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stupidest mouse in trap..." He charged the darkness, sword preceeding him.
"You idiot!" Ragnarson bellowed. He muttered, "What the hell?" when his
companion seemed to slide out of existence as he hit the blackness.
"Might as well." He hit the darkness seconds behind the fat man.
He felt like he was tumbling down the entire well of eternity, rolling
aimlessly through a storm of color and sound underlaid by the whispering of
wicked things. It went on and on and on and... Without breaking stride he
entered a vast, poorly lighted chamber.
That room, or hall, was an assault on rationality. The air was overpoweringly
foul. From all-surrounding, shadowed mists came rustlings, and for a moment he
thought he saw a manlike, winged thing with the head of a dog, then a small,
apelike dwarf with prodigious fangs. Everything seemed unstable, shifting,
except the floor, which was of jet, and a huge black throne carved with
exceptionally hideous designs. They reminded him of reliefs he had seen in the
temples of Arundeputh and Merthregul at Gundgatchcatil. Yet these were worse,
as if carved by hands washed more deeply in evil.
Mocker, sword in hand, prowled round that throne. "What is it?" Ragnarson
asked, seldom having seen the fat man so upset.
"Shinsan."
They were trapped fools indeed.
The mists stirred. An old man stepped forth. "Good evening," he said. "I trust
you speak Necremnen? Good."
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The old man turned to the throne, knelt, touched forehead to floor, muttered
something Ragnarson couldn't understand. For an instant new mists gathered
there. An incredibly beautiful woman wavered in their depths. She nodded and
disappeared. The old man rose and turned.
"My Lady honors me. But to business. You're going where My Lady wishes you
wouldn't. Kavelin is already too complex. Go home."
Ragnarson retorted, "Simple as that, eh? Might interfere with your plans, so
we should turn back?"
"Yes."
"I can't do that." His fingers, in deaf-mute signs, flashed a message to
Mocker. "I've given my word."
"I've tried to be reasonable. My Lady won't tolerate disobedience."
"Terrible. Hate to disappoint her."
Mocker suddenly lunged, sword reaching.
A silvery filament lightninged from the old man's hand, brushed Mocker's
cheek. The fat man collapsed. By then Ragnarson was moving in. The thread
darted out again. Bragi tangled it on his blade, ripped it from the old man's
grasp, continued to bore in. \
The sorcerer sprang straight up and disappeared in the mists overhead. Bragi,
mystified, tried a few desultory sword swipes that got no result, then knelt
to check Mocker's pulse.
A shimmering, sparkling dust drifted down upon him. When the first
scintillating flakelet touched his skin, he tumbled across his friend.
SEVEN: Into Kavelin
i) High sorcery
Ragnarson woke with a headache like that memorializing a week-long drunk. The
demoniac whispering of his dream-haunts resolved themselves into the
mutterings of Mocker.
Their cell was a classic, even to slimy stone walls. Beyond the rusty-barred
door stood the winged thing, dog-teeth bared, a glowing dagger in hand. Other
creatures stirred behind it, squat things heavily clothed, with faces like
owls. The winged man opened the door.
Six owl-faces pounced on Mocker, bound him before Bragi reacted. Bellowing
like a thwarted bull in rut, ignoring the agony in his head, he grabbed two,
smashed them together, then used his fists on their faces. A neck went snap!
He lifted the second overhead, hurled it skull-first against the floor.
A tide of weird creatures washed in. He went down. In moments he was trussed
and being carried away. He tried counting turns and steps, but it was
hopeless. Not only did his head hurt too much, his captors kept jabbing him in
retribution for his attack.
They reached a vast room. It might have been the onewhere he and Mocker had
been received, with the mists removed. It was huge. Every fixture was black.
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The monsters dumped him onto a stone table. He heard voices. Forcing his head
around, he saw the old man arguing with the woman in the mists..The old man
suddenly slumped in defeat.
The mist-woman faded. The man turned, selected a bronze dagger from a
collection on a table, faced Ragnarson, raised his arms, began to chant.
Ragnarson noticed a pentagram chalked on the floor. A conjuration! He and
Mocker were to be delivered to some Thing from Outside. He struggled against
his bonds. The porters ignored him, nervously concentrated on their master.
A darkness animate became pregnant and gave birth to itself in the pentagram.
The sorcerer stopped singing. Sighs escaped the creatures around Ragnarson.
Bragi snouted, hoping to disturb the wizard. It did no good. Furious with
frustration, because his bonds would not yield, he performed the only act of
defiance left him. He spit in the eye of one of the owl-faces.
It jumped as if hornet-stung, staggered, flailed its arms.
One crossed the barrier of the pentagram.
It withered swiftly, blackened. The creature screamed in soul-deep terror. The
sorcerer tried to pull it out, then to chant the demon down. 'Too late. The
owl-face was lost. The darkness in the pentagram gradually sucked it in.
The remainder of the old man's servants fled, shrieking. Their rush washed
against and overturned the table where Bragi lay. He hit the floor hard,
groaned, found one hand had been wrenched free. And not five feet away lay the
sorcerer's dagger, that he had dropped when he had tried to save his servant.
Bragi slithered to the blade, cut his bonds, then did likewise for a Mocker
whose eyes were wide with terror.
A finger of blackness began to leak from the pentagram where the owl-face had
broken its barrier.
The old man had disappeared again.
Staggering weak, Bragi and Mocker prepared to pursue his example. Mocker's
gaze fell on a table wheretheir weapons lay. He moved to get them. His fat
man's run would have been amusing in other circumstances. He passed perilously
near the pentagram, but the darkness within remained preoccupied with its
victim.
It finished with the owl-face as Bragi and Mocker considered how best to
escape, began slithering from the pentagram, writhing like a cat getting
through a small hole.
"Self," said Mocker, "am of opinion any place elsewhere is better than here."
"Where's here?" Ragnarson asked. "Maybe I could figure where I'm going if I
knew where I'm starting."
"Friend Bear doesn't want to know," Mocker replied.
"Bullfeathers. If you know, tell me."
Mocker shrugged. "Are in small quill of Shinsan poked through cloth of
universe into Ruderin. Are in two places at same time, Ruderin valley and
small frontier castle in Pillars of Ivory on Shinsan border with Sendelin
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Steppe. Could be long walk home if luck turns bad."
"Turns bad?" Ragnarson snorted. "Can't be worse than it is." The darkness
still confined had grown visibly smaller. "I vote we walk while we talk."
The darkness chose that moment to strike. They managed to evade it and flee.
The flight was an eon of fear, of oxygen-starved lungs and already punished
muscles refusing to be tortured more but going on all the same. Always close
behind was a snakelike black tendril.
Something came hurtling at them. Ragnarson grabbed it, Mocker stabbed it, and
together they sacrificed it to the tendril. Only after the darkness began
surrounding it did they see that it was another of the old sorcerer's
servants.
Chance eventually brought them back to the point where their flight had begun.
The demon had evacuated the chamber completely. The uproar it had caused [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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