly, and the voice cut off abruptly; Garth heard two quick steps away 
from him. He was heartened; he was beginning to think that nothing could faze 
the man. The voice did not speak again; instead, he felt fingers groping. 
He whirled abruptly and slashed close in and was gratified to feel the blade 
cut into flesh and scrape on bone; he had caught a wrist before it could be 
withdrawn. There was not so much as a whimper of pain, though; Garth marveled 
at the fortitude that implied. Even in the dark, the sword gave him quite 
an advantage; all about him were his enemies, so he could strike freely. That 
would not get him out of the temple, necessarily, but it might drive away his 
tormentors, at least temporarily. He charged, swinging wildly. The sword 
whistled and cut through cloth, but struck nothing more substantial. He 
charged again, in a different direction, and struck nothing at all. He stopped 
and listened. He could hear nothing; had the priests retreated? He knew 
they were exceptionally good at being silent, but he was fairly sure that none 
stood within reach. He wished he could feel about him, but his left hand was 
occupied with the stone and he dared not lower the sword in his right. He 
stood for a moment, trying to decide on his next move. He had not planned 
on this fight; he had not expected these annoying priests to notice the loss 
of the altar-stone so promptly. A hand closed on his right forearm; he 
yanked free and slashed. The blade bit into something; there was a gasp, and 
when he raised the weapon back to the guard position something wet ran down 
over the quillons onto his hand. He felt a grim satisfaction at that; a blow 
that drew so much blood so quickly might well be mortal. He almost wished that 
the priest would taunt him again; the silence was making him nervous, and 
surely the others must have some comment to make about the man he had struck? 
There were retreating footsteps, two sets moving together, as if carrying 
something between them; he heard something drag. There had been no sound of a 
body falling, however; his victim was still upright, merely being helped away. 


In hopes of surprising and further discouraging his antagonists, he 
leapt forward without warning and laid about him with the bloody sword; there 
were short, sharp cries, but he did not feel the blade connect with anything. 
He recalled that he was dealing with humans, much shorter than himself; were 
they ducking under his blows? He went down on one knee and made a long, 
horizontal sweep with his blade, scarcely two feet from the floor; it ended 
abruptly when his steel struck something much harder than flesh or bone, and 
he almost lost his grip as the blade rebounded, ringing, from what he realized 
must be the stone altar. Two hands grasped at his shoulder; he twisted 
away and struck without thinking, swinging the sword in a downward arc. It 
struck the altar again, rather than his assailant, scraping across stone, and 
for the first time since entering the temple Garth's eyes responded; there was 
a blue-white flash, almost painful after such a long time in absolute 
darkness, and Garth stood motionless for an instant, dazed, wondering what he 
had just seen. At last, he realized what had happened; his sword had struck 
sparks. The altar, whatever stone it was made of, had served as flint to his 
weapon's steel. A hand closed on his right ankle; he guessed that the priest 
who had grabbed his shoulder had ducked, and was now aiming lower. Remembering 
the direction the grip on his shoulder had had, Garth guessed where on the 
floor his attacker would have fallen and chopped downward; the blade bit into 
cloth and flesh, and a high-pitched scream echoed through the chamber. Garth 
stepped away, without attempting to finish the human off; he had another idea. 



The altar, he realized, could provide the light he needed, if he could 
find something to use as tinder. He mentally reviewed everything he had with 
him. A purse, containing a dozen gold coins; a dagger in his belt; the belt 
itself; a leather pouch that held dried beef, dried fruit, an awl, and other 
useful items-such as the map the Forgotten King had given him, showing the 
route to Dûsarra. It was old, dry parchment; it should burn readily. 
Unfortunately, he had both his hands full at present. It was also necessary 
not to let the priests know that he was up to something; he made a few feints 
and jabs with his sword, not seriously expecting to hit anything, just to keep 
up appearances. Then, carefully, he bent down and placed the stone firmly 
between his knees; he dared not put it down anywhere for fear a priest would 
snatch it away. His now-free left hand plunged into the pouch and pulled out 
the map; he placed it in his right hand, held tightly against the hilt of his 
sword by his outer thumb and two fingers, then returned the stone to its place 
under his left arm. He made a trial pass at the altar with the sword, and 
with a long, diagonal blow scraped up a shower of sparks. This time he was 
ready, and saw them plainly; the altar was rough stone, his sword was smeared 
with blood that was black in the faint light. He watched where the sparks fell 
and placed the map accordingly, still neatly rolled. It occurred to him that 
the map would not burn for very long once lit, but he had nothing else readily 
combustible; he would have to make do. As he withdrew after placing the 
map, a hand pressed against his back; he whirled and slashed, and was rewarded 
with a yell and the hiss of steel cutting cloth. Thinking quickly, he dropped 
the altar-stone, and simultaneously clamped a foot atop it and reached out 
with his left hand. He caught something; he held a handful of cloth, and 
yanked. There was loud ripping, and a long piece of fabric came away in his 
grip. "What are you doing, blasphemer?" He ignored the voice as he drew his 
dagger with his left hand and awkwardly twisted the cloth around the blade, 
securing it as best he could one-handed; with his right hand he took a few 
aimless swings with his sword, to make the priests maintain their distance. 
The dagger-torch thus produced wouldn't burn well, he knew; it wanted grease 
or fat or oil on the cloth. He placed it on the altar beside the map, 
feeling carefully to be sure the roll of parchment was still there. Again 
the voice asked, "What are you doing?" Garth thought he detected a worried 
tone; undoubtedly the priests could hear everything he did, making it plain 
that he was up to something. "Why do you draw your dagger, thief? Is not your 
sword sufficient to deal with unarmed priests? Is that cloth a bandage? Have 
we wounded you so severely?" Garth was relieved that his scheme had not been 
deciphered. He pulled his largest piece of dried meat from his pouch and 
smeared it along the blade of his sword, letting it soak up what remained of 
the blood; for the first time in his life he was grateful that his provisions 
were of less than premier quality, for there was a significant amount of fat 
in the meat, and he hoped the blood would serve to soften it up somewhat. 
There were rustlings all around him; the priests were also up to something. 
Something was being dragged toward him. He smeared the bloody meat against 
the cloth wrapped on the blade of his dagger, then flung it aside. He had 
prepared as well as he could; he struck at the altar again with his sword. 
The angle was wrong; only a very few sparks glimmered briefly. He swung again, 
and a more encouraging shower of blue-white pinpoints spattered across the 
altar and parchment, but they vanished without igniting anything. "Do you seek 
to enrage us further by smashing our altar? Fool! You cannot damage it, no 
matter how strong your arm; no man can!" Garth was amused that they thought 
him a man; he resisted the temptation to correct their mistake, as it would 
hinder his identification once he was gone. He struck at the altar again, and 
sparks flew; again, and again, his blade grating on stone. He was ruining the 
edge, he knew. He paused to catch his breath, and the darkness swallowed 
him up again, seeming more complete than ever after the brief respite the 
sparks had provided; but was it complete? From the corner of his eye he caught 
a faint flicker; he bent near the altar. Yes! A dull orange glow tinged the 
edge of the rolled map; a spark had caught! Holding his breath, ignoring 



the rustling movements behind him and the 'dragging which was scarcely ten 
feet away, he gently fanned the ruddy glow; his efforts were rewarded with a 
tiny tongue of flame that leapt up suddenly. Exulting silently, he carefully 
lifted the burning parchment and held it high, turning to take his first good 
look at his surroundings. As he turned, a heavy net was flung across him; 
that, of course, was what the priests had been dragging. He managed to hang 
onto his sword and the burning map, but his foot slipped from atop the 
altar-stone. Fortunately, it, too, was tangled in the net, where the priests 
could not get at it readily even if they were to locate it. He struggled to 
remain upright, and succeeded; the priests, thinking him human, had 
underestimated his strength. For a moment, he was too busy studying his newly 
visible environment to pay the net much heed. He was in the middle of a large 
room, perhaps a hundred feet across, totally devoid of furniture save for the 
altar itself, which was a single block of rough stone. The walls were bare, 
unfinished stone; here and there were hung heavy draperies, presumably 
concealing doorways. The dim light of his small flame was not sufficient to 
make out color or detail. The heat of the flame began to reach his 
fingers, and he recalled himself to his immediate situation; he set to 
methodically cutting his way out of the net with his sword, which was fairly 
easy. In only a moment, he had cut a hole large enough to let the net slide 
down across his body onto the floor. The priests formed a ring around the 
net, tugging at it, trying to force their captive down; they were unaware that 
their actions actually made Garth's escape much easier, providing the tension 
necessary to cut the strands, and pulling the severed net down off him. Once 
mostly free, he wasted no time in snatching up his prepared dagger and setting 
the greased cloth ablaze; it produced a dim, smoky, malodorous flame, but it 
burned. He dropped the flaming remnant of his map and again looked about. 
This time he studied the priests; all wore black, or at least colors dark 
enough to be indistinguishable in the available light. They were babbling 
excitedly, aware that their captive had somehow eluded the net and set 
something on fire; the odor was unmistakably that of something burning. Garth 
regretted that, as it removed much of the element of surprise. There were 
about two dozen of them; they covered a wide range of sizes and shapes and, 
judged by their faces, varied in age from scarcely adult to positively 
ancient. Their garments were uniformly dirty and ragged, and their faces 
filthy; but after all, who would care in the eternal darkness of the temple? 
Or even outside, who expected the blind to be concerned with appearances? That 
thought drew Garth's attention to their eyes, which he immediately regretted; 
some were not bad, being merely permanently closed or open and staring 
sightlessly, but others were glazed; whited over with cataracts, flooded with 
blood and scar tissue, or simply gone, leaving bloody sockets. He noticed 
that one had a long, jagged tear in his robe, revealing a cut across his 
chest; it seemed singularly clean and bloodless until Garth lifted his 
makeshift torch for a better look. When the dim light shone full on the man's 
chest the cut suddenly began oozing blood thickly, and the priest hissed in 
pain. Another had a makeshift bandage tight, around his wrist; as the light 
hit it blood seeped through, staining it a dark red. A man, an old man, lay 
on the floor not far from him; a trail of blood showed that this was the 
priest who had grabbed Garth's shoulder and ankle, only to be wounded at the 
base of the altar. Whatever dark magic had stanched the wounds of his 
companions until light hit them had apparently been overtaxed by the severity 
of his injuries, as his blood seemed to have flowed freely enough. The old man 
was still breathing, faintly, and Garth wondered if he would live. 
Looking across the floor beneath the net Garth saw another trail of blood, 
where two priests had dragged away the first one he had seriously wounded. His 
eyes followed the trail to where it vanished under one of the curtains; that, 
he supposed, would be sleeping quarters, or some similar place where they 
could tend their wounded. "So, thief, you lied to us, and brought in some 
way to make fire. We dare not attack you, thus, when you have your sword and 
we are unarmed; but still, you cannot find your way out. The maze will stop 



you." For the first time Garth could see who spoke; it was a tall, elderly 
man, his hair gray with age. One sleeve was slashed where Garth's sword had 
cut it. He had no eyes, but merely empty sockets, long since healed from 
whatever injury had destroyed his sight. It seemed unlikely to Garth that the 
maze could actually be all that impossible; with a wary eye on the priests, he 
put down his sword for a moment, transferred the dagger-torch to his right 
hand, picked up the cloth-covered stone with his left, tucked it back in its 
former position under his arm, put the torch back in his left hand-which could 
still hold it, although it was not free to make large motions-and picked up 
the sword. This operation took a minute or more before he was comfortable 
again, but the priests kept their distance; they knew they were no match for 
him except in the darkness. Thus organized, with sword in his right hand, 
torch in his left, and stone under his left arm, he crossed the dirty stone 
floor to the drapery through which he had entered; he identified it by its 
position relative to the altar. The curtain was wine-colored velvet, he 
saw when the torch came near enough to make colors distinguishable; it was 
stained and dusty. It was also, he thought, a good place for an ambush; he 
slashed at it with his sword, rather than marching through. There was a 
piercing scream, and a body fell forward, dragging the drapery down beneath 
it; he had cut the man's throat. A long, serpentine-bladed dagger rattled on 
the flagstones as a new, darker stain spread across the ruined velvet. The 
bulky stone under his arm kept him from thrusting the torch forward to 
illuminate what lay beyond the now-open doorway, so he proceeded with 
deliberate caution, in short steps, looking both ways and always aware of the 
double-dozen enemies behind him. There were no further attacks; he stepped 
through the doorway into the maze. No fewer than five corridors branched away 
from where he stood; he studied them all, and then, without hesitation, 
marched up the one second from the left. He could not hope to remember the 
twisting route he had followed coming in, let alone reverse it, but he had no 
need to; in four of the corridors dust lay thick on the floor. Only one route 
was actually used. This same method served him well at every 
intersection, and there were a good many of them; no doubt it would be a great 
mystery for the surviving dark-worshippers to ponder. At last, when he was 
beginning to wonder if he had somehow managed a wrong turn after all, the 
corridor he followed ended, not in a blank wall, but in a heavy iron door, 
bolted on his side. He sheathed his sword; surely, no enemy would be able to 
reach him here! He slid the bolt, and the door swung inward silently with only 
a gentle tug, revealing the closet-like compartment he had entered from the 
antechamber. "Who's there?" The black-robed figure whirled to face him, 
though the man's eyes were blank and sightless; it was the priest who had led 
him through the maze, he was sure. "Why did you not signal?" Annoyed, 
Garth drew his sword again, and held it to the man's throat. "Silence," he 
commanded. The priest obeyed admirably. Garth pulled him back into the maze, 
then stepped past him into the closet space and let the iron door swing shut; 
it apparently had springs to keep it closed. The side he now saw was not iron 
at all, but stone; a thin panel of cut stone had been riveted to the metal 
framework. He was pleased the man had not put up a fight; he had killed at 
least one of the priests here, perhaps two or three, and wanted no more 
bloodshed. He had no difficulty in opening the door to the antechamber; 
however, when it swung open, the gust of wind caught his already-dimming 
torch, which flickered and almost died. He stood where he was for a moment, 
hoping it would recover; instead, it faded to a dull glow. Most of the cloth 
was ash. It mattered little; he was almost out. He crossed the room, and 
pulled at the door to the outside. It refused to yield. He bent to look at 
the handle, as the last flicker of his torch waned and died. He felt for a 
latch, but found none. A possibility occurred to him; he groped his way back 
across the room and closed the door to the maze entrance, making certain it 
latched securely. That done, he returned to the exterior door; this time it 
opened easily and he stepped out into the plaza, to stand blinking in the 
bright moonlight.CHAPTER ELEVENThere was no sign of pursuit; perhaps the 



priests of Andhur Regvos thought him lost somewhere in their labyrinth. The 
plaza was still mostly empty. A few humans wandered about, ignoring him, 
though he was sure he must be a rather strange sight; an overman emerging from 
the temple with a bloody sword in one hand and a scorched and blackened dagger 
in the other, and a great black stone-the cover had twisted out of position, 
and he could see that the altar-stone was of some material resembling 
obsidian-under one arm. Of course, he was still mostly in the temple's shadow; 
or perhaps the Dûsarrans assumed him a participant in some secret ritual best 
left uninvestigated. It would not do, he knew, to walk the streets of the 
city like this; he shrank back into the doorway, and seated himself on the 
paving, letting his three burdens fall. He took the cloth cover from the 
stone, and carefully wiped his weapons clean before sheathing them; now the 
only problem was to conceal the stone itself. Or was that, in fact, a 
problem? After all, he realized, no one had ever seen the thing. To the 
uninitiated, it would appear merely a large chunk of obsidian, a substance 
that he had seen sold freely in the marketplace the night before. He knew it 
was still somewhat risky, but could think of no way to conceal his booty; so, 
once his blades were cleaned and sheathed and he had removed what soot and 
blood he could from his hands and mail shirt, he tucked the stone casually 
under his arm and strolled away unmolested. It was still relatively early; 
he had to some extent lost track of time while in the temple but, judging by 
the position of the moon, he estimated it to be well before midnight. He would 
have to decide whether or not to tackle another of the remaining altars 
immediately, or whether it would be better to delay. The decision, however, 
could wait until he had disposed of his prize. He found his way back to the 
Inn of the Seven Stars and headed for the stable, to deposit this new stone 
with his earlier prize. There was a boy sitting in the arch; Garth recognized 
him as the boy he had paid for Koros' keep when he first arrived. If he had 
understood the conversation of the other two boys correctly, his name was 
Dugger. It occurred to Garth that the lad could be a loose end; he would 
identify the warbeast-riding overman with the brown-cloaked old man who had 
expressed a suspicious interest in Tema's temple. That was not something Garth 
wanted known. He stepped into the arch; the boy clambered to his feet and 
said, "Greetings, sir. How may I serve you?" A rather more polite greeting 
than he had given the night before, Garth thought; gold had a truly salutary 
effect on human manners. "In two ways, boy. Firstly, you will see that my 
mount is fed tomorrow night; it is to be given as much fresh, raw meat as you 
can carry, or a live goat or two if you prefer, and a bucket of water. 
Secondly, you will make no mention of me to anyone unless asked, and if you 
are asked, you will deny seeing me in any guise other than my present one. Is 
that clear?" As he spoke this last phrase a large gold coin appeared in his 
hand, held up so that it sparkled in the moonlight. The boy nodded eagerly. 
"Oh, yes, sir!" "Good. Excuse me; I would tend my beast." The coin dropped 
into the boy's hand, whence it promptly vanished to some hidden pocket, and 
Garth passed into the stableyard. Koros growled a greeting as its master 
opened the stall door; Garth ignored it while he dug out two sacks from his 
bundled supplies. He stuffed the obsidianlike stone down into one, then dug up 
the now-clear white crystal he had hidden beneath the straw and packed it on 
top, with straw around the edges to keep the sharp facets from cutting the 
rough fabric. That done he tied the sack shut and stashed it under his other 
supplies. The other sack he folded into a small bundle and stuffed under his 
belt; it would, he hoped, carry whatever he found in the next temple. Five 
temples remained. There was no point in wasting time, he decided; he would 
immediately pursue his quest and loot a third shrine. Things had not gone well 
in the first two; he had killed at least two people so far, possibly as many 
as four. That was not good. He would try to be more careful henceforth. If he 
kept on killing people at that rate... He did not like killing people. A 
major reason he had been reluctant to serve the Forgotten King was that his 
first errand had resulted in a dozen deaths, perhaps more. However, whenever 
he found himself in a combat situation, his reflexes took over; he acted first 



and regretted it later. He was not proud of that; but recognized it as a part 
of his nature; all he could do was try to avoid combat situations. Five 
temples remained, including the temple of Death; he would leave that for last. 
What were the other four? P'hul, the goddess of decay, was one. There was one 
that the tavern-girl had said frightened her; Agha? No, Aghad. That was it. He 
recalled hearing the name spoken back in Skelleth, as an oath; that sounded 
promising. He considered visiting the tavern again, but decided against it; 
he was not hungry, nor even particularly thirsty, and could just as easily get 
directions on the street. That in mind, he left the stable, nodding to the 
stable-boy who winked in reply, and headed for the marketplace. As it had 
been the night before, it was bustling, crowded and torchlit. He strolled 
about a bit first, watching the reactions of the Dûsarran populace to an 
overman in their midst. There were none; they accepted him as a matter of 
course. There must indeed be established communications between Dûsarra and a 
population of overmen somewhere. Casually, he struck up a conversation with 
a merchant, pretending an interest in his display of stone carvings; when he 
learned that the carvings represented the Dûsarran gods, his feigned interest 
became quite genuine. "Who is this, then?" he asked, indicating a six-inch 
carving of truly astonishing ugliness; it had a fanged, twisted, sneering 
face, with exaggerated masculine characteristics, and was done in a rough, 
primitive style. "Aghad, of course" "And this?" He indicated a 
skull-faced, helmeted statuette that held a miniature sword almost the length 
of its body. "Bheleu, god of destruction. One of your kind, so it is 
said." "What?" Garth looked more closely, and saw that the face was not a 
skull; the statuette had ragged, straight hair, two thumbs on either hand, and 
eyes rather than sockets. In short, it was a carving of an overman. How 
very odd, Garth thought, that humans should worship a god in the form of an 
overman. After all, overmen had nothing to do with the gods, being atheists; 
and weren't gods supposed to have existed throughout time, while overmen had 
only come into being a thousand years earlier? He looked over the whole 
display. He recognized the slender, graceful Tema, though these little idols 
did not have cloaks that spread out above them; a god with two eyeless faces 
he readily guessed to be Andhur Regvos. There were more of those two, in 
various sizes and with some variation of detail, than any others; there were a 
dozen or so of the fanged horror depicting Aghad, and perhaps half that number 
of the overmanlike Bheleu. There were two other recurring forms, both female; 
one held dagger and whip and wore a cruel smile, while the other was robed and 
cowled. He took a closer look at one of these; under the cowl the artisan had 
carved the face of a mummy, wrinkled skin stretched over bone. It had a nose, 
however, so it was not intended to be an overwoman; Garth guessed it must be 
P'hul. That was only six, however. "I only see six of the gods here." 
"Naturally." The merchant looked surprised. Garth realized his mistake; the 
seventh god was Death, arid even were there a market, it would probably not be 
considered safe to try representing him. He tried to cover his foolishness. 
"Of course. Who is this?" He indicated the woman with whip and dagger. "Sai." 


Garth looked blank. "The goddess of pain and suffering." "Oh, 
yes." He contemplated the display again. "And each has a temple here in 
Dûsarra?" "The name says as much." "Where are the temples? I might want 
to visit them." The merchant looked at him strangely. "Very few foreigners 
visit the temples." "I was just curious." "Oh. Well, the temple of Tema 
is back that way," he said, indicating the direction, "and most of the others 
are on the Street of the Temples, over that way." He pointed toward the 
northeastern part of the city. "My thanks." Garth took a final look at 
the array of idols, then turned away, heading northeast. The Street of the 
Temples was not hard to find; it was a broad, straight avenue, paved with 
stone and obviously intended for ceremonial processions. Most of its length 
was lined not with temples, but with houses and palaces; it was obviously one 
of the more desirable neighborhoods. There were a few shops, all closed for 
the night; this part of the city belonged to the day-people, not the 
night-worshippers. One end of the street was the gate to a palace, the 



largest and most elegant Garth had yet seen; that, presumably, belonged to the 
city's overlord. The other end, which was much further from where he had 
happened onto the avenue, appeared to be nothing but the blank stone face of 
the volcano on whose slopes the city was built; the street was cut into the 
stone for a few yards, keeping it at a negotiable slope, and then abruptly 
stopped. Along the considerable distance between palace and mountainside, 
Garth saw four temples; they were readily distinguished from the adjoining 
residences because each was built entirely of black stone and surmounted by a 
dome of some sort, while the palaces and other buildings were flat-roofed and 
built of various materials. The temples were arranged two to each side, spaced 
along the street, dividing it into five equal lengths. Garth had arrived 
on the street directly across from the temple second from the overlord's 
palace; it made little difference to him which he visited next, so he chose 
the nearest and strode across the pavement. The temple was mostly hidden 
by a high wall, built of the ubiquitous black stone; only the dome, a 
relatively modest one, could be seen. The wall had no windows, no eaves 
overhanging, nor any other architectural features suggesting it was part of 
the temple proper; Garth assumed it enclosed a yard, and that the temple lay 
within the yard. The only visible entrance was a pair of gates, perhaps ten 
feet high and eight feet wide, made of some metal that gleamed an eerie silver 
in the moonlight; they were not simple flat surfaces, but shaped into ornate 
curves and ridges. With a start, Garth realized that the ridges formed 
recognizable runes, two to each gate, spelling out AGHAD. As he approached 
the gates he noticed another surprising feature; the wall was built of 
carefully cut stones, all exactly the same size, and every stone block had 
carved upon it those same four runes: AGHAD. The name of the god was repeated 
a thousand times over on the wall of the temple. Well, Garth thought, at 
least he need not wonder which temple it was. He reached out to try the gates, 
but before his hand touched the gleaming surface it parted and swung open 
before him, revealing the courtyard beyond. He did not much care for such 
trickery; he looked carefully in all directions before cautiously stepping 
through, but could see no sign of how the gates had been opened. He tried to 
peer through the crack at the hinges, only to discover there was none; each 
valve hung from a single intricate hinge that extended for its full height. 
The courtyard beyond seemed innocent enough; a broad expanse paved with loose 
gravel, with a fountain playing in its center. A long colonnade surrounded it 
on three sides; behind the far colonnade there stood the temple itself, an 
elegant building of black stone, with many windows and much ornamentation. 
On every column, on all three sides, was a bracket holding a blazing torch, a 
welcome change from the darkness of the first two temples. It should have 
been beautiful, with the soft hiss of the fountain, the dancing firelight, the 
columns and arcades. It wasn't. There was something dim and menacing about it, 
and its proportions seemed somehow wrong, as if the architect had calculated 
the perfect dimensions and then maliciously distorted them. Garth stepped past 
the gates and noticed for the first time that there were curious faint brown 
stains on the silvery metal. He had no time to study them, however, for as 
soon as he was clear the gates swung shut behind him, as mysteriously as they 
had opened. He was debating whether to try and reopen them or simply to 
proceed, when a long, lingering scream sounded from somewhere inside the 
temple; Garth tensed, his hand on his sword hilt. The scream cut off abruptly, 
to be replaced by soft, mocking laughter that echoed eerily along the 
colonnades. His curiosity was piqued, and the matter of the self-closing gates 
was forgotten. He started forward. "Greetings, overman." The voice was deep 
and somber. It came from somewhere behind him, he thought; he whirled, sword 
drawn, but saw nothing except the closed gates. He noticed that they were now 
barred. He had not heard the bar falling in place; he reprimanded himself for 
not being sufficiently alert. "Welcome to the temple of Aghad." The voice now 
sounded somewhere to his right; he turned more slowly, wishing that these 
Dûsarrans weren't all so fond of trickery. He still saw no one. "We do not 
receive many visitors here." Again, the voice had shifted; he decided to 



