The Rotting Land

The Rotting Land // 1

THE ROTTING LAND

Joe Dever and John Grant

The Rotting Land // 2 DEDICATION

For Barry Ward – wit, raconteur, cyberpunk. "He came, He Saw, He De-Bugged!" JD For Maureen – for that lip-pursingly, nose-wrinklingly, flat-stare-producingly, mouth-twitchingly, st'lyan-sidesteppingly, face-makingly, teeth-showingly and -clenchingly, eye-wideningly and -flashingly, sour- and grim-smilingly well timed distraction we snagged, during which it was as if a message of some kind had passed between us ... but what? JG

The Rotting Land // 3 CONTENTS

History Book 1: Faded Lesa 1 2

The More It Stays the Same Worth Two in the Bush History Book 2: Lesa Fading

3 4

Make Light Work Soonest Mended History Book 3: Lesa, Faded

5 6

Spoil the Broth That Ends Well History Book 4: Stainless Alyss

The Rotting Land // 4

HISTORY BOOK 1: FADED LESA There is a tale told of how, some time around MS1600, the House of Varnos came to the throne of Talestria. Whether it is true or not is a matter beyond human judgement, but it is believed by the common folk of the Freelands, and it is as likely as many of the other histories of the early days of Magnamund. Besides, it has the feel of truth, and that must surely count for as much as any more objective reckonings of historical accuracy. The tale goes maybe like this: # The arms of death had almost completely embraced the old chieftain – everyone knew it, including himself. For days he had been confined to his tent, lying abed and cursing steadily, but steadily more weakly. His face was a grey, putty-like mask, the skin hanging in wrinkles from the all-too-visible bones. Sometimes his eyes showed the clear blueness they had possessed of old, but more often the light in them shone but dimly – unless, as sometimes happened, his wrath rose and his eyes blazed briefly with the glare of madness. It had been his own fault: that was why he was so unremittingly furious with his shamans, his nurses and his wife, Lesa the Faded. None of them could legitimately be blamed for the fact that, despite all their chidings, he had insisted – at his age! – in going out on a storgh hunt with the younger warriors of the tribe. He did blame them, of course, nonetheless – he blamed them for not being legitimately blamable, although that was only among the more minor of their many offences. Much worse was the fact that nobody had thought to tell him that storghs had become stronger, wilier, more vicious and more swift-moving during the years since last he had hunted one. The blasted reptile had taken a fist-sized hunk out of his left calf muscle: a lesser man might have screamed and fainted; the old chieftain, made of sterner stuff, had merely fainted. The next he had known he had been back here in his tent, struggling to avoid drowning in the many poultices and potions his shamans had insisted on thrusting at or into him. That was the shamans' major crime. Had he not had to waste so much energy in fighting off their attentions he might have been able to concentrate his venerable mind on the more important matter of curing his wound. As it was, the exposed flesh had been allowed to rot. The rot had been eating him up these past three weeks, and now he knew it was encroaching close upon his heart, the seat of his emotions and all his higher mental functions.

The Rotting Land // 5 The crime of his nurses was that of being nurses. A traditionalist, he detested nurses as much as the illnesses which they feigned to tend. In the early days after his injury he'd been able to strike out at them with something like full force, squashing noses and breaking the occasional satisfyingly important bone, but now he was reduced to impotence as they bathed him in their fresh, bright and – worst of all – irremediably cheerful smiles. There was no escaping their merry cries of "Good morning, Overlord of the Sky and All That Depends Therefrom, and how are we this morning?" or, most loathsome of all, "Have we moved our bowels today?", followed by an ignominious wrestling behind him with the bedclothes and an icily cold chamberpot. Ach! Were he fit enough he'd pronounce a mandatory sentence of death, throughout the Universe, on all the craven scum who pretended to the profession of nursehood. But their crimes – nurses and shamans alike – were as nothing compared with the vile sin committed against him by his Lesa the Faded. Deliberately, purely in order to spite him for his quite accidental liaison with a visiting Palmyrionian priestess, his vixen of a wife had borne his two sons in the wrong order! To call the elder, Varnos, a milksop would have been to invite protests from all the milksops of the region. A lanky vegetarian youth with a thin face and a pimply nose, Varnos was at his happiest when going for – very short – country rambles with his mother in order to gather nosegays with which he might bedeck his tent. The old chieftain had first begun to suspect the feeble-mindedness of his firstborn when the youth had been only six or seven, and his father had discovered him tickling a kitten rather than pulling its legs off, like any self-respecting future warlord. Now, though Varnos had been informally banished forever from his father's sight, the old man could still sometimes hear him, when the wind blew southward across the camp, singing lullabies to the flowers in his tent. Garthen, now – ah, Garthen, the younger boy, was something different. Stockily built and steadfastly unimaginative, Garthen was a lad after his father's heart. Undisputed champion for several years now in the tribe's annual wrestling and gouging contests, he was a master of every weapon except the sword, a childhood misapprehension concerning the use of which had cost him the first two fingers of his right hand. Garthen the Squat, as the tribesmen affectionately called him, looked less like a human being than like a shaved grizzly bear, but he was the apple of his father's eye for all that. Yet, by every law known to humankind – and the old chieftain should know, being the hereditary Overlord of the Sky and All That Depends Therefrom – it would be Varnos, not Garthen, who would succeed to the Dragon Chair in a few days' time. How the dying man cursed his own procrastination of early years! Often enough he'd decided that his elder son should encounter some inexplicable but heartwarmingly fatal accident, but always he'd put off the execution of the deed, preferring to prolong the thrill of

The Rotting Land // 6 anticipation ... and now, now he lay on his deathbed and it was too late to thwart Lesa the Faded's malicious designs! Or was it? Thought did not come easy to the old chieftain. He tried to wrinkle his already wrinkled brow. There was something he'd once heard about ... Perhaps there was a way in which he might leave at least a part of his territory to his favoured son ... In a weak voice he called for his chief henchman. "Rongor! Rongor!" # Four burly warriors carried the old chieftain out into the weak sunlight for what everybody knew was to be the last time. Lesa the Faded wept copiously – and probably falsely – by the side of his rude stretcher while his elder son, Varnos, simpered nearby. With some difficulty Garthen was lured away from a particularly exciting stomach-punching contest in which he had been engaged. The light in the old man's blue eyes waxed to a feverish brightness as Rongor reverentially placed the ancestral longbow and the ancestral arrow across the shrunken chest. The chieftain's claw-like fingers scrabbled at the haft. "It is the rule of our people," wheezed the old warrior, "that on the death of a leader his eldest son should succeed him as ruler. However," he improvised frantically, "it is permitted that the father should also make provision for his younger offspring, and this I choose to do. Garthen, my lad, come close to me." "Why?" said Garthen blankly. It was dawning on him that the old codger looked a bit peaky this morning – had been for the past few days, in fact. Must have been one heck of a binge ... "Never mind that now, my boy," croaked the chieftain. "I bequeath to you as much of my territory as will lie outside a circle around this spot, a circle of radius as great as the distance that you can shoot the ancestral arrow. Here, fine fellow – take the bow, and loose the arrow!" Garthen looked momentarily confused – geometry had never been his strong point – but he accepted the intricately carved weapon eagerly enough. Firing arrows was something he understood. The longbow seemed like a living, throbbing creature in his hands as he nocked the obscenely wrought arrow – point foremost, as he had been laboriously taught – to the singing ancestral string. The surrounding warriors backed off warily. "Do not loose your shaft in the direction of the morning Sun," hissed Rongor. His wizened eyes narrowed. "There's someone over there." Garthen, distracted by the partly heard whisper, stared in the appropriate direction. There was indeed someone there, about a hundred yards off – just within arrow-range – and walking through the mud away from the little gathering. It was difficult at first to tell whether the skinny figure was male

The Rotting Land // 7 or female, for it was clad in a long, rust-brown cloak that reached down almost as far as its naked ankles. He squinted. Above the neckline of the cloak was a head of scruffily cropped copper-coloured hair. A boy, he decided. He didn't like boys. He didn't like girls, either, which made his decision all the easier. He tensed the bow. "And do not fire your arrow too far," added Rongor. "Your father wished me to tell you that." Garthen scowled at him. It seemed clear the henchmen was trying to bamboozle him. The tribal territory was huge, as everyone knew – at least five bowshots across – so clearly Garthen's best plan was to fire the arrow as far as possible. He wrinkled his nose, suddenly doubtful about this. He was better at geometry than he was at arithmetic. "Father!" said Varnos suddenly, seemingly at his mother's prompting. "Father, stop this!" The old chieftain growled threateningly. "Don't you see how unfair it is, Father?" Varnos's voice was close to cracking. "Nasty Garthen could simply let the arrow fall to his feet, and there'd I'd be, disinherited, the heir to none of your land at all!" "That's what I ..." the chieftain began, but then thought better of it. "What do you propose instead, you pathetic young whelp?" "I propose that I be the one that fires the arrow," said Varnos after a few seconds' hasty consultation with Lesa the Faded, "and that I fall heir to all the ground that lies within the circle described by the place where the arrow should fall." This would still leave his brother with the lion's share of the inheritance, of course, but most of the tribal lands outside this immediate area were anyway worthless bog. Varnos produced as much of a beaming grin as his ferret-like features could manage. Garthen looked at his brother. His puddle-coloured eyes crossed as he tried to follow the reasoning. If one of them didn't hurry up and fire an arrow, the brown-cloaked target would squelch out of range. At last he shrugged reluctantly and passed the ceremonial bow over to Varnos, followed by the blackened, rune-encrusted arrow. "Do your worst with it, brother," he said. Varnos examined the bow curiously, then turned to gaze at Lesa the Faded. With a few movements of her eloquent fingers she mimed what he must do. As he nocked the arrow in an even clumsier parody of what Garthen had done scant moments before, there came a weary whisper in his ear. "As I told your brother," said Rongor, "take care not to loose your missile towards the morning Sun. The stranger still walks there." "Aw, come off it, ol' bozo," growled Garthen. "Ain't you got no sense of fun? Let Varnos try to spit the lad an' we can all have a bit of a laugh. 'Specially if – fat chance for such a skinny limpwrist – he succeeds." Varnos shrugged and turned deliberately away from the morning Sun. Ahead of him the bogland stretched away from him greasily and emptily. He

The Rotting Land // 8 raised the bow high in front of him and drew back the string as far as it would go, the haft of the arrow feeling incongruous between his fingers. He tried to breathe steadily and easily. From the outset it was obvious that the shot was poor. The arrow seemed to flutter and waddle in the air as it struggled through the first part of a feeble parabola. But then something – the wind perhaps? – seemed to catch it. To Varnos and the others it was as if the arrow had suddenly been given a fresh injection of strength, shrugged its shoulders and decided to persevere. In a slow graceful arc it began, paradoxically, to rise higher above the fetid, moss-greened ground. Then the wind must have taken it again, for at ever increasing speed it curved up and high over their heads, so that the little party, mouths hanging open, had to turn on their heels to watch its flight. Straight as – well, straight as an arrow, actually, it whistled and whooped directly towards the caped figure, now further than two hundred yards away. With a firm choccckkk! – like the sound of an axe slammed into a ripe cantaloupe, mused Varnos – it slammed into the stranger's back, neatly between the shoulderblades. Varnos closed his eyes in misery. That he, a lifelong pacifist and vegetarian, should inadvertently have caused the death of a fellow human being. His gorge rose. It had been a long time – weeks and weeks, for sure – since he'd last had an accident like this, but age hadn't made his anguish seem any easier to bear. "Look," said his mother's voice. "It's a miracle." Reluctantly he prised one eye open. The stranger still stood – no, more than that: the stranger was still walking unconcernedly away from them, despite the evil-looking arrow protruding jauntily behind. "Armour," said Rongor in wondering tones. "The boy must be wearing thick leather armour under that cape of his. That's the only possible explanation. But even then the impact should've knocked him flat on his ..." The old man's words died away into a mumble. "To horse!" cried Garthen gleefully. "I'll deal with this!" Obediently a couple of warriors fetched the tribal horse. Garthen took its reins and began to check his weaponry: swords, daggers, axes, spears, morningstars, maces ... "No!" shrieked Lesa the Faded when she saw what was up. "That person is a stranger and therefore our guest. Fetch him back here so that we may extend our hospitality to him, and tend any wound that he might have." Garthen looked confused. "Kill 'im," grunted the old chieftain. "The way I see it, he's a trespasser on our land. Quartering's the only language trespassers understand."

The Rotting Land // 9 "No, father," said Varnos pluckily, finding his voice at last. "I shall pursue the lad myself and bid him share our supper while mother draws the arrow from him and bathes his wound." "Beware the Danarg Swamp!" cried Lesa the Faded, her hands wringing at her ample bosom. "The Agarashi dwelling there would eat you as soon as look at you! And you know how poorly you can become if you get your feet wet." The old man humphed and grumphed, but there was nothing he could do from his bed. Finding courage from who knows where, Varnos shouldered aside his younger brother. Scrambling into the saddle in a flurry of limbs, he spurred the ancestral horse, and soon had left the very different cries of his mother and brother behind. # The day grew hot, and still Varnos rode in pursuit of the stranger. The horse was old and overweight, but this hardly explained the fact that, however much he raked at the beast's barrel with his spurs, the rust-caped youth remained a couple of hundred yards ahead of him. To add to his perplexity, the slight figure seemed to be doing no more than ambling along, and once or twice even paused for a moment to regard solemnly a clump of sphagnum. He wondered if the stranger might be a chimera, a spectre sent by the Gods to test his valour and stamina so that they might be assured of his suitability to inherit a parcel of his father's land. It came to him suddenly that the relevant parcel had already become an extremely big one, and was growing even more so by the minute. Twisting in the saddle, he stared back the way he had come and realized that he had already crossed two broad tracts of bogland, not to mention the range of rolling hills between them. Very soon, he reckoned, he and the enigmatic youth whom he was so doggedly following would reach the shores of the vile Danarg (there was a loud splash and the ancestral horse lurched beneath him) Swamp. As he struggled to pull the beast back ashore, he saw out of the corner of his eye that the object of his pursuit was standing not ten yards away, watching him soberly. Even that swift glance was enough to tell him that this was no boy, as he'd thought, but a young woman. Once he and the horse were safely back on dry land he took another look. The woman was unlike any other that he'd seen before. In the light of the afternoon Sun her short frondy hair looked as if it had been blown from copper. Her hands and her feet were small and pale; her body seemed to him so slight that a gust of wind might bear her away. She stared at him frankly, her air one of complete composure, and he realized that her eyes, the yellow-green of a cat's eyes, were as large as all the world. The dully feathered shaft of the ancestral arrow peeped at him over her shoulder, but he barely noticed.

The Rotting Land // 10 "Hurry up and get yourself riding again," she said. "We've got a long way to go before this day is done." "I came to apologize ..." he began. His throat seemed full of treacle. He tried again. "Stranger lady," he said, "you ..." "Stranger than whom?" "Stranger than ... No! That's not what I meant. No, you seem perfectly normal to ..." Two pink spots appeared abruptly on the woman's face, one at the tip of each cheekbone. "`Strange' I can cope with," she said sourly, "but continents have been sunk for less than a `perfectly normal'." "That's not what I ..." said Varnos, tumbling eagerly from the saddle. "Let me offer you my horse, so that you may rest your ..." I'm in love! he thought through the clamour of his heart's singing. I, who never thought that such a pure and wondrous emotion dwelt within me – except for my mother, of course, but that's different – I, Varnos, heir to the tribal bogland: I – AM – IN – LOVE. "I often have that effect on men," said the woman coolly, the temper fading from her face as rapidly as it had appeared, "but it's nice to know that I haven't lost my touch. Life begins at a couple of billion, say I." She looked distractedly at her fingernails; he smile told him that she judged them perfect. "Now saddle yourself up, my boy, and carry on following me. We've got to go all the way round the Danarg Swamp before nightfall – I've no fancy to travel in the dark, have you? Come on! Bat away the tweeting bluebirds and the little pink exploding hearts from around your head and let's get moving." She turned away suddenly, and immediately she was once more a couple of hundred yards away. She stood impatiently by the swampside as he clambered back into the saddle. Love! he thought anew once the ancestral horse was again jogging arhythmically beneath him. Isn't love a marvellous thing? Already I feel like a new man – twice as strong, twice as intelligent, twice as ... twice as everything as ever I was before! In the distance, he could see the shoulders of his adored one shake, and for just a moment he feared that she might be in some distress. He relaxed in the saddle as she continued to walk steadily away from him. Poetry! he thought. That's what impassioned young swains are supposed to compose for the objects of their adorations. I have it! I have it! I'll form an epic ballad, stuffed with heroic couplings and stanzas by the fathom, entwining the two driving ardours of my existence – vegetarianism and my yearnings for the affections of this fair lady! She'll like that: it'll win her for me, for sure! It's the next best thing I can offer her aside from dying of unrequited passion. "She's the apple of my eye" – yes, that's good, that's good! "A bright marrow hath piercèd my heart" – yea: the words are

The Rotting Land // 11 singing within me! Now, if I can only, only find a rhyme for "kumquat" ...

The Rotting Land // 12 1 THE MORE IT STAYS THE SAME They told Lone Wolf he was mad; had he been less so he might have refused to believe them. They kept him in a cell at nights, a cell whose walls were padded with straw; during the daytime he was escorted on long walks through the countryside around Elzian, usually by Paido, sometimes by Paido and Rimoah together. When they were in his company the two restricted themselves to their forms in which he knew them best, for fear of confusing him, or of inflaming his unpredictable fury. He saw no weapons during the weeks of his recovery. He heard no quarrels. He witnessed no magic. The name "Petra" was never mentioned in his presence, but its echoes were ever in his mind. For much of every day he had the sensation that he was seeing the world through her eyes, and talking with her tongue and lips; at night he dreamt her dreams. The coarse hair of the beard on his face was the source of constant surprise to him. In more lucid moments, however, he was able to confront the fact that she had died, had died to save his life and to permit him to attain the Lorestone of Herdos in its hiding-place deep inside the accursed fortress of Kazan-Oud. It was in those moments that he hated his jailers, the Elder Magi, the most – for had they not tampered with Petra's mind to bring her to this land of theirs purely so that she might make sacrifice her life? And had they not also altered his own mind and hers so that in the last few days before her death he and she had been bathed in the illusion of love? Her death had stabbed him; that illusion of love had taken the blade clear through to his heart. The Elder Magi, for all their mastery of the arcane arts, could seem to find no cure for his wound. But his hatred for them was a passive thing: even had he been armed, he doubted if he could have found the will to reap his vengeance upon them. Besides, it seemed to him in the long night hours when he fought shy of sleep and Petra's dreams, there would be no sense in killing the Elder Magi because in many ways, so his emotions told him, they could scarcely be thought of as alive: the coldness of the Elder Magi's calculations, the ruthlessness of the execution of their logic – these were qualities now so divorced from Lone Wolf's own mentality that he could no longer recognize them as human.

The Rotting Land // 13 Further, they had cut the ground from under him by telling him that his old friend Banedon – now perhaps the most adept in the second level of left-handed magic that the Brotherhood of the Crystal Star had ever known – shared their modes of thought. It was hard to reconcile his image of the amiably, boyishly, charmingly socially incompetent Banedon with the notion of a cold mind. The worst of it was that, in his heart of hearts, he knew that the Elder Magi were right: perhaps Lone Wolf had known all along that Banedon had graduated to that higher level of intellection where plans might be considered in terms of centuries and whole populations rather than in weeks and individual human lives. All that the Elder Magi had done in this respect was force him to acknowledge his suppressed knowledge of the changes in his friend. His hatred kept his soul alive through the weeks of tedium. He hardly spoke at all, except to ask for food or to demand temporary release from his cell at nights to visit the privy. He followed Paido through the fields and forests in Elzian's environs obediently, pausing politely when a fine view or a pretty butterfly was drawn to his attention, but the words that were spoken to him, though he heard them well enough, seemed to evaporate before his mind had had the time to recognize their meanings. It was on the morning after he had spent the night racked by mysterious abdominal pains that he finally found himself able to talk to Paido. "Will she always be with me, like this?" "Always," said Paido. "Would you wish it otherwise?" "No. Not really. It persuades me that her death is not final. Yet – yet, at the same time, it's very confusing. I've grown accustomed to the existence of other people in my head – Gwynian and the Nameless Woman – but neither of them have seemed to take over my soul like this. I can persuade myself that they're not really separate entities, that they're just aspects of myself called into being by my Gestalts with the Sommerswerd and with Reason for Coming Back. But with Petra it's different. She's no aspect of myself. She's herself. But she's inside me, and sometimes it's as if there's more of her inside me than there is of me." They were at the edge of a bosquet, with the land falling away from in front of them towards a tranquil scene of pasturelands, patchworked by drystone dykes. In one of the fields something was exciting a group of small dun cows. Lone Wolf could hear on the cool breeze their lowing and the noise of their barging and shuffling.

The Rotting Land // 14 "Death is never final," said Paido gently. "No soul is ever lost, save those that are consigned to the emptiness of Naar. The Gods are not wasteful, no matter how profligate they might seem to us, during the time we spend in this existence." "I used to believe that," said Lone Wolf. He squatted down and tugged at a tough stalk of grass until it parted from its root. "Now I don't know if I even believe in the Gods themselves any longer." He looked up, squinting against the watery Sun, and saw his companion's face as a dark blur. He sensed the compassion in Paido's eyes. "There I cannot guide you," said Paido. "Sometimes I think that the Gods only exist because of our belief in them. Other times I know that they're alive because I'm certain that I've just been speaking to them, and they to me. But maybe who I've been really speaking to has been myself, so that the only Gods are the ones inside me – just like your Gestalt personalities are inside you." "It doesn't feel as if Petra's merely a bit of me. It feels as if it's her, herself. But I don't think it can be. Maybe you're right: maybe death isn't final. She said something like that herself, just before she was destroyed by the crystal. She said she wasn't dying, merely leaving this world of ours to go to somewhere else. She spoke about it as if it were a quite specific place, though: she'd have talked about it differently, I think, if what she'd been meaning was that she was going to come and share my mind." Lone Wolf, still squatting, chewed on the grass, relishing its bitter taste. Whatever had been bothering the cattle had clearly gone on its way, for they were browsing placidly enough. Or so it seemed. For all he knew, it could be that there were no cattle and no pastures for them to graze. It was a mistake, in Dessi, ever to take the evidence of one's senses for granted. "Perhaps," Paido was saying, "you've created Petra there in the same way as perhaps we create our Gods." "Yes," said Lone Wolf distractedly. "Perhaps." His interest in the topic had suddenly dissipated. "I'm bored. Let's get back." "As you wish." Soon they were once again on the outskirts of Elzian. Although he had become accustomed to it, Lone Wolf still found that the capital city's quietness unsettled him. It wasn't a big place, but certainly it was large enough that he automatically expected the streets to have throngs of pedestrians. As it was, they seemed always to be practically deserted. He always had the sense, every time he looked down one of those long, empty parades, that

The Rotting Land // 15 someone had just dashed out of sight at the far end. His footsteps seemed very loud to him. Paido glided silently alongside. "Would you like to lodge at my house tonight?" said his companion, not looking towards him. "I can offer you a more comfortable room than the one you've been confined these past weeks." "That would be kind," Lone Wolf said, as if it were a matter of little import. He wondered if Petra's dreams could find him to haunt him if he were sleeping somewhere else. "I'd like that." "Tomorrow," said Paido, "Rimoah will wish you to attend him in the Tower of Truth. He has much to tell you, Kor-Skarn." "Why do you people sometimes call me that?" said Lone Wolf. "`Kor-Skarn.' That's not my name." "We of the Elder Magi come of different stock from you Sommlending," said Paido. "That's obvious. Both of our cultures regard names as important, but in ways that are dissimilar. To you people, a person has only one true name: you yourself were born Landar, yet shed that name when it was no longer appropriate for you, becoming Silent Wolf, the designation that your Kai tutors discovered was truly yours; then, later, you realized that your true name had become Lone Wolf. Always you have had a single name. Among us it is different. We believe that one name on its own cannot fully express truth. We know every person by several names, the sum of whose meanings contains the wholeness of that person. To us you are Landar and Silent Wolf and Lone Wolf and Kor-Skarn and many other names besides." "Why Kor-Skarn?" "We have known for centuries that you would come among us, and that one of your names when you came would be Kor-Skarn. We didn't know any of your other names – the prophets saw things only dimly. But now we've recognized you as who you are, and it seems natural to us to call you Kor-Skarn." Lone Wolf began to chuckle. "A fine prophecy!" he said ironically. "Your seers told you to expect someone called Kor-Skarn, so you make their prediction come true by giving that name to me. If I were to follow the same principle, I could make as many successful prophecies as you might wish! What will we have for breakfast tomorrow? `Gargleboggle,' say I! And tomorrow morning, looking into my bowl, I say: `By Ishir! My foresight has proven accurate once more! That's not porridge, it's gargleboggle!' Hah!"