ignore its movements, since they were obviously some sort of trick. "Aghad is 
not a popular god, I fear. The masses prefer harmless, impotent little Tema." 
The voice laughed, softly. Garth announced petulantly; "I don't like 
speaking to someone I cannot see." "It is not intended that you should like 
it." "Why not?" "Dear infant, you are ignorant, aren't you?" "In some 
areas, yes. Religion and its mystical trappings are not popular in my 
homeland." "Oh, dear, not popular! Aghad is not popular anywhere, fool. Aghad 
is fear, hatred, loathing, all the things men-and though you will not accept 
it, overmen-feel for the unknown, for the different, for what they cannot 
understand." "I can understand why such a deity holds little appeal." 
"Oh, yes, I'm sure! Why have you come here, then?" "I wish to visit all the 
seven temples." "You lie with half-truths." "What would you have me say, 
then?" "You come to steal, scum. The altar-stones of Tema and Regvos are 
hidden at your warbeast's feet, at the Inn of the Seven Stars." Garth did 
not answer, but merely tightened his grip on his sword. The voice laughed 
again. "Oh, witling, put down your silly knife. We serve Aghad here, and 
Aghad alone, not Tema nor Regvos, nor Sai, P'hul, or Bheleu. Aghad is hate, 
thief, hate, envy, and every emotion that turns fellow against fellow. We who 
serve Aghad have no reason to aid or sympathize with our brother priests of 
the other temples. Sack all Dûsarra if you will, burn the city to the ground! 
We will not stop you." "Do you not care for your own temple? You have said I 
came here to steal." "Idiot, self-hatred is most basic of all; if one does 
not hate himself, how is he to despise others so like him? You may take what 
lies on our altar, for it is no unique thing, but a common substance, replaced 
at each ceremony. We do, however, demand payment." Garth did not lower his 
blade. "What payment?" "You must make a proper sacrifice to Aghad." "What 
sort of sacrifice?" "Ordinarily a supplicant must betray a friend, deceive 
a lover, or in some other way spread dissent; but in view of your foreign 
origin, filth, something else is in order. A service to our god: Slay us six 
priests or more, one from each of the other temples. You slew the one at the 
door of Tema's temple, and a priest and priestess both of Regvos, though a 
third you let live. You have made a good beginning. Now, you must slay four 
more, from each of the four remaining temples, or the devotees of Aghad will 
make certain you do not leave the city alive." Garth made no attempt to 
conceal his astonishment "Are you serious?" "We are." "Why?" 
"Because our agents in each cult will blame your actions upon another, and 
discord will spread. You have already begun our task for us, you know." The 
reference to his conversation with the swordsman in the stableyard did not 
escape his notice. It was obvious that the cult of Aghad had some truly superb 
means of gathering information, whether it was by magical methods or merely an 
efficient system of spies and informers. He still found it almost incredible 
that these people wanted him to kill their countrymen. "You serve a 
strange master, priests of Aghad." "No stranger than yours, Garth of Ordunin, 
late of Skelleth." Garth hid his surprise; after all, whatever their 
methods, there was no reason to believe they were limited to this one city. 
The cult of Aghad could easily extend throughout all the human kingdoms, for 
all Garth knew. "What if I decline to pay your price?" "You are free to 
do as you please, dolt; we merely present you with the following options, for 
you to choose from as you will. You may take what you find upon our altar, and 
fulfill our demand, and go in peace. You may take what you find upon our 
altar, refuse to do as we ask, and die before you leave Dûsarra. Or, lastly, 
you may decline our offer entirely and live, but with the knowledge that your 
cowardice has offended our god and our cult." "None of these options is 
particularly appealing." "That does not concern us. Now, if you would see 
our altar, slave, pass the fountain, and before you will be the door to the 
sanctuary." Garth considered for a moment. He had no wish to kill anyone; 
however, it might prove necessary, as it had in the first two temples, in 
which case he might as well take whatever there was here. He had no intention 
of wantonly slaying priests just to please these abominable Aghadites, though. 
If it did not become necessary to dispose of the required four priests, he 



would simply rely on his own strength and wit to elude the Aghadites and 
escape the city. He moved cautiously past the fountain toward the temple 
itself, only to halt abruptly. Lying on the gravel behind the fountain was a 
human corpse, face down, an empty tin cup near its hand. "What is this?" 
"Note the odor of the fountain, wizard-spawn." He was beginning to resent the 
constant supply of insults the hidden priest provided. He obeyed, though, and 
sniffed the crystal-clear spray. The scent of bitter almonds stung his 
nostrils; had he had a nose, he would have wrinkled it in disgust. "Very 
pretty." "The poor fool came seeking a cool drink; we could not refuse so 
simple a request, could we?" The priest burst out laughing, a roaring laughter 
tinged with hysteria. Garth began to suspect the man was mad. It would seem 
reasonable; would a sane man serve such a god? Unsettled, he walked on, 
keeping his sword ready in his hand. The colonnade was perhaps ten feet 
across, a distance sufficient to put the wall of the temple in darkness; the 
columns which held the torches blocked out the light, since the flames were 
all on the courtyard side. Garth hesitated to step into that shadow, 
particularly since he could not see the door the priest had said was there. 
Then part of the shadow opened inward, and light the color of blood poured 
out. Garth stepped forward through the double doors into a room hung with 
tapestries and lit by flames behind sheets of dark red glass set in the walls 
between the hangings. The room was not overlarge, and Garth wondered if it 
were, in fact, the sanctuary, or merely an antechamber; it was scarcely twenty 
feet square. He saw no altar, but there were no doors other than that by which 
he had entered, either. He moved to the center of the chamber, and the doors 
promptly closed behind him. He was getting used to this sort of thing. The 
ruddy light made it hard to distinguish details; he could not say what any of 
the tapestries depicted. He stood, waiting, to see what would happen next. 
A curious thrashing noise came from somewhere above and ahead of him, and a 
muffled voice, too high for a man or overman, made a wordless noise. Harsh 
laughter rang out, growing louder and higher; the thrashing ceased, or perhaps 
was merely drowned out by the laughing, and the tapestry directly before him 
suddenly slid upward into the ceiling, revealing a large alcove. A more normal 
light shone from this opening; hundreds of candles were arranged in tiers on 
its three walls, every one burning brightly, illuminating an elaborate golden 
altar. The top of the altar was a panel of red-enameled wood, almost 
completely covered by a flood of coins, gold and red. As he approached and 
cautiously reached for the coins, Garth wondered what the red ones were made 
of; he had never seen a metal so brightly crimson in hue, and stone coins were 
rare, being too brittle for everyday use. He scooped up a handful and realized 
they were all ordinary gold; the red was fresh arterial blood, blood that ran 
down his wrist and dripped from his fingers. Revolted, he flung down the coins 
and turned away. The tapestry plunged back into place, trapping him in the 
alcove, but not before he had seen the outer wall of the room to be blank, 
with no trace of the door he had entered by except a space of bare stone 
between hangings. The laughter rang out louder than ever.CHAPTER TWELVEHe 
stood frozen with surprise for an instant; a soft sound behind him brought him 
whirling around to face the altar again, only to discover that it was gone. In 
its place was a crouching panther; Garth raised his sword, ready to meet its 
attack, and stepped back against the tapestry, so that the big cat would have 
further to leap and therefore less momentum when it hit. No attack came. 
Instead, a heavy velvet curtain fell between him and the beast, leaving him 
enclosed in a space scarcely three feet wide. A few of the myriad candles were 
included in his compartment, so that at least he could see. He pushed at the 
velvet barrier; it did not yield. Something held it taut. It was apparently 
secured to very solid retainers all around. He leaned his full weight against 
it with no result. He shrugged, and turned to the tapestry that separated 
him from the main part of the room. It was anchored just as firmly. He looked 
about. His enclosure was perhaps eight feet long; he stood in the center. 
At either end a dozen candles stood on black iron brackets bolted to the 
walls. Below him, the floor was a single slab of stone, a dark gray stone, 



probably slate. Looking up, he saw that the ceiling was covered with gold 
leaf, worked into elaborate swirls and floral designs. At one end, partly 
obscured by shadows, hung what appeared to be a cord; its lower end was above 
his line of sight, which explained how he had failed to notice its presence 
before. He took a step and reached for it, hoping it was the draw-cord for 
one of the hangings; it raised a serpent's head and hissed angrily at his 
approaching hand. Things were happening too fast; he bisected the serpent-rope 
with a sweep of his sword, and then slashed at the velvet curtain. The 
blade penetrated with no difficulty, and Garth peered through the rent in the 
fabric; the panther was gone, if in fact it had ever truly been there, and the 
altar restored, the gold exactly as he had left it, the blood beginning to 
dry. He wondered how much of this was illusion, how much magic, and how much 
simple mechanical tricks. "Very good, Garth." The laughter had stopped, 
and now the familiar taunting voice spoke. "You have slain a harmless 
rock-snake and destroyed a thousand-year-old Yeshitic hanging. Take your gold 
and begone. Ignore the blood; it came from an Orunian virgin, just turned 
sixteen, but she was none of your kind. You need not regret her death." The 
priest tittered obscenely, and Garth's growing anger crystallized into hatred. 
At the back of his mind he knew that the priest wanted this, that he, like his 
foul god, thrived on hatred, but that only served to strengthen the emotion. 
Growling, he stepped through the ruined curtain, sheathing his sword as he did 
so, then pulled the sack from his belt and scooped the golden coins into it, 
ignoring the clotted blood. "Oh, fine, underling; we might hire you as a 
parlormaid, should you have the courage to apply. Now go and slay us four 
priests, if you can; or priestesses, if that is more to your taste, though 
Bheleu and the Final God are served only by men. Go, and bother us no further, 
scum." There was a click behind him; he turned, to see that the tapestry 
had vanished again, and that the double door stood open once more. A sudden 
gust of wind brushed him, coming from nowhere that he could detect, and the 
candles flickered and died, leaving only the crimson glow of the torchlit 
panels. He took a step toward the exit, then paused. In a final act of 
defiance, he drew his sword, set aside the sack of gold, gripped the hilt in 
both hands, then turned and chopped at the altar, sending the enameled top 
flying to either side, hewn in half. Another blow, and the golden filigree 
splintered and crumpled. He sheathed his weapon, spat at the broken remains of 
the altar, then picked up his booty and strode out the doorway. No laughter 
followed him. The tapestry fell into place behind him, and the doors 
slammed shut. He marched through the colonnade and across the courtyard, 
noting that the corpse was gone from beside the fountain; then he stopped, as 
his gaze fell on the silvery gates. The body of an old, old man, withered and 
emaciated, was nailed to the gates, the feet on one valve, the outstretched 
arms on the other; horrified, Garth saw that the narrow chest was still rising 
and falling, slowly and irregularly. The man's face was twisted in agony, his 
eyes tightly shut. Garth shivered in revulsion as he saw that strips of the 
man's skin had been cut loose from his flanks and nailed to the gates as well. 


Sickened, Garth bellowed, "You filth! Why is this man here?" There 
was silence for a moment as his cry echoed and was lost among the columns; 
then, very softly, that hideously familiar voice spoke, in a smiling, 
insinuating, smirking tone. "You seem to enjoy wielding that sword of yours, 
child; use it to open the gate." Garth stood motionless for a long moment. 
Then he dropped the sack of coins and strode to the gate; with all the care he 
could manage, he began pulling out the nails that held the old man. It was a 
delicate, difficult job; they had been driven in firmly and required all his 
strength to pry loose, while the slightest twist or tug might wrench the torn 
flesh and cause the victim new agony. Garth was very glad that the man was 
unconscious before the first nail came free. Fortunately, the metal of the 
gates was soft, and did not hold the nails as well as wood would have; the 
superhuman strength of Garth's fingers was sufficient, with some slight aid 
from his dagger in prying at the larger spikes that held the feet. At 
last, Garth had the man, free, and lowered him gently to the gravel; the gates 



opened to only a slight tug. He picked up his sack and stepped through to be 
sure the way was clear; he intended to carry the old man back to the Inn of 
the Seven Stars and see that he received the best possible care, but it would 
not do to be seen carrying him about the Street of the Temples. The street 
was empty; he turned, to see the gates swinging shut. Desperately, he reached 
out, flinging himself forward to try and stop them, seeing. the old man lying 
on the gravel through the narrowing gap, but he was not fast enough; the 
portal slammed shut, forcing him out into the avenue. With a bellow of rage, 
Garth flung himself at the gates again; they did not yield. The shock of his 
impact bruised his shoulder, despite the padding and mail that protected it. 
He whipped out his sword and hacked at the metal; the weapon had served him 
well but suffered in consequence, and this was too much. It broke, leaving him 
clutching a hilt and a half-foot of blade, and sending slivers of steel in a 
dozen directions. The gates remained firm, though the top of the GH rune was 
scratched and battered out of shape. Once again, he heard laughter; 
something was flung over the wall, to fall heavily on the pavement at his 
feet. It was the old man's corpse, hacked messily in two, as it would have 
been had he used his sword to open the gate as the priest of Aghad suggested. 
Speechless, Garth stood staring at the bloody remains for a long moment, then 
turned and left, as that final hysterical laugh trailed after him.CHAPTER 
THIRTEENThe moon was still well above the horizon; Garth estimated he had 
three hours or more until dawn. Although ordinarily he might have called it a 
night and returned to the Inn of the Seven Stars, the events in the temple of 
Aghad had enraged him, and he was too full of fury and adrenaline to go 
quietly back to the inn. Instead, he swung the sack of gold over his shoulder 
and marched down the avenue toward the overlord's palace, and toward the 
temple that stood nearest it. He was aware, with part of his mind, that he was 
being slightly reckless, since he no longer had a sword and was encumbered by 
the Aghadite gold; he was, however, too mad to care. He would have preferred 
to devote himself to destroying the temple of Aghad, and hunting out and 
killing the owner of that taunting voice, but knew that he wouldn't have a 
chance of succeeding; the priests would undoubtedly be expecting an attack. 
Instead he would take out his anger on whoever might be guarding this other 
temple. Even armed only with a dagger and a broken hilt, he knew he could 
handle any two humans. He regretted that he had left his battle-axe in Koros' 
stall with his other supplies, as an inappropriate item to be carrying about 
the city streets. This next temple, he saw, was the most bizarre he had yet 
approached; where the others had been built of black basalt or marble or 
similar stones, this one was constructed of gleaming obsidian, arranged with 
sharp, broken edges projecting wherever possible. It was a high, narrow 
building, surmounted by a pointed dome, and fronted with a small forecourt. 
The court was perhaps twenty feet square, with obsidian walls eight or nine 
feet high around it, and a pair of large openwork steel gates at the front. 
Garth wondered where, even in this volcanic country, they had found so, much 
obsidian. Further, how had they constructed a building from it? Obsidian was 
not suited for construction purposes. It must be a facade, he decided, 
covering up a more ordinary structure. The gates did not spell out the name 
of the deity here, nor was it carved in the walls. Instead, the gates were 
made of twisted, jagged spikes welded together into portals resembling a wall 
of thorns. There were no handles, and from each of the large spikes projected 
dozens of needlelike smaller spikes. Where there was no room for these, the 
metal had sawtoothed edges. Even in his anger, these gates gave Garth pause; 
there was nowhere that he could touch them without risking injury. The points 
appeared razor-sharp. Appropriate, he thought, for the god of sharpness, 
should there be one. He wondered what sort of insane cult would build such a 
thing. He ran the broken stump of his sword through one of the gaps in 
the glittering tangle of sharpened steel, and pulled; to his surprise, the 
gate opened readily. He had expected it to be locked for the night. He 
stepped through, and noticed for the first time that the courtyard was paved, 
or perhaps lined, with obsidian, arranged with all possible points and sharp 



edges projecting upwards, and left thoroughly uneven. Walking on it was 
difficult, and even through the thick soles of his boots he could feel the 
knife-edged volcanic glass cutting into his feet. He made his way gingerly 
across the broken expanse to the door of the temple building; it, like the 
gates, was a web of steel spikes. He shoved at it with the broken sword; a 
long needle-pointed projection caught his finger and gashed it painfully, but 
the door swung open. It, like the gate, was unlocked. As it began to move, 
Garth suddenly realized that the night was not silent; somewhere, several 
voices were wailing, as if in great pain or abject despair. As the door opened 
wider, he knew it was coming from inside this temple; it swept out over him. 
Light also assaulted him, a sharp white light totally unlike the yellow of 
torchlight or the red of a fire. This glare was tinged with blue, like the 
flash of lightning. He ignored it. He was in no mood for caution. When the 
door stopped swinging, he stepped through. He was at the bottom of a set 
of uneven steps, steep even for an overman, and all crooked; he clambered up 
them into the temple proper. It was a single vast room, twenty feet wide, a 
hundred long, and at least fifty feet high, not counting the interior of the 
dome. The walls were jagged, rough stone, and seemed to lean inward; Garth was 
not sure if this were some illusion, or whether the room actually narrowed 
toward the top. The floor was broken, uneven flagstones, but far more 
negotiable than the obsidian courtyard. The light came from dozens of flares 
that blazed on one wall, burning with a vivid, painfully bright light and 
casting sharp-edged black shadows of the score or so of worshippers who knelt 
before the altar. The shadows did not move; the flares had none of the 
comforting flicker of more ordinary flames. The altar itself was a single 
chunk of granite; behind it stood three black-robed priests, faces hidden by 
hoods, and on it lay a naked young woman-perhaps only a girl. Garth was a poor 
judge of human age or maturity. The central priest held a long 
narrow-bladed dirk clutched in his fist; the man to his right held a coiled 
whip, and the third priest held a loop of ordinary rope. The wailing came 
from the worshippers; the priests and the girl on the altar were making no 
sound that Garth could detect. Behind the priests, carved on the end wall 
of the temple, Garth glimpsed the image of a smiling naked woman, hands 
outstretched toward the altar; the shadows of the priests made it hard to 
distinguish details. Although the image he had seen in the marketplace had 
been robed and held weapons, he recognized the face and evil smile of the 
idol; this was Sai, goddess of pain and suffering. No one was paying any 
attention to him. He put down his sack of bloodstained Aghadite gold, and 
strode forward across the shattered floor. As he drew nearer, he saw that the 
priest's dirk had blood upon its tip, and that the naked girl's body was laced 
with narrow, shallow cuts. He wondered whether the ceremony was to have ended 
with her death as a human sacrifice, or whether she would merely have been 
tortured and released; it was clear from her face that she was not a willing 
participant. He grinned at the prospect of frustrating these sadists. It would 
be almost as satisfying as killing Aghadites. Still, he hoped he could avoid 
killing any, not only because he disliked causing unnecessary deaths, but 
because he did not want the Aghadites to have the satisfaction. He was even 
with the back of the small crowd of worshippers, now; he bellowed as the 
priest lowered the dagger for another cut. He did not want the girl injured 
further. After all, she was what he had found upon the altar, and therefore 
what he was to take back to the Forgotten King. He wondered what the old man 
would make of her. Startled, the priest stopped his motion; the crowd's 
wailing wavered. "Drop that knife or die, priest!" He kicked aside a kneeling 
figure that blocked his path and stepped up to the altar; his broken sword was 
still in his hand and, although scarcely the weapon it once was, it could 
still cut. It should, he thought, be adequate for dealing with this bunch. 
The priest backed away, but the dirk remained in his hand. Garth drew his own 
dagger, which was now longer than his sword, and also longer than the priest's 
blade, having been made for an overman rather than a mere human. He saw that 
the sacrificial victim was tied to the altar and cut away the ropes. 



Immediately she rolled off the altar, sprang up, and started toward the door; 
Garth caught her before she had gone more than a single step, dropping the 
stump of his sword but keeping the dagger ready in case a priest or worshipper 
should attack. His hand gripped her arm, none too gently, as he said, "Wait. 
You go with me." She winced, and nodded. The wailing had ceased altogether; 
the worshippers knelt in shocked silence. The man who held the dirk, 
presumably the high priest, cried out, "Blasphemer! The girl is our 
sacrifice!" Garth grinned broadly. "No longer, priest." It occurred to him 
that, had he come at a different time, he might have found something entirely 
different on the altar, something more to the Forgotten King's liking, and 
added, "I was sent to fetch what lay upon this stone." He was actually 
quite pleased he had arrived when he did; the girl was obviously an unwilling 
victim. "You have made a mistake! She is nothing but a sacrifice!" "What 
else was upon your altar?" "Who sent you? Some wizard?" "I come from the 
temple of Aghad." Garth was perfectly willing to stir up discord as long as it 
was directed properly, and in fact he spoke the literal truth. "What do 
they want with our ceremonial weapons?" "No one said anything about any 
weapons." "There is no need for subterfuge; you came for the whip and 
dagger. What..." The priest's question was cut off abruptly as Garth, 
releasing the girl, leapt over the altar and grabbed the man by the throat. 
"Priest, you talk too much. Give me the dagger." Garth marveled at the man's 
stupidity; it had been remarkably cooperative of him to reveal so quickly what 
was ordinarily kept on the altar. The priest made a desperate and futile 
stab at Garth's side with the dirk; it was turned by the overman's mail. 
Garth's own dagger was not turned. He ran it through the priest's wrist, and 
the fingers sprang open. The dirk clattered to the floor. The priest who 
held the whip suddenly came to life; like everyone else in the temple, he had 
been watching motionlessly, too confused and surprised to do anything about 
this intrusion, but now he lunged forward and came up holding the dropped 
dagger. He stabbed at Garth; the thrust was parried, and the man 
retreated. Meanwhile, the high priest struggled in Garth's unbreakable grip. 
His hands clutched at Garth's arm, impeding his movement as his fellow made 
another thrust, and the dirk missed Garth by mere inches. Annoyed, Garth flung 
the high priest aside; he struck the wall at the feet of his idol, fell limply 
to the floor, and lay still. With one disposed of, Garth turned to face the 
other, who had assumed a proper knife-fighting stance despite his hampering 
robe. The third priest leapt upon Garth from behind and swung a loop of rope 
around his neck. To the priests, this seemed to give them an advantage; to 
the overman, it was a petty annoyance. Keeping his dagger in his left hand, he 
reached up with his right, and closed it on the would-be strangler's throat. 
As the man tried to pull his rope taut, Garth's grip tightened, digging in 
with both the thumbs on his right hand. He misjudged the strength of the 
man's neck; there was a loud crack, and the priest tumbled from his back, eyes 
already glazing over. As he fell, his head struck the edge of the granite 
altar with another, similar crack of breaking bone. There could be no doubt 
that he was dead. The remaining priest froze; he was facing the wall of 
flares, so that the lower half of his face was visible despite his overhanging 
cowl, and as Garth watched his mouth fell open and the blood drained from his 
jaw. The dagger and whip dropped from shaking fingers. "Girl! Get them!" 
Garth's voice was sharp, and the girl hastened to obey; she had been watching 
the fight, and any thought of failing to cooperate with her saviour-or new 
captor; she was as yet unsure which Garth actually was-had vanished. She 
hurried around the end of the altar, ignoring the effect of the rough floor on 
her bare feet, and snatched up the weapons. The lone conscious priest stepped 
back out of her way without protest. "Go wait on the steps. And," he 
added in a bellow, "any who hinders her will die!" Again the girl obeyed 
immediately, and the worshippers made no move to stop her. Garth followed her 
at a more leisurely pace, pausing to pick up his sword hilt from in front of 
the altar. At the top of the steps he sheathed his dagger and picked up the 
sack of coins he had deposited there upon entering; he paused, considering, 



and glanced at the girl's feet. They were bleeding, and the obsidian courtyard 
was far worse than the shattered flagstones of the temple. He handed her the 
sack, telling her to hold it; she accepted it and nearly dropped it, 
astonished at its weight. He then put his arm around her middle and picked her 
up, dagger, whip, gold and all. After some adjustment he found a position that 
was fairly comfortable for both of them, though he suspected his mail was 
scratching her bare skin more than she cared to admit, and strode down the 
steps out of sight of the worshippers of Sai, who had silently watched the 
entire proceeding, without making a move in his direction.CHAPTER FOURTEENThe 
door and gates were still open, which was gratifying; he was heartily tired of 
portals that closed themselves. With the added weight of the girl on his 
shoulder, the jagged obsidian cut even deeper into the soles of his boots. 
When he finally stepped out onto the pavement of the Street of the Temples, he 
could feel that one puncture had gone clear through and, although his foot was 
not bleeding, the boot was plainly ruined. He sighed. The whole escapade in 
the temple of Sai had been a satisfactory way of working off his rage, leaving 
him reasonably calm, but it was sure to have unpleasant repercussions and 
results, of which ruined boots were only the first and least. Adventuring 
seemed to be hard on feet and footwear; his first errand for the Forgotten 
King had destroyed a good pair of boots and various makeshift replacements and 
given him an assortment of burns, cuts, and blisters. He found the street he 
had followed before and turned off the Street of the Temples, heading for the 
Inn of the Seven Stars. When he was out of sight of the avenue and presumably 
reasonably safe from immediate pursuit, he sheathed the stump of his sword and 
lifted the girl down off his shoulder. There was no reason to wear himself out 
carrying her; she should be able to walk well enough. Besides, it would be 
difficult to converse while carrying her, and he had several questions. She 
seemed glad enough to be on her feet again; she brushed herself off slightly, 
making small yelps of pain whenever her hands accidentally disturbed the blood 
clotting on the dozens of cuts that crisscrossed her belly and breasts. She 
looked with dismay at the wounds, and at the reddish smudges left by Garth's 
hands, which were still damp with the blood of the various victims of the cult 
of Aghad. Garth guessed that the cuts must be very painful, though she did not 
whimper or complain, but stood, waiting for him to speak. "Follow me; we are 
going to my inn." She nodded, but hesitated. "What's the matter?" he asked. 