The Rotting Land // 16 He turned suddenly towards Paido. He hadn't intended to insult the man. "I'm sorry," Lone Wolf said. "I'm making a mockery of something that's important to you." Paido looked back at him with a little-boy glint in his eye. "Your jibes don't trouble me at all, my friend. The Gods – if Gods there are – surely created laughter as a leavening for all things, including the most profound. I would be insulting the memory our prophets if I found your jests offensive: it would show that my own opinion of them was pretty low, that they needed defending by the likes of me. Besides, there is more to this prediction of theirs than merely a matter of names. That you are the second of the two koura-tas-kai is something that can hardly be denied, even by the hardest-bitten cynic." Lone Wolf, sober now, eyed him warily. "`Koura-tas-kai'," he said. "What does that mean?" "`Sons of the Sun'," replied Paido promptly. "Several of the prophetic chronicles that our ancients handed down to us talked of the coming among us of the koura-tas-kai, two men from the north who would venture to Dessi in pursuit of a great quest. Centuries would separate their coming, yet they would be united by a single spirit, a single purpose and a single destiny – to triumph over the champions of Darkness in an age of great peril." "And I am the second such?" "You know you are, Lone Wolf. The first, the prophets relayed to us, would be called Ikar, which means `eagle'." "Sun Eagle! Of course!" "And the second," Paido went on, ignoring the interruption, "they said would be called Skarn, which means `wolf'. Surely that can be none other than yourself, Lone Wolf, for are you not united in spirit with Sun Eagle, the founder of the Order of the Kai? You can hardly claim now that their prophecy was woolly, can you?" "I'm sorry," said Lone Wolf. He shrugged. "My joke was born out of ignorance." "As I said, your joke caused me no offence, Kor-Skarn." "I thank the Elder Magi for having given me that name. I am honoured, and shall bear it with pride." "We didn't give you the name. It was yours already." "Then I thank you for having revealed it to me." Paido put his arm in Lone Wolf's, grinning. The two of them walked in easy silence the last few hundred yards to Paido's home. #

The Rotting Land // 17 The dream Lone Wolf had that night was his own, not Petra's. He was a mouse scurrying along a silver corridor. The air was filled with an odd, alien racket; it seemed to have no identifiable source, yet to be as solid as the metal walls on either side of him. He was in haste to reach somewhere – not in flight, for he knew there were no cats or other predators in the place where he was – but he couldn't remember what his destination might be. Then a pang of hunger reminded him: he was running to the crystal chamber where the Nameless Woman would feed him on crumbs and bacon-rind, as she did three times a day. He would eat the bacon-rind bravely, as if he were enjoying it, because he had no wish to offend her; then he would scour the greasy taste away with the breadcrumbs. He scrambled up a flight of shallow steps cut from a solid block of a marble that was as silvery as the metal corridor at been. At the top of it he leapt forward and then began to skate willy-nilly across a marble floor, its surface so finely polished that his claws could find no purchase on it. The skid seemed to speed up as it continued, and slowly his body began to swing round until eventually he was sliding backwards. He shut his eyes and with his forepaws pulled his ears down over them, his chin on the floor. He heard someone squeaking in terror, and all of a sudden realized that it was himself. And then his precipitous progress was smoothly halted. Fingers that were half his own size curled around him, and he felt himself being borne aloft. The vast, richly decorated chamber around him swirled, and the rush of air flattened the fur against his head. Then he found himself looking into the eyes of the Nameless Woman, his whiskers twitching as his nerves calmed. He was aware of warm sunlight on his back, and knew that she was facing an open window. "Hello, Lone Wolf," she said. "So you've found your way here at last. About time. It'll take a while longer for you to get round to bringing your body along as well." He tried to make his lips and tongue form words, but they refused. Where is this place? he thought. Why am I here? Why do I seem to have lived here all my life, yet be a newcomer? "You know how I always dislike your questions, Lone Wolf – they're so tiresome, and rarely have much to do with the point. However, just this once I'll give you some answers. After that I expect you to keep your peace – d'you understand? "All right. `Here' is the Temple of Ohrido, where the third of Nyxator's Lorestones is held. I've brought you here to tell you of

The Rotting Land // 18 your destination. And part of you knows this place well because part of you is my pet mouse Mortimer, who's being remarkably tolerant of your presence in his small and already very crowded mind." The thin-lipped mouth beneath her prominent cheeks was drawn into a smile; he could see the shining tips of her teeth. She had the lines of the middle-aged woman that she was, and the merry eyes of a young one. Her hair was a dark mess of black and grey curls in which part of him yearned to burrow out a nest. "But first something more important," her cool voice said. "Lunch. Otherwise Mortimer really will have cause for complaint." Again the shapes of the room briefly flowed together, as if someone had drawn a damp cloth over a watercolour painting. When they resolved themselves again he found himself once more on the floor, his sensitive nose poised over the edge of a white saucer. There was bread there and for once no bacon-rind – had she overheard his earlier thoughts? Then his heart sank. In place of the bacon were several cubes of yellow, crumbly cheese. He couldn't speak for other mice, but he himself was not overly fond of cheese. Still, he loved the Nameless Woman, and so must swallow the stuff down with as best a display of rapture as he could muster. The meal over, the Nameless Woman picked him up again and deposited him on a broad white windowsill. "Mortimer's eyes are not really adjusted for this, Lone Wolf," she said, "but I must ask you to do the best you can. Look out of the window and see what you can see." It was difficult focusing, particularly since his eyes seemed set impossibly far apart on his head, but at last he could make out that the place where he was crouching was built on the top of a knoll. He sensed the sheer marble walls of a great edifice on all sides of him. The air was hazy; the dispersed heat of the Sun seemed to be trying to flatten him. He twitched his head around towards the Nameless Woman, inquiring if she could remove him from this place of discomfort, but she just smiled at him, and he knew that must endure it for a while yet. "Look further, Lone Wolf," she said. Again he struggled with unsuitable eyes. A few tens of yards from the base of the wall in which this window was set were the swampy fringes of a turbulent jungle. The fringes were narrow. Almost immediately the tangle of succulent undergrowth became a knot of sweating tree-trunks. From a few feet above the ground the trunks were hidden by a raucously colourful mass of weirdly shaped spikes and flaps of foliage which formed a solid roof; a few

The Rotting Land // 19 yards back from the edge of the jungle proper there was nothing to see but darkness and occasional flashes of undefined movement. He found the sight terrifying. The woods of his native land, though dark and gloomy, had hardly prepared him for this. Now that his attention was centred on the jungle he became aware that it was the source of the constant background noise that had assailed his ears ever since he had found himself here. The place seemed to throb with life. Mysterious screams and crashes filled the air. A repetitive, heavy honking cry came to an abrupt end as he listened. A pulsing hum seemed to wash across him like the waves at the sea's edge. He cringed back towards the Nameless Woman, releasing two hard little pellets of excrement. "Don't be frightened, little fellow," she said. "The jungle creatures can't reach you here." Then she took mercy on him, picking him up and carrying him away across the room. Once his head had settled after the bewildering transition he discovered that she was sitting cross-legged on an ornately carved wooden chair; her divided green robe had fallen apart, and she had placed him on the bump of her knee. For a few moments he stayed very still, terrified of falling, then he crept down tentatively to find greater security on the broader plain of her thigh. Her skin smelled warm and comforting. "The Temple of Ohrido," she was saying, "was once the most sacred place of worship of the Elder Magi – and still would be, had it not been for the reverses which that race has suffered over the centuries. But let me start the story earlier, even, than that ..." Long before human races had evolved on Magnamund, she explained, this area had marked one end of a chain of active volcanoes that ran northwards from the River Swarle's estuary on the Tentarias to the shore of the Kaltersee northwest of Toran. The remnants of this chain, now extinct, could be traced easily on the map, although the much later emergence of the west-east Maakengorge had eastwardly displaced the northern part of the chain, now the range known as the Durncrag Mountains, between Sommerlund and the Darklands. By far the largest volcano in the string had been near its southerly end: a monster of a mountain, over two hundred miles across at its base, with low slopes leading up to its great caldera, itself nearly a hundred miles from side to side. Activity along the great north-south fault petered out millions of years ago, and erosion by the fierce easterly winds of those primaeval times had, over millennia, worn the crater's sides down

The Rotting Land // 20 to form the Great Bor Range, to the west, and the scattered mountains of the east. The huge area defined by these relict mountains came under the control of Agarash the Damned, Naar's most devout representative on Magnamund and the most accursed figure in all the world's history. However, for almost a thousand after their abrupt appearance in 4608MS the Elder Magi did battle with Agarash and his legions of mutated killer creatures; after they had despatched him the destruction that he had for so long deserved they transformed the dead crater into a rich and fertile paradise, an enchanted garden of earthly and spiritual delights at whose heart they built, like a diamond in a jewelled setting, the Temple of Ohrido. The Danarg thrived for just over a millennium as the glory of the world, but then, from MS2514, plague struck the Elder Magi, killing nine out of every ten and effectively destroying the triumphant civilization that they had erected on the ashes of Agarash the Damned's tyranny. Beset on all sides, the ancient race retreated to remote Dessi, where they had instigated the reclusive culture which they maintained to this day. From there they had made periodic pilgrimages back to their holiest of shrines, the Temple, around which the gardens, untended, still flourished beneath the benevolent Sun. But then even the enchanted gardens began to deteriorate. Their dying stems and leaves and flowers built up on the floor of the Danarg, rotting to form a noxious mulch that killed the very plants from which they had fallen. A sea of grey decay spread from the rim of the Danarg to within yards of the Temple of Ohrido, where its progress was halted only by the fence of enchantment that the Elder Magi had woven to protect their shrine. The heat of the Sun on this sterile waste had drawn water to the surface, to mix with the dead vegetation and form a foul-smelling marsh; the whole of the surrounding area became a bogland, although, unlike the poisonous tract where once the gardens had been, it remained passably fertile, and straggly human tribes moved in to colonize it. Other colonists were drawn to the region, however. From the north, from the territory that the humans had named Ogia, came scores and hundreds of Agarash's killing beasts. Long dormant in their lairs beneath Ogia's barren hills they rose on hearing the enticing song of death that the Darnag Swamp had begun to sing. Leaving broad tracks of destruction and decay behind them, they had slithered and crawled and slid and slaughtered their way south to the poisoned paradise. Others, seeded into the sides of the caldera by Agarash himself as part of a long-forgotten enterprise, sprang into new being. Strange plant

The Rotting Land // 21 forms, some motile and some perhaps even sentient, had struggled into existence in the black, cloying mire; among their twisted growths the Agarashi congregated, feeding on each other and on the vegetation – and sometimes, in turn, being fed on by the vegetation – while above it all the air became a miasma of Evil. Between the patches of perverted plant life stretched treacherous mud-flats and sickly green ponds of stagnant water. But near the magical fence around the Temple of Ohrido they dared not go. From distant Dessi the surviving Elder Magi, even though they had other preoccupations, observing this situation, sent magical and spiritual constructs, semi-autonomous artifices that buttressed the fence of force and even, slowly, began to drive it back against the tide of Evil that had for so long threatened to engulf the shrine. In response, the Agarashi had endeavoured to expand their territory, bursting out into the surrounding lands that the humans had so frailly made their own. For centuries the balance between the Agarashi and the humans had swung this way and the other, with each of them alternately in the ascendancy, but then, around the year MS1660, the warrior King Varnos II of Talestria, the nation that his father and the now-dowager Queen Evaine I had forged from the diverse peoples of the boglands, had driven the Agarashi back into their swamp with such ferocity and vigour that the monsters had rarely dared encroach into human territories again. But neither Varnos nor Evaine, nor any of their successors, had seen fit to take their warfare further, to reconquer the Danarg Swamp for recolonization by natural life. The Agarashi, trapped between the slowly advancing magical fence on the one side and the cohorts of the Freelands of Talestria on the other, had ever since been on an inexorable, if slow, path to extinction. Now a last hope had been extended to the accursed creatures. Talestria was riven by war, the greedy hordes of Ogia seeking to conquer the north of the Freelands. The defence of the nation from incursions from the rotting swamp at its core became a matter of secondary concern – a lapse that might prove fatal to the Talestrians, for slowly and steadily the Agarashi were becoming more daring in their forays ... "When you leave this mousely form, Lone Wolf," said the Nameless Woman, "and return to wake in your own body, you shall be told how you will come here, here to the Temple of Ohrido ... to claim the Lorestone that has been awaiting you. But you must do more than that. There are other actions that you must perform, so that events are set in train such that the folly of the war between Talestria and Ogia is ended. The responsibility will be a

The Rotting Land // 22 great one, but you will have a staunch companion by your side. Moreover, I detect that there is another in Talestria, one whose presence and motives I don't fully understand ... she, too, will aid you, even though you may not immediately be aware of it." It was Mortimer, not Lone Wolf, who suddenly sent a poignant burst of wordless thought in the direction of the Nameless Woman. The frown that had, seemingly incongruously, come to dominate her expression melted. "But of course," she said, smiling, "I've been talking for such a very long time that it's well past the hour when you should have your next meal." She scooped up the mouse from her thigh in both hands and held it up close to her face. Lone Wolf looked inquisitively into the depths of her eyes, seeing the grief that underlay her cheerfulness. As if she'd suddenly discovered his invasion of her privacy, she lowered him to the marbled floor, tipping him off her fingers. She brushed her hands on the sides of her robe, her lips drawing into a moué of distaste. "And it's also well past the hour when you should have returned to Elzian, Lone Wolf," she said sternly. "I don't know why you're still hanging around. Haven't you ever learnt that one of the mainstays of the art of the art of courtesy is not to outstay your welcome, especially when your hostess has made it plain that she finds your continued presence irksome? Begone! Let Mortimer have his mind back! He's put up with you long enough – too long, poor little fellow." A bell was tolling across the early-morning roofs of Elzian. Lone Wolf, in a tangle of sheets and woven blankets, was covered in an oily sweat. His full bladder was making his groin throb painfully. His naked skin felt like a slug's coat. He shivered, and opened one eye. "You've had a rotten night," observed Paido cheerfully. "Even down the hall I had to put my pillow over my ears to block out your yells and curses. Whatever can you have been dreaming about?" "Nothing that should have made me scream," croaked Lone Wolf. His mouth felt as if small animals had been using it as their lair. "I had dreams, all right – but they weren't nightmares." He wished Paido would go away, so that he could climb out of this clammy bed. The Vakeros put a mug of hot jala down on a table by the bedside. "Drink that and you'll feel a lot better," he said. Straightening up, he added: "Who's the woman, then?" "Woman?"

The Rotting Land // 23 "You kept calling out her name – you know." "There was no one," Lone Wolf lied. He sensed that the Nameless Woman would have told him had she not assumed that what she had told him was for him alone. "I don't know what you can ..." Then he stopped. "Her name," he said after a moment. "Yes?" "You said I was calling out her name." "Yes. You were." "What ... what name was it?" When first he had encountered the dark-haired woman who personified his Gestalt with Reason for Coming Back she had told him that he would learn the name by which he should know her only when he met, in the physical world, the person whose semblance she had adopted. But if Paido had heard him use that name ... The Vakeros shrugged, grinning. "I can't tell you," he said. "But you said you heard me crying it out!" "Names aren't to be given away that easily," said Paido. "Her name is not my property that I should be able to hand it over to you without her permission. And, since I've never met the lady ..." He shrugged again. "But ..." "But hurry up and get ready. Breakfast's cooking, and after that I'll take you to the Tower of Truth, where Rimoah is waiting to speak with you." Paido left him. # The next three weeks were among the most important and most exhilarating of Lone Wolf's life. The influxes of raw Kai spirit that he had imbibed on taking the Lorestones of Varetta and Herdos in his hands had been invigorating, but in truth they had taken him only the first few stumbling steps along the road to Magnakai wisdom. The Lorestones had not borne with them the additional knowledge required to make use of his new mental capabilities, for Nyxator had anticipated that only a mind as fine as his own would ever be called upon to exhume the mystic wisdom that he had stored there, while Sun Eagle had specifically set up the Order of the Kai to ensure that no one else who followed in his footsteps would have to face the almost impossible task of integrating the Lorestones' programming into an untutored mind. With the passage of time Lone Wolf would certainly have been able to learn how to make use of the abilities he had gained, but time was

The Rotting Land // 24 something that seemed to be distinctly at a premium. News had come to Elzian that the Darklord Gnaag of Mozgôar had finally succeeded in eliminating the last pockets of resistance among the forces of those Darklords who resented his elevation, a couple of years earlier, to the Archlord's throne. Now that Gnaag's position was unchallenged, the other Darklords perforce united behind him, he was wasting no time in mobilizing the vast forces at his command. It could not be long before they started to move beyond the confines of the Darklands into the bordering nations, from Ixia and Tadatizagaza in the remote west of the northern continent through heartland nations like Ogia and Magador to Lone Wolf's own home country, Sommerlund, directly to the east of the Durncrags. The last time the forces of Darkness had invaded Sommerlund they had of course been given a bloody nose in no uncertain fashion, with Lone Wolf himself contributing mightily to that cause – not least by slaying the Archlord Zagarna – but the toll on Sommerlund's inhabitants and resources had been almost fatally heavy. Had it not been for lands like Durenor and Casiorn sending aid and replacement military supplies, Sommerlund would even now be barely recovering from the crippling blow that Zagarna's armies of conquest had dealt. Wherever possible, Rimoah used magic to speed the process of developing Lone Wolf's abilities. The magic devised millennia ago by the Elder Magi had eventually given birth to the left- and right-handed disciplines of magic used in the rest of Magnamund. However, the Elder Magi's own use of it had failed to follow the progress made by the younger disciplines; it had not been until Banedon had journeyed to Dessi a few years ago and willingly imparted to the Elder Magi the secrets of not only left-handed magic but its more arcane second level that the Elder Magi could have been thought of as having caught up with the rest of the world. In those few intervening years, though, they had not only refined what Banedon had given them but had also married it to their own tradition in bizarrely cunning ways, thereby producing a discipline that in many areas was more powerful even than Banedon's sophisticated magic. One day soon, they hoped, the young magician would return to visit them, so that they could return with interest the gift he had given. Lone Wolf discovered that this magical form of tuition was infinitely exhausting. Most days Rimoah asked him to come to the Tower of Truth early in the morning for a first session that lasted only minutes and yet left Lone Wolf fatigued until nearly the middle of the day, when Rimoah would call for a second session. Lone Wolf had the satisfaction of knowing that the mage was

The Rotting Land // 25 finding the process equally demanding, but that hardly compensated for his own alarming lassitude. His sleeps were disturbed as well, for it was then that his mind, undistracted by the events of wakefulness, chose to consolidate what it had learnt during the day: he suffered continuous anxiety dreams so debilitating in their effect that often he prayed for a straightforward nightmare by way of relief. Other Kai skills were, mercifully, not so susceptible to such techniques. He spent long hours in the company of either Rimoah or Paido – usually Rimoah – perfecting the arts of huntmastery and invisibility. This latter was a skill that Lone Wolf had already partly discovered, not only from his readings of the Book of the Magnakai, where Sun Eagle had given elementary instructions, but also through dialogue with Banedon. According to the latter, true invisibility was impossible for any human to attain – although Lone Wolf, on his travels, had encountered people whose skills made him doubt this. What could be done, according to Banedon, was a mental trick whereby it was almost impossible for anyone nearby to see you: whenever people turned in your direction their eyes were unerringly drawn to something – anything – else other than yourself. Now Lone Wolf discovered, under Rimoah's gentle but remorseless coaching, that he could refine this art to something far beyond what Banedon had ever dreamt of. In the evenings, if he weren't too exhausted by the rigours of the day, Lone Wolf sometimes amused himself by standing in front of the long mirror in Paido's house and trying to construct such an effective mental web around himself that even he found it difficult to detect his reflected presence. But it was on the day that he succeeded in deceiving Rimoah's magically augmented sight that he finally acknowledged to himself that he had probably taken the skill as far as it could be taken. Other skills he suddenly discovered within himself, in response to Rimoah's spells. One day, on arriving at the Tower of Truth too early and finding himself on his own, he had browsed all through a book that had been left casually lying around before he realized that it had been written in the ancient High Tongue of the Elder Magi, a written language that bore no resemblance whatsoever to any that he had encountered before. Rimoah's grin when Lone Wolf told him of this was confirmation that the book had not, in fact, been left there merely by accident. An analogous skill was that of seeing the truth of objects and people. Lone Wolf could hardly have been in a better place to develop this, for the Elder Magi were inveterate shapeshifters, retaining any single form for only so long as it pleased them.

The Rotting Land // 26 Although Rimoah generally appeared to Lone Wolf in the guise of an elderly man, with a long grey beard and a dusty robe – much like the Guildmaster of Banedon's Order of the Crystal Star, in fact – when they had first met Rimoah had seemed to be an impertinent child. This was a form that he adopted often, although he enjoyed also moving around as a bird or a cat, or as any of a bewildering diversity of human types. His ultimate test of Lone Wolf's discernment came one night when the young Kai Lord was returning wearily to Paido's house; a voluptuous wench stepped from the shadows and might well have talked Lone Wolf into an embarrassing situation had they been in any other city except Elzian, where such encounters were unknown – not so much because they were frowned upon as because they were unnecessary. Lone Wolf was intrigued to discover that liaisons among the Elder Magi carried with them none of the guilts or consequences that tended to be associated with them in other parts of Magnamund. His first sight of the essence of Rimoah – the true person behind whatever mask the mage might have chosen to wear – came as a shock. He had expected that he might see something not dissimilar to the old man to which he was accustomed. Instead he saw something much more like a Nadziran – a sorcerer born of the vacuum of Naar. Rimoah – and Paido and all the other Elder Magi whom Lone Wolf saw – had no physical form at all, but instead was like a grey pattern of energy, resembling a sort of structured cloud. The sight brought home to Lone Wolf how far divorced from humanity the Elder Magi were, whatever their external appearance. He wondered what he would see if he applied his new-learnt perception to another human being, but there were none aside from himself in Elzian, and his courage recoiled from the prospect of trying to see beyond his own outer shell. He thanked Kai that the ability was one that he could choose to not exercise. The day came when Rimoah said to him: "You'll do. Greater skills still lie latent within you, Lone Wolf, and you are as yet careless and haphazard in the application of those that you have discovered, but it would take us years longer to hone your arts to perfection. Doubtless you can improve on them yourself. Whatever the case, you can no longer tarry here. The situation in Talestria grows worse by the day; and the Archlord Gnaag will not indefinitely delay his assault upon the Lastlands. You must prepare yourself to depart in search of the next Lorestone in the chain that Nyxator and Sun Eagle determined, the Lorestone of ..."

The Rotting Land // 27 "The Lorestone of Ohrido," said Lone Wolf hastily, interrupting what showed all the hallmarks of developing into one of Rimoah's long and frequently pompous sermons. The mage was today in his guise of robed old man – often a bad sign. Tersely Lone Wolf outlined his knowledge of the Temple of Ohrido and of the Danarg Swamp surrounding it. Rimoah looked at him in astonishment. "How did you discover all this?" he said. "Did Sun Eagle write it all down in the Book of the Magnakai?" "We Kai have our own methods," said Lone Wolf, and he refused to be drawn further on the subject. # "What's that?" said Lone Wolf, later in the day, as he and Paido checked through the contents of their backpacks. His own, as usual, was a jumble of essential items along with other bits and pieces that, though seemingly useless, felt to him as if they might one day be vital – though what he would do with a dried buttonbrash's foot or a jewel-encrusted noseflute was beyond his imagination. Paido held up the object to which Lone Wolf had pointed. It was a globe the size of a large melon. Lone Wolf found that its colour was curiously elusive, as if the crystalline material of which the globe was made had yet to decide which of several pale, cool hues it should adopt. Wrapped around the globe were thick, crinkled wires. Calibrated strips of brass were attached to some of these. "It's a starguider," said Paido. "What's that?" "We use these for piloting the flying ships. They detect the directions of the magical flux lines that engirdle the world, so that we're always able to pinpoint where we are. Near enough. To the nearest mile or two, which is as accurate as you need for a skyship." Lone Wolf dimly recalled Banedon having told him something about this, years ago when they'd been travelling above the vermilion sands of the Dry Main, in Vassagonia. "Why do we need one with us?" he said. "Korlinium disrupts the magical flux lines locally, so it can be used for homing in. You'll have noticed there's a rod of the stuff at each of our staging stations; once a skyship gets close enough the korlinium begins to affect the starguider in a recognizable pattern, so that the pilot can coast the ship in along a defined path."

The Rotting Land // 28 Lone Wolf reached out gingerly to touch the globe. Paido laughed. "Don't worry," he said. "It won't bite." Lone Wolf grinned a little shamefacedly. The shiny material felt smooth and cold, yet oddly alive. "Are we going to be sailing the skies in Talestria?" he said. "No, that's not what I'm taking it." The big Vakeros began carefully stowing it away in his pack. "When our ancestors built the Temple of Ohrido they constructed its spire of solid korlinium, so that skyships could be guided there from all over the Danarg. It's like a blazing beacon in the night to one of these babies." He gave the starguider a final pat. "Once we're in the jungle we'll be able to use it to lead us the last few tens of miles." "The jungle's that dense, then?" Even before Paido spoke, he knew the answer. Had he not seen the jungle for himself, through the eyes of the Nameless Woman's mouse? "Denser," said Paido. # Adamas, Lord Constable of the Royal Citadel, protector and cousin-by-marriage of the youthful Queen Evaine LXVIII, leaned back in his chair, put his hand on his ample belly, and belched thunderously. "A fine meal," he drawled sleepily, "and fine company to match it. What better a way could there be for a man in the evening of his years to spend a twilight? That was assuredly a feast that'd've tabled a king's grace." It wasn't just the drink – although there had been plenty of it – that was fuddling Adamas's speech: he'd been speaking like that all evening, ever since Paido and Lone Wolf had presented themselves at the side-gate of the constable's palace. Lone Wolf, picking his way with difficulty through the minefield of Adamas's latest pronouncement, frowned at Paido, who winked in return. It seems strange, thought Lone Wolf, that my skills enable me to read the High Tongue of the Elder Magi as clear as if it were Sommlending, yet this man can make even standard Talestrian virtually incomprehensible to me. "And, now that our feasting is true and donely well," continued Adamas, "it is time for us to plan the morrow. Servitor!" he bawled suddenly, and a thin man in pied livery scuttled into the room. "Bring me the parchment that letters my dear cousin's bear." Within minutes he was unfurling a long scroll, maintaining a steady stream of belches and satisfied grunts. Time and again he raised his earthenware tankard to his enormous double chin, noisily slurping down the thick red southern Talestrian wine. The curious thing about Adamas's face, Lone Wolf observed, was that,