"My lord, I am naked." This was obvious, of course, but Garth had given 
it no thought. "Is that bad?" "It...it is not proper. I cannot walk the 
streets naked." Garth sighed. "You will have to; I have no spare garments 
with me." "But everyone will stare!" Although not out of any concern for 
her modesty, he found that argument was the most effective she could have 
used; Garth did not want to draw attention to himself. Although he had thought 
he was safe from recognition by the followers of Tema or Andhur Regvos, the 
Aghadites knew that he was responsible for the desecrations of both those 
temples as well as their own, and he had made a public display of himself just 
now in the temple of Sai. If he maintained a casual manner and walked the 
streets openly, he doubted that most Dûsarrans would pay any attention to him; 
they hadn't done so previously. However, if an unclothed female was 
sufficiently unusual to attract stares, he could not afford to be seen with 
one. Someone might well point him out to Aghadites or followers of Sai who 
might otherwise have missed him. Accordingly, he removed his belt, peeled 
off his suit of mail, and began untying the gambeson underneath. He stopped 
abruptly when he noticed the girl backing away apprehensively. "What's 
wrong with you? I'm just going to give you this to wear; I have nothing else 
available." "Oh!" The girl calmed visibly; Garth stripped off the quilted 
garment and handed it to her, standing uncomfortably in little but his soft 
leather breeches and natural coat of thin black fur. She accepted it, but then 
stood motionless, watching Garth don his armor once more. He looked at her, 
wondering why she was just standing there. She burst out, "You're furry!" 


"You're not," he replied. "Put on the gambeson; this night air is cool." 


"Oh!" she exclaimed again. Flushing slightly, she managed to pull the 



oversized padded shirt over her head; Garth noticed that she winced in pain as 
she worked it down over her body, and realized that it must be rubbing against 
the cuts inflicted by the sacrificial dagger. It must be horribly painful and 
irritating, yet she gave only a single quiet squeak, then began struggling 
with the ties at either side intended to keep the garment tight on the 
wearer's body. The lower hem, which came to slightly below Garth's waist, 
reached her knees; it not only covered her nakedness, but completely hid the 
cuts, which was doubtless all to the good if it didn't hurt her too much. 
When she had the gambeson arranged as best she could manage, she asked, "Are 
all overmen furry?" Garth, still struggling to get the mail settled 
comfortably, took his time about answering and limited his reply to, "Yes." 
When he had the iron links arranged so that they did not scratch or chafe 
intolerably, he turned his attention to the girl. It was fortunate, he 
thought, that he had had his armor and accoutrements dyed or painted black, to 
decrease visibility. The gambeson's quilting did not show in the dim light, 
where it might have in a lighter-hued fabric. From a distance one might well 
mistake it for more ordinary attire-if not for the fact that it only reached 
the girl's knees. Still, it was better than nothing. He picked up the dagger 
and whip, stuffed them in the sack with the gold, and swung it over his 
shoulder. "Good. Come on." The girl obeyed, as he led the way back toward 
the Inn of the Seven Stars. He kept to the shadows and back alleys as much as 
possible and looped around the marketplace, giving it a wide berth. These 
tactics were fairly successful; the few passersby they encountered gave them 
no more than a passing glance. This journey was hard on Garth's nerves; 
he kept expecting to hear someone shouting out the presence of the wanted 
thief and committer of sacrilege. Eventually, however, the pair reached the 
inn without being accosted, and crept through the archway into the stable. 
Dugger the stable-boy was still on duty; Garth motioned for him to be silent, 
and he assented with a grin and a nod. Koros was curled up asleep but still 
occupied most of his stall, which had been designed with smaller animals in 
mind. Garth stepped in and settled comfortably on the straw on the other side, 
beside his supplies and the concealed loot from his first two thefts; with 
only a slight hesitation the girl obeyed his gesture and sat down beside him. 
He found a sponge in his pack, wetted it with water from one of his 
canteens-he would have to fill them soon-and said, "Get that thing off so I 
can clean your wounds." She obeyed, untying the gambeson and pulling it over 
her head; despite the delicacy she displayed in this, Garth saw that several 
of the cuts beneath had been rubbed raw by the garment and were bleeding anew. 
He began washing away the blood and dirt as gently as he could but she still 
twitched away occasionally when the contact of water or the pressure of his 
hand stung her. As he attended to this task he asked, "Now, girl, who are 
you?" "My name is Frima." The girl's voice was high, but not unpleasant; she 
spoke timidly. "Are you Dûsarran?" "Yes, of course!" "How did you come 
to be a sacrifice to Sai? Are you one of her devotees?" "Oh, no! I worship 
Tema. The priests of Sai kidnapped me from my father's shop last night." 
"How is it that the ceremony was being held at that hour? I had heard that 
only the cults of Tema and Andhur Regvos lived by night." "That's right; 
that's why the sacrifices to Sai are-ow!-always at night." "I do not 
understand" "The cult of Sai is secret; its members do not-ooh!-do not admit 
their allegiance. Therefore, they hold all their ceremonies at night, 
when-ooh!-when the darkness provides cover, and when they will not be missed 
from their daytime occupations." "Are the other cults equally secretive?" 
"The day-dwelling cults are, yes. Ouch. That's part of why the night-dwellers 
avoid them; would you want to associate with someone who worships pain-ow! 
Damn them!-or disease? It is said that many of the day-dwellers worship no 
gods at all, but that's not much better, and there is no way of knowing which 
are which." Garth finished his cleaning, and rummaged in his pack for the 
pouch of healing herbs he carried. "Your city has a very complicated way of 
life. Are kidnappings such as yours common?" He located the herbs, and worked 
some into the sponge. "Oh, yes; people disappear all the time." "Your 



overlord allows this?" He began rubbing the herbs gently along each cut; the 
girl cooperated by remaining as still as she could while she answered. "There 
is nothing he can do. The bodies are never found, and there is no way of 
knowing which cult is responsible." "Then why does he not destroy all those 
cults that practice human sacrifice?" "Oh, that must never happen! The 
gods themselves have chosen Dûsarra; the Dark Gods must have temples here, or 
there would be a great disaster! Besides, nobody knows which cults have human 
sacrifices and which don't." "It would seem obvious," Garth said as he 
finished spreading on the healing compound, "that the cult of The God Whose 
Name Is Not Spoken must practice human sacrifice; cannot the overlord at least 
destroy that one? I have noticed that even in Dûsarra most people want nothing 
to do with that god." "There is no cult to destroy; no one worships the 
Final God but a single old priest. The god himself calls sacrifices to his 
temple, and no one who has entered the shrine has ever been seen again, except 
the priest. No one knows what is inside; no traces are ever found. No 
clothing, no bodies. Whenever a Dûsarran wishes to die, for whatever reason, 
he merely goes to the god's temple, and when the god is not satisfied with the 
number of suicides, he turns men mad, so they go to the temple without knowing 
what they are doing. The overlord would not dare to harm the priest or the 
temple, for then he himself might be called." Garth made no further comment 
on the subject; instead, he said, "I am afraid I cannot properly bandage your 
wounds; they are too many, and I have not the necessary cloth. I hope they 
will not trouble you" He sat back to consider his situation, and the 
information Frima had just given him. Frima, hesitantly, asked a question 
of her own. "Who are you? Why did you rescue me?" "I am Garth of Ordunin, 
and I came to Dûsarra to steal whatever I found on the seven altars. You were 
on the altar of Sai, so I am stealing you, and will take you back to Skelleth 
with me." "Are you going to ravish me?" Garth looked at her in surprise. The 
question explained her behavior when he had stripped off his gambeson for her 
use, but the ignorance it implied was startling. "I couldn't if I wanted to. 
We are different species, as different as Koros, here, and an alley cat. 
Overmen take no interest in anything but overwomen." "Oh." He was unable to 
see her blush in the darkness, and would not have understood its significance 
if he had. "I am taking you to Skelleth because you were on the altar of Sai; 
I have no other interest in you." He wondered if her sexual expectations were 
justified by her appearance; she seemed fairly clean and healthy, with little 
excess fat but no bones showing, but beyond that he had no more idea of 
whether she was attractive than a bull would have. Overwomen were as noseless, 
flat-chested and furry as himself; they relied on scent for stimulation, not 
appearance, and Frima held no more interest for him than any other animal. He 
supposed men would like her, although her chest seemed rather overdone even 
for a human. She was silent for a few seconds, and then burst out, "I 
don't want to go to Skelleth! Besides, if you're from Ordunin, why are you 
taking me somewhere else? And where is Ordunin, anyway? And Skelleth?" 
"Ordunin is in the Northern Waste. Skelleth is in Eramma. I have undertaken 
this task for someone who dwells in Skelleth. I care very little whether you 
want to go or not, and I suggest you not argue. It was not specified that I 
bring you back alive." Garth was not seriously annoyed, but merely wanted 
quiet to think in and spoke harshly to silence the girl. His ploy succeeded; 
Frima shut up and shrank back into the straw. He had not intended to kill any 
of the followers of Sai, though he was repulsed by the use of torture and 
human sacrifice; he hoped the high priest, scum that he was, survived. He 
regretted snapping the other priest's neck, not so much out of respect for the 
life lost as because it would undoubtedly please the cult of Aghad. It had 
been inevitable, though; he had been attacked, and had responded 
appropriately. Besides, the man's death had cowed the others very nicely. 
He had plundered four of the seven altars; three remained, two of them on the 
Street of the Temples. The robberies of the temples of Tema and Andhur Regvos 
had not gone particularly well, but would produce no definite identifications; 
on the other hand, several devotees of Sai and Aghad now knew him on sight, 



and the Aghadites knew his name as well. Frima claimed that both cults were 
secret societies, and presumably would not therefore spread their information 
about, but on the other hand might well try to dispose of him themselves. 
This whole affair was getting very complicated. He had intended to use his 
room in the inn in the normal manner and sleep in a comfortable bed; he had 
not done so previously only because he had collapsed from fatigue before he 
made it that far. However, now that he was definitely a hunted fugitive, even 
if not readily identifiable to all his pursuers, he decided that that would be 
a mistake. He would remain here in this stable. It was uncomfortable and 
uncivilized, but it was where Koros was, and where his loot and his weapons 
were. No one would be able to sneak up on him while he was guarded by the 
warbeast. Furthermore, although a siege might be effective, no frontal assault 
here would be able to defeat both him and his beast; it would be impossible to 
pour men into the stall in large enough numbers. He knew, with neither false 
modesty nor overconfidence, that he was capable of handling at least three 
human warriors at once, and that Koros could deal with twice that number. In a 
room at the inn, half a dozen men might slip in and kill him; in the stable, 
with the warbeast beside him, those same men wouldn't have a chance. Not 
only that, but by keeping Frima here he avoided any inconvenient questions as 
to what a human female was doing with an overman-quite aside from her attire. 
That reminded him of her current state of undress; he recalled that somewhere 
in his bundle of supplies he had a spare tunic, intended for social occasions, 
that would doubtless serve her better than his gambeson. Even should she fail 
to appreciate it, at the very least he would have padding for his mail once 
more; it was digging ferociously into his back where he leaned against the 
wall of the stall. He reached for his bundle of supplies, and discovered 
that he could no longer see it; the moon was down, having sunk beneath the 
horizon while he mused, and the dawn was still an hour or two away. He reached 
for his flint and steel, only to be reminded by their absence that he had 
surrendered them to the priests of Andhur Regvos. Well, the inn would have 
lanterns, or torches, or some form of portable illumination. "Wait here," he 
ordered the girl, as he stepped out of the stall. There was very slightly 
more light in the stableyard than in the stall, a peculiar reddish light. He 
looked up, wondering why starlight should be such a color, and discovered that 
no stars were visible. Clouds had blown up out of the east, and most of the 
sky was overcast; the reddish glow was the reflected fires of the active 
volcanoes and the city's torchlit market. The strip of clear sky to the west 
narrowed as he watched, a vanishing black gap between the stable wall and the 
encroaching red-gray clouds. He shrugged. A little rain never hurt anyone. He 
strode out the arch to the tavern adjoining. The taproom was not crowded; 
half a dozen dark-robed customers sat scattered about among the tables. There 
was no sign of the two serving maids or their brother, but only a middle-aged 
woman of unhealthy appearance, carrying away empty mugs and replacing them 
with full ones. "Ho, there." She glanced his way, but did not pause 
until she had dealt with her current batch of ale; that properly distributed, 
she wound her way through the chairs, shoving them under appropriate tables as 
she went, until she stood in front of the overman. "And how may I aid you, 
sir?" "Have you a lantern? I would tend to my mount, but the light is 
inadequate." "A lantern? Not for sale." "Could I borrow one, then? I 
can pay." She shrugged. "As you please." She departed, winding her way 
across the room again to vanish through a door at the back. A moment later she 
emerged again, a shuttered lantern in her hand. Garth took it, thanked her, 
dropped a coin in her palm and left; he failed to notice the steady gaze of 
one of the patrons studying him, and was out of sight through the stable's 
arch when the same man also departed, walking quickly in the direction of the 
temple of Tema.CHAPTER FIFTEENFrima didn't think much of the tunic. It was 
scarcely longer than the gambeson, and she insisted there was a cold draft on 
her shins despite the fact that Garth could not feel a breath of air. Further, 
it was embroidered in red and gold, as was appropriate for a Prince of Ordunin 
on formal occasions, and she seemed to consider such adornment a sign of 



decadence. She pointed out that no Dûsarran wore any garment with more than a 
single color to it, and although the midnight-blue of the tunic was perfectly 
acceptable, she found the bright trimmings utterly appalling. Garth let 
her complain, so long as she wore the thing and returned his padding. He 
pointed out that he preferred to have her look like a foreigner; she replied 
that she hadn't known foreigners were so tasteless. Despite her complaints, 
Frima donned the tunic. Garth, meanwhile, returned his gambeson to its proper 
place beneath his mail, tossed aside the hilt of his sword and its now-useless 
scabbard, and tied his battle-axe to his back. He wished he had thought to 
bring a second cloak. It was something he would do on any future adventures; 
that, and a spare pair of boots. He felt very exposed wandering the streets 
wearing armor openly, as if he were inviting attack; it seemed though that he 
had no choice. He also thought that carrying the axe was inviting trouble, but 
it was undoubtedly safer than going unarmed. Besides, he relied on the fact 
that the humans would not expect a fugitive to walk openly in their midst. 
He had no real plans at this point; he still had three temples to rob, but he 
was tired and hungry and had a captive to take care of. It occurred to him 
that he should have gotten food while in the tavern getting the lantern. He 
stood, and leaned over the door of the stall, peering through the arch at the 
street. A pedestrian passed by, and a second later an oxcart followed. 
There was a hint of dawn in the eastern sky, visible only as a slightly paler 
shade of gray in the cloud-cover, but present nonetheless. Dugger the 
stable-boy was gone, and presumably one of his daytime compatriots would show 
up at any minute; Garth had no desire to waste more money bribing them to 
silence as he had Dugger. He decided he did not care to venture forth just 
now, and instead found his meager remaining supply of provisions, left over 
from his journey. Frima looked dubiously at the strips of dried meat and the 
handful of berries he offered her, but took them and ate them; he ate his fill 
likewise, and washed the unappetizing fare down with the metallic-tasting 
water from his one remaining canteen, leaving enough for his prisoner to do 
the same. He was surprised when she made no complaint; it was just as well, 
though, as she would probably be eating more of the same throughout the long 
ride back to Skelleth. His hunger assuaged, he sat back and contemplated 
whether he would do better to tackle the remaining shrines by daylight or at 
night; after some thought, he decided he simply didn't have enough 
information, and asked Frima her opinion. "Would it be safer to rob the altars 
of P'hul and Bheleu by night or day, girl?" Frima, who had said nothing 
since she stopped complaining about her new garb, answered, "I don't know." 
"The worshippers live by day, but their ceremonies are held at night, 
correct?" "Yes." "What of the priests? When do they sleep?" "I 
don't know. Perhaps they have no need to sleep at all." "Everyone, human 
or overman, needs to sleep." It seemed plain the girl was to be of no use in 
deciding. It appeared to him that the priests must sleep during the day, and 
that therefore that would be the optimum time to make his attempt, but if he 
were seen abroad in daylight he would be inviting retaliation from the cult of 
Sai. Of course, at night he was risking the revenge of Tema and Andhur 
Regvos. It was no use; he was unable to decide on such a basis. He 
considered instead what he would do if he did not choose to rob another temple 
immediately. Obviously, he would sleep. Did he want to sleep? Well, 
yes, now that the subject came up, he realized he was quite weary and could 
use a nap. He would take one, and when he woke up he would go rob the next 
temple. The matter finally decided, he announced, "We will sleep now." 
Without waiting to see what Frima thought of this, he stretched himself out as 
best he could on the straw and fell soundly asleep. Frima did not 
immediately follow his example, but instead sat and reviewed the events of the 
night just ending and the one before it. She had been tending her father's 
shop while he attended the regular moonlight ceremony at the temple when three 
large men had entered, claiming a pot they had bought there had a faulty seam; 
she had known that they were lying, for her father was undoubtedly the best 
tinker in Dûsarra, but had looked at the pot anyway, and found herself gagged, 



then grabbed, then bound, and carried off in a sack over one man's shoulder. 
She had spent the following day in a small, cramped cell somewhere, but had 
been too frightened to sleep for a long time, even though it was obviously 
after dawn; when at last she had dozed off, it was to be rudely awakened by 
the same three men, who removed not merely her bonds but her clothes as well, 
before dragging her, struggling all the way, to the altar of Sai. She had 
known, from the instant that the gag was pressed into her mouth, that she was 
being kidnapped by one of the day-dweller cults; it was a familiar concept, a 
traditional childhood fear, suddenly become much too real. She had had no real 
hope of escape; nobody ever escaped from the temples. Instead she had tried to 
behave properly, as befit a true follower of the night-goddess and the 
daughter of the city's best tinker. And then, when the ceremony was well under 
way and she was paying attention to nothing but the pain from the cutting of 
the priest's knife, this great red-eyed, bloody-handed monster had appeared 
and freed her. She was familiar with overmen; every so often one would come 
to the shop, to buy a belt-buckle or have a harness repaired, never to buy the 
pots and kettles that were, her father's pride. They spoke rudely and carried 
swords, and had faces like Death himself-or at least like Bheleu, as 
represented in the little idols she had seen in the marketplace. She did not 
like overmen; they were big and dangerous and mysterious, and it was said that 
they laughed at the gods yet were not struck down, which implied some 
sorcerous might, although she had never heard of an overman magician. But 
then an overman had rescued her, and she suddenly owed her life to an inhuman 
monster. This creature casually snapped a man's neck with one hand and spoke 
of killing her as if she were no more than one of the dogs that prowled the 
alleys, but then fed and clothed her and bathed her wounds. He even declined 
to rape her; she didn't seriously believe his statement that he couldn't. She 
was, in fact, still virgin; the high priest of Sai was to have ravished her as 
part of the sacrificial ceremony, a part that had not yet been reached when 
she was rescued. Her three captors had not dared to usurp the priest's 
privilege. Further, Garth spoke to her in a perfectly civil manner, more so 
than any overman she had met before, and did not strike her, but merely 
threatened. Then when he spoke, he claimed to be from some semi-mythical 
wasteland and said that he planned to take her to someplace in the forbidden 
land of Eramma, whether she wanted to go or not. It was all very confusing. 
Overmen came from the Yprian Coast, and rode oxen or great horses, not huge 
black panthers. She found the whole affair incomprehensible and was unsure 
of her feelings toward Garth. He had kidnapped her, but saved her from death; 
he had threatened her life, but now lay sleeping peacefully a few feet away, 
trusting her with his own life. What was to prevent her from escaping, or even 
killing him with his own weapons? She stood. A low growl reached her, and 
she sat down again very quickly. She had thought that the huge black beast was 
asleep, but it was watching her now, its golden eyes gleaming in the pale 
morning light that filtered dimly in. She stared back. It blinked, then 
casually lowered its head and appeared to go to sleep once again. She stared 
for a moment longer, then relaxed. There was no point in arguing with the 
monster. Still thoroughly confused, she settled back, realized that she was in 
fact exhausted, and fell asleep. She slept uneasily, and when Garth had 
rested enough to take the edge off his fatigue, he was awakened by her 
thrashing about. At first he did not remember his situation very clearly and 
his hand instinctively went to his axe, but he recalled himself in time to 
avoid smashing the girl's skull. It was midmorning; he had slept four or 
five hours. Frima had not, having kept herself awake until after dawn, and he 
saw no reason to wake her. Unsettled though she might be, her troubled sleep 
was probably better for her than no rest at all. Garth suspected it was the 
discomfort of the dozens of unbandaged slashes that kept her from resting 
easily; he regretted that he had not been able to bandage them 
properly-assuming, of course, that she would have allowed it-but at least he 
had done what he could. Although he could have used more rest himself, he 
decided against going back to sleep. Instead he got to his feet and brushed 



off the straw that stuck to his mail; then he slung his axe on his back, 
stuffed a sack under his belt and, with a calming word to Koros, left the 
stall. Heretofore, all his crimes had been committed at night; he hoped 
that undertaking his next in broad daylight would make it that much more 
unexpected. It is to a fugitive's advantage to be unpredictable. One of the 
two stable-boys he had spoken with the preceding day sat in the archway, 
whittling carelessly at a scrap of wood with an old table knife; he showed no 
sign that he was aware of Garth's presence. That was fine with Garth; for the 
first time, he gave serious consideration to finding some other way out of the 
stableyard. The sun was faintly visible, well up in the eastern sky, but 
obscured by a layer of cloud. Elsewhere the clouds were thicker, and nowhere 
was the sky any color but gray. Any lingering glow from the volcanoes was 
submerged in the more powerful drabness of the daylight. It was not raining, 
but puddles on the packed dirt showed that it had been while Garth slept. 
He looked about, studying anew the double row of stalls, the blank wall, the 
open arch. There was no exit at ground level except the arch. There was no 
truly compelling reason not to use it. The stable-boy was certainly no threat 
in and of himself. Garth looked at the lad again, who was still intent on 
his lackadaisical carving; it was the boy who had been the more belligerent of 
the two, who had demanded he explain why he carried a sword. It occurred to 
him that the boy might think it strange that he no longer carried the blade. 
Garth decided he did not want the boy to see him. He did not want anyone to 
see him leaving the stable; he did not want to make his connection with this 
place any better known than it already was. Quite aside from logic, he was 
emotionally and intuitively displeased by the idea. His position had become so 
complicated that its logic was beyond him, and he resolved instead to rely on 
his instincts. Accordingly, lend himself another way of leaving the stable. 
There was no alternative at ground level unless he wanted to knock out a wall; 
he had not the time to burrow his way out. That left one direction-up. He 
swung open the broad door of Koros' stall until it stood out perpendicular to 
its closed position; it projected out from beneath the roof of the stable. He 
tested its strength; although it was not as solid as he might have desired, it 
was adequate. Using the door as a steppingstone, he vaulted upward so that his 
head, arms, and chest were above the level of the roof's edge; he caught 
himself, then crawled upward until his full weight rested on the wet red 
tiles. He was very pleased to note that he had made the ascent with a 
minimum of clatter; the lack of his scabbarded sword was an advantage in that 
respect. He drew himself carefully upright, being sure not to put his full 
weight upon any part of the roof until he had tested it sufficiently, then 
surveyed his position. The roof he was standing on was about ten feet wide 
and fifty long, sloping toward the stableyard; on the far side of, the yard 
was another virtually identical to it, and the two were connected at either 
end by a narrow wall, which looked wide and strong enough to walk on if it 
became necessary-but not if it remained unnecessary. Beyond the other roof was 
the wall of the upper story or stories of the Inn of the Seven Stars; along 
the upper edge of the roof he stood on was a blank wall of gray stone, 
extending upward at least twenty feet. He wondered what it was; he had not 
noticed from the street what building occupied that position, and the 
featureless expanse gave no clue. There was no exit in that direction. The 
wall was too high to leap, and he was not a very good climber. On the 
opposite side, the stone wall of the inn was spotted with windows, half a 
dozen of them, but all, he was happy to see, shuttered; there was no danger of 
being noticed by the occupants of those rooms, and having his presence on the 
roof questioned. That wall was lower; the windows were all in a single tier, 
and he judged the distance between the roof of the stable and the roof of the 
inn to be no more than a dozen feet, probably less. The inn's roof was 
constructed of the same tile as that on which he stood, but was much, much 
steeper, and there were at least two skylights visible between the 
chimneypots. There was no exit by that route, either. At the one end, beyond 
the wall, lay the open street. That left only one direction unexplored; he 