The Rotting Land // 29 despite all its grossness and droopy excess flesh, it could often look quite handsome in a florid fashion. At the moment it was frowning in concentration. Paido and Lone Wolf had travelled in strict anonymity from Elzian to reach Adamas's palace in Garthen. Accustomed as he had become to Elder Magi's speedy and effortless means of transportation – they generally used swift-flying vessels if they didn't merely effect instantaneous travel by magical means – Lone Wolf had at first been surprised when told that he and Paido were to be shipped as roving mercenaries on a trading vessel along the Tentarias eastwards to Talestria's capital city. He had soon seen the sense of the manoeuvre, however: particularly with the forces of the Darklands beginning to flex their martial muscles to the north, the last thing the Elder Magi wanted to do was to draw attention to Lone Wolf's mission. Reports of the flight of one of their mysterious air vessels over Talestria would soon have travelled halfway across the world, and even a magical projection of them across the same distance might well have been detected on the etheric net by Gnaag's cunning sorcerers, the Nadziranim. But the mundane, slow journey had taken its toll of Lone Wolf's energies; he had slept poorly on the boat, and his eyes now felt leaden. He could have drawn on his Kai resources in order to revive himself, but he was hoping that Adamas would soon bid them a goodnight, so that he could crawl off to bed and sleep the clock around. "My beloved coz seems to think highly of you twain," said Adamas for perhaps the hundredth time this evening. "But she doesn't know us," said Lone Wolf, mystified. "She has her ways," said Adamas, rubbing the side of his bolster-like nose and attempting to look sly. "She's a most uncommon woman, for one of her sex. If you're lucky enough to meet her, you'll find she's expecting what you're not. She can read the thoughts out of your head before you've even thought them. A full week ago she wrote to tell me that you, Paido, and you, Lone Wolf, would be coming here to seek my help; she named you by mention, and told me that you were of good outward appearance, despite your travel-grained exteriors." This time even Adamas seemed to realize that he'd made a slip, for he blinked reflectively a couple of times and patted his paunch sternly as if it had betrayed him. "But it's less than a week since we set sail from Elzian," said Lone Wolf, beginning to wake up despite his exhaustion. "Told you – a 'markable woman. Quite 'markable. And she praises your sings full fulsomely. Begs me to give you all the help I

The Rotting Land // 30 can possibly ... harrrumph." He broke off for another gulp of wine, his eyes still scanning the parchment. "Not a bad career you have here, Lone Wolf," he continued. "Seem to have a habit of bumping off Darklords, eh? Good thing, too. Uppity beggars, if you let 'em have their own way too much. Last survivor of the Kai ... rumpty tum ... Got the Sommerswerd ... slew Zagarna with it ... Captured Vonotar. A nasty bit of work – I used to know his mother, and she was even worse: asp on her like a tongue, she had ... ho-dee-ho ... Managed to thwart the spirit of Archlord of Darkness Vashna, when it was rising to conquer the world, did you? ... Aaaarrrrb!, pardon me, it's the gas they use making the wine, you know ... Regained the Book of the Magnakai from its tomb in the Hiding-Place of the Majhan, did you? Bloody good read, I'm told, though I'm not much of a one for books, prefer a good cock-fight myself ... And since then you've been collecting Lorestones, it seems ... hum-di-humph ... oh, you were the one that did over Zahda, were you, beneath the fell fortress of Kazan-Oud? Oddly enough, I knew his mother as well. Very different kettle of fish from Vonotar's – could've charmed the hind-donkey off my leg any day, I tell you! ... Quite a one for the ladies yourself, I see ..." "But some of that stuff's ...!" began Lone Wolf. "I mean, there are things you've just said that aren't known to anyone except myself outside the council-chamber of the Elder Magi! How could Evaine ...?" "I keep telling you, young whippersnapper," said Adamas, glaring over the rim of his tankard. "With Evaine, the last thing you should anticipate is the anticipated. She knows you like a hand on her back, she does. Your Rimoah chappie could have saved the ring on his carrier pigeon telling me you were on your way: it was all here for me already in white and black in Evaine's letter." "Yes, but how could she ...?" "Quiet, Lone Wolf," said Paido, leaning forward, his eyes bright with mirth. "Surely you've discovered from your time among us, if never before, that very few things in Magnamund are as straightforward as they seem. Queen Evaine LXVIII must be a sorceress of the highest order; it's a marvel that Rimoah didn't think to warn us of this fact – a marvel, indeed, that it isn't common knowledge amongst we Elder Magi. But it's not an impossibility, the way you seem to think it is." "Harrumph!" repeated Adamas, clearly irritated by having been, as he saw it, left out of the conversation for too long. "She's not a sorceress! She's ... something different, although I know what not."

The Rotting Land // 31 Lone Wolf subsided. "She's asked me," said Adamas, "to escort you as far as the fringes of the Danarg Swamp, and that I will gladly do. With your permission, we'll set off at dawn tomorrow – hardly worth going to sleep, in fact." Lone Wolf's heart sank. "I've had a platoon of my men standing by ready to come with us," Adamas was saying, "so we won't lack for defences should any of those blasted terrorman Ogians try and attack our convoy." "Terrormen?" said Paido. "Aye," said Adamas. "This cheese is excellent – have some more. Oh, I seem to have finished it. A prune?" Both Lone Wolf and Paido held up their palms in refusal. "Well, never mind: all the me for more. The Ogians have become increasingly confident over the past few years, but it's only this summer that they've really started to show their teeth. Warchief Zegron, despite all his threats and palavers, is usually too timid to take any risks. Can't help feeling that they must have drawn reinforcements from somewhere ..." "The Darklands," said Lone Wolf impatiently. Adamas cocked an eyebrow at him. "Yes, and that'll be right, no doubt," he said ponderously. "Whatever the case, they've been sending small bands of terrorman fighters and assassins into our land in an attempt to unsettle our people. No hamlet is safe from their active destructivities: they've made attempts on the lives of some of our most public honoured figures – they succeeded, in the case of my friendly old Lord Benthos of the Shorelands: a hideously cruel death they meted out to him – cruelly hideous it was. While the Dowager Milady Ecdysiast of Syada just disappeared altogether – we never did find her. Hmm ... come to think of it, I wish we'd never found Lord Benthos of the Shorelands." Adamas shuddered, making slow waves ripple across his broad torso. "Horrible it was, and him the best horse-breeder this side of the Kinam River. Let's drink to his memory." He seemed disposed to memorialize his friend for the rest of the night, and it was with difficulty that Paido eventually managed to guide him back to the subject. "The terrormen?" said Adamas. "Oh, yes, I was telling you about those Ogian unmentionables. Rotten lot. Wonder what their mothers were like ..." "Our journey tomorrow?" prompted Paido wearily. "Ah – a good point. Stap me if it isn't. I'll drink to that!"

The Rotting Land // 32 "Does it have to be a dawn start?" said Lone Wolf miserably. "Not to worry, laddie!" cried Adamas, slapping a meaty thigh. "You can sleep on the barge, if you've a mind to. Better'n hanging over the side never the day, wishing you'd half been born, like I propose to do, in my bluff warrior fashion." "Barge?" said Lone Wolf, trying to clear away the milky fog that seemed to be settling over his eyes. He was wary of barges – had been ever since the time when, as he'd journeyed downriver to Tekaro in the Stornlands, questing for the Lorestone of Varetta, the barge aboard which he'd been travelling had been ambushed by river pirates. Dozens of good soldiers had lost their lives that day in the sickening carnage that had ensued. Now Lone Wolf saw barges as not only means of transport but also traps – traps in which he had no wish to be the bait. He took a small sip of wine as he formulated how best he might present a case that they should travel by some other means. His weariness was becoming overpowering, and he had some difficulty returning the goblet safely to its place on the table. In his mind he constructed the most brilliantly persuasive sentence, but as he tried to muster his lips and tongues to announce it he realized that they had ceased to pay any heed to his instructions. Slowly but inexorably his eyelids closed. # The Guildmaster of the Brotherhood of the Crystal Star was dying – and tomorrow he would be dead. When Banedon came across him he was swimming in the smaller of the two ponds in the grounds of the Guildhall. He was stroking through the water powerfully, his feet creating a turmoil behind him. Banedon stood quietly on the bank watching him, not knowing whether to weep for the old man's impending death or grin at his joyous vigour. After a while Banedon sat down on a hummock to wait until the Guildmaster should realize he was there. Left-handed magic, even in its most advanced known forms, was incapable of averting death: it could cure wounds or illnesses that might threaten life if left unchecked, but it was powerless to alter by one second a person's time of death once that had become inevitable. The Guildmaster, who had been wasting sorely over the past weeks, had scried ahead along his lifeline to determine if he should die, and had accepted the information philosophically. However, he had taken advantage of what left-handed magic could do to ameliorate the misery of impending

The Rotting Land // 33 demise: with the aid of some of the Order's Elders he had granted to himself the gift of renewed youth for his last few days in this world. The man swimming with such easy strength from side to side of the pool was no greybeard: his hair was jet black and his frame powerful with youth. At last the Guildmaster became aware of Banedon's presence. His movements slowed as he pulled himself easily to the bank directly in front of his genuinely young protégé, and then climbed naked from the water, shaking himself like a terrier. "Forgive an old man his follies," he said with a self-deprecatory smile. "I realized when I awoke this morning that I'd not swum for years – nay, decades. The cold water makes my body sing with a voice that I'd thought it had long ago lost." Banedon shrugged uneasily, not knowing how to respond. At dinner last night, in the hall's great banqueting room, he'd seen the Guildmaster put away quantities of liquor that would have felled a younger man and then depart with a woman on each arm. Never normally troubled by questions of personal morality, Banedon had found himself, to his surprise, unpleasantly shocked, and this morning he was unable to slough the feeling. He was also annoyed with himself because of his double standards: had the Guildmaster indeed been a younger man rather than an elderly one in youthful guise, Banedon wouldn't have found his behaviour distasteful. Weren't the old just as entitled to their irresponsibilities as the young? The Guildmaster was looking at him with a sardonic light in his eye. "Now, then, my young friend," he said, "why your downcast look?" "Is it not a full enough cause for grief that you will be lost to us before the Sun sets twice more?" said Banedon evasively, then realized the truth of the words he'd spoken. His emotions of shock were an artificial camouflage drawn over the deep sorrow he felt that soon the Guildmaster would be gone – sorrow mixed with a certain fear, for, like all his Brothers in the Order, Banedon had come to rely upon the Guildmaster as a steady and ever-present source of security. It was not going to be easy to adapt to his absence – like walking for the first time without crutches, even though you know your broken leg has fully healed. Banedon brushed some nonexistent fluff from the blue cloth of his robe over his knees, staring at the fabric harder than was needed. "Should I thank you for your pain?" said the Guildmaster cheerfully. "Especially since I myself so little mourn my demise?"

The Rotting Land // 34 Banedon grunted, shifting uncomfortably. He had been desperate to have a last conversation with his mentor, to hear from his venerated lips words of wisdom and guidance, but now that it came to it he couldn't think quite why he was here. "Sometimes," said the Guildmaster, now seemingly oblivious to Banedon's discomfort, "I think it's easier to die than to be among the mourners. Soon, if the teachings of the holies have it right, I'll be able to ask other qualified witnesses for their view ..." "Don't laugh about it," said Banedon tightly, still rubbing the cloth of his robe. "Don't make it more difficult for the rest of us." "Anger, Banedon?" said the Guildmaster brightly. "Shouldn't you be all long-faced and speaking to me with terrible, terrible kindness?" "Stop it!" hissed Banedon. He bit back further words, shocked at what he'd just said. "Yes, anger. The first recourse of a youthful mind that doesn't know what emotion it wants to feel." At last Banedon looked up. Someone seemed to have put a stitch through the outward corners of his eyes. "I was much like that when I was your age," the Guildmaster went on imperturbably. "It's funny how regaining this young body has brought back to me so many clear memories. I don't mean of events – that sort of recollection has never been lost to me – but of the ways of thinking, of feeling, that I used to have." He squatted down on the ground beside Banedon and plucked a blade of grass. He began to shred the blade absent-mindedly as he continued to speak. "It's odd how much of my life I've spent being glad to be no longer young, looking on the follies and miseries of you striplings with a sort of condescending sympathy, telling myself that eighteen – or nineteen, or twenty, or whatever age you choose – is a dreadful age to be. But now that I'm seemingly that age again myself I realize how great it feels to have youthful blood pulsing through youthful vessels, to taste things the way I haven't tasted them for decades, to revel in the senses of my youthful flesh. Haven't you noticed the way that all the colours of the world are brighter when you're young? No, I don't suppose you could have," he added more introspectively. He wiped his hands together to get rid of the larger scraps of torn grass, spreading brown-green stains across his palms, then picked up another stalk. "But it's true, you know. Enjoy it while you can. It's worth any amount of making a fool of yourself to be able to see the world's raiment in the clarity of all its hues."

The Rotting Land // 35 "I was hoping ..." Banedon began. What had he been hoping? He was no longer quite sure. The Guildmaster threw away the half-ripped grass and put a hand on Banedon's knee. "I begin to worry," he said, "about you younger Brothers of our order. I should have known to do so years ago: I must ask you – all of you – to forgive my oversight in this respect. We old people think the whole time of the strictness of training that you require if you are to become effective mages, and what we forget is that for that you need also to learn how to be human beings. Not much chance for that when you're stuck here in our Guildhall, securely parcelled away out of reach of the world, is there?" "But I've ..." "Yes, I know, Banedon." A firmer squeeze of the knee. "Unlike most of our younger fellows, you've travelled across much of the face of Magnamund. You may yet be inexperienced in the matters of the heart" – Banedon began to protest this, but the Guildmaster silenced him with a steely glare that said he had no wish to hear the gruesome and largely invented details of Banedon's love-life – "but you have discovered much of how human beings behave in the real world, the world outside our cloistered seclusion. You've learnt to get along with people of all shapes and sizes and cultures, and that's a piece of education that too few of our number – old as well as young – share with you. If there is a single greatest mistake that I've made during my tenancy of the Guildmaster's throne, it's not something obvious, like the way that I was too timorous to curtail Vonotar's necromantic activities until it was tragically too late; rather it's that I've concentrated our Order's efforts too greatly on the work we do here, to the detriment of our activities elsewhere. I'm only now beginning to rediscover how important our peripatetic Brothers are, not just to the folk of Sommerlund and elsewhere to whom they bring comfort, but also to themselves. If I had my time all over again I think that's what I'd do: send more of you young people out into the world, so that they could learn the other half of what is required to be a truly great sorcerer." He smiled ruefully at the word "sorcerer"; within the boundaries of the Guildhall it was more often used derisively. "I hope that you'll redress that balance, when you take my place." The words were softly spoken, yet they hit Banedon with the power of a bolt of lightning. His eyes scoured the man's face. Could the Guildmaster really have said what he seemed to have said? It was inconceivable, and yet Banedon's ears could hardly have deceived him so grossly. A slip of the tongue, perhaps? Or

The Rotting Land // 36 was the old becoming ... "senile" seemed to be the wrong word under the circumstances, but ... But the Guildmaster was smiling tolerantly. "Our Elders don't know it yet," he said, "but when they're called to the vote this afternoon they're going to elect you as Guildmaster in my place." "But that's ..." "Impossible? Why should it be impossible? You're as yet still wet behind the ears in many ways, yet you have a wisdom that far surpasses anything that most of the older Brothers can offer. And, thanks to the efforts of my old and lamented friend Loi-Kymar you know more of the second level of left-handed sorcery than even I do, while the Elder Magi have given you a depth of knowledge in magic that none other of our Order can contest." Again the Guildmaster squeezed Banedon's knee; this time his lively grey eyes were staring straight into Banedon's own. "Alyss gave you something, too, although quite what that is it's beyond my understanding to determine – as if she'd infected you with some mysterious but beneficial germ, just by allowing you to be close to her for a while." "But I'm ... I mean, I ..." "Yes, exactly." With a last pat on Banedon's knee the Guildmaster pulled himself to his feet, looking down on him. Banedon was suddenly uncomfortably aware again of the young/old man's nudity. "You make mistakes, you do stupid things. So do we all – we all stumble our way through the world, whether we're children or ancients, like myself. One of your greatest wisdoms, Banedon. my friend, is you awareness of your own shortcomings, your acceptance of them, your willingness to recognize and learn from them. If I were worried by your other qualifications for the position, that quality alone would recommend me to you." "I am ... honoured," said Banedon quietly. "I don't how to thank you for your trust. But I can't help feeling that it's misplaced." "What?" said the Guildmaster, putting his hands on his waist and staring at Banedon with theatrically exaggerated astonishment. "No celebrations? No jumping for joy, Banedon? No rushing off to dig out the fireworks? If I were you, then – at least the way I feel now – I'd be half way through my first bottle of wine by now ... an indulgence that I've too long delayed already this morning," he added, glancing up to where the Sun stood in the hazy sky.

The Rotting Land // 37 Banedon could sense a great burden of care shifting from the Guildmaster's shoulders onto his own. He slumped forward a little where he sat, allowing the weight to settle. "I repeat, I am honoured by your faith in me," he said soberly. "Yet I do not think the honour is any great cause for celebration. I may be a fool, and a green and inexperienced fool at that, but I'm not so much of a fool as to think that what you're passing on to me is a gift consisting solely of privilege and kingly prestige. Sometimes, as Guildmaster, it must have felt to you as if you were supporting all the world's troubles and ailings on your own: each dawn must have seemed to you to be not so much a return of the light as a restatement of the responsibilities you bore." "Well put, young Banedon," said the Guildmaster, laughing delightedly. "You put that well. That is indeed what the obligations of office often feel like – although, unlike the Sun, they do not sink out of sight just because the night falls. Yet you ignore the many satisfactions they bring as well: there is a pleasure of immeasurable depth to be gained from the knowledge that what you are doing is of significance, that your decisions and your actions matter, and that what you've done is the best that could possibly be done." "But what if it's not?" said Banedon bleakly. "Let me tell you a secret," replied the Guildmaster, looking around him furtively, although it was obvious that there was no one within earshot: the simple, well trimmed gardens were empty apart from themselves and some hopping birds. "One of the benefits of occupying the supreme post within our Order is that almost everything you do is the best that could have been done in the circumstances, and, even if it's not, there's no one around you who's able to tell you any better." He laughed again, confidentially at first, but then throwing back his leonine head to roar his mirth at the sky. "Accept, Magemaster Banedon!" he shouted. "Accept! Take the honour with a good grace, for otherwise I'll thrust it upon you anyway. And now" – he dropped his gaze and his voice again – "that's enough of our conversation. Plenty of time tomorrow for you to say your tearful farewells to me. I have some boozing and wenching to be done before our Elders meet this afternoon, and I will not thank you if you hold much longer from it." "But ... But ..." said Banedon, shambling to his feet. "I need to ask you ... I need you to tell me ..." "What?" "Well ..." "Exactly: there's nothing you need me to tell you. Why listen to an old dotard like me when you have the bright, fecund brain of

The Rotting Land // 38 a young man still in your skull? Ask yourself for any advice you may need – you'll get better from there than you will from me." And then the Guildmaster was off across the grass, capering and dancing as he ran, whooping the joys of his few remaining hours of youth to the vast slanting grey walls of the Guildhall. Banedon turned to look at the waters of the pool. A trifling breeze stirred their skin, releasing ripples. There was a soundless pop as a small fish touched its mouth to the surface. He put his arms around himself and swivelled his shoulders agitatedly from side to side. He chewed his lower lip until he thought his teeth would draw blood. Him? Guildmaster? Guildmaster Banedon was terrified.

The Rotting Land // 39

2 WORTH TWO IN THE BUSH Phoena, the fabled city of triple towers, huddled among small hills as if it were cowering in the face of a threat. One of the three towers had been destroyed some centuries before in a forgotten war, and the remaining two seemed incomplete because of its absence, positioned as they were just inside the city wall, all too clearly two apexes of a triangle in desperate need of a third; from their tops pennants hung dispiritedly. The walls themselves slowly blotted out all sight of the city other than the towers as Lone Wolf, Paido and Adamas, at the head of a detachment of brightly uniformed cavalry that had joined them when they'd disbarged at a river village called Lona, rode along a beaten-dirt highway towards the main gates. Here they were held up for some hours as, despite Adamas's rank, various officers of the city searched warily through their baggage, seeking not so much contraband as weaponry. While they waited, Lone Wolf quizzed one of the few guards who seemed disposed to be other than hostile and discovered that the precautions being taken by Phoena's authorities were not unreasonable: only a few days earlier a force riding under the banner of Ogia had attacked, captured and razed the northern Talestrian town of Luukos, leaving few survivors. The massacre had been comprehensive and sadistically cruel, to judge by the guard's lip-smacking description of it; what chilled Lone Wolf more than the man's tales of torments inflicted on men, women and children alike was the information that the Ogian horde had included among its numbers a sizeable contingent of Drakkarim warriors. These humanoid allies of the Darklords were capable of atrocities far beyond human ken, and were exceptionally hard to kill – as Lone Wolf knew only too bitterly from personal experience. More important, though, was the fact that the Darklords must have become supremely confident under their new Archlord if they were prepared to show their colours so openly. Unless something happened soon to turn the tide, it could surely not be long – a year or two, perhaps – before they mounted another outright offensive on the Lastlands on the same scale as that which the Archlord Zagarna had led. The Lastlands had been fortunate then – circumstances had conspired to save them – and Zagarna had died at Lone Wolf's hand; but the issue had been a

The Rotting Land // 40 close one, and the Lastlands could not reasonably rely upon enjoying such good fortune again. He was deep in thought when finally the party was permitted to enter the city, and, aside from a few tersely spoken answers, retained his silence until some while after they had established themselves in lodgings in the Phoena's run-down commercial district. He suddenly realized that Paido was staring at him in concern. They had been given a small but sumptuously appointed attic room in which two austere straw beds sat oddly; evening light squinted in at them through a single narrow window. "Are you ailing?" said Paido anxiously. "You slept almost the entirety of our trip upriver, but I assumed that that was simply because you were weary. You seemed all right as we rode here, yet since our arrival at the gate you have become more like a marionette than a man." "I'm sorry," said Lone Wolf, shifting his weight on the crunching straw mattress. "Just thinking ... just thinking that war with the Darklands is surely on its way, and wondering what I'm doing here in Talestria rather than being at home in Sommerlund, helping my king assemble an army." He drew a deep breath. "I know, I know, I know. My quest for the Lorestones holds the key to the everlasting defeat of the Lords of Darkness, and yet at the moment it seems to me – or at least to a part of me – as if it were nothing more than a distraction from the main event, a gross piece of self-indulgence." "Do you really think that?" said Paido softly, his dark eyes solicitous. There was silence for a few moments. Then: "No," said Lone Wolf, drawing his shoulders back. "No, most of the time I don't. But right now, knowing about those Drakkarim, it's difficult not to." "Self-doubt is a sign of inner strength," said Paido, his lips drawn into a prim line, "but if you allow it to dominate your thinking then it becomes instead a weakness." "I know." "Perhaps Adamas will bring us better news from the conclave of warriors he has called. Talestrian knights are not especially known for their muteness: they will have told him more about the situation than a humble gate-guard could know. The story you've been told may be much exaggerated – or merely a groundless rumour."

The Rotting Land // 41 "Perhaps," said Lone Wolf noncommittally. He stared at his big hands – discovered that they were knotting and unknotting themselves. "Perhaps." There seemed little more to say. As the light dimmed Paido made one or two half-hearted attempts to start a conversation, but Lone Wolf was unresponsive – except for his hands, which continued their dance. He recalled other times, other missions, when the apparent futility of what he was engaged in had threatened to engulf him, but never anything like this. For everything he gained, it seemed he lost something greater. For all the claims of the logical part of his mind that his attainment of the Lorestone of Herdos had been something worth far more than any price that could have been paid, the deep, inarticulate part of him recalled how Petra, whom he had come to love so much, had been destroyed in the fulfilment of that aim. There was a clatter on the stairs outside, and Paido rose to his feet. "If I'm not wrong," he said, "that'll be Adamas at last, to tell us what news there is." A moment later the door was thrown open and the Lord Constable's stout figure threw itself into the room. He collapsed on Paido's bed, face purple, wheezing from the climb. For a short while he was too engrossed in attempting to recover his breath to reply to their urgent questions, but when at last his chest had stopped heaving and the angry colour had retreated a little from his cheeks, he silenced Paido and Lone Wolf with a word: "War." "It's inevitable, then?" said Lone Wolf. "Inevitable – yes. Alas. Do you have anything to drink up here in your eyrie?" Paido silently pressed a flask of gin into his hand. Adamas nodded thanks without taking his eyes from Lone Wolf's face. "Zegron has been sending his raiding parties into our northern territories for decades," he said, "but never before in such strength as this. The terror attacks would soon, perhaps, have intensed to such a mountedness that war became inescapable, but this vile atrocity at Luukos has brought heads to a thing. The knights are adamant." He took a further deep draught from the flask before continuing. "Even had my own ire not risen, I would have no choice but to prepare our nation for war: Zegron and Ogia have gone too far for us to be left – left or right, it hardly signifies much which – with any other choice. Their use of Drakkarim mercenaries would clinch the matter, if it were not already clinched. It is my sad, sad

The Rotting Land // 42 duty to mobilize our army as soon as it can be done. There will be much blood spilled, alas, in the months to come; with luck I can ensure that most of it is Ogian – or Drakkarim." "What of ourselves?" said Lone Wolf. "I for one would be glad to serve at your side. I have no little experience in the ways of war." "No – no," said Adamas firmly. "Although I cannot proceed with you to Danarg, as I'd intended, you two must continue there. If anything, the attack on Luukos confirms it – I cannot believe that it was any coincidence. Those scum of the Darklands must have learnt of your presence here, and of your intentions: my guess is that it is fear of your success in the quest for the Lorestone that has made them tip their hand." He passed Paido the empty flask. "If your failure is worth that much to them, then so likewise to us must be your success." "We will sorely miss your company," said Paido. "Truly? A couple of sprightly lads like you missing the company of an old beached whale like me? I can hardly credit that." Adamas was grinning at last, the gloom momentarily banished from his face. "Yes, truly," said Lone Wolf firmly. "Ah, well, it's kind enough of you to so say. But there's one do I can thing for you afore I concentrate my attention on matters martial. Paido – be a good fellow and stick your head out that door there and bellow the name Bursit, will you?" The Vakeros moved to obey. His yell was answered by a scuttling sound from far below them, and within seconds a small, insect-like man was bustling into the room carrying a large mahogany writing-case. Loose papers and quills snowed to the floor as he plonked himself down at Lone Wolf's side. "Here I do cheeribly be at your behestment, great knight of the ..." "Belt up, Bursit, and just take my dictation." Adamas's eyes unfocused and he drew breath to speak. "Right cheeribly I shall, sire-o'-mine, just as soon as I's laid me little teensy-weensy mitts on my ..." "I said `Belt up', you misbegotten son of a ..." "A strange thing to be a-cheeribly wishing to convey," said Bursit, scratching quickly on a piece of vellum that seemed to have popped into existence from nowhere, his sharp elbows moving like the shafts of a water-pump, "but not my position is it to ..." "Not that, you dunderhead. Throw away that parchment you've wasted and start afresh." "Can't I ...?"