could not see what lay beyond the blank wall at the stable's inner end. Though 
the upper stories of other buildings were visible beyond, there was a definite 
gap immediately behind that wall. He made his way carefully along the 
sloping surface, trying to avoid dislodging any of the battered tiles, until 
he stood within a pace of the edge. He peered over and found himself looking 
into a small enclosed yard, strewn with garbage and half-flooded by the 
morning's rain. An unpleasant odor drifted faintly to his slit nostrils. 
The far side of the yard was filled by a simple twostory structure, apparently 
an ordinary house; on either hand walls five or six feet high separated it 
from similar patches of earth, though due to the angle of his vision he could 
not see much of either, despite the height of his perch. The left-hand yard 
was, as far as he could see, cleaner than the central one; of the right-hand 
yard he could not even see that much. He paused to consider, and glanced 
back at the stableyard; from his elevated position he could see that the 
abandoned trough where he had burned his cloak now held an inch or so of murky 
rainwater, black with the ashes of his garment. There was no reason to bother 
crossing over to the right-hand yard; of the other two, both were accessible 
from the roof he was on. The central yard spanned the stable yard and perhaps 
half of each of the roofed-over stables; the left-hand yard extended across 
the remaining four or five feet. The left-hand yard would be a longer drop, 
being below the higher portion of the roof; therefore, he made his way to the 
bottom corner, where the gray stone of the wall extended out from beneath the 
red tiles, lowered himself over the outer edge, and lethimself drop. He 
landed with a splash, and immediately felt water seeping into his right boot 
through the puncture made by the obsidian in the forecourt of Sai's temple; it 
was cold and sluggish, probably made up of filthy mud as much as water. He 
wished he knew how to curse, as humans did; he tried muttering the names of a 
few gods but it provided no relief, and he growled instead. It was hard to 
judge accurately the depth of the water, because his boots sank into the mud 
beneath the weight of his armored body; there was at least an inch, though. 
He slogged across the little court, his boots thrusting aside decaying fruit 
peels and muck-coated old bones, and climbed onto a stone doorstep that rose 
above the water; he could feel the water draining slowly from his ruined boot, 
leaving a slimy residue and a wet lining. The door was centered in the wall. 
There were two narrow windows on either side, all dark and curtained, but with 
their shutters open. That implied that there was someone somewhere within, but 
most likely not in these rearmost rooms. He tried the latch. It yielded, and 
he leaned on the door. It did not yield. A wordless noise of annoyance burst 
from him. He leaned harder, letting his left foot fall back into the befouled 
water the better to brace himself. The door still did not yield, and in a 
burst of anger Garth lifted his axe over his head and swung it at the 
recalcitrant barrier. Splinters flew. He struck again, and felt the blade 
slice through into the space beyond. The door was not unreasonably thick. 
He pulled the axe free and let it dangle loosely in his right fist as he 
leaned to peer through the crack he had made. The room beyond was dark, and 
he could see nothing. He stood back, and swung the axe again; the wood of the 
door gave, bursting inward, leaving two wide gaps. He slung the axe on his 
back once again and ripped out the broken wood between the two slits, giving 
him an opening wide enough to get his hand through. He reached in and, as he 
had expected, found that the door was barred; the bar lay only a few inches 
below the opening, and it was no great feat of dexterity to lift it free and 
let it drop to the floor inside. It occurred to him that he was making a 
great deal of noise, yet so far no one had appeared to question him; luck was 
apparently with him. It did not occur to him that he might have made less 
noise going in through one of the windows. He worked the latch and pushed on 
the door again. It still did not open. He pressed harder, and it bowed 
inward but remained closed. There were other bars; judging by the way the door 
bent, one near the top and one near the bottom. His patience, which had been 
in very short supply since his embarrassing display of ineffectuality in the 
temple of Aghad, ran out, and with a roar he freed his axe again and swung it 



horizontally into the wood. Splinters sprayed, and a large chunk of one of the 
boards that made up the door snapped off and fell with a loud splash into the 
murky water. He struck again, with no thought or care as to the effects of his 
blow, and the blade wedged itself into the wood, scattering more shards. He 
ripped it free, bringing most of a plank with it, and let it hang from one 
hand again while the other reached through the greatly enlarged hole. He 
could feel the upper bar, but his forearm was not long enough to allow him to 
dislodge it; he withdrew, then thrust the other hand in, and used the axe to 
knock the bar away. It fell with even more noise than the first. He felt for 
the third bar, and hooked it upward with the corner of his weapon; its fall 
could scarcely be heard. Then, still angry, and with his hand and axe still 
thrust within, he tried the latch again. The door opened a few inches. He 
withdrew his hand and slammed the door aside; its shaken frame gave way when 
it struck the wall behind it, and collapsed, twisting out of shape and leaving 
a disarrayed mass of tangled wood, rather than a door, hanging from the bent 
hinges. Ignoring it, Garth stepped inside. He was in a small kitchen; a 
stone sink stood against one wall, and tables and cabinets abounded. There was 
no sign of life, but it was reasonably clean, with no accumulation of dust; 
the house was not abandoned. Perhaps the owner was deaf; Garth could not 
imagine any other reason not to investigate such noise as he had just made, if 
the occupant were there at all and capable of movement. Perhaps he or she 
had gone out and not bothered to close the shutters; perhaps he was bedridden. 
In any case, Garth was not particularly concerned; he had merely wanted some 
other route out of the stable. He crossed the kitchen, and strode through the 
open archway that led to a large front room. Unlike the kitchen, this room was 
the full width of the house, about twenty feet; it was slightly longer than 
that from front to back, and the low ceiling made it appear even broader. 
Garth found that he had to stoop. The kitchen had allowed him to stand upright 
so long as he avoided the beams that supported the upper floor, but this 
larger room had a plank ceiling. There was a door in the wall behind him, 
which he guessed led to a storeroom of some sort beside the kitchen, and along 
the left-hand wall a stairway led to the upper level. Assorted chairs, rugs; 
and tables were scattered about; a broad hearth and massive fireplace occupied 
the right wall. The far side had two wide bow windows, with curtains drawn 
across them, and a heavy oaken door between. He crossed to the door, drew 
the lockbolt, and opened it slightly, peering out; it appeared to be a 
residential neighborhood, with no shops or public buildings visible. He opened 
the door and stepped out. The sun had broken through the clouds; the 
street was deserted. He closed the door behind him but left it unlocked, and 
headed to his right, the direction he judged would best bring him to the 
Street of the Temples.CHAPTER SIXTEENHe had been very fortunate in emerging on 
an empty street; he found few others as he made his way across Dûsarra, but. 
somehow he reached his goal without being accosted. Several people had cast 
curious gazes in his direction and a mutter of conversation had frequently 
followed him, but no one had dared to stop him. Now, he strode openly along 
the Street of the Temples, hoping his luck would hold. He was approaching 
a temple, the third from the overlord's palace; it loomed before him, a huge 
cube of black stone, dotted with dark windows and topped by a broad dome. 
Seven shallow steps led to its, open portals; there were no gates, no 
courtyard, no indication which deity was worshipped here. He was only a few 
paces from the bottom step when someone behind him cried, "Hold, overman!" 
He hastened his pace, hurrying up the steps; he heard running, feet somewhere 
behind him as he stepped through the doorway into an antechamber. The room was 
small, with a wooden floor that gave dangerously beneath his feet, and walls 
hung with moldering, faded tapestries. He wondered briefly if the place was 
abandoned; since the daylight cults were secret, one might have died out 
without anyone knowing it. There was a door in the inner wall with a rusty 
iron handle; Garth grabbed it, only to have it crumble in his grasp. He raised 
a fist to pound on the door, in hope that someone would admit him; to his 
astonishment, the door burst inward at his first blow, its hinges screaming in 



protest. Dust flew up in clouds, and a paroxysm of coughing overtook him, but 
he managed to stumble through. As he did, he realized there were no further 
sounds of pursuit behind him; instead, a voice exclaimed in dismay, "We can't 
go in there!" He stopped. If he were not pursued, there as no need for 
haste. He wiped the dust from his stinging eyes and looked about. The door he 
had entered through stood beside him, and it was immediately obvious why it 
had yielded so quickly; it had been eaten away from within by termites and 
rot, so that his blow had merely finished their work. The latch that had held 
it remained where it was, rusted to the frame, and the wood had turned to 
powder around it, so that the door's edge now had a gaping hole in it. He was 
in a room perhaps fifteen feet across and twenty feet long; like the 
antechamber, and unlike any of the other temples he had yet visited, it was 
floored in wood, wood which sagged visibly at the center beneath the weight of 
a thick carpet. The walls, too, were wooden, except for one end; that was 
stone and obviously one of the temple's outer walls, since three narrow 
windows pierced it, providing the chamber with light. The room's ceiling was 
upholstered in silk, silk that was discolored with half a hundred old and new 
stains, that was black with rot in spots. Like the floor, it sagged in the 
center. Cobwebs hung from every corner. There were furnishings; two ornate 
tables adorned the far wall, flanking a doorway, and an assortment of faded, 
dusty chairs were strewn about. Over everything hung the smell, the stench 
of rot, mold, and decay; Garth suddenly felt quite certain he knew which 
temple he had entered. He took a cautious step forward into the room; the 
floor creaked ominously, and new odors of corruption assailed his nostrils. He 
put a hand on a woodpanelled wall, only to snatch it away quickly when he felt 
the wood start to give; like the door, it was riddled by worms and rot. There 
could be no doubt that this was the shrine of P'hul, goddess of decay. 
"Greetings, stranger." The soft voice came from somewhere to his right; the 
usual guttural Dûsarran accent was modified by a curious lisp. He turned, to 
see that a gray-robed figure had entered the room. He started to speak, but 
stopped as the figure threw back its hood, revealing the reason for the lisp. 
"Is something wrong?" The priestess' voice was solicitous. "No. I was just 
startled." The woman's lower lip was a twisted mass of oozing, festering 
flesh, and much of her face and neck was swollen and shapeless; one of her 
hands lacked a finger. Garth recognized the human disease of leprosy and 
shuddered slightly. His pursuers had had reasons other than religious respect 
for declining to enter this place. The priestess smiled, the friendly 
expression made hideous by her affliction. "Of course. It is customary that 
the servants of P'hul bear her handiwork upon their flesh, but I suppose it 
might well startle those not accustomed to such sights. Why have you come? 
What brings a healthy overman to the temple of decay?" Garth noticed that she 
was aware of her lisp, and struggled particularly hard to be sure she 
pronounced the name of her goddess correctly. He felt a twinge of pity. "I was 
merely curious." "I am surprised. We see few strangers here. How may I help 
to satisfy your curiosity?" "Tell me of your goddess, if you would." Garth 
was not particularly interested in learning about P'hul, but he wanted time to 
think, and guessed that the priestess, absorbed as she was with her beliefs, 
would be quite willing to talk for hours about them with only minimal 
encouragement. Where he would have raised suspicion by questioning her on more 
mundane matters, he was sure that in the enthusiasm of the true believer she 
would not find anything strange in his willingness to listen to endless 
blather about her religion. "If you wish, gladly! I am sure you know the 
basic nature of P'hul; she is the cause and essence of all disease and decay 
throughout our world. She ages us all, she makes us easy prey for death, so 
that the old will make way for the young. She turns the leaves green to brown, 
pulls them from the trees; and makes them rot, so that they will feed the 
earth. She eats away fruit, that the seeds within may flourish. By plague and 
disease, she removes the unfit and unworthy. The worms of the earth and the 
lowly insects serve her, devouring all that she gives them, and in turn they 
feed the birds of the sky and the beasts of the field. She is the handmaiden 



of death." As the priestess spoke, her words distorted by her lisp, Garth 
thought back over recent events; it struck him suddenly that he had been 
behaving recklessly, almost idiotically, since leaving the temple of Aghad. 
Marching openly into the temple of Sai had been foolish, even if it had 
allowed him to save an innocent life. He had not planned well there; even his 
fight with the priests had been mismanaged, as he should have been able to 
overpower all three without killing any. "There are those who say that death 
is the great evil of our world," the priestess went on, "and that if P'hul 
serves him, then she must likewise be evil. That is not so; death would exist 
regardless of P'hul. The goddess readies us for his touch; is it not better to 
die old and weary, than to be cut down while still healthy and vigorous?" 
His behavior this morning had been even more erratic. There had been no reason 
to go leaping about on the roof, smashing down the doors of unsuspecting 
citizens, and so forth. He had merely been responding to the repressed anger 
that still seethed within him, using up as much energy as possible and finding 
excuses to destroy anything handy. "Knowing that one must die after a set 
number of years, is it not better to know that death will come as the end of a 
decline, a surcease from decay, than to see it strike abruptly while one is 
still strong? Our lives are thus in balance, with the ascent from infancy 
countered by the descent into senescence. Aal, the Eir-Lord of growth, is 
P'hul's twin and counter; neither could exist without the other. Aal dominates 
our youth, P'hul our age." Obviously, he was still resentful of the 
helplessness he had felt in the temple of Aghad. "In order that there be 
growth, there must be decay; for there to be new, the old must make way, else 
the world would be buried beneath growing things." It was plain that his 
effective exile from his homeland at the hands of the Baron of Skelleth, 
through that stupid oath he had so foolishly taken, still rankled. "Yet 
still, even granting the necessity of decay, why should we worship the 
goddess?" Buried still deeper, he knew, was anger at the Forgotten King, who 
treated him like a foolish child and manipulated him like a marionette, and at 
the Wise Women of Ordunin, the trusted oracle that had first sent him to 
Skelleth. "Because we see the underlying beauty in her works; because we 
perceive that decay brings peace, and that contentment can be found therein. 
She provides an end to struggling against our inevitable fate, and a surcease 
from care." All, of course, were symptoms of his anger at his own 
helplessness, his resentment of his insignificance in the cosmos; it was his 
inability to reshape the world as he chose that underlay his rage at all these 
manifestations of his lack of omnipotence. "Every farmer prays to Aal; 
every parent of growing children worships him. He has no need of the service 
of such lowly creatures as ourselves amid this flood of adulation. Yet without 
his sister he would be nothing, and we choose to give her the recognition she 
deserves, as best we can, in response to her marks upon us." Early in the 
priestess' lisping dissertation, she and Garth had both seated themselves upon 
the nearest chairs; the priestess had ignored the cloud of dust that rose from 
the cushions, and Garth had tried to do the same even as he hoped that the 
moldering seat would support his weight. Now the servant of P'hul leaned 
forward, her chair creaking beneath her, and asked, "Do you have any 
questions?" "I..." Garth had not yet given any thought to the matter on hand, 
that being how he was to rob the altar; he stalled, asking a question he was 
only vaguely interested in. "I have heard that this is the Thirteenth Age of 
the world, the Age of Decay, and as such it is ruled by P'hul. Could you 
explain this? Do not all the gods prevail over their own concerns in every 
age?" "Yes, of course they do. The ages of the world are little more than a 
theory worked out by the theologians, philosophers, and astrologers, yet they 
seem to apply in some ways. I do not understand how they are determined, but 
it is said that certain signs mark each era. Our own age has been one of 
declining population, fading wealth, and loss of knowledge, and thus is 
credited as the Age of P'hul, since these are the symptoms of a decay of 
mankind-and overmankind-as a whole, just as P'hul's diseases cause the decay 
of individuals. The theologians say that this is because during this age P'hul 



is at the height of her power, while those gods equal to or greater than 
herself are resting, or somehow weakened. Decay progresses faster than growth; 
but there is still growth, and when this age ends the balance between P'hul 
and Aal will be restored, and some other deity will temporarily rise above the 
cosmic balance. "The astrologers say that the age is ending even now; that 
the Fourteenth Age may in fact have already begun, or if not it will soon 
arrive." That caught Garth's attention; months earlier, the Forgotten King 
had told him that it was hopeless to try and halt the spread of death and 
decline while the Age of P'hul lasted. If it were in truth ending, perhaps 
there were better times ahead, an era in which great things could be 
accomplished. "What will the Fourteenth Age be? What god will 
predominate?" "I do not know. The Twelfth Age was the Age of Aghad, marked 
by great wars and great betrayals, and much of the world's history was lost in 
that period, which lasted much longer than the three centuries of P'hul's 
dominance, so that although scholars may know something of the Eleventh Age, I 
do not. Thus I cannot see any pattern. Perhaps it is time for one of the Eir, 
the Lords of Life, to flourish; although I serve a Lady of the Dûs, I would 
not regret such a change." "Might not any god rule? I have heard of gods 
who were not of the Dûs, nor, I believe, of the Eir." "Such gods, if they 
exist, are but lesser beings-except for Dagha, of course. There are the seven 
Dûs, the seven Eir, and the God of Time who created them all; these are the 
fifteen great gods, and you may be sure that one of these will represent the 
world's new age." "This is the Thirteenth Age; the Fourteenth is soon to 
begin; but there are only fifteen of these higher gods. What will happen when 
each has ruled for an age?" "Perhaps they will start over." Garth sat 
back and considered that. The whole system sounded rather haphazard; ages of 
varying length, in no known order? Only fifteen possible rulers? Interesting 
as it might be, and despite the seeming appropriateness of describing the last 
three centuries as an age of decay and the period ending in the Racial Wars as 
an age of hatred, he decided the whole system was just another human exercise 
in meaningless theorizing. After all, men could not even prove the existence 
of a single one of their myriad deities; how, then, could any trust be put in 
a system based on those gods? Besides, if this was currently the Thirteenth 
Age, then long ago there must have been a First Age; what came before that? He 
shook his head. "I am confused. Perhaps you could show me your temple while 
I digest this new knowledge." "If you wish." The priestess rose; Garth 
followed her example, pleased that she was being so cooperative. Any tour of 
the temple must surely include its altar. The gray-robed woman led him through 
a creaking, cobwebbed door into a dim wood-floored passage hung with ragged, 
decaying tapestries; he was surprised to see several doors opening to either 
side. This temple was much more elaborate than some. "These are the study 
chambers of our scholars," his guide explained. She opened a door, apparently 
at random, revealing a small room, little more than a cell, lined with shelves 
that sagged beneath the weight of hundreds of books, scrolls, and papers, and 
illuminated by a single miniscule window. A narrow desk stood in the center, 
with a single rickety chair behind it; more papers were spread out upon it, 
held in place by a human skull that served as a paperweight. "The skull 
is just a reminder of the mortality of mankind," the priestess explained. 
"How is it that your...that you maintain such scholars? I have seen no sign of 
such learning elsewhere in Dûsarra." "It is the way of our faith. The 
more we know of the world, the more we know of the gods who created it; and 
the more we know of the gods, the better we are able to serve our goddess. I 
have heard that there are many scholars among the followers of Aghad, though 
perhaps that is more from a wish to harm mankind than to serve the gods; and 
there is a splendid library in the temple of Tema. The priests of Regvos, of 
course, are unable to read. The priests of Bheleu have not the patience for 
study. Of the cults of Sai and the Final God I know nothing." As she spoke 
the priestess led her guest away from the uninhabited scholar's cubicle, 
closing the door behind her. At the end of the passage, ignoring another 
corridor that ran perpendicularly to the first, she started up a narrow spiral 



staircase of rusty iron that swayed unsteadily beneath the weight of the two. 
Garth inquired where the bypassed corridor went. "The dormitory," she 
replied. "Have you some reason not to show me that?" "I did not think 
it would interest you; our accommodations are simple. Besides, most of my 
fellow servants of P'hul are asleep at present, and I did not wish to disturb 
them. Are we not entitled to our rest and privacy, as much as ordinary people? 
Our diseases make us outcasts, but we are still human." "Of course; I 
meant no offense. Your ceremonies are at night, then?" "Oh, yes. The 
Lords of Dûs are, after all, the dark gods; all are nocturnal, whatever the 
habits of their worshippers." As she said this she emerged from the shaky 
spiral and waited for the overman to join her. They stood in a fair-sized 
antechamber, its far wall dominated by a vast double door; either end was of 
wood, hung with rotting remnants of cloth so far gone in decay that Garth was 
unsure whether they had originally been banners, tapestries, or something 
else. The staircase was in a curved niche in the rear wall, which was of 
unadorned black basalt, pierced by three narrow lancet windows. The priestess 
crossed the room with an assured, easy stride, which Garth took note of. The 
woman might be diseased, but as yet the sickness had not seriously weakened 
her; she moved as well as most humans. Garth could not guess her age; she was 
well out of adolescence, beyond doubt, and had not yet acquired the white hair 
and stooped posture of extreme age, but beyond that he could not see any 
indication of her years. The ruination of her countenance erased any wrinkles 
that might otherwise have provided a clue. She swung open the great doors 
and the pair stepped into the chamber beyond. Garth found it necessary to 
hold his breath until the dust had subsided somewhat. The chamber seemed vast, 
larger than it actually was; it extended up the full remaining height of the 
temple and included the entire inside of the dome. It was approximately 
square, about forty feet on a side, but its dimensions were distorted by smoke 
and dust swimming thick in the stagnant air. Dim colored light seeped through 
dirt-caked stained glass, painting murky patterns on the worn wooden floor and 
on the intricately carved railings that adorned three tiers of balconies. 
These extended completely around all sides. A brighter patch of untinted light 
flooded the center of the room, pouring from a ring of windows at the base of 
the dome; in the middle of this circle stood the altar, Garth saw hazily. The 
brilliant sunlight lit it in a blaze of splendor, but simultaneously obscured 
it behind a wall of equally well-lit cobwebs, incense smoke, and drifting 
dust. The altar was a broad, square platform, raised two or three feet off the 
floor, built of carven wood, its sides upholstered in silk, its edges clad in 
corroded copper thick with verdigris; the top had strips of faded, moldering 
carpeting along each side, and a square of plain mahogany in the center. 
There was nothing upon it except a thick layer of dust. Garth stared at it 
resentfully. "This, of course, is the temple sanctuary. It is here that 
we perform our rituals, affirming our devotion to the goddess, asking her to 
remember us and deal mercifully with us." She paused, expecting Garth to 
comment; the room was beautiful, or had been once, and she seemed sure the 
overman would appreciate this. He, however, was not paying complete attention, 
and said nothing. Unsure whether this was rudeness, or whether he was too 
taken by the room to respond, she added, "Many of us like to come here often, 
aside from the ceremonies, and simply enjoy it." Garth recovered himself. 
"Forgive me. I was distracted." He looked at the rest of the room: the 
webstrewn galleries, the cracked and dirtied colored windows, the 
smoke-softened column of sunlight. Despite the universal decay, the room was 
lovely, warm and inviting; perhaps the decay even helped, softening harsh 
colors, rounding sharp edges, blurring the flaws. It struck him that there was 
something very strange about such beauty in such a place. Should not the 
temple of decay be foul and malodorous? Should it not be slimy and rotting? 
"It is not what I had expected," he said truthfully, when he saw that the 
priestess was still awaiting some comment. "Oh?" "No. I...I had thought 
there would be an idol." "Perhaps there was, once; much of the original 
interior fell to dust long ago. As is inevitable for our faith, every part of 



the temple has been refurbished at least once; since we are required to use 
only perishable materials and to do what we can to promote their decay, 
eventually they fall away completely and must be replaced if the temple's 
usefulness is to continue. Save for the stone and some of the glass, I doubt 
any of the present structure is more than four or five centuries old." "Four 
or five..." Garth was dumbfounded; his native city of Ordunin was less than 
three hundred and fifty years old, the most ancient surviving overman 
community. "How old is the temple?" "Oh, it's only about two or three thousand 
years old, but of course it's not the original either; there has been a temple 
of P'hul ever since Dûsarra was founded." "When was that?" "Nobody really 
knows." "Oh." It had not occurred to Garth that the city, or any city, 
could be more than two thousand years old. He struggled to accept such a 
concept. "In any case, there has been no idol in my lifetime." "Oh." Garth 
had hoped to somehow bring the conversation to the empty altar unobtrusively, 
but seemed to be meeting with no success-although these digressions were 
informative. He decided that a more direct approach was in order. "I see your 
altar is empty, while the other temples in the city keep precious objects or 
ceremonial devices there." "I know nothing of what the others do. We keep 
nothing upon the altar. It serves merely as a centerpiece for our rituals. 
Supplicants sometimes pray atop it; it is said such prayers are especially 
heeded." "Has there ever been anything kept upon it, then?" "Not that I 
know of, save for the dust; that, of course, is everywhere. Why do you ask?" 
Garth saw no reason to deny the truth. "I was asked-by a philosopher of 
sorts-to see if I could obtain what stood upon your altar." "Oh, I see." She 
smiled, the expression all the more horrible in the wash of green light that 
fell across her from a nearby window. "It must have been a surprise to see it 
empty." "Yes, it was." "You are welcome to take the dust, if you wish." 


"Thank you; I appreciate this courtesy." "It makes no difference to us; 
we sweep off the altar every few months anyway." "Oh." Garth pulled the 
bag from his belt and looked at it dubiously; it was of a moderately coarse 
weave. It was quite likely it wouldn't hold dust very well. But then, how much 
could that matter? It was, all in all, only dust. He knew nothing of magicks, 
but surely dust was dust. Feeling foolish, he scraped up a heap of dust from 
the altar, gray fluff of no distinction whatsoever, and stuffed it into the 
bag. That done, he knotted it shut and shoved it back under his belt. "Thank 
you," he said again. "Is that all you came for, then?" "Yes." "So I 
have spoken to no purpose?" Garth did not like the tone of the priestess' 
voice. "I have found your words very interesting, woman. Do not feel that you 
have wasted your time." "Have I not?" "No. This visit has been most 
informative, truly." "It may be more than that, of course." Her smile had 
returned. "How mean you?" "You have been in our temple for some time; 
perhaps the hand of the goddess is already upon you." "What do you mean?" 
"All those who serve P'hul here bear her signs; her priests are the senile, 
the diseased, those with leprosy and cancer and tuberculosis and all the other 
wasting sicknesses. The very air of this shrine is rich in disease. You have 
spoken at length with a leper, where most men flee from my slightest touch. It 
is very likely that you already carry some illness within you; if not my own, 
then one of the others." Garth said nothing; he felt a brief instant of 
panic, but suppressed it immediately, reminding himself that, despite what 
this creature might believe, no overman had ever contracted leprosy. Nor were 
most other diseases worth his concern; very few human diseases could affect 
overmen, and those that could were either not contagious, or of the more 
virulent and fast-acting sort, not wasting sicknesses. Overmen had their own 
ills. "Shall I escort you out, then? You have what you came for." "I am in no 
hurry. I do not wish to offend your goddess by so quickly shunning her 
shrine." "Truly? Perhaps I have wronged you in my thoughts." Garth 
shrugged. There was a sound behind them; both turned to see a bent, 
shuffling figure at the head of the stair, on the far side of the antechamber 
beyond the still-open doors. It was a man, clad in the soft gray robes of a 
priest of P'hul; he was shriveled with age and moved slowly, as if in pain. 



His hair was white and unkempt, straggling down about his face, tangling 
indistinguishably with his beard. He blinked at the overman and the priestess. 


"Greetings, Tiris. This overman is a visitor to our temple." The 
priestess spoke loudly, slowly, enunciating every word as carefully as she 
could with her deformed lip. The old man shuffled nearer; she said softly to 
Garth, "His hearing is poor. Tiris is the oldest of our priests; he is said to 
have the special favor of the goddess, to see things that others do not." 
Garth was not impressed. He had seen enough of humanity to suspect that men 
and women were far more gullible than his own people; age and a mysterious 
manner could be sufficient to create the reputation of a so-called wizard. He 
could not deny that true wizards existed and that magic was abroad in the 
world; he had been confronted with the real thing on several occasions. That 
did not mean that he was willing to bow before every crazed old man with a 
trick or two on hand. He said politely, "Greetings, Tiris." The old man 
stopped and studied Garth thoroughly with squinting blue eyes. Suddenly, in a 
voice that did not shake, a voice that was far stronger than the man's 
withered form seemed capable of holding, he announced, "Greetings, 
Bheleu."CHAPTER SEVENTEENFor a moment no one moved; Garth and the priestess 
were too startled, and the old man had apparently exhausted himself. Then 
Garth said, "I am not Bheleu; I am called Garth of Ordunin." Tiris 
shrugged and said, "As you please." Garth was irritated, but tried not to show 
it. It seemed plain to him that the old man had confused him with the idols of 
Bheleu that were sold in the market; perhaps the senile old fool was not even 
aware that he was an overman, but assumed the idols depicted a unique being, 
in which case his bizarre error seemed almost reasonable. He considered 
pointing out that, quite aside from the absurdity of casually meeting a god in 
a temple not his own, he carried no sword and wore no helmet, but it would do 
no good, he decided. The priestess was edging away from him. He found that 
amusing; a leper, the most shunned creature in all the world, avoiding an 
ordinary overman because an old man called him by a god's name. "I assure 
you, I am no god." "As you please. Whatever you are, you are beloved of 
our goddess; if you are not her brother lord, you are his representative. The 
Age of Bheleu begins tonight, you know; you have come just in time." "In 
time? In time for what?" "To receive P'hul's service. Her power wanes as 
her age ends, yet she owes her elder brother fealty; before she withdraws from 
our mortal realm she will do her duty and serve you, to aid the cause of the 
Lord of Destruction." The priestess was now openly backing away from the 
overman. Garth muttered, "This is absurd. I have no connection with any god." 
He was uneasily reminded of the prophecies cited by the Seer of Weideth; 
people seemed determined to see him as a bringer of destruction. "Perhaps you 
are not aware of your role. We all serve the gods, and you more than any 
other." Garth was unsure whether the reputedly deaf old priest had heard 
his remark, or merely guessed his thoughts. Whichever it was, he was not 
pleased. He wanted to retort that he served no one, but could not do so, since 
he was in fact serving the Forgotten King. Strange as the old man was, he was 
no god. Was he? What was a god like? Could the mysterious old creature 
be some sort of divinity? It seemed unlikely. "I serve no god," Garth said. 
Tiris shrugged, but said nothing further; instead, he turned and shuffled 
away, along one side of the sanctuary. Garth turned to his guide, who was 
now almost cowering against the wall. There could be no doubt that she, at 
least, believed completely in the old man's mystical powers of discernment. 
Disgusted, he marched past her and made his way down the rusted spiral stair; 
he had what he came for. He strode down the passage, ignoring the 
creaking of the floor. The door at the end still stood open; he passed through 
that, then through the one he had burst in with his fist. Across the outermost 
chamber and out onto the sun-drenched steps he went. Only at the last minute 
did he recall that he had been pursued to the temple's entrance, and that his 
pursuers might well be waiting for him. They weren't. Luck was with him. 
It was early afternoon; the avenue was spattered with strolling citizens, 
enjoying the warm sun that had long since erased all trace of the morning's 



rain. Several noticed him emerging from the brooding darkness of P'hul's 
temple, but raised no outcry, preferring instead simply to give him the widest 
possible berth. Remembering the leper-priestess' face he understood their 
attitude, and was grateful for it. He would not be bothered for a few moments, 
at least, not so long as it was known where he had just been. He was 
slightly hungry but not at all tired. There were but two temples remaining. He 
thrust aside thoughts of food and joined the northbound traffic, heading for 
his next target. He glimpsed the temple of Aghad to the southeast, and 
recalled with pleasure that he had not harmed anyone in the temple of P'hul. 
Ahead of him loomed the fourth temple on the street, and presumably the last, 
unless the city's final shrine was concealed somewhere further along; he saw 
at once that it was a ruin. He had not noticed it at night, when the black of 
the sky blended with the black temple, but it was unmistakable in the golden 
daylight. The great dome was a skeleton, a metal framework, bent and sagging, 
with only a few broken fragments of its original stone sheathing left, 
clinging forlornly to its lower limits. It sat atop a broad, low structure, 
mostly hidden by the surrounding buildings, but with wide cracks and gaping 
holes visible. This was either the temple of destruction or the temple of 
death; in either case, a ruin was appropriate. Therefore he did not assume it 
to be abandoned. He suspected it to be the temple of Bheleu; it seemed more 
fitting. That would make the temple he had not yet located the temple of The 
God Whose Name Is Not Spoken, which was also reasonable. A god whose very name 
was secret would not have his shrine openly upon a major avenue. As he 
approached more closely he saw that the temple had a courtyard in front, 
similar to those of Sai or Aghad; a pair of steel gates stood open, blasted 
from their frame and hanging, twisted metal remnants, from bent hinges. Garth 
wondered what force load ripped them apart; he knew why it was done, if this 
was indeed the temple of Bheleu, but he could not imagine what means had been 
employed. Inside the gates the court was a rubble-strewn expanse of stone, 
tall grass growing unchecked between crooked flagstones. The temple itself was 
closed off by a pile of wood, stacked across a shattered doorframe. No trace 
of the original doors remained; only the rough planks and logs. They looked 
like nothing so much as firewood; Garth wondered what in the world they were 
doing there. He had never before seen firewood stored in someone's front door. 


He paused before the gate, and suddenly realized he was becoming a 
center of attention. Several passersby had noticed him approaching and 
studying the temple, and were in turn studying him-though none dared approach 
more closely. He decided that it would be advisable to wait until 
nightfall before entering the temple. For the present, he would get himself a 
meal. He turned away from the blasted temple and headed back down the avenue. 
He thought he remembered seeing food shops somewhere near the overlord's 
palace. His memory had not failed him; he found a butcher shop, a bakery, 
and a vintner. A slice of good beef, fried in the baker's best dough, and 
washed down with a sweet red wine did much to ease his hunger. Thus 
fortified, he decided to return to the Inn of the Seven Stars until nightfall. 
It should be fairly easy to get into the temple of Bheleu under cover of 
darkness, particularly since it stood in a diurnal part of the city. There was 
always the possibility that he would once again be interrupting a ceremony of 
some sort, of course; he would have to be cautious in his approach. He hoped 
to get there shortly after sundown, when the night's festivities, if any, 
would not yet have begun. Had it been later in the day he might have 
chosen to wait closer at hand; but it was little more than an hour past noon, 
and he was slightly apprehensive about leaving Frima untended all day. 
Furthermore, it was about time Koros was fed, and he didn't entirely trust 
Dugger to see to it. Accordingly, as he left the vintner's shop he turned 
his steps southwestward; he had gone scarcely a block when he heard a 
commotion behind him. He started to turn, to see what was happening, when he 
heard a voice shouting, "Overman! Hold!" Instantly he began running, dodging 
into a narrow alley; behind him he could hear disorganized pursuit. It was 
no great feat for him to outrun even the fastest humans on a clear field, but 



he was unsure how he would fare amid the winding streets of Dûsarra; therefore 
he kept running and dodging long after he had ceased to hear his pursuers, 
leaving a trail of startled citizens. Overmen in and of themselves were no 
strange sight to the city's hooded inhabitants, but an overman running 
full-tilt through the streets, mail clinking and battle-axe slapping his back, 
was something else; they stared after him in astonishment. At last he found 
himself in an uninhabited byway, with no sign that anyone was still after him; 
he stopped, caught his breath, and tried to figure out where he was. He had 
not seen this street before. He was lost. His flight, he knew, had led him 
primarily southward; therefore, since the sun was now past its zenith, he need 
only head toward it to make up for the westward progress he had missed. He 
moved on, following the sun, proceeding with stealth and caution; carefully 
peering around each corner before crossing intersections. He had apparently 
found his way, somehow, into a nocturnal quarter; there were no people about, 
and he passed at least one street-corner shrine holding a black onyx idol of 
Tema. He was slightly surprised that such a costly item was not stolen; either 
it had some protection he could not see, or even the daydwelling Dûsarrans did 
not care to offend the city's most popular goddess. The streets narrowed, 
and their twists and turns sometimes forced him off his intended course until 
he reached the next corner; he made a full circuit of one particularly crooked 
three-sided block without meaning to, and had to head further southward to 
find another street that ran to the west. The continued emptiness of the 
streets lulled him, and his caution decreased as corner after corner revealed 
nothing but closed shops, shuttered windows, and drying mud. Thus, he almost 
walked openly into the marketplace when it appeared unexpectedly before him. 
Recovering, he backtracked into still-unoccupied alleys, and looped around to 
the north, giving the square a wide berth. This took him through areas not 
wholly asleep, and he found himself peering around corners and furtively 
scurrying from one alleyway to the next. Finally, he emerged into the street 
where the house he had broken through stood; it was still apparently empty. 
Cautiously, he tried the door, and found it just as he had left it. He guessed 
that the owner had not yet returned home. He made his way through the house 
into the yard, where the rainwater had subsided to a few small puddles and 
broad expanse of mud; it was a simple matter for him to vault onto the wall 
separating this yard from the next, and from there to clamber onto the roof of 
the stable. It was midafternoon; the sun's angle was about the same as it had 
been when he left, save that it stood now in the west instead of the east. He 
eased himself over the edge of the tiles, and dropped into the stableyard. 
The stall was as he had left it, save that Koros was awake and standing 
quietly; Frima still slept. Garth tucked the bag of dust into the larger sack 
that now held the two stones, the bloodstained gold, and the whip and dagger 
from the other temples, then sat, considering what to do until nightfall. 
Nothing suggested itself; he closed his eyes for a brief nap, and was quickly 
asleep.CHAPTER EIGHTEENHe awoke to moonlight in his face; it washed the 
stableyard in silver, fading to gray the hard yellow dirt, and blurring the 
several shades of gray wood and gray stone to a single paler hue outlined in 
black shadows. With a growl, he climbed to his feet; he had overslept. It 
was obviously two or three hours past sunset. Something moved in the dimness 
of the stall. He peered into the gloom, and realized it was Frima shying away 
from him. His growl had frightened her. With a start, he noticed where she 
was; she stood beside Koros, her tiny hand on the warbeast's great black head, 
petting it. She had apparently gotten on friendly terms with the monster. Her 
other hand held the wire brush Garth kept for grooming his mount, and the 
beast's eyelids drooped in an expression of feline contentment; obviously the 
two were getting along very well indeed. Garth felt slightly sorry he had 
interrupted such a pleasant scene. "Excuse me," he said, "I overslept. I 
meant to wake at sundown." "Oh! I didn't know; I would have wakened you if 
I had." Frima sounded genuinely contrite, although she had not been at fault, 
and Garth felt a twinge of annoyance. This girl thoroughly confused him with 
her abrupt emotional changes that seemed to have no perceptible logic to them. 



He forbore to comment further, and instead readied himself for his assault on 
the temple of Bheleu. Straightening his mail-which was really quite 
uncomfortable to sleep in; once again he was stiff and sore-and checking his 
dagger and axe, wishing his sword were still intact. He also wished his boots 
were still intact; he discovered that the mud in his right boot had dried to 
an abrasive grit. He removed it, and wiped it out as best he could with a 
spare sack. That reminded him to tuck one in his belt, which he did 
immediately after re-donning the boot. His feet had gotten rather unsavory, 
he noticed; that came from sleeping shod, no doubt. He decided he owed himself 
a long, luxurious hot bath as soon as he could manage one. Frima watched all 
this silently, her hand absentmindedly stroking the warbeast's neck. At last, 
she asked, "Where are you going?" "To the temple of Bheleu." "To rob its 
altar?" "Yes." "Is that the last one?" "No; I still have to rob the 
temple of death." "But you can't! No one has ever come out of there alive!" 
"Except the old priest, and what he can do, I can do." She was plainly 
unconvinced. "What am I to do when you are killed?" "Whatever you please." 
"But the beast won't let me leave!" "You need not worry about that; if I do 
not return within a day or so, Koros will go hunting. It's due for a feeding, 
and when it's hungry enough it will hunt, regardless of anything else. I would 
suggest you find a weapon; there is a stiletto among my supplies, and of 
course the dagger from the temple of Sai. You may be able to convince it that 
other food would be more easily obtained than you, particularly since it knows 
I don't want you harmed." "He eats people?" She snatched her hand from the 
warbeast's neck. "It; it's a neuter, not a male. And yes, it eats people. It 
even ate a wizard once." "Oh." Her voice was tiny. "I wouldn't worry; 
it seems to like you" She made a small wordless noise, as Garth looked 
himself over. Finally satisfied with his preparations, he ordered Frima and 
Koros, "Wait here," and marched out of the stall. Dugger was on duty, as 
he had expected. There was, therefore, no reason to go clambering around the 
roof; besides, he was pretty well over the anger that had made him so reckless 
earlier. Simply recognizing its existence had helped considerably, and he was 
better rested now-though he was slightly annoyed at having overslept. He 
strode to the archway and asked the drowsing stable-boy, "Have you arranged to 
feed my mount?" The boy awoke with a start, and said, "It's you!" "Yes." 


"You're the temple-robber!" "Am I?" "Aren't you? I...they said it 
was an overman, and you're the only overman I've seen around in weeks." "You 
don't see every stranger that comes to Dûsarra, though, do you?" "No." "So 
you can't be sure I'm the one who robbed the temple." The boy hesitated, and 
admitted, "I guess not." "And that being the case, I think you should 
give me the benefit of the doubt. Now, I told you last night that I wanted you 
to feed my beast; have you done anything about that?" "I forgot." "It's just 
as well." It had occurred to Garth that anyone taking the beast its meal would 
see, and wonder about, Frima. An overman had no business with a human female, 
especially not keeping her penned in a stable. Dugger had seen her enter, but 
there was no point in reminding him and letting him see she was still there. 
"Is the street clear? Others might mistake me for the temple thief, and I'd 
prefer not to be delayed." "Oh." The boy leaned out and looked both ways. 
"I don't see anyone." "Good." He stepped past the lad, looking about for 
himself, and set out toward the Street of the Temples. He encountered no 
difficulty; he was becoming familiar with the city, and knew which streets 
were diurnal, which nocturnal, and which seemed to have traffic around the 
clock. As it had been the night before, the Street of the Temples was as 
silent as death, not a single thing moving on its moonlit pavement. He made 
his way quickly to the ruined temple, only to halt abruptly as he approached; 
a faint murmur disturbed the silence, coming from the shattered dome. He 
hissed in annoyance. Another ceremony; it seemed as if no matter what he did, 
he was fated to arrive during some silly ritual or other. At any rate, he 
could approach this one cautiously and watch, and then decide what to do; 
whether to wait until it ended or interrupt it or simply go away and try again 
later. He crept onward, slipping stealthily through the blasted gates, into 



the littered courtyard beyond. The firewood was gone from the doorway, 
which now gaped at him like a toothless mouth; orange light shone from within. 
He stepped to one side, and peered cautiously around the broken frame. The 
interior of the ruin was a single vast space; if there had ever been any 
internal walls, they were nothing-now but part of the dust that served as a 
floor. The black stone walls and tattered metal frame of the demolished dome 
were lit by a great bonfire that blazed in the center of the temple, and 
around this conflagration danced a score or more of red-robed figures, 
prancing about and chanting eerily, casting long black shadows that writhed 
across red-lit walls and the deeper blackness of the cracks in the stone. 
The scene had an odd fascination to it. Garth stared. There was no sign of an 
altar, unless the bonfire could be considered that; it was certainly the focus 
of the worshippers' attention. Garth blinked, and studied the leaping flames 
more carefully. That was undoubtedly where the wood that had earlier blocked 
the entrance had gone. Logs of all sizes were heaped crudely together; in the 
center, a single slim, straight rod stood straight up, almost invisible 
through 'the flames. He blinked again; the chant seemed louder. There was 
something about that single upright object that bothered him. It was not wood; 
it gleamed, it shone too bright a shade of red. There was a crosspiece near 
the top. A dull rumble reached him, penetrating the chant that seemed to 
fill his head; distant thunder, he told himself. He glanced up, and saw that 
the stars had vanished, covered over by clouds. The brewing storm had blown up 
extraordinarily quickly, he thought, or else he had been watching the dance 
longer than he had realized. The moon was hidden, while it had been bright and 
clear when he entered the court; he had not noticed its loss in the brighter 
light of the fire. He looked back at the ceremony, if such it could be called; 
it was lacking in the pomp and dignity of more familiar rites, though it 
certainly had a power of its own. The chanting filled his ears again, and his 
gaze was absorbed in the flames. As he watched, there came a second low 
rumble; as if in response, the central portion of the bonfire fell inward, 
leaving a ring of flame where there had been a cone, and revealing that 
strange upright object, which now stood dimly glowing behind the flickering 
curtain. It was a sword. An immense two-handed broadsword was thrust 
through the center of the pile of burning wood. A great, red gem blazed in its 
pommel. Id was straight and strong, a good yard of bare metal showing between 
the quillons and where the blade vanished into the flaring coals; the hilt was 
black, and long enough to give even an overman's hands plenty of room. 
Assuming it to be properly proportioned, Garth estimated its full length at 
six feet or more. A truly magnificent weapon; it made the sword he had 
shattered appear little better than a pocketknife. He stepped into the doorway 
to see it better. The devotees of Bheleu paid no heed, but whirled on in their 
dance; it grew more manic now, and the chanting rose in pitch, split into two 
antiphonal voices pursuing one another in hypnotic rhythm. Altar or no, Garth 
knew that this sword was what he had come for. This was what he wanted, of all 
Dûsarra. A sword like that would make him invincible. His gaze was fixed upon 
it in fascination. The steel gleamed in the firelight and the chant 
merged with renewed rumbling, washing over him in a wave of close-packed 
sound. He saw nothing now but the bonfire and the glowing sword; the dancers 
flicked across his field of vision with no more meaning than the flickering of 
the flames. He would take that sword; he would wait until the dance had ended 
and the fire died, and tear it free. No! Why wait? He would burst into 
the chamber while the dancers remained lost in their chanting gyrations and 
snatch it out red-hot from where it stood! Then he would flee, he thought at 
first, but instantly other thoughts crushed that out; he would not flee! Flee? 
An overman flee before humans? He would not flee; he would wield that splendid 
blade among the worshippers until it shone as red with blood as it did now 
with heat. Somewhere a part of him knew this was insane, this uncontrollable 
craving for the possession of the sword; that part struggled vainly to restore 
calm. It revolted at the thought of wanton and unnecessary bloodshed. It was 
brutally suppressed by the unearthly power that now dominated him, erasing his 



conscious self; his rationality was drowned in a flood of unreasoning 
blood-lust, like nothing he had ever felt. He had known the wild and 
involuntary passion that consumes an overman when he scents an overwoman in 
heat; he had known the roaring blind fury of battle rage that made a mortal 
warrior a berserker; this new lust was so strong as to make those mere 
shadows, trivial wisps of emotion, though it partook of both in flavor. He 
could contain it no longer. An instant later the reeling, semi-hypnotized 
dancers were delighted to see the great dark form of an armored overman stride 
roaring into their midst, red eyes ablaze; they knew at once, with the 
absolute conviction of the fanatic, that this was their god who confronted 
them. They screamed with ecstasy, the chant collapsing into chaotic raving; 
the earth rumbled beneath them, and lightning forked across the sky. 
Boldly, unhesitatingly, as if unaware of the flames and heat, the apparition 
marched up onto the verge of the holy pyre and wrenched the sacred sword from 
its place; his hands smoked with the heat of the hilt, and the stench of 
burning skin filled the temple. The overman paid no heed, but, raised the 
blade above his head and whirled it about, so that it blazed and flickered in 
the firelight. "I am Bheleu!" cried the monster in Garth's body; he thrust 
the blade upward at the heavens, to be answered by a crash of thunder and a 
blinding flash of lightning. The bolt struck, spattered, and sizzled across 
the spiderweb metal frame of the ruined dome; sparks showered upon the 
worshippers, who danced maniacally, screaming their devotion. A second bolt 
came on the heels of the first, leaping from the clouds to the peak of the 
dome, and thence to the point of the sword; it poured through Garth's body and 
blasted the bonfire apart at his feet, scattering burning wood. The thunder 
was now a steady pounding as other bolts showered across the city; Garth's 
hands fell, the sword still clutched in them, and his eyes blazed crimson as 
the blade chopped through the skull of the high priest of Bheleu. The 
worshippers screamed in frenzy, crying the name of their god. The blade 
swung up, red with blood and gleaming gold in the firelight; lightning 
flashed, silver steel shone for an instant, and the sword came down, hacking 
through a man's neck, spraying blood into the scattered fire where it sizzled 
and stank. "I am destruction!" The worshippers cried hoarse approval, and 
surged toward him, forgetting their dance. The blade blazed upward, flashed 
down; blood showered unnoticed across fire, earth, and flesh. There was no 
trace of resistance; the eager worshippers flung themselves in the weapon's 
path as the earth shook and the sky raged, and the monster wielding it merely 
laughed. For half an hour their god walked among his people, slashing aside 
all who approached him; for one insane half-hour he brought the total 
destruction their creed proclaimed holy. The priests of Bheleu had been 
warriors, for their faith required it. None shrank from the sight of blood, 
nor cringed away from the dismembered and disemboweled corpses of their 
comrades; instead they fought amongst themselves for the right to approach and 
be slain, their religious fervor blended with the old fighting fury, the 
death-wish of those who slay made manifest. Throughout, the thunder rolled 
and roared, crashing arrhythmically about the ruins, and lightning blazed 
again and again across the open dome. Every so often a bolt would strike the 
exposed steel, and the temple walls would shake. With the agility of the 
warriors they once were, the worshippers kept their feet and pressed forward 
to the slaughter. At last, as the dripping blade swung flashing upward for the 
final stroke, there came a crash of thunder like none before; the last devotee 
fell to his knees before his god, deafened and blinded, as the sword blazed 
red and silver against the sky, whirling about the head of the crazed 
overman-monster. It swooped down, like a hawk upon its prey, and struck the 
man through, entering the front of his throat and protruding between his 
shoulder-blades; no more metal showed, but only blood, red, brown, and black, 
coating the blade and spattered liberally across the temple floor. The 
final lightning bolt's pealing echoed among the shattered walls, covering the 
sudden silence that fell with the death of the last screaming priest; 
overhead, the blasted dome sagged, twisted, and broke. Snapping sparks were 



strewn amid the dying remnants of the pyre, and drops of molten metal flew 
hissing downward. The framework continued to crumple, collapsing slowly, as 
the storm finally broke, whipping fat raindrops across the prostrate corpses 
and the upturned face of their slayer. For long moments the overman stood 
motionless; rain filled his eyes and ran in cool streams across his face. The 
sword was still clutched in his hands, its hilt slimed with gore, its blade 
still thrust through his final victim. The madness was passing, fading, 
shrinking into itself somewhere within him; he blinked away the rain, and 
lowered his gaze from the storm. He looked at the sagging, slack-jawed 
figure impaled on his sword, at the score of slaughtered men, at the scattered 
remains of the bonfire dying in the rain. His hands fell from the hilt, and 
sword and cadaver tumbled forward at his feet. He stepped back, appalled, and 
sank to his knees; then, for the first time in a hundred and forty years, 
Garth wept, as the shattered metal of the dome crashed to the ground around 
him.CHAPTER NINETEENHe came to as the first glimmer of dawn broke through the 
clouds; he was lying sprawled on the dirt floor of the temple, surrounded by 
tortured scraps of metal and ragged, red-clothed corpses. Ashes and charred 
wood were scattered at his feet. Before him, the elongated hilt of the 
great broadsword protruded from the throat of his final victim; the gem set in 
the pommel gleamed as red as blood, but the blade had been washed clean by the 
rain. In the dim light the metal was dull gray. He got slowly to his feet, and 
the events of the night seeped back into his mind; he grimaced in disgust. 
Here was the destruction the Seers of Weideth had foreseen. What had come over 
him? He found himself unwilling to admit that he had in truth been possessed 
by some higher power, acting as no more than a puppet; but then, the thought 
that he had within him such berserk savagery, so easily roused, was almost 
equally unacceptable. True, his rage and hatred of the Aghadites still 
smouldered, and his anger at the Baron of Skelleth likewise. Had the babblings 
of that senile old P'hulite suggested to his suppressed darker side that he 
take out his aggressions thus? Perhaps the dance of Bheleu had hypnotic 
properties designed to release a watcher's pent-up emotions; perhaps some 
mystic fumes, invisible and unnoticed, had affected him. He had heard that 
volcanoes produced such gasses, and Dûsarra was built on the slopes of a great 
volcano. It really mattered very little; what was done was done, and could 
in no way be altered. He recalled the roaring storm, of which nothing 
remained but, puddles and dispersing clouds; the dome had been blasted away. 
He remembered the fiery lightning-had it actually struck him? That could not 
be. He looked at his hands; the palms were burnt black. He shuddered. Had he 
really pulled the sword red-hot from the fire? No. He rejected that. The 
whole thing could not have been as he remembered; he must have been under some 
magical influence, whether hypnosis or hallucinogen or even actual possession 
he did not know. He had slain the entire cult of Bheleu, yes; there had been a 
storm, and lightning had destroyed the ruins of the dome; but beyond that, he 
refused to accept any of it. He had no idea how he had burned his hands, or 
how the bonfire had been spread about, but he rejected his memories of those 
events. His hands were numb, he realized; the nerves might well have been 
destroyed. At the very least they had been temporarily overloaded. If they 
were intact, at any minute sensation might begin to return, and he was quite 
sure that the result would be pain like nothing he had ever suffered 
before-except possibly once, when he had recovered slowly from a wizard's 
deathspell. He cringed at the thought. That experience was not something he 
could bear to think about. He still had one more temple to rob; and his 
escape to make good; he was a wanted fugitive. He could not afford to waste 
any time. If he waited for his hands to heal, he might be hiding and running 
about the city for weeks. On the other hand, if he moved quickly, perhaps he 
could finish his task before the pain began, and before any infection set 
in-if such were to happen. It might be that his hands were permanently ruined. 