The Rotting Land // 43 "No, you may not just turn it over and use the other side!" roared Adamas, face purple once more. "You blithering ..." "I'm cheeribly ready for your word, mighty one." He held quill and parchment together at what seemed an impossible angle. Wordlessly Lone Wolf picked up a bottle of ink from the floor, unstoppered it and proffered it to the man. "Silly me," said the scribe with a nod of thanks. "That means I can use the first sheet of this fine and cheerible vellum after all ..." Lone Wolf moaned inwardly. He had little idea what it was that the Lord Constable wished to dictate, but between Adamas's strange mutilation of the language and Bursit's featherbrainedness it seemed unlikely that the result could be anything other than a garble. He was pleasantly surprised, only a few minutes later, when Adamas passed him the document for approval. It was a beautifully inscribed, perfectly phrased order of safe conduct for himself and Paido. He handed it back to the Lord Constable with an appreciative nod, and watched the old man affix his seal. "The people of our northern lands," said Adamas, grunting as he pressed his signet ring into the hot red wax that Bursit had prepared for him, "are like frontiersmen everywhere: they're wary, and stranger of suspicions. But this pass should assure you of their safety, if they owe any loyalty to me – and, if not to me, to our dear Queen Evaine." "You betcha yes," said Bursit, nodding enthusiastically. "Belt up, pipsqueak, unless you're spoken to," snarled Adamas. "An unlikely event at the best of times. Where was I? Ah, yes: Lone Wolf and Paido, our people should help you on sight of this parchment, but you cannot too much from them expect. They are afeared enough for the safety of their own lives and holdings. I ask your bond that you'll not seek to enlist any of them to join your quest: they must protect their own." "We give you our word right gladly," said Paido. "Such conscription would give us poor allies, anyway." Adamas looked to Lone Wolf, who nodded agreement. "Then we shall leave you two to night the sleep," said Adamas with finality, gesturing to Bursit to pack up his paraphernalia. "For my part, I shall get little of it – too much planning and briefing to be done before I head back south again to Garthen on the morrow. I shall have a man call for you at dawn – don't look so consternated, Lone Wolf: it won't be Bursit. I'll give you your final directions then. In the sleeptime, I trust you'll mean well."

The Rotting Land // 44 The two Talestrians were gone before Lone Wolf had unpicked Adamas's valedictory sentence. "I like this not," said Paido, once they were alone. "So much seems to be conspiring against us. It's an eerie feeling – that the Darklords or their Nadziranim might be watching our every movement." "We're a right pair – eh, Paido?" said Lone Wolf with a laugh. "Not long ago it was I who was the gloomy one, and you comforting me. Do you wish it that we should now exchange rôles?" A reluctant smile came to Paido's face. "Besides," said Lone Wolf, "as soon as Adamas voiced his suspicions that the Darklords might have discovered our presence here in Talestria, I swept this whole house and its surrounds with my senses, and found nothing of Evil there. I'm surprised that the same action didn't occur to you." "It did," said Paido dourly, "and like yourself I found nothing. Yet I can't get it out of my mind that Nadziranim magic is more powerful and more subtle than anything we might be able to draw on: it cannot be beyond their abilities to deceive our senses." "In which case all may well be lost anyway," said Lone Wolf, "so why worry about it? I suggest we take the Lord Constable's advice, and try to get ourselves as much sleep as we can. Who knows how long it'll be before we again enjoy the comfort of a bed for the night." "Some comfort," grumbled Paido, pressing his hand on the mattress beside him for emphasis. "I can go on out without you, if you wish," said Lone Wolf, his voice suddenly becoming grim. "No, no," said Paido, waving dismissively at the notion. "This mood will pass. Perhaps the Nadziranim are infiltrating my mind to bring me these thoughts of doom. Perhaps they're ..." "No more word of the Nadziranim this night," said Lone Wolf with determined finality. "In the morning we can think about them: for tonight let's rest." Yet Paido was snoring long before Lone Wolf himself could find sleep. He lay on his back in the darkness for more than an hour, touching his hand to the pommel of the Sommerswerd from time to time, hoping that Gwynian or the Nameless Woman would appear to him to give him guidance or reassurance. But his Gestalt personalities withheld themselves from him, and as he finally drifted towards sleep he was filled with a feeling of utter loneliness. And of vulnerability.

The Rotting Land // 45 # "I still think we should have taken the Great North Road," said Lone Wolf sourly, surveying the crowded taproom. The planked floor, as if it had heard him, suddenly juddered under his feet as the hull of the barge scraped along a large rock or some other obstruction. "Barges are dangerous." Paido snickered at him. "A lot less dangerous than roving bands of Ogian terrormen," he pointed out. "Besides, you can't enjoy a jar of ale whenever you want one if you're travelling by posthorse, can you?" "That's a trivial consideration, right at the moment," said Lone Wolf sternly, his eyes surveying the large, low-ceilinged cabin and the crowd of travellers jostling for place. At the far end a broad trestle table was bowed under the weight of three oak ale-casks, in front of which were several huge wooden platters laden with roast meats and boiled eggs smothered in some kind of yellow sauce. "There seem to have been rather too many jars of ale – and other beverages – since we came to Talestria, my friend." He breathed deeply. The fingers of his right hand never strayed far from the hilt of the Sommerswerd; his left often moved to his shoulder to touch the taut string of the bow slung across his back. He was aware of his nervousness and was trying to hide it, but that only made him more nervous. Two barges in as many days – and that for a man who'd vowed, after his experience in the Stornlands, never again to travel by barge if he could help it. He must have muttered something of this, for Paido said: "We do not suffer from river pirates in Talestria, and the Ogian gangs are no more likely to attack us here than anywhere else. Our risk is far less than if we'd given them the opportunity to pick us off on the road." "Still and all," said Lone Wolf, "I wish I hadn't let you persuade me so easily. If I'd argued a bit harder about it I'd feel a lot happier now." Again the fingers of his right hand flexed. Especially in this crowded cabin, he longed for the open road, the smell of fresh wind in his nostrils and the feel of Reason for Coming Back's broad, muscular back moving beneath him, reassuring him. They'd roused themselves before dawn, as planned, and been led down to a large square in the centre of Phoena, where Adamas and a group of senior officers and knights had been waiting for them, their horses steaming and breathing silver clouds in the frosty morning air. The corpulent Lord Constable had once again expressed his regrets, at considerable length, that he must

The Rotting Land // 46 leave them to travel north alone. It was then that he had offered them the choice between posthorses and the Great North Road or a more sedate journey up the River Phoen by barge. Either way, their next destination was Tharro, a sleepy market town – if anywhere could be described as sleepy in Talestria in these strife-torn times – set among the fertile uplands some fifty miles to their north. There they could pause for the night, and there, too, they would be able, Adamas had told them, to buy a map of the Danarg. Paido had opted for the barge before Lone Wolf could even open his mouth, and Adamas had immediately called out orders to a number of his men who had been waiting nearby to escort the two foreigners the short distance to the boarding-place, just beyond the village of Sharr. It had not been until they were riding through this village, the echoes of their jingling tackle and the thudding of the horses' hooves loud in their ears, that Lone Wolf had begun to voice his misgivings, and then Paido had only laughed at them. Lone Wolf felt little better about the decision even now, and still Paido was laughing at him. His right hand balled momentarily, and it took a conscious effort before he relaxed the fist. As on their earlier journey, the barge was being towed upriver by two teams of four ghorkas, one on each side of the river, trudging along the cobbled towpaths. These large, hairy, ox-like animals were imported by the Talestrians from the plains of Slovia to serve as beasts of burden and haulage. Long chains harnessed the two teams to the barge; the chains had to be strong, for the ghorkas had foul tempers and powerful jaws; a bargee sat atop a high platform at the craft's prow, lashing at the animals frequently with a long zullhide whip, raining a constant stream of curses on their broad backs. Lone Wolf couldn't help wondering if the ghorkas' tempers would be less vile if they were treated more amicably – persuaded rather than vilified into working – but his nerves had, at least for the moment, overthrown the impulse to be asked to experiment with them. The barge captain had welcomed them aboard eagerly and, after having scanned Adamas's safe-conduct, had embraced them as if they'd been long-lost friends. It had been too long since the man had bathed. "Lord Adamas had sent word to expect two riders for this trip," he'd said after they'd released themselves from his clutches, "though I'd almost given up waiting for you to show. He's paid your fares already, and he said you'd likely be wantin' some privacy, so I've set aside a cabin at the stern. My lads will see to your horses." As Lone Wolf had shifted from foot to foot, watching Adamas's men wave their farewells from the bank and

The Rotting Land // 47 ride off, their retreat affirming the fact that he was now committed to this loathed means of transport, the skipper had pointed towards the stern and continued: "Take the stairs on your left; your cabin is the door at the end of the gangway. If you be wantin' some food or ale, there's a taproom in the hold – just take the stairs down to the right." Lone Wolf had been keen to go straight to their cabin, but Paido, after one glance at his friend's tight lips and pale cheeks, had said: "You need a drink." "It's too early," Lone Wolf had responded weakly. "The Sun's barely over the horizon." "I wasn't talking of fun," Paido had said reasonably, "not in your instance. I was thinking more of anaesthetic." And so here they were in the door of the taproom. It was clear that their fellow-travellers were not as inhibited by the earliness of the hour as Lone Wolf had been – unless, that is, they had been drinking and dicing all through the night. That inimitable alehouse stink – compounded of stale beer, sweat and worse – made Lone Wolf's nose wrinkle, but Paido seemed unconcerned. "You slept almost all the way through our last barge-trip," the Vakeros was saying merrily, "so it hardly counts. A few jars of ale inside you, and you'll sleep most of the way through this one, as well. It's for medicinal purposes only." "That's what they all say," Lone Wolf remarked wryly. An aproned crewman pushed his way through the throng to greet them. "You look like thirsty men to me," he said cheerfully. "Too right," said Paido, pulling his pouch from the pocket of his breeches. "We'll have a couple of jugs of ale while we think about what to have for our breakfasts." Lone Wolf's stomach lurched at the thought of breakfast. The thick yellow sauce slopped over the mountain of eggs on their platter looked particularly glutinous. Maybe some strong ale would be a good idea, after all – something to settle his guts before he dolloped some food down into them. "All right," he conceded, grinning ruefully at Paido. "Lead me into temptation." Paido addressed the crewman, who was wiping his hands on his greasy striped apron. "What temptations do you have?" "You've come to the wrong part of the barge if that's what you ... Oh, I see: it's beers you mean." He stroked the back of his hand over his sweating brow, leaving a grey streak. "We've got three. The Ferina Nog'd put hairs on a maiden's chest, it would: strong stuff, that. The Chai-cheer's a bit niftier than that, though:

The Rotting Land // 48 it'd give her a beard, and sideburns as well. And then there's the Bor Brew ... well" – he spat on the floor, narrowly missing one of Lone Wolf's feet – "well, that'd drop her dead in her tracks, it would, though she'd not be a maiden any longer by the time she landed. It tends to have that effect." Paido chuckled. "I think I'd better play it safe. A jar of the Ferina Nog for me. And – ?" He looked towards Lone Wolf. "Bor Brew." The crewman's face became anxious. "That's not stuff for a beginner," he said. "I'm no beginner," said Lone Wolf flatly. The last time he'd had Bor Brew – the first time as well – had been aboard Banedon's flying ship, the Skyrider, when the dwarfs who crewed that vessel had invited him to join them in an evening of revelry. They were from Bor themselves, and had been amazed to find a mere human who could drink their powerful brew and live. Lone Wolf had succeeded, although living hadn't felt much like living the following morning – rather less fun than dying, in fact. But if anything could help anaesthetize him through this barge trip to Tharro, Bor Brew was the stuff – followed by a hearty breakfast. Then he'd either sleep like the dead or spend several hours leaning over the side. The crewman started to object further, then shrugged his shoulders. "You must be confident in your self-healing powers," said Paido quizzically, watching the crewman's retreating back. Lone Wolf said nothing until he had a tankard in his hand. He looked around him and saw that he had become an object of curiosity to several of their fellow travellers. Some were whispering urgently, and here and there money was being mentioned. "My powers have naught to do with it," he said. "I want the stuff to work." He lifted the tankard to his lips and breathed deeply of the thick, malty odour. Then, before common sense could interfere, he drank it off in a single long draught. As he put it down on a table in front of him he realized that the taproom had become oddly silent. Then, abruptly, noise returned: the big cabin was filling with laughter and curses as bets were settled and the men and women resumed their drinking and gaming. "It's been a long time since I've seen a man do that," said the crewman, looking nervously around them, clearly wondering in which direction Lone Wolf was likely to fall. Lone Wolf was beginning to wonder that himself. After all, discretion might be the better part of slumber. Vaguely aware that there'd been something