He did not care to consider that; instead, he snatched the sword of 
Bheleu from the final corpse and wiped the remaining blood off on the man's 
robe. He had not seen the temple of The God Whose Name Is Not Spoken, but he 



somehow thought he knew where it must be. The dead have returned to the earth, 
humans were wont to say; death is a part of the world. It was appropriate, 
then, for the god of death to have his temple in the earth itself. Garth 
marched from the ruined shrine, across the rubble-strewn courtyard, and 
through the shattered gates into the street; it was still early, and none of 
the day-dwellers were yet about, so it stretched bare and empty from the 
overlord's palace to the blank stone of the volcano. Garth turned right, 
toward the bare stone. As he approached he made out what he had expected to 
find; at the end of the avenue; amid black shadows and black stone, was a 
deeper shadow. There was an opening into the mountainside that he knew to be 
the temple of the Final God. It did not occur to him to wonder how he could 
now know, with such certainty, things that he had not even guessed at prior to 
the carnage in the temple of Bheleu. The great broadsword was naked in 
his unfeeling hands; there was no way he could sheathe it, no other way he 
could carry it. Even had he still worn his old sword's scabbard, it would 
never have held the five foot blade of this monstrous weapon. He paused at 
the brink of the cave; it seemed very odd that such a cave would exist here 
within the city walls, but it undeniably did. He peered into the gloom, but 
could see nothing. He recalled what Frima had said of it, but paid it no heed; 
mere myths, to impress gullible humans. A voice spoke from behind him, 
saying, "You broke your word, Garth." He turned, but could see no one; the 
speaker was hiding somewhere. Garth made no attempt to locate him; he 
recognized the voice. It was the same one that had taunted him in the temple 
of Aghad. "I gave no word." "You gave assent by silence to our bargain, 
thief, yet you harmed no one in the temple of P'hul." Garth marveled at the 
perversity of this creature, criticizing him for not killing enough people 
when the Aghadite had surely seen the bloody havoc he had wreaked during the 
night. "Do not the many deaths in Bheleu's shrine more than compensate?" 
"No. You were to slay a priest of P'hul." "Who? The leper girl? The senile old 
seer? I gave no word, skulking liar; if I have failed of the terms you set me, 
what of it? Annoy me no further." "You were to slay a priest of P'hul. Now 
you enter the temple of the Final God, yet the cult's priest is nowhere 
within. You scorn our agreement, and be sure that if you come alive from this 
cavern, you shall die nonetheless." "In time, no doubt, I shall; but it will 
be none of your doing! When I emerge from this place I will depart this city, 
and I suggest that you not get in my way." "Say what you will, but be 
aware that we can suppress information as well as disseminate it, and it is by 
our grace that the angry mobs gathered by the temple of Tema have not yet 
beset the stable at the Inn of the Seven Stars. Their agent who spied upon you 
and the owner of the house you so cavalierly broke open were kept from 
spreading the word by the followers of Aghad, but even now we are withdrawing 
our aid; the boy Dugger is being punished for his silence, and the good people 
of the city are no longer being held in check." This speech caused Garth 
genuine concern for a moment; then he shrugged it aside. He had faith in the 
invincibility of his warbeast. Still, there was no time to spare. 
Ignoring the further comments of the Aghadite, he plunged into the gloom of 
the cave, finding some slight gratification in the knowledge that the other 
would fear to follow. There was no gate, door, nor guard; the reputation of 
the Final God was quite sufficient to keep out the unwelcome. The gray 
light of early morning faded behind him as he marched down the smooth, sloping 
floor, but somewhere ahead of him he detected a faint, ruddy glow. He would 
not have to contend with complete darkness. The entry passage gradually 
widened and the glow became more pronounced, until at last he found himself in 
a large chamber, where the natural cave had been artificially enlarged. The 
floor was smooth and level, the walls straight, but the central portion of the 
ceiling was the rough and broken surface of a cave, showing where the original 
opening had been, while the sides were lower and shaped into smooth vaulting, 
obviously the work of human hands. It was impossible to distinguish any 
colors, for here the only light was the pure red of that mysterious glow that 
came from somewhere beyond the far side of the chamber; it seeped up from the 



continuation of the natural tunnel, which Garth could see sloped sharply 
downward. A dry warmth seemed to come with it. Shapes were plainly 
discernable, and Garth saw that the walls were carved into high-relief friezes 
of a grotesque and hideous nature, depicting twisted, semi-human creatures, 
cavorting obscenely, butchering one another while simultaneously engaged in a 
wide variety of perverse couplings. Garth wondered what manner of imagination 
had created such things. In the center of the chamber stood the altar, 
high and narrow; it was scarcely a yard wide, but almost five feet in height, 
its sides smooth stone that blended seamlessly into the floor. Apparently, 
Garth thought, it had been carved from a column or stalagmite. The top was 
ornate and slanting; it was tilted up to resemble a reading stand, such as 
could be found in the best libraries, with elaborate decorative carving along 
either side and surmounted by a strange semi-human skull. The space where an 
open book would have stood, were it in fact a reading stand, was bare, smooth 
polished stone. That meant the skull was what he had come for. He crossed to 
the altar and looked at it. It was somewhere between human and overman in 
size and shape, save that it was impossibly tall and narrow, and two twisting 
horns thrust up from its temples; its teeth were gone, and its jaws leered 
open. He put aside his sword and reached for it, and discovered that it was 
somehow anchored to the stone altar; furthermore, it was coated with some sort 
of slime, so that his senseless fingers slid from their hold. Probably 
just drippings from the roof, he decided, though there was no discernable 
moisture in the warm air. He grasped and tugged at the skull, but it refused 
to yield. A faint rumbling sounded, and he felt a vibration in the stone 
beneath his feet; he thought vaguely that it was unusual for a second 
thunderstorm to blow up so suddenly, and ran his fingers over the sides of the 
skull, wishing they weren't still numb. They came away coated with slime; he 
peered at it closely, and realized that this was no dripping cavewater. The 
red glow dimmed slightly; he glanced up, then returned to his study of the 
skull. The coating seemed to be some sort of ichor, though he had seen no 
sign of life in the cave-temple. The skull appeared to be firmly secured to 
the altar by a heavy rivet through the base of the cranium. There was a faint 
tingling in his hands; the nerves were not wholly destroyed. He glanced down 
at them, and the red glow seemed to dim still further. There were blisters 
forming. He looked up in time to see the thing coming at him before its shadow 
covered him in darkness, shutting out the faint crimson light.CHAPTER 
TWENTYThe thing was huge; its eyeless head seemed to fill half the chamber, 
and its gaping lipless maw appeared capable of swallowing an overman, armor 
and all, in a single gulp. It had no neck, nor in truth a distinct head, but 
only a long, segmented body reaching back into the farther tunnel and filling 
it so completely that the red glow, whatever it was, could no longer pass. 
It was, in short, a monstrous worm. Garth retreated instinctively, and feeling 
the weight of his axe upon his shoulder he reached up and freed the familiar 
weapon, forgetting for the moment about the more formidable sword he had left 
beside the altar. He was in darkness, having been allowed only that single 
glimpse of his attacker; now he judged its location by sound and the feel of 
the moving air on his face. It was swinging its head about blindly in the area 
of the altar, where he had stood instants earlier, presumably groping for its 
usual sacrifice. Cautiously, wary that the slightest sound might alert 
it-there was no knowing what senses guided such a creature-he inched backward 
toward the entryway. Some part of his mind undoubtedly noticed the totality 
of the surrounding blackness; it was with only mild surprise that he found the 
entrance blocked by a solid metal barrier, which must have slid silently into 
place while he investigated the altar. He wasted no effort in battering at it; 
undoubtedly other victims had tried that, though perhaps none as powerful as 
himself, and it would leave him with his beck exposed and inviting. Instead he 
turned at bay, and waited for the monster's attack. The creature was not 
slow in obliging with an awkward lunge; he heard a slithering as it poised, 
and felt the rush of air toward him, giving him time to spring aside, hacking 
with the axe as he did so. The blade bit into something with a sick, 



squashing sound, but there was no blood or ichor sprayed onto his hands, nor 
any sign of pain or injury from the monster worm. He wrenched the axe free and 
backed away, his left flank to the wall. He wished his hands were capable of 
normal sensation; he wanted to test the edge of his blade, to see if anything 
had come away upon it, or if perhaps it was coated with the same slime as the 
altar. He was fairly sure this creature was the source of that substance, and 
somewhere beneath his wary attention to his situation he wondered whether it 
was an exterior lubrication or a saliva of some sort. His palms stung, not 
from the impact the axe had made on the monster, but with the first twinges 
from his burns. The head swung toward him again, and there was a brief flash 
of murky red as the creature's swooping lunge allowed a trace of light to 
pass; he saw the horny rim of its toothless mouth sweeping toward him and dove 
from its path, flailing with the axe. It sank into the thing's flesh, and was 
wrenched from his grasp. He felt a brief second of panic as he realized 
he was virtually unarmed against this hideous pet of the god of death, then 
remembered the great sword that presumably still lay somewhere near the center 
of the chamber. He clambered to his feet, his twitching, stinging fingers 
clutching at the carvings that lined the wall without feeling them; when the 
worm reared back for another lunge, he took. three running steps under its 
raised head and dove headlong, hands outflung. The rattle of steel on stone 
told him that his hand had struck the sacred weapon. The pain in his palms was 
becoming a distraction, but he forced himself to ignore it as he groped for 
the sword. Above him the worm's body twitched as it thrust forward, and a 
solid fist of air knocked him flat to the stones; it was scarcely a foot above 
him, writhing about in frustration, unable to detect him. He forced his 
hands to close on the sword, though the motion of bending his palms sent a 
shudder of agony up his arms. The blade scraped across stone and the monster 
turned, twisting back upon itself, only to find the space within the chamber 
insufficient for such a maneuver. There was a scraping sound followed by a 
rattling, as the axe he had left embedded in the creature was dragged along 
the wall and dislodged. His unwilling hands arranged themselves upon the hilt 
of the sword, and a surge of renewed strength swept through him. Adrenalin, he 
told himself. The worm was dragging much of its length back down into the 
tunnel; there was another brief flash of ruddy light. It was giving itself 
room, the room to move its head and get its hungry maw onto the reluctant 
morsel it knew was there. He rolled aside, and felt the rush of air as it 
lunged; it missed, and he swung the great broadsword as he lay on his back 
inches from its flank. The blade cut deeply into the monster, but there was 
still no perceptible effect. Slime ran sluggishly over the quillons and across 
the back of his hands. He struck again, before the thing could move far-vast 
and powerful as it was, it was also ponderous and, except for the swift lunges 
that used its own weight to drive its head forward, not capable of fast 
movement and again the blade sliced messily into the yielding substance of the 
creature. It was like cutting at mud. He hewed again as it reversed 
direction, pulling back for another attack; with a ghastly sucking sound a 
sliver of its cold, damp flesh came free where this new cut met an earlier 
one. An idea came to him as he rolled onto his belly and pushed himself 
further toward the wall. The thing's vitals were not within reach of his 
blade, it appeared; but he could cut the monster. If he could hack away enough 
of its insensitive outer layer fit one spot, sooner or later he would injure 
it, perhaps inflicting enough damage to drive it back down into its tunnel, 
leaving him to deal with the metal door. No animal in Garth's experience, of 
whatever kind, could long survive having chunks cut away. It would all be 
much easier if he could see what he was doing. He flung himself sideways as 
the rush of air warned him of another lunge, chopping with the sword as he did 
so. The monster withdrew, a little more slowly than before; Garth wondered if 
he had already made himself felt. It paused; Garth knew from the sudden 
cessation of the slithering noise of its movement. He judged the head to be 
somewhere in the center of the chamber, perhaps hovering above the altar. 
It was, he decided, time he took the offensive; with a bellow of simulated 



rage, intended to get his blood flowing more hotly, he lurched to his feet and 
charged the thing, the heavy sword swinging in front of him. The blade 
struck the thing's horny jaws with a grating, scratching sound, without 
penetrating; the monster reared away nonetheless, and Garth flung himself 
beneath it. He found himself crouched beside the altar, and it occurred to him 
that that was a good place to be; obviously, the creature could not destroy 
the altar, or it would have done so years ago. It would be unable to come at 
him from above or behind if he kept his back to the stone column. The head 
swooped down again, only to stop short as it struck the altar-top; Garth took 
the opportunity to strike two quick blows, at converging angles, and was 
gratified when the second blow left a chunk of pasty worm-flesh hanging by a 
thread. The monster did not retreat this time but pressed forward 
unheeding, mindlessly trying to force its way past the stone altar. Garth had 
no intention of passing up such a chance, and followed up his first pair of 
blows with a series of chopping cuts, hacking more deeply into the wound he 
had made. Slivers of flesh pulled away to hang loosely or fall at the 
overman's feet. The slime that coated the monster drooled sluggishly across 
Garth's hands and wrists, seeming to soothe the stinging agony of his 
burns-which he was ignoring anyway in the heat of battle. He was striking 
from a crouch beside the altar, and was unable to get the full force of which 
he was capable into his blows from such a stance; since the head was swaying 
back and forth he dared not standup, as he knew that apparently gentle motion 
could knock him away like a leaf in a windstorm. Still, he knew that he could 
inflict more damage more quickly if he could get into a position where he 
could swing his blade freely, and where gravity was working with him rather 
than against him. If he were atop the worm... His hacking had cut a ragged, 
oozing hole in the thing's side, a break in its smooth, slick surface; it 
served him as a foothold as he launched himself upward, scrambling madly with 
the great sword clutched in one stinging hand while the other hand and both 
feet scrabbled for holds on the thing's smooth wet flesh. He realized he was 
not going to make it; he felt himself beginning to slide back, when the worm 
suddenly changed its direction, swinging toward him, apparently in response to 
his weight. For an instant he feared he would be smashed against a wall before 
he had time to leap clear, and he clung desperately, attempting to claw his 
way upward. To his surprise, this panicky action was successful; the monster's 
motion had given him the additional traction he needed, and he was able to 
pull himself up astride the thing's "neck," using the sword as an anchor. 
Now he only had to worry about being smashed against the ceiling; there was no 
way the thing could get at him here. He pulled his dagger from his belt and 
thrust it into the yielding flesh, to serve as a handhold, then set to the 
messy business of cutting his way through the monster with the great 
broadsword. He used both hands, pausing now and then to catch himself on the 
hilt of his dagger when he felt himself slipping. Spraddled across the 
vast back as he was, he still was not striking with much power; it seemed to 
be sufficient, though. In moments he had carved out a trench, which he crawled 
into, ignoring the oozing discomforts of the omnipresent slime that seeped 
from every inch of the thing's flesh. Here he was much more secure, and could 
kneel while he wielded the sword; cutting his way deeper into the worm. The 
monster was apparently unwilling to give up its prey; it did not retreat down 
its passage, but instead flung itself about the temple chamber, as if seeking 
the little pest that was now slicing deeper and deeper into its back; several 
times Garth thought that the violence of its movements might dislodge him, or 
that he might lose his grip on his sword. Then, finally, he felt the blade 
bite into something more substantial than the creature's flaccid flesh; he 
pulled it free, releasing a spurt of viscous ichor and a ghastly stink. He had 
found the thing's vitals. He had little time to appreciate his 
accomplishment; the thing went into wild convulsions that made its earlier 
movements seem like nothing, and he was flung aside like a bothersome insect. 
His head struck the stone wall; the sword flew from his hands, and the 
darkness that filled his eyes enfolded him completely. His last sensation was 



an eerie awareness of distant, barely audible laughter; something was pleased 
with him.CHAPTER TWENTY-ONEFrima was not happy with her situation. Still, 
while being penned up in a stable with a man-eating monster at the whim of an 
overman was scarcely a pleasant thing, she had to admit it was better than 
being sacrificed to Sai. It had been some time now since Garth had 
marched off to rob the last two temples, and Frima was reasonably certain that 
he would not be coming back. All her life she had been told that nobody ever 
returned from the temple of death, and although Garth was plainly not the 
Unnamed God's ordinary victim, she did not think he could manage to defy one 
of the basic facts of Dûsarran existence. She was, therefore, stuck here until 
such time as Koros should give up waiting. The overman had said it would be a 
day or so; she had waited a night and a morning and half the afternoon, but 
the beast showed no signs of departing. It had allowed her to go through 
Garth's belongings, and she had found the stiletto he had mentioned; the knife 
did little for her self-confidence, however, as she had no idea of the proper 
way to use one, and found it completely inconceivable that such a puny little 
thing could deter a creature as magnificently powerful as the warbeast. The 
monster was undeniably beautiful, and friendly enough; she found herself 
alternately petting it, and then cowering away from it as she recalled what 
Garth had said. It had once eaten a wizard! Wizards were the most powerful 
beings she had imagined prior to her abduction, yet this thing ate one as if 
he were no more than a mere mortal! It did not occur to her to doubt Garth's 
words; his delivery had been entirely convincing, and she was a fairly 
trusting sort anyway. She got up and walked toward the door of the stall, to 
try her luck at leaving once more; as always, Koros made no protest until her 
hand actually reached over toward the latch, whereupon it growled warningly. 
She withdrew her hand, sighed, and looked out at the empty stableyard. She was 
about to turn away when a movement caught her eye. There was someone just 
beyond the arch; several people, in fact. She leaned out a bit to get a better 
view, and Koros growled again; she ignored it and continued to peer through 
the arch. There was a great mass of people out there; not passing by, but 
gathering together. She wondered what they could want. It occurred to her 
that perhaps they might rescue her; she considered calling out. After some 
thought she decided not to. Koros would undoubtedly take it amiss, and there 
might be bloodshed. She was not desperate yet. There was a curious snuffling 
at her side, and she realized that the warbeast had come up beside her and was 
also watching the people outside the arch. There was much discussion and 
shouting going on, but she could make out no words. A robe fell open for a 
moment, revealing that its owner wore a shirt of mail and had a sword on his 
belt. Thus alerted, she looked more closely and saw that several-perhaps 
all-of the men gathering wore swords, making curious bulges beneath their 
robes. Furthermore, all of the gathering crowd were men, as far as she could 
make out; nowhere did she see a beardless face. Someone in a dark red robe had 
made his way to the center of the arch; now he turned and addressed the crowd, 
a fist raised above his head. She still could not make out much, over the 
shuffling and rustling of the crowd, but she caught the words' "overman" and 
"defiler." Beside her, Koros growled. The man in red turned, and pointed 
into the stable-pointed directly at her, it seemed. The crowd surged, and with 
this apparent leader in the van marched into the stableyard. Koros leapt 
from the stall in a single fluid motion and landed, feet braced apart, in the 
center of the yard. It roared a challenge that seemed the loudest sound Frima 
had ever heard, and the crowd's forward movement suddenly ceased. Frima 
watched in astonishment; quite aside from the confusing events unfolding 
before her, she found herself wondering how a beast as large as Koros had 
managed to leap through the relatively narrow opening between the stall door 
and the overhanging roof. More of its height must be in its legs than she had 
realized. Koros roared again and took a single step forward, toward the 
crowd of men; Frima saw that several had drawn swords, yet none dared approach 
any closer to the warbeast. In fact, they were gradually falling back. 
Another roar and another step, and Koros sank into a crouch, like a cat 



preparing to pounce. The crowd's backward movement accelerated, and in a brief 
moment all were once again on the other side of the arch. Koros rose again, 
stretched itself, yawned, and stood calmly awaiting whatever might happen 
next. The man in red stood out from the crowd once again and spoke; this time 
Frima could distinguish his words, as Koros had frightened the crowd into 
relative stillness. "Fellow Dûsarrans, we are not cowed by this unholy 
monster, but merely cautious! It is not with this beast that we quarrel, but 
with its blasphemous master! Let us then wait here for his return, when we 
shall strike him down in our righteous anger, slaughter his monstrous pet; and 
return the sacrifice he has stolen to her rightful place! We will cleanse our 
city of this filth!" This speech was greeted with rousing applause. Frima, 
hearing the line about restoring the sacrifice, found herself very glad that 
she had not called out for aid. She suddenly saw Koros not as her jailer but 
as her protector, and found herself waiting eagerly for Garth's return-while 
simultaneously dreading it, lest he be butchered or prove in the end as bad as 
the cult of Sai-and still suspecting that he might not return at all.CHAPTER 
TWENTY-TWOGarth had no idea how long he was unconscious. When he awoke he lay 
sprawled on the stone floor, the sword of Bheleu at his side. The red glow 
shone unobstructed from the tunnel, lighting the gem in the sword's pommel 
with a murky crimson fire. Pools of gelid slime were scattered about, and his 
mail was thick with the stuff. He lay still for a moment, gathering his 
thoughts. He reached out and grasped the sword; as his fingers closed around 
the hilt, he realized that they no longer hurt. He sat up, released the sword, 
and looked at his palms. There was a slight puckering of the flesh, as of 
wounds almost fully healed, but no other trace of burns or blisters. 
Horrified, he wondered how long he had lain senseless. He tested his 
sensitivity, pressing his fingers to various surfaces, and knew a moment of 
panic when his first trial, feeling the texture of his chain armor, seemed 
dull and blunted; it was with great relief he realized it was the coating of 
slime that deadened his sense of touch. Running his fingers across the carved 
walls he could detect no lessening of his tactile sense. He was fit, then. 
But how long had he been here? What had become of Koros, who had been due for 
a feeding? Or Frima, who had been left with the hungry warbeast? Of the booty 
taken from the first five temples? Had anything come of the threats of the 
Aghadite priest? He clambered to his feet. As if on cue, as he turned his 
gaze toward the metal door that sealed the entrance, the barrier slid silently 
into the wall, and a stooped figure entered, garbed in a robe of such a dull 
black that it reflected none of the red light whatsoever. The man's face was 
hidden by his hood, as was customary for Dûsarran priests, so that in his 
almost invisible garments he appeared to be an animated shadow, deeper and 
darker than the others that lay about the cave. No light entered with this 
apparition, and at first Garth assumed this to mean that it was night outside; 
he did not immediately recall that the passage was long and winding enough to 
admit virtually none of the sun's light whatever the time of day. The robed 
figure was small and frail in appearance, despite the complete lack of visible 
detail. Garth thought at first that it might be a girl or young boy, despite 
the slowness and caution of age in its movements; but when the priest spoke, 
although his voice was high and broken, there was no doubt that he was an old 
man, despite his childish stature. "I hear you breathing," he said. Garth 
made no reply. "Can you not speak? I know you are there, and alive." "Yes, 
I am here. What would you have me say?" Garth picked up the sword as he spoke; 
the little old man appeared harmless, but he did not care to take any 
unnecessary chances. "Whatever you care to say." "There is nothing I care 
to say to you." "Would you answer a few questions, from courtesy?" 
"Perhaps. Ask what you will." Garth noticed that the priest had turned his 
head toward him only when he had spoken; that, and the man's words, made it 
seem fairly definite that, like the priests of Andhur Regvos, this feeble old 
man was blind. It seemed curious that such a decrepit and harmless person 
should be the sole servant of the most feared of deities-assuming that there 
was, as he had been told, only one priest of the Final God. Feeling that the 



priest need not occupy his full attention, he looked over the chamber, noting 
the already-rotting chunks and slices he had cut from the monster, the 
still-wet slime star, the great pool of ichor where he had finally reached the 
thing's viscera, and the skull-topped altar that stood undamaged and 
unplundered. "Have you seen what takes most who enter here, leaving no 
trace?" "Yes." "It did not take you." "It tried hard enough." "What 
happened?" "It name up from the tunnel; I dodged. We fought, and I managed to 
injure it. I was struck unconscious, but its wound was severe enough that it 
preferred retreat to finishing me." That, he thought, was a succinct and 
accurate summary of his desperate battle; he guessed that such a simple 
account would serve him better than any elaborate boasting, at least until her 
fully understood the priest's attitude toward the monster. It might well be 
considered blasphemous to have defended himself at all. "What is it?" 
"You don't know?" Garth's astonishment got the better of him and was plainly 
revealed in his tone. "No. I am but the caretaker of the temple; I know 
nothing of the god's mysteries. The true servant of the Final God has not yet 
returned. What was it you fought?" Garth was suddenly reluctant to speak, 
though he knew no logical reason not to tell the man the nature of the 
temple's inhabitant. "Tell me first more of your cult. Are you not the high 
priest of The God Whose Name Is Not Spoken?" "No. I am a lesser priest. The 
books of prophecy say that the one true high priest of death has not been in 
Dûsarra in four ages or more, and will not return until the dawn of the 
Fifteenth Age." An uneasiness filtered into Garth's mind at this new mention 
of the human system of numbering the ages. "This is the dawn of the Fourteenth 
Age, I was told." "Yes. When this new age grows old, the high priest will 
return." "If he has been gone for four ages...the Thirteenth Age lasted 
three hundred years. Your high priest must have died centuries ago. Is it his 
heir you await?" "Oh, no! It is the one true high priest of the god of death. 
It is in the nature of his service that he himself cannot die." There was a 
pause as Garth, digested this information, He recalled mention made of 
immortality in the King's Inn of Skelleth. An unpleasant theory crept into his 
thoughts. The Forgotten King had assured him that he sought to fulfill the 
purpose that the gods had given him, but which gods were they he spoke off? 
He looked again. at the unnatural skull that grinned atop the altar. "What 
else do you know of your high priest?" "Oh, there are many legends! He was 
a king of old, in a land so ancient that its existence is forgotten; he made a 
bargain with the gods of life and death, whereby he shall live until the end 
of time, but he came to regret this and abandoned the service of his kingdom 
and his gods to wander the earth clad in rags. He will return when the 
Fifteenth Age, the Age of Death, begins, to complete his agreement. He alone 
has spoken to the Final God and lived; it is part of his task to be certain 
that The Name That Is Not Spoken is not lost. He commands all the world's 
ancient magic, but has no use for it. There is much more in the sacred 
texts-his name, which I cannot pronounce truly, and the records of his 
doings." "Do your sacred books speak of the Sixteenth Age?" "No, they 
cover only the current cycle, which ends with the Fifteenth." "What do 
they say of the Fourteenth, then?" "The Age of Destruction? It shall begin 
with the decimation and defilement of Dûsarra, and be an age of fire and 
sword. There is mention of a mighty servant of Bheleu who shall do the bidding 
of the Forgotten King." "The Forgotten King?" "Another name for the high 
priest of Death." "The high priest of Death." Garth stared at the skull as he 
resolved that the prophecies would not come true. "Yes." The old priest's 
voice sounded less certain. "The thing from the tunnel was just a worm." 
Garth marched out, shoving the blind priest aside, leaving the horned skull on 
its perch. The priest ran after him, calling for him to wait; Garth stopped 
and allowed the old man to catch up, as he had thought of another question he 
wanted to ask. He saw that the man's hood had fallen back, but took no notice. 


"How long was I in there?" he demanded. "The priest of Aghad said you 
entered at dawn; the sun is now almost setting." "Only one day?" "Yes." 
The priest's voice was now timid. Garth stared at his hands. How had they 



healed so quickly? The sword of Bheleu was still clutched in his right fist; 
he had a momentary impulse to fling it away, but stopped himself. His dagger 
had stayed stuck in the monster worm; his axe was lost somewhere within; his 
old sword had shattered on the gates of Aghad. This infernal blade was his 
only weapon, and he had no intention of attempting to escape Dûsarra unarmed; 
after all, the priests of Aghad had promised to kill him. He continued up 
toward the mouth of the cave, slowly enough that the priest could keep up with 
him; as the ruddy volcanic light faded behind him, a faint glow of a paler 
pink grew ahead. The priest was babbling at him, asking question after 
question about the worm; he did not bother to answer most of them, but replied 
that yes, the slime on the altar came from the worm; no, he had not been able 
to see all of it; no, it had not all fit into the chamber; no, he did not 
think he had killed it; yes, it ate people, probably swallowing them whole. 
At last the mismatched pair emerged into the gray light of gathering dusk; 
Garth kept the sword at ready as he stepped out onto the pavement of the 
Street of the Temples. He glanced at the priest, and saw the man's face for 
the first time. His hair was pure white; one eye was gone, the other was 
pink under a frosting of cataracts; some sort of growth covered one side of 
the face. From one of the dead-black sleeves protruded the smooth stump of an 
arm, the loss of the hand long since healed over. He was the most repulsive 
human being Garth had ever seen. That, of course, was appropriate for a 
priest of something as repulsive as death. As Garth noticed these details 
the priest talked on, marveling at the idea of a monster worm, speaking of all 
the people it had devoured, unmindful of the overman's scrutiny. Garth 
interrupted him. "Old man, how were you able to read your books?" "What? 
Oh. I was not always blind, and I have an acolyte, who reads to me when I wish 
to be reminded." "You have no powers of second sight?" "No. I am just a 
caretaker." That was, Garth thought, unfortunate; it would have been very 
convenient had the old fool been able to foresee the actions of the Aghadites. 
He had encountered enough seers on this quest that another would scarcely have 
been surprising; but as it was he would have to rely on his own abilities. He 
started to speak a farewell, to take his leave of the man, but was interrupted 
by a familiar voice from somewhere in the rocks behind him. "We offer a final 
chance, traitor. Kill the old idiot and you may yet be allowed to 
live."CHAPTER TWENTY-THREEFor an instant, Garth considered his position. His 
primary goal was to get out of Dûsarra alive; a secondary goal was to get 
Frima, Koros, and his loot out with him. It would be pleasant if he could also 
kill some Aghadites, both because it would discourage pursuit and because it 
would be enjoyable; he had no moral compunctions about that, since the cult 
was responsible for any number of murders. However, he was at a disadvantage 
here; the Aghadite was concealed, presumably in a good defensive position that 
he had had plenty of time to establish, and Garth had no idea of the number of 
his foes. There might be the single priest, or the entire cult, or even 
several cults. Direct battle was therefore inadvisable. Returning to his 
primary objective, he considered the best way to achieve it; the Aghadites 
could not have known when he would emerge from the temple of death, unless 
they had oracles or seers available, and even then they'd want confirmation. 
At this instant, messengers of some sort were most likely carrying word across 
the city; the Aghadites wouldn't rely on a single ambush. There were probably 
people waiting for him at the stable and at the city gates. If he could reach 
them before the messengers did, surprise would be on his side. Accordingly, he 
made no answer to the taunting voice, and paid no further heed to the ancient 
priest of the Final God, but took to his heels, running full speed straight 
down the Street of the Temples, ignoring the few startled pedestrians who 
scattered before him. He had reached his decision in far less time than 
required to explain it; by the time the Aghadite had finished his second 
sentence, Garth was a dozen yards down the avenue, the great broadsword still 
in his right fist. The long blade was awkward, and slowed him as he ran, but 
it was his only weapon. It occurred to him that there might be enemies lurking 
in the temples along the way; at the first opportunity he turned right and 



dashed down a side street. He had not forgotten his experience of being lost 
in the maze of narrow streets that made up most of the city, but considered 
the risk less important than being unpredictable. A person could not be 
ambushed or apprehended unless his path was known in advance. There was 
one very definite problem that he foresaw; the city had only the single gate, 
and he knew of no other way past the wall. Also, of course, he wanted to get 
Frima and his other booty. Koros could take care of itself. He turned left 
after he had put two blocks between himself and the Street of the Temples, and 
found himself in a relatively straight lane paralleling the avenue; he 
followed it as far as he could, and found himself in a familiar alleyway, one 
he had traversed before. He slipped from a full run into an easy jog, and 
headed for the Inn of the Seven Stars. Dûsarrans who happened to be out on 
the streets gave him a wide berth; an overman with naked sword in hand was 
nothing to argue with, particularly when he seemed to be in such a hurry. 
The long run across the city tired him rather more than he had hoped; he had 
apparently not fully recovered from the battle with the worm and the blow on 
the head. His pace had slowed perceptibly when he turned onto the street where 
the house he had broken through faced. He was not entirely sure why he had 
chosen to approach from this direction; the Aghadites would undoubtedly have 
it guarded. But they would also have the archway entrance to the stable 
guarded, and the route through the house would offer more cover and less 
opportunity for his foes to overcome him by sheer numbers. That it would also 
offer more cover for an ambuscade had not escaped him; still, he chose to risk 
it. The street was not empty as it had been on previous occasions; a handful 
of men and women, in the usual dark robes and hoods, stopped and stared as he 
broke again into a full-speed charge toward the door midway in the block. 
There was a hiss, and an arrow embedded itself in the hard-packed dirt of the 
street; it had not come anywhere near him. There was an ambush-but he had 
taken them by surprise. He did not bother to try the door when he reached it; 
only fools would have neglected to lock it. He took the sword in both hands 
and hewed mightily, hoping the blade would prove sturdy enough. Another 
arrow swished past his ear to shatter on the stone of the house's facade. 
The sword struck the heavy wooden door and cut into it like a knife into 
cheese; the hilt suddenly felt hot in Garth's hands. He dismissed it as a 
trick of his imperfectly healed palms. He ripped the blade free and struck 
again. The door exploded inward in shattered fragments, and Garth stepped 
through; he knew that something beyond his understanding was at work, as he 
had not the strength to so destroy the door with just two blows, but he had no 
time to worry about it. Two more arrows flew somewhere behind him. The 
room inside was much as he remembered itthe stairway along one side, the 
archway to the kitchen at the back, the ceiling so low he was forced to stoop. 
There were details that were different, however; primarily a corpse that lay 
sprawled before the door, its skull split by a chunk of oak from the 
demolished door. It had been a man clad in helmet, mail, and breastplate, 
armed with sword and short spear. The sword in Garth's hands twisted 
sideways, and he found himself chopping horizontally; there was a short scream 
as the blade cut through the belly of a second man who had lurked beside the 
door, a rattle as he dropped his sword, and a dull thud as he fell forward 
into a pool of his own blood. The red gem in the sword's pommel blazed up as 
bright as a lantern in the dim room. Garth could no longer pretend that the 
weapon was nothing but simple steel; he had neglected to consider another 
ambusher at the door, and the sword had disposed of that possibility for him. 
The thing was not to be trusted. It was still his only weapon, though, and he 
still had no time for such considerations. An arrow came in through the 
door and stuck in the leg of the corpse; Garth moved rapidly across the room. 
More cautious this time, he wielded the sword with his own will in sweeping 
around the corners of the kitchen arch and succeeded in wounding another man, 
who gasped and dropped his weapons as the blade cut his arm open. Other men 
responded with attacks of their own; three men with drawn swords faced him, 
abandoning any attempts at stealth or surprise. Behind him he heard steps 



descending the staircase; there was no time to waste. As his right-hand foe 
made a slashing feint, Garth brought the sword of Bheleu up from beneath; the 
man's sword was driven back sideways into his own forehead. The curving 
quillon snapped, leaving a ragged gash, and there was the crack of snapping 
bone as the thumb that gripped the hilt was crushed against the harder bone of 
the skull. A second opponent's blade scraped across Garth's mail as he 
continued the upward sweep of the great broadsword, freeing it from the 
shorter sword of the man who was even now collapsing in agony; the tip of the 
weapon scratched a line in the wooden ceiling as it swept over the head of the 
central swordsman, its upward momentum too great to be checked immediately. 
Then it came sweeping down, and cut halfway through the left-hand man, 
entering his neck and chopping down into his chest. The central opponent, 
seeing his comrades defeated in a matter of a very few seconds, made a wild 
lunge at Garth's unarmored throat; the overman dodged aside, yanking his blade 
free from the new-made corpse. Seeing his lunge unsuccessful, the man simply 
released his grip and let his sword fall, raising his hands in surrender; 
Garth checked his swing as best he could, but the sword cut deep into the 
man's side anyway, slicing through mail as if it were cloth. The Dûsarran's 
breastplate stopped it before the blade struck bone, and Garth hoped the wound 
would not prove fatal. The man slumped to the floor, and Garth stepped over 
him. Ahead of him the doorway to the little yard was open; nothing had been 
done to replace the door he had ruined earlier. There might, he knew, be more 
men outside, waiting in a third ambush. Hoping to take them by surprise, he 
charged out, sword thrust out ahead of him, and whirled about when he reached 
the center of the tiny yard. The little court was empty; unfortunately, the 
ones on either side were not. Men armed with crossbows peered up over the 
six-foot walls. Garth saw them in time to keep moving, to provide as poor a 
target as possible. Bolts whirred and clattered against the walls as he 
stooped and dashed back into the kitchen, to find himself facing the men who 
had been upstairs. Two were archers, armed only with short bows, bent and 
strung but with no arrows nocked; they presented no immediate threat, and he 
ignored them. The others, three of them, were armed with swords. All five were 
bent over their fallen comrades, unready for combat; none made any threatening 
move when confronted with an angry overman holding a six-foot broadsword. 
Taking no chances, Garth bellowed, "Drop your weapons!" With varying 
amounts of reluctance, the five complied. "Now, out of the house! Take your 
wounded and go! Hesitantly, they obeyed. Of the six men Garth had defeated, 
three were dead; the one who had been made to gash his own forehead was 
unconscious, but not seriously injured; the one who had been last to fall was 
alive but in bad shape, still bleeding despite makeshift bandaging; and the 
one who had had his arm cut while lurking in ambush was ambulatory but 
unarmed, the muscles of his right hand slack under rough bandages. The 
newcomers carried out the wounded, two to a man, with the man still on his 
feet aided by his remaining comrade. Garth watched them go. He had lost the 
element of surprise; instead, he now had a defensible position. There was a 
loud roar behind him; he whirled, sword ready, then recognized the sound. 
Koros! The warbeast was fighting. Its battle cry was loud enough to be heard 
for half a mile, but by the volume Garth judged it to be much nearer; probably 
in the stableyard, defending Frima and Garth's supplies. The roar sounded 
again, mingled with a human scream. Garth wished he were able to see what was 
happening, but he dared not venture out into the waiting crossfire again. 
The roaring continued, and other sounds mixed with it: the clatter of weapons, 
hoarse shouts, piercing screams. With a start, Garth recognized the snapping 
of crossbow strings. That could be serious; thick as the warbeast's hide 
was, at close range a crossbow bolt might pierce it. If a marksman got lucky 
and put a quarrel in the beast's eye or mouth it could do real damage. Garth 
did not want to let his faithful beast face danger alone. He peered out the 
door to the little yard, just to verify the continued presence of the 
crossbowmen on either side. There was no sign of them. No faces or weapons 
showed above the walls. Startled, he took a cautious step outside, expecting 



the crossbowmen to reappear at any instant. They didn't. The warbeast's 
roaring had died to a low growl, and the sounds of resistance had ceased; 
whoever it had been fighting, it had apparently won. Garth listened, and 
realized the sound was coming not from directly ahead, beyond the wall of the 
stable, but from his right. He turned and took a few steps, so that he could 
look over the stone wall that came to about the level of his mouth. Koros 
was in the next yard, its head lowered out of sight; the warbeast's back was 
low enough that he had not noticed it before. Two crossbow bolts were lodged 
in its fur, but Garth saw no sign that it was seriously injured. That 
explained what had happened to half the crossbowmen; the other half must have 
fled in terror, he surmised. It left the whereabouts of Frima and his supplies 
a mystery, though. He kept a cautious watch as he crossed the yard and leaned 
against the wall, watching his mount. Koros was eating ravenously, and 
Garth remembered, with a trace of chagrin, that he had neglected the beast's 
feeding since arriving in Marra. There were corpses or fragments of five or 
six men scattered at the monster's feet; Garth judged that that would be 
plenty, as it had not been all that long since it was fed. Ordinarily it would 
not have disobeyed his orders so soon. It must have been irritable with 
hunger, and became annoyed enough with the Dûsarran soldiery to forget its 
order to stay and guard. It was quite likely still irritable, and Garth 
had no intention of bothering it until it had eaten its fill of its victims. 
He watched as it ripped apart sturdy mail with its fangs to get at the soft 
flesh beneath, and marveled anew at the sheer power of the beast. The sound of 
clanking armor from beyond the stableyard wall suddenly reminded him that his 
goods and captive were still unaccounted for; he vaulted up onto the lower 
wall between the private courts, the sword of Bheleu in his hand, giving 
himself a good view of the red-tiled roof of the stable and some sight of the 
stableyard. Men were marching; he could see little more than their helmets, 
but it seemed clear they were heading for the stall where he had left Frima. 
As if in confirmation of his conclusion, his captive's voice called out, 
"Koros!" Wasting no further time, Garth launched himself up onto the roof 
and ran clattering across the tiles. The helmeted men looked up at the sound 
to see a bellowing overman, spattered with blood, swinging a huge broadsword 
around his head. It provided an excellent distraction; they stopped short, 
the leader a pace or two from the door of the stall. That foremost man even 
obligingly took two steps back, the better to view this newcomer. A cry went 
up. "The overman! The overman!" There was a commotion in the street and more 
men poured through the arch in response. Garth bellowed again, shouting, "I'a 
bheluye! I am destruction!" He knew that the psychologically correct action at 
this moment would be to leap down into the men before him, slashing about with 
the sword; such an assault would almost certainly drive them all back out 
through the archway. Unfortunately, he could not bring himself to cause such 
unprovoked bloodshed, and instead merely whirled the blade about his head 
again, so that it flashed redly as it caught the last light of the setting 
sun. The men stared up at him open-mouthed; none advanced-but none retreated, 
either, though there were some who shuffled uneasily. He was not going to awe 
them into flight unless he attacked, but he could not bring himself to do so. 
Quite aside from his aversion to such wanton aggression, it was a long leap 
down from the roof; even if he made it without injuring himself, which 
shouldn't prove too difficult, he would most likely stumble or fall upon 
landing, which would destroy his dignity and ruin the effect of his entrance 
by revealing him as merely mortal, leaving him open to a concerted 
counterattack. The solution to his quandary arrived suddenly, just as the 
perfect moment passed and the men began to recover their nerve; in a single 
silent bound, Koros cleared the stable wall, rebounded from the roof with a 
spray of shards of tile shattered by its weight, and landed atop three of the 
Dûsarrans. They died without knowing what had hit them, as the warbeast's 
claws shredded robes, armor, and flesh; the crunching of bone was audible 
throughout the stableyard over the triumphant roar that Koros released as it 
struck. The swords the three men had held flew from their hands and clattered 



on the armor of their companions behind them; one laid open a man's scalp 
before falling aside. Not satisfied with the single attack, Koros leapt 
again, a short, powerful pounce that smashed another man to the ground so 
suddenly that the man behind him went down as well, his leg trapped beneath 
the falling body even as he turned to flee. The first man was ripped open from 
forehead to groin by a slash of the warbeast's fangs as the second lay 
screaming, pinned beneath the weight of the monster's forepaws on his 
companion's corpse. As an afterthought, one of those great velvet-padded paws 
licked out, in a motion identical with that of a kitten batting a ball of 
yarn, and the beast's curving claws snatched the screamer's head off, spraying 
blood across the heels of his fleeing comrades. Garth stood on the rooftop, 
virtually forgotten, and watched as the crowd of warriors vanished back 
through the arch into the street. The huge broadsword hung loosely in his 
hands as Koros, with a brief gaze at the fleeing Dûsarrans, declined to pursue 
and settled down to feast on the five it had slain. It licked its claws 
daintily, cast a glance of its slit-pupilled eyes at its overman master, and 
began eating. When a moment had passed with no further attention paid him 
and no sign of a renewed assault from without, Garth tossed the sword to the 
ground, then cautiously lowered himself over the eaves and dropped down into 
the yard. The gathering dusk had shrouded the stables in semi-darkness, and 
he had no way of making a light; he peered through the gray gloom at the 
familiar stall, and made out the pale oval of Frima's face above the door. He 
strode up to her, and found she was staring fixedly, mouth gaping, at Koros as 
it chewed contentedly on a human thighbone. "We must get out of the city," 
he said. She said nothing, but continued to stare. Her mouth closed; her 
throat worked, making no sound, and her jaw fell open again. "Our best 
hope is to ride Koros. It can probably carry both of us faster than we could 
move on foot, and we need not worry about separation." She was silent for 
a second longer, then blinked and turned toward the overman. "Ride that?" Her 
voice was hoarse. "Yes. It is the same animal you petted yesterday, and now 
that it has eaten, it should give us no trouble." Her gaze turned back to 
Koros who, having eaten its fill, was licking its paws clean, then traveled 
across the fragmentary remains of its victims, to rest at last on the severed 
head that had rolled, unwanted and unnoticed, across the yard, to lie against 
the wall beside the arch. Her mouth twitched, and she turned away to vomit on 
the dirty straw that floored the stall. Garth waited patiently until she had 
finished, then said, "It would be helpful if you would aid in loading the 
supplies."CHAPTER TWENTY-FOURAlthough it was plain from the rattle of armor, 
the mutter of voices, and an occasional quick glimpse through the arch that a 
considerable body of armed men lurked in the street in front of the inn, there 
were no further attacks nor attempts to enter the stableyard. Koros was 
completely docile once he had eaten his fill, and Garth had no trouble in 
loading and tying down all his remaining supplies and the sack containing the 
assorted loot from the first five temples-excluding Frima, who remained 
nervous and reluctant to approach the warbeast. When that was done, he found a 
place for the great sword, slipping it into the harness in such a way that its 
oversized blade ran along the beast's right flank, with the hilt at its neck. 
It would not be very accessible, but it would be secure; Garth was much more 
willing to trust their defense to Koros than he was to try and hang onto the 
awkward weapon while riding at high speed. When that was in place, he lifted 
Frima onto the back of the saddle, and swung himself up into position in front 
of her. His current plan was simplicity itself; he and Frima would hang on 
as best they could while Koros made a dash for the city gate. The Dûsarrans 
had not yet had much opportunity to see the warbeast in action, and it was 
Garth's hope that they would be unable to do anything to stop such a dash. 
There was always the chance that a lucky archer would put an arrow through the 
beast's eye, or through his own throat, or through some part of the unarmored 
girl behind him, but he could see no way to avoid that risk. He made a 
final check of the knots and buckles securing everything, adjusted his own 
seat, and reminded Frima to hold on well; then he leaned forward and spoke in 



the warbeast's triangular ear the single word that meant, "Take us home." 
It snorted, and padded silently out into the yard; it circled once, studying 
its surroundings, and then, with no warning, launched itself upward. It 
landed on the now-familiar roof with a crunching of broken tiles, continued 
forward with a shorter leap to the brink overlooking the street, then dove 
over the edge into the street, ignoring the crowd of humans. Garth had 
expected the warbeast to take that route, but the actual fact was nothing like 
the expectation; never before had he been subjected to such sudden changes in 
velocity and direction, such abrupt rising and falling, and his firm grip on 
the harness seemed suddenly very precarious. His stomach churned with the 
movement; he had once been in a storm at sea-or at any rate while aboard a 
ship, though technically it had been in a sheltered bay and not on the high 
seas-and the seasickness that had briefly overcome him on that occasion was 
the only comparison he could think of for this new and thoroughly unpleasant 
sensation. The seasickness had developed slowly and gradually; this motion 
sickness was as sudden and instantaneous as the motion that caused it. He 
leaned forward, eyes closed, clutching at the beast's neck, fighting the need 
to vomit. Frima, behind him, was equally affected; her head snapped back and 
forth with each leap, as she fought to retain her hold on Garth's waist. Her 
just-emptied stomach rebelled painfully, but was unable to expel what was no 
longer there. Her eyes watered with the pain. Thus neither could see what 
was happening, which was probably just as well. Unmindful of the puny humans, 
Koros had landed full in their midst, flattening several, then bounded forward 
again, leaving half a dozen dead or maimed. A shower of crossbow bolts, fired 
far too late, tore through the spot where it had first appeared on the stable 
roof, and a random spatter of crossbow fire continued to follow in its wake as 
it made its way through the crowd toward the marketplace. At first its path 
was strewn with bloodied corpses and new-made cripples, but very quickly the 
mob vanished from in front of this unstoppable juggernaut, and it moved 
forward in its normal smooth glide instead of a series of violent assaults. 
Garth recovered himself enough to marvel at the number of men his enemies had 
mustered, and at the incredible power and speed of his mount. He had seen the 
beast in action before and admired its fluid might and blurring quickness, but 
watching that velocity and being carried along were two entirely different 
things. When Koros moved at its full fighting speed, the wind in the faces of 
its riders was like a solid wall pressing them back; it was impossible to keep 
his stinging eyes open for more than a second at a time. Koros had 
displayed more strategy than could be expected of a mere beast; instead of 
taking the shortest and most direct route to the marketplace it had looped 
northward around several blocks, and now entered the square from a totally 
unexpected direction. It had moved faster than the news of its approach, and 
burst unheralded into the broad plaza; for the first time since leaving the 
stable, it roared. The market was still much as usual; the merchants' 
stalls ranged around the sides, lit by an abundance of torches, and surrounded 
a crowd of people. The crowd, however, was distributed in a most unusual 
manner, with squads guarding each entrance and a large mob on the street that 
led to the Inn of the Seven Stars. Someone was shouting, haranguing the mob. 
There was another unusual feature, far more important: the city gates were 
closed. The warbeast's roar echoed from the stone of the city wall and the 
wood and metal of the gates, and for a moment the murmur of the crowd ceased; 
the speaker broke off in midsentence and a brief silence swept the square, to 
be swallowed in renewed shouting and jabbering. No one moved as Koros stalked 
across the marketplace to the gates. It stopped a few yards away and looked up 
at the barrier, its golden eyes gleaming in the torchlight. Garth, still dazed 
from the wild ride-which had taken less than a minute-did the same. The 
gates were iron-bound oak, towering up into the darkness, black against the 
stars; they were at least thirty feet high. Garth was unsure whether Koros 
could leap such a height, and apparently it was unsure itself; he was quite 
certain, however, that it could not do so while carrying two passengers and 
assorted baggage. He would have to dismount and get the portal open. His 



head was clearing rapidly, but he did not feel himself capable of walking yet; 
instead, he spoke a soothing word to his mount and peered at the gate to see 
how they were secured. A heavy bar lay across a row of brackets; in the 
shadows and flickering torchlight he could not see what the bar was made of, 
but he supposed it would be some sturdy wood, perhaps tarred to resist 
weathering. Above and below it were masses of knotted rope, apparently 
lashings around cleats on the two valves; these, too, were dark. A sound 
distracted him; he turned and saw that the mob was approaching, apparently 
planning to overpower overman and warbeast by sheer numbers. He saw an 
assortment of swords, maces, axes, clubs, and other weapons brandished amongst 
the robes, and the glint of torchlight on steel armor here and there where 
robes had fallen open or hoods been pushed back. He wondered why so many 
seemingly ordinary Dûsarrans had such accoutrements available; did the city 
rely on militia in times of war? He recalled that he was unarmed at the 
moment, and reminded himself that he did not want to be on Koros' back during 
any fighting that might occur. Accordingly, before the foremost attackers 
could reach him, he slid from his beast's back and pulled the sword of Bheleu 
from its place in the harness. It came free just in time; seeing his 
actions, the Dûsarrans had broken into a run, hoping to kill him before he 
could defend himself. Instead, the foremost attackers, too busy running to 
properly defend themselves, had their bellies slashed open. The sword of 
Bheleu cut through robes, armor, and flesh with equal ease, and the overman's 
greater reach, combined with the length of the great blade, meant that the 
first Dûsarrans were dead before they could strike a single blow. Behind them 
their comrades halted, momentarily deterred, and Garth grasped the opportunity 
for psychological combat. "Scum! Is this the way of Dûsarra, to send 
hundreds against a lone warrior? Cowards all! Has any among you the courage to 
face me in single combat? True, I am more than a mere man, but I have already 
fought long and hard. I slew the abomination in the temple of death! I 
destroyed the cult of Bheleu!" There was renewed muttering in the crowd; 
none approached. After a few seconds, a voice cried out, "You have defiled our 
temple!" "I have defeated a monster that ate human flesh; I have 
slaughtered those who worshipped slaughter; and I have freed an innocent 
victim from a vile sacrifice! Does this defile your temple?" "You slew 
the priest of Tema!" There was a rumble of response. There was no doubt that 
most of the mob were worshippers of the goddess of night. "Who says this? I 
have fought in the temple of death; I have killed in the temple of Bheleu, and 
in the temple of Sai, and I have mocked and defiled the temple of Aghad, but 
who is it that says I have harmed a priest of Tema?" "You defiled the temple 
of darkness!" "Who says this thing of me? Let me face my accuser!" There 
was an uneasy stirring bat no further shout; a few took a hesitating step 
forward, only to retreat once again. Then a tall figure appeared at the edge 
of the crowd, pushing its way forward. Garth stared at the approaching 
person; whoever it was, he stood head and shoulders above the majority of the 
crowd, his face hidden by a hood the color of drying blood. A path opened 
before him, and the last third of his journey across the market to face Garth 
was made in bold strides. "Who is this that comes to meet me?" "It is 
I, defiler; it is I who say that you slew the priest of Tema and robbed her 
altar, that you slew priest and priestess of Regvos. And I am he who will face 
you in single combat!" With that the hood was flung back, revealing the 
noseless brown face of an overman, yellow eyes gleaming in the torchlight. 
It took Garth a moment to realize he faced one of his own species; he 
recognized that voice, and for several seconds was aware only that he was face 
to face with the high priest of Aghad. His enemy had delivered himself; here 
was the opportunity for a part of the revenge he craved. He raised the sword 
of Bheleu. "Priest of Aghad! People of Dûsarra, you have believed the ruler 
of the cult of treachery, the high priest of lies and deceit, whose altar I 
desecrated in righteous anger! Let our duel decide my fate!" The Aghadite 
grinned and flung aside his robe, standing upright; for the first time it 
occurred to Garth that he might not win this fight. After all, he was tired, 



while the overman priest was still fresh. Furthermore, when he abandoned his 
concealing crouch, the Aghadite was almost eight feet in height, a monstrous 
size even among overmen. He was curiously lopsided, his right shoulder much 
higher than his left; such deformities were common among the infants of the 
Northern Waste, but their victims were customarily killed at birth. That had 
been a reason for the slow rate of increase in the Waste's population, but 
necessary, due to the very limited food supply. Silvery mail gleamed on the 
monster overman's arms and legs; his chest was adorned with a gleaming 
red-enameled breastplate. A sturdy steel skullcap with chain-link earflaps 
protected his head, and blued-steel gauntlets covered his hands. Garth 
wondered for an instant where he had obtained the gauntlets, which were made 
to accommodate the peculiarities of an overman's double-thumbed, long-fingered 
hands; his own hands were unprotected. Still grinning, the Aghadite reached 
up and slid his sword from a sheath on his back; its hilt was blood-red and 
its blade dull black-save for the edges, which gleamed silvery-red in the 
firelight. It was a magnificent weapon, a two-handed double-edged broadsword. 
It was in fact, to all appearances, the equal of the sword of Bheleu. The 
creature was a priest, Garth told himself; he could have little real battle 
experience. His own greater skill should give him the advantage despite the 
monster's longer reach and presumably greater strength. The black blade 
whistled; Garth parried the attack, only to find his enemy's weapon ducking 
downward unexpectedly, under his own silver blade. He dodged, and escaped 
injury. The priest's grin remained, and Garth knew that the maneuver had 
not been the luck of a beginner. He made a feeble riposte, which was easily 
parried. He felt a thin seep of despair as he reflexively met and countered 
the reply to his blow. This was not what he wanted. He was weary, his stomach 
hurt from his wild ride, his hands seemed weak and unfamiliar with scar 
tissue; this was not how he had wanted to face the priest of Aghad. Of 
course, he had not known that the priest was an overman. One of his own kind! 
One of his people, serving-heading!-that loathsome cult! Despite his 
weariness, his despair turned suddenly to anger, and his next blow was faster, 
more aggressive than before. He would not despair, he told himself; despair 
was the province of Sai, sister to Aghad. Of course, anger was the work of 
Aghad himself, and that realization angered him further. He would show this 
grinning monster his mistake, make plain to him his poor taste in employers! 
The sword of Bheleu flashed up, knocking aside the Aghadite's next blow, and 
whipped around and over, scratching enamel from the scarlet breastplate. The 
Aghadite's grin wavered. Aghad! Aghad was nothing! His time had ended 
centuries ago; this was the Age of Bheleu! The red gem in the sword's pommel 
blazed. "I am Bheleu!" Garth screamed. The grin vanished. The black 
sword swung up into a parry, and with a long swooping blow the sword of Bheleu 
came down upon it, shattering it; splinters of black metal sprayed, ripping 
the silver mail, scoring the red breastplate. The priest's face went blank 
with shock as he stared at the remaining foot of blade that protruded from the 
long hilt he clutched; instinctively, he brought the stump up to meet another 
blow that came sweeping toward his skull. The sword of Bheleu went diagonally 
through blade, hilt, and hands; bones snapped and blood spurted, but the high 
priest of Aghad had no time to react. The blade traveled on, shearing through 
helmet and bone, and the brain that had devised so many taunts and trials was 
spattered in gory bits across the front of the crowd surrounding the battle. 
The force of the blow was such that the corpse did not crumple, but was 
instead stretched out at full length upon the dirt of the marketplace, 
surrounded by gleaming shards of the black sword, a red-and-gray spray of 
blood and brain making an elongated halo about the ruined head. The victor 
raised his sword in triumph, ignoring the baleful red glow of the gem in its 
pommel, and bellowed, "I am destruction!" Koros roared in answer. Then, 
abruptly, the spell vanished; Garth staggered and stared in horror at the dead 
form of his foe. He lowered the sword and looked about. With the death of 
the Aghadite, much of the crowd had decided Garth had proved his point; the 
mob was shrinking steadily. The portion remaining, however, was the most 



militant group; when the berserk monster that had butchered their leader 
reverted to an exhausted overman, they began to advance toward him. Garth 
lifted the sword again. The warbeast roared again, and stepped up beside its 
master; the advance halted. From the corner of his eye Garth noticed that 
Frima was no longer astride the beast's broad back, but he dared not divert 
his attention from the angry crowd to worry about her. The sword felt 
unbearably heavy. Although the mob was reduced to a fraction of its former 
size, it was still more than Koros could handle unaided; not that the warbeast 
was likely to be killed, but it would be too bogged down by the enemy's 
numbers to defend Garth. He would have to defend himself, and he knew he 
couldn't unless the trance came over him again-and he didn't want that. He 
could never be sure it would pass. And of course, he had no way of knowing 
what would bring it on; it had come twice now, once in the temple of Bheleu 
and once here in the market, but it had not touched him in the temple of 
death, so it was not anger or physical danger that triggered it. Perhaps the 
sword itself would save him, as it had in the house behind the stable; he 
glanced at the pommel and saw that the glow of the gem had died away to a 
faint glimmer, which was not encouraging. Perhaps he could talk the mob out of 
attacking; with sword and warbeast and strong words he might be able to deter 
them. He raised the blade above his head, with an effort he hoped was not 
visible, but before he could speak a low rumble sounded, as it had in the 
temple of Bheleu. Recovering from his startlement more quickly than the 
Dûsarrans, Garth realized that the sound had come at the perfect moment for 
him; he took advantage of it by speaking in his deepest, most resonant tones, 
lower than any human throat could produce. "Hold, scum! I have slain your 
champion in fair fight; would you still dare defy me?" A tall young man 
in dark red robes answered him. "You are still a blasphemer and defiler, a 
murderer and committee of sacrilege; the gods demand your death!" "Fool! Which 
of your gods would dare? I am the servant of Dûs, Bheleu, the bringer of 
destruction; death and desolation follow me as hounds. What are you, to stand 
against me?" Even as he spoke, Garth wondered how he chose these words; 
although he knew his best hope lay in convincing his foes he was more than 
mortal, he felt that this eloquence was not entirely of his own making. "You 
are Garth, an overman from the Northern Waste, sent here to steal by a 
third-rate wizard!" This man was obviously another Aghadite, since he knew 
so much. Garth prepared to denounce him as such, but before he could speak a 
new voice sounded. "This is Bheleu incarnate, come to herald the new age, 
whatever he may have been before! Let those who defy him know that P'hul and 
her servants recognize this her brother and serve his ends!" The speaker 
of this proclamation stood behind the remaining mob and to one side, with a 
dozen gray-robed figures ranged behind him, all with hoods pulled forward and 
faces hidden. As he looked at them, it seemed to Garth that the light changed 
and the square became brighter. Then it became brighter still, and he 
realized it was no illusion; some new flame had appeared behind him, but he 
dared not turn to see what it was. There was a moment of near-silence as 
those who still stood against Garth muttered amongst themselves; the overman 
noticed that more had drifted away and vanished into the streets and alleys. 
"The Lady P'hul your sister gives you greetings, my lord; what would you have 
of her?" The gray-robed speaker raised a staff toward Garth, Before he 
could consciously decide upon a reply, Garth found himself shouting, "I am 
destruction!" In a chorus, the priests and priestesses of P'hul replied, 
"Destruction!" Hands flew up, and a fine gray powder was scattered on the air, 
to be spread across the market by a sudden gust of wind. "No!" cried the 
Aghadite. "The overman is a fraud and a thief! Slay him!" He drew a sword from 
beneath his robe and charged forward, a dozen others with him. A black blur 
filled Garth's vision for an instant, followed by a flash of bone-white claws 
and gleaming fangs, and a spurt of rich red; but as Garth had anticipated, 
there were too many attackers for Koros to handle; even as half a dozen died 
screaming, others surged around and past the warbeast. Garth met them with a 
long sweep of the sword of Bheleu, disemboweling one, hacking open the side of 



another; a third came within reach and sent his own sword at Garth's flank. 
The overman twisted, and the blade scraped across his breastplate, bruising 
his flesh beneath despite his padding. The sword of Bheleu came free. As 
Garth brought it around to run the point through the neck of his 
near-successful assailant, he saw that a new fire was kindling in the red gem. 
That threat disposed of, he turned to meet the next, and saw that the 
P'hulites were leaving, walking calmly away, without any opposition; he had 
hoped-that they would aid him. A dozen allies, no matter how ill, might have 
turned this battle in his favor. What had been the meaning of their speeches, 
then? His blade demolished a man's face. Blood now covered half its length, 
starting at the tip. Where, he asked himself, was this Bheleu when he was 
needed? Garth's arms ached as he heaved his unyielding weapon about. A face 
appeared before him, and he tried to bring his blade to meet it; before the 
blow fell, however, the face seemed to dissolve. The mouth fell open; skin 
cracked like dry mud, oozing pus; white gum filled the eyes, and the man fell 
mewling at Garth's feet. The sweep of the sword of Bheleu met no 
resistance, the man having fallen from its path; Garth struggled to regain 
control and defend himself even as the shock of what he had just seen filtered 
through him. New screams ripped through the square, added to those of the 
men Koros was slaughtering; a blade lightly grazed Garth's throat, the dying 
effort of a man whose skin was peeling in blistered strips from his flesh. 
Gazing around, looking for new attacks, Garth saw none; instead, men lay dying 
on the ground, their wounds seeping white ooze rather than the natural red of 
blood. Those still on their feet were fleeing in terror; as Garth watched, 
more fell as they ran, to lie whimpering in the streets for their last few 
seconds of life. The sword of Bheleu fell unheeded from his hands. He had 
brought chaos and catastrophe to Dûsarra, despite his protestations. A cry 
distracted him. "Lord Garth! Help!" Recovering himself somewhat, Garth picked 
up the sword again and turned in the direction of Frima's voice. She was at 
the gates, struggling to lift the heavy bar, a task obviously beyond her 
strength; the rope bindings were gone, leaving smouldering ash, and a torch 
lay on the ground near her feet. As he started toward her, he saw that the 
merchants' canopies on the eastern side of the square were ablaze; that had 
been the new light that had appeared behind him as he faced westward 
confronting the mob. He had no idea who had set them afire, or why; it was 
something he meant to ask Frima at the first opportunity. He had intended to 
add his own waning strength to her attempt to lift the bar from its brackets; 
but as he approached, the sword hilt in his hands seemed to move of its own 
volition, and he found himself hacking at the center of the bar as he would 
hack firewood with an axe. The sword, or whatever agency controlled it, 
seemed to know what it was doing; at the second blow the central span 
shattered, the wood reducing itself to splinters in a thoroughly unnatural 
way. The ends remained intact, but did not prevent the gates from being opened 
far enough to permit first Frima, then Garth, and finally Koros to slip 
through into the empty night beyond.CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVEThe air was dry and 
warm as the trio moved down the tone hillside in an automatic effort to put 
some distance between themselves and the chaos of the Dûsarran marketplace; 
the orange glow that leaked through the gates paled until it was lost in the 
cloud-filtered moonlight. Somewhere behind them a faint rumbling sounded. 
A few hundred yards from the city walls, Garth stopped and gathered Frima and 
Koros to him. He set about checking the straps and knots that had held his 
supplies and loot in place on the warbeast's back throughout the fighting as 
he asked, "How did the fires start?" "I did it. With a torch from one of 
the posts." "Why?" "As a distraction; there were men sneaking around 
behind you." "Oh." That was disconcerting; he had been totally unaware of 
any such maneuver. "Thank you. And the ropes on the gate?" "They were tarred, 
to keep them from stretching in the rain; the tar burns well. That's why I had 
the torch when I saw the men coming." "Thank you. You have been most 
helpful." There was silence for a moment as he pulled tight a loosened 
buckle. A faint crackling came from the city; the fire must be spreading. 



Garth glanced up, but saw no sign of pursuit. "I don't know why I helped 
you!" Frima burst out suddenly. "You're kidnapping me?" "That's true," 
Garth replied. "But would you want to stay in Dûsarra at present? With fire, 
panic, and disease loose in the streets?" "No." Her voice was fiat and 
definite, all defiance gone. "That disease-have you ever seen it before?" 
"No, but I have heard of it. It is the White Death, which P'hul uses to 
dispose of those who have displeased her. She must favor you, as her priest 
said." A few days earlier Garth would have dismissed that as more human 
superstition; now, he was less certain. The events of the last few days and 
nights definitely seemed to have involved powers beyond any he was familiar 
with. He slid the sword of Bheleu into the place in the harness it had 
occupied before, wishing he had some other more convenient and more 
trustworthy weapon. "It may be," he said, "that the Forgotten King will 
have no use for you. In that case, you shall be free to go as you please; you 
may return to Dûsarra and to your family if you choose. I make no promises, 
however." "I may just escape before that." Her tone had lightened. "I 
hope to prevent that. Recall that you are unarmed and half clad, and that the 
city is a most unhealthy place just now." "Oh, don't worry, silly." She petted 
Koros, who was licking blood from its claws. Garth smiled. No one had ever 
called him silly before. At least, not for a century or so. A blaze of red 
light lit the sky; Garth and Frima turned to see that one of the volcanic 
peaks was brightly aglow. A moment later the now-familiar rumbling shook the 
slope beneath their feet. "I think it would be wise to depart," Garth 
remarked. He lifted the girl onto the warbeast's back, then swung himself up 
in front of her. He was weary and would have preferred to sleep, but it seemed 
quite clear that he would not be safe anywhere near the city. When both 
were astride, Koros started forward in its customary swift glide...apparently 
unbothered by its recent exertions. As Dûsarra and the fiery volcano receded 
behind them, Garth contemplated recent events. His life-long atheism he now 
suspected to be incorrect; there was something that had directed his actions 
since his acquisition of the sword of Bheleu. No other explanation was 
adequate. Whether it was in fact the god of destruction he did not know, nor 
did he understand the relationship between this power, himself, and the sword. 
Whatever it was, it had gained him powerful allies in the cult of P'hul, and 
it might therefore have made him enemies as well-something he would have to be 
watchful for henceforth. The enmity of the cult of Aghad he had earned 
himself, and it was plain that the cult had power in lands besides its own; 
that, too, he must be watchful for. The sword itself he did not trust; were it 
not his only weapon, he would have sworn never to touch it again. As it was, 
he was eager to deliver it to the Forgotten King and be done with it. The 
Forgotten King-there was another matter for consideration. The old man was the 
high priest of death; it was not desirable, therefore, to serve him any 
further. Garth would deliver the loot from the various altars to him and then 
go his own way. The vague promises of fame, of possible immortality, and of 
some great cosmic significance were, at present, of little interest; his 
recent dealings with cosmic powers had left him far less enthusiastic about 
such matters. There were mundane matters enough to occupy his time. There was 
the possibility of trade with the overmen of the Yprian Coast, should they 
actually exist; there might well be repercussions from the events just past to 
be dealt with; there was his vengeance to be taken upon the Baron of Skelleth. 
Trade or no, he was determined to have his revenge. He rode on through the 
night, Frima hanging on forlornly behind him as she left the only home she had 
ever known, Koros padding smoothly along. His mind seethed with schemes to 
humble the Baron, with schemes to seek out and destroy the cult of Aghad, with 
thoughts of great deeds to be done. None of the three noticed the great red 
gem set in the pommel of the sword o€ Bheleu, protruding from the warbeast's 
harness alongside its furry chest, where it burned with a murky flame the 
color of blood.NOTES ON LANGUAGE AND PRONUNCIATIONThe reader should remember 
throughout that the characters do not speak English, but a language which, if 
pressed for a name, they would call "Eramman." All dialogue must be considered 



as translations from the Eramman, and all names as approximate transcriptions. 
An attempt has been made to keep all names as easily pronounceable for 
speakers of English as possible; since Eramman is an IndoEuropean tongue, 
reasonable accuracy is possible as well. However, a rough guide to 
pronunciation seems advisable. Accents: There are two different rules to 
be followed in regard to where stress falls; in Nekutta (including Dûsarra), 
Orgûl, Amag, Tadumuri, Mara, and almost all of Eramma, the accent always falls 
on the next-to-last syllable in any word, regardless of how many syllables 
there may be. In Orûn, the Northern Waste, the Yprian Coast, and in personal 
names but no other words in parts of northern Eramma (including Skelleth), the 
accent always falls on the first syllable, regardless of the length of the 
word. Thus Garth, being from the Northern Waste, pronounces the name of his 
home city OR-duh-nin, while the people of Skelleth or Dûsarra would pronounce 
it Or-DOO-nin. The Plain of Derbarok, lying as it does between Eramma and 
Orûn, has no set rule; its inhabitants vary their pronunciation at whim, and 
there is no consensus as to whether the correct pronunciation is DER-ba-rock 
or Der-BAR-ock. Phonetics: The Eramman language has seven basic vowels, 
which are represented in transcription by A, E, I, Y, O, U, and Ü; most have 
two pronunciations, depending on whether they occur in an accented syllable or 
an unaccented one. A is always pronounced like the a in era. E in an 
unaccented syllable is pronounced like the e in get. E in an accented 
syllable is pronounced like the é in passé. I in an unaccented syllable is 
pronounced like the i in bit. I in an accented syllable is pronounced like the 
ee in bee. Y is a sound which does not occur in English; regardless of accent 
it is pronounced like the Russian bI; best approximated as something between 
the accented and unaccented I. O is always pronounced like the o in got; 
there is no long O in Eramman. U in an unaccented syllable is pronounced 
like the oo in book. U in an accented syllable is pronounced like the oo in 
boot. Ü in an unaccented syllable is pronounced as in German; in an accented 
syllable it falls somewhere between the German ü and o. The use of a 
circumflex indicates that a vowel in an unaccented syllable is pronounced as 
if accented (e.g., Orûn and Dûsarra, pronounced OR-oon and Doo-SAR-ra). 
One-syllable words are always considered accented, but a circumflex may 
sometimes appear as a reminder. Diphthongs are common in Eramman, 
especially AI, pronounced like the English word "I," and EU, which does not 
occur in most forms of English, but closely resembles the Cockney 
pronunciation of the long O-sound. Consonants are pronounced much as in 
English, except R, which is trilled or "flipped" slightly (not rolled). The 
following combinations should be noted: TH is always as in thin, never as in 
there. DH represents the voiced th as in there. BH represents a sound 
somewhere between b and v, as in the Castilian Spanish pronunciation of 
either. PH represents a sound somewhere between p and f; in the 
combination P'H the apostrophe has no sound or value whatsoever except to 
indicate that the P and H are both pronounced individually and not as a single 
phoneme. P'hul is one syllable. CH is pronounced as in church. J is 
pronounced as in jar. G is always as in get, never as in gem. KH 
represents a voiceless gutteral, like the German ch in ach. GH represents a 
voiced gutteral; it sounds rather like gargling. SH is pronounced as in 
sheep. ZH is pronounced like z in azure. A final note on the names of 
the gods: Eramman is a declined language with seven cases; all nouns will 
ordinarily have an ending indicating their case and what part of a sentence 
they are. Names, however, do not have endings, ever. The names of the gods 
are, for the most part, simply words indicating their provenance with endings 
removed. Thus aghadye, the nominative form of the word for "loathing," becomes 
Aghad, and bheluye, meaning "destruction," becomes Bheleu (yes, it should be 
bheleuye or Bhelu; a few centuries earlier it was bheleuye, but pronunciations 
change). Native speakers would not find this confusing, nor tend to 
identify a god too strongly with the single trait his name represents, because 
they are accustomed to names with root meanings that may not have much to do 
with the things named. For examples of similar attitudes among speakers of 



English, consider the names Grace and Victor; no one assumes that every woman 
named Grace is in fact graceful, or that every man named Victor is a 
successful fighter. How many people, upon hearing the name New York, even 
remember that there is an old York? Furthermore, many of the root-words have 
changed meaning or dropped out of common usage; regvosye, meaning an 
unwillingness to understand, is extremely archaic, and no longer used as the 
ordinary word for blindness. That is just one example of many.NOTES ON ERAMMAN 
MYTH AND THEOLOGYIn the beginning, according to the myths of Eramma and 
Nekutta, there was nothing at all except Dagha, and a nothingness far more 
complete than is ordinarily considered. There was no time, no space, no 
matter, no energy, no life, no death, nothing at all. Dagha, existing without 
these things, is therefore totally incomprehensible; it is customary to refer 
to Dagha as "he," but actually there is no way of saying whether he is male, 
female, neither, or both. In some way, this incomprehensible being created 
time and space; however, being outside time himself, he could not directly 
interfere or manipulate anything within the space he had created. For that 
reason, there is no cult of Dagha, no worship, and no prayer to him. Not 
satisfied with an empty cosmos, Dagha also created beings that could 
manipulate it, beings that were within time and limited by it, but were still 
immortal and unconfined by space. These beings were the gods. Since they 
were created from nothing, they were of necessity created in pairs, each the 
negation of its twin. In each pair there was a god dedicated to the 
elaboration and ornamentation of the cosmos, and another dedicated to 
returning to primordial nothingness. Dagha created seven pairs in all; the 
seven dedicated to creation are known as the Lords of Eir (from an archaic 
word meaning both "tree" and "vitality"), and their seven foes are known as 
the Lords of Dûs (from dusye, meaning "death" and also "darkness"). The 
first pair created are usually referred to by their attributes rather than 
their names, Life and Death; they do have names, however. The role of Ayvi, 
the god of life, is frequently misunderstood; he is not in any way a preserver 
of life, but merely its bestower. He brings the first spark to each seed or 
embryo, but nothing more; and the Final God does nothing but remove that 
spark. The next creation was of four gods rather than two: Aal, god of 
growth and fertility, countered by P'hul, goddess of decay; and Bel Vala, god 
of strength and preservation, countered by Bheleu, god of destruction. Aal is 
generally given precedence over Bel Vala, but P'hul is considered inferior to 
Bheleu; the reasons for this apparent contradiction are unclear. The next 
creation was again of four gods, but this time there was no confusion in rank; 
Aghad, god of hatred, fear, and loathing, and his sister Pria, goddess of 
love, peace, and friendship, are universally acknowledged as mightier than 
Sai, goddess of sorrow and despair, and Gau, goddess of pleasure and delight. 
These ten are the High Gods; their four younger siblings are considered 
lesser, but therefore more accessible, deities. The sixth pair is Leuk, lord 
of light and bringer of inspiration, and Andhur Regvos, the god of darkness 
and blindness. The seventh and final pair of Eir and Dûs are Tema, goddess 
of night, and Amera, goddess of the day. With the creation of these two Dagha 
either exhausted his power or lost interest. These fourteen gods amongst 
them created the world, to provide themselves with an arena in which to 
manifest themselves; and in the early days of their creation, in emulation of 
their master, they created lesser gods. All the various cults of Nekutta and 
Eramma agree thus far, with the exception of a few outcast religions and 
followers of obscure deities; however, there is virtually no agreement as to 
the existence, number, and nature of these lesser gods, who are actually the 
objects of most worship, the Eir and Dûs being considered too powerful to 
waste time on mere mortals. Most of the lesser gods are collectively classed 
as Arkhein, a word of unknown origin, and there are dozens, perhaps hundreds, 
of them, including among the more prominent Savel Skai, the sun-god; Mel, 
goddess of the moon; Eramma the earth-mother; Koros, god of war; Melith, 
goddess of storms and lightning, and her brother, (or half-brother, or son, or 
cousin, depending on which cult one adheres to) Kewerro, the god of wind and 



air, particularly the north wind and storms at sea. Others range down through 
such minor powers as Eknissa, the firegoddess, to the obscure and pointless, 
such as Quon, god of dogs, and Bugo, god of masculinity and petty aggression. 
A popular pastime in some areas is to debate the pedigrees of the various 
Arkhein, a diversion not readily exhausted, since despite the sexes generally 
attributed to the various deities it is assumed that any Eir or Dûs can mate 
with any other and produce offspring, or that any one can by himself or 
herself produce a child. Furthermore, the Arkhein themselves are fertile; 
Eramma is generally considered the mother of most of the minor nature-gods, 
though their paternities (if any) are debatable. It is no wonder that, 
confronted with such a tangle, most overmen prefer to assume that no gods 
exist at all.