The Rotting Land // 49 wrong with that thought, he rallied some of his Kai powers and pushed back the fog that was swirling in his eyes. Paido, eyebrows raised, lifted his own mug and took a swig. Immediately his face contorted and he spat the mouthful out. "Yecch! Bilge juice! The storgh that widdled this was ailing!" he complained to the crewman. He thumped the almost full tankard down on the table beside Lone Wolf's empty one. "You should be a sight more careful where you empty your mouth, stranger," snarled a new voice menacingly. Lone Wolf turned his head swimmily and saw a soldier rising to his feet. Splatters of ale made a diagonal line across the front of his surcoat, which was embroidered with a shield-shaped crest depicting a castle and an open hand. The soldier deliberately raised the mug that Paido had just slammed down and just as deliberately tipped its contents over the Vakeros's feet. The two men reached swiftly for their swords. "Go easy!" said Lone Wolf, reaching out to restrain both of them. Gentle Kai fingers moved automatically into action inside him, working swiftly to nullify the effects of the heavy ale he'd drunk. "The man insults a Vakeros's honour!" said Paido angrily, straining against Lone Wolf's grip. "And you, stranger, spit upon the honour of a soldier of Tharro!" said the other, equally angrily. "Don't be an idiot, Paido!" snapped Lone Wolf. "Do you want to scupper our quest before it's properly started?" Feeling Paido's sword-arm beginning to relax, he turned his head to address the soldier. "My friend meant you no harm, soldier," he said. "It was an accident. He apologizes." "Doesn't look much like it to me," growled the soldier, eyeing Paido's face. "I apologize," said the Vakeros stiffly. "Apology accepted," said the soldier, easing his stance but still keeping his gaze on Paido's eyes. Paido began to laugh. "Let me buy you a drink by way of making up," he said. The soldier grinned suddenly. "That sounds a reasonable settlement. Not the Ferina Nog, though." A few minutes later they were seated around the table drinking each other's healths and that of Queen Evaine between telling tales of how they'd come to be here – strictly censored tales, in Lone Wolf's and Paido's case, for they were unwilling to trust any stranger too far. Trost, their new friend, was returning to the Tharro garrison having spent a week on leave with his wife and

The Rotting Land // 50 two daughters in Phoena; becoming grim for a moment, he remarked that he couldn't think when next he'd have a leave, what with the escalating Ogian crisis in Talestria's northern lands. The conversation was interrupted by a round of applause from the far side of the hold. The three men turned, and craned their necks to see what was going on. Clearly some kind of performance was about to start. A tall, elderly man dressed in richly stitched robes of crimson and gold was standing in the middle of a small cleared space and bowing in acknowledgement of the applause. As he straightened himself up he raised his arms, his open palms forward, hushing the noise. "This morning, my friends and travel companions," he said with a broad smile, "is the luckiest morning of your lives." "What about the morning I woke up with Grontwill Stickwagon by my side?" came a good-natured roar from a burly man at the rear. The silver-haired performer ignored the taunt. "For this is the morning when you shall see Count Conundrum, the Prince of Puzzles, Magnamund's Very Own Mr Mystery, the Reigning Rodomontadist of Riddles, the Queen's Quizmaster In Absentia ..." "Where's Absentia?" came another cry. "Big talk, Grandpa!" "Grontwill Stickwagon?" said a worried voice directly behind Lone Wolf. "I know a Grontwill Stickwagon. She told me she'd never ..." "For the amusement of all you fine-born and refined gentlemen and ladies gathered here," the distinguished-looking performer was saying, "I propose to offer the company, at the price of a jar of ale from each of you, a brain-twisting conundrum. Whosoever believes that he or she can answer me, with that person I shall wager the nigh-princely sum of twenty silver lune – twenty, no less – that they shall be confounded. Have I any takers?" He glanced around the hold expectantly. "Oh, you mean Grunting Grontwill?" said another voice near Lone Wolf. "No need to take offence, friend," it added hastily. "Tell us your riddle, trickster!" bawled Trost, on whom the Chai-cheer appeared to be working with startling rapidity. Others were shouting out similar requests. Behind Lone Wolf there were the sounds of a man sobbing bitterly and yet another voice speaking softly: "Don't take it so hard, brother. That story about Grontwill and the troupe of the Queen's Acrobats is probably much exaggerated. Half a troupe, maybe, but ..."

The Rotting Land // 51 "Heed me close, friends," said Count Conundrum. He waved his thin, veined hands in a passable imitation of a sorcerer casting a spell; Lone Wolf watched the movements of the fingers with keen attention, just in case it were more than merely an imitation. "Heed me close, I say, for I have a first riddle to present for your wise delectation. If one and a half geese lay one and a half eggs in one and a half days, how many eggs will three geese lay in eight days?" There was the deafening sound of half- and wholly drunk travellers thinking. "I have an answer for you," said Lone Wolf. "I accept your challenge." "No one knows, eh?" said Count Conundrum, feigning deafness. "Then I shall have my ale." "He knows the answer!" bellowed Paido, standing up and pointing at Lone Wolf. "I'm hardly surprised that that one should stump you all," persisted Count Conundrum, "for it's a tricky one, as has taxed the nimble brain of Queen Evaine herself. Now, my ale, if you please ..." Trost threw a dagger. It missed Count Conundrum's chin by a fraction of an inch. The tall man scowled in their direction. "The answer is: sixteen," said Lone Wolf cheerfully. "Ah, um. Well, yes, I suppose it could very well be," said the entertainer. "A lucky guess, my friend." With an air of chagrin and deep reluctance he pulled a purse from one of the pockets of his robe and tossed it to Lone Wolf, who caught it neatly and stowed it away. "Well, my friend, at the least you must give me the chance to regain my money. What do you say to another wager?" "Here," said Trost, urgently tugging at Lone Wolf's sleeve, "how did you work that one out?" "Easy enough," said Lone Wolf, wondering if his Kai powers had dissipated the Bor Brew as efficiently as he'd thought. "Half a goose can't lay any eggs at all. So we can deduce that a single goose lays an egg each day. Three geese for eight days? Well three times eight is sixteen, and there you are." "She told me as I was the first as well," came a whisper behind him, "excepting the front three rows of the Royal Talestrian Pipe Band, but they didn't hardly count." "What do you say to another wager?" repeated Count Conundrum, his eyes drilling Lone Wolf. "This time I propose we lay a stake of forty lune on the outcome." "Done!" said Lone Wolf before Paido could stop him. "Riddle me your worst, Riddlemaster!"

The Rotting Land // 52 "Ahem," said Count Conundrum, wrinkling his forehead histrionically. "Right, prepare yourself for abject humiliation, foreigner. Here goes – unless you'd rather concede defeat already, and simply hand me back my purse?" "No chance," said Lone Wolf stoutly. Maybe it wasn't the Bor Brew at all – maybe the Chai-cheer was stronger than it seemed. "All right, then. But this is going to prove an expensive voyage for you, I warn you. Hark well to my riddle: In winter the ice-lilies of Lake Adon double in area every twenty-four hours. It takes sixty days from the time the first ice-lily appears until the lake is completely covered with them. On what day is the lake half-covered with them?" Again that dead blanket of fuddled minds attempting their damnedest to perform arithmetic. Lone Wolf had no doubts, however. "The fifty-ninth!" he cried, banging his nearly empty tankard on the tabletop for emphasis. The colour drained from Count Conundrum's face, and he stared at his hands, whose butterfly movements no longer much resembled the weavings of a spell. Not looking up, he nodded his head glumly. There were a few ribald shouts from the throng, but most of the people seemed more sympathetic towards the trickster than anything else. Lone Wolf gained the impression that a performance by Count Conundrum was a regular and much-loved feature of barge-journeying on the Phoen River, and that not everybody was best pleased to see the upstart young stranger defeat the riddler. "How'd you work that one out?" said Trost urgently. His eyes were owlish as he peered at Lone Wolf. The Chai-cheer was certainly hitting him hard. "There's this friend of mine called Banedon," hissed Lone Wolf in reply. "He once had to spend a few weeks by the shores of Lake Adon, and he told me about the ice-lilies." "Ah, that's all right, then," murmured Trost as Lone Wolf plucked Count Conundrum's second purse out of the air. The entertainer was straightening himself, attempting with obvious difficulty to restore some dignity to his mien. "Forty and twenty," he said heavily, "adds up to a mere sixty. Give me a chance, young man, to win my losses back. I have here a beautiful treasure, a box inlaid with pearls – a priceless artefact stolen by my great-aunt from the treasure hoard of Valborg the Enchanter. Priceless it may be, but I shall set its value at a mere hundred lune." He held it high aloft, so that all could see it as the reflected

The Rotting Land // 53 lamplight twinkled from its precious embellishments. "Certainly that is the sum against which I shall wager it, should you be willing to take me on, young man." "I accept your proposition," said Lone Wolf, finding his tongue stumbling over the last word. As if in answer to his inner query, the crewman, bustling past, deposited yet another tankard full of Chai-cheer in front of him. He began to wonder if perhaps this entire performance might be a put-up job. Then he forgot what it was that he'd been beginning to wonder about. "This is the stinger," Paido whispered urgently in his ear. "The first two were giveaways: this time he means to take your money from you. Have you got forty extra lune?" "No," said Lone Wolf grumpily. Why was Paido always so defeatist? "Neither have I. Refuse the ..." "Can't refuse. I've taken his bet now." "Prepare your doughty brain, my friend," Count Conundrum said loudly and clearly. "When I was last in the market at Garthen, I asked an egg trader how many eggs he had sold that day. He replied: `My first customer said that he would buy half my eggs and half an egg more. My second and third customers, would you believe, said exactly'" – he rolled the word deliberately, extracting as much as he could from the pun – "`said exactly the same thing. Filling all three of those orders have taken all the eggs that I started with – and yet I haven't broken a single egg all day.' My riddle for you, my friend, is this: how many eggs had he sold in all?" "Seven," said Lone Wolf promptly. "But he was never able to walk properly again afterwards." Count Conundrum stared at him. "What are you prating about, friend?" he asked. "Seven eggs," said Lone Wolf hastily, "That's all the answer you need, is it not?" Count Conundrum looked around him, seeing the grinning faces watching him, and his shoulders sank. "Fair enough, outlander," he said dejectedly at last. "The box is yours." Heedless of his rarity and value – Lone Wolf doubted the story of its provenance, but it was nevertheless a sumptuous and probably valuable trinket – he threw it above the heads of the jeering crowd. Lone Wolf nodded sombrely as he caught it, holding Count Conundrum's eyes with his own. Behind the man's guise of misery he could see a trace of amused resignation: he senses that the entertainer was accustomed to milking the customers on this run of sufficient valuables that a single day's loss was not going to make

The Rotting Land // 54 very much difference to him. Lone Wolf grinned in recognition of this, and his grin was answered by a slight tweak of the grey-haired man's lips. Trost was having difficulty keeping his head upright. His brows were knotted in confusion, and there was no mistaking the frustrated urgency of his tone as he breathed beerily at Lone Wolf: "Seven? How did you work out it was seven?" "Someone behind me gave me the answer," admitted Lone Wolf. He swivelled around in his seat to thank his saviour, but all he could see was a group of men discussing the woman Grontwill. Frowning, he wondered if perhaps it had been, instead, his Gestalt personage Gwynian who had tipped him off, but that in his befuddled state he hadn't recognized the old man's voice. He shrugged and turned back. "Well," he said to Paido, "it seems that I have a pretty little box." He opened his hand to let the Vakeros have a closer look at it, then slipped it over his shoulder and into his backpack. "Never know when I might need a pretty little box." "A fine gift for a fair lady," said Paido, and then winced as he realized what he'd said. Lone Wolf shrugged off the unhappy recollections. Qinefer was gone, and Petra dead: at the moment he had no plans that there should be any further fair ladies in his life. Not ever. Just then there was a shout from above. "Honey Lodge!" yelled the bargee. "Five minutes to Honey Lodge! Passengers for Honey Lodge please gather their belongings and prepare to disembark!" A group of the drinkers in one corner of the taproom began to stir themselves – a party of farmers, Lone Wolf guessed from their clothes of rustic best. Trost's face landed in the spilt beer on the tabletop with a slap, and the soldier began to snore musically, his lips wobbling. "I feel like some air," said Paido. "My lungs could do with having this fug washed out of them." "Seems like a good idea to me," said Lone Wolf. He looked at Trost's sleeping face for a long moment. He snapped his fingers and instantly one of the soldier's red eyes was wide open, staring at him, measuring him. Then it closed again. "He's an old campaigner," remarked Lone Wolf as he stood, shoving his stool back with his legs. "He'll be safe enough here, for all he looks to be on the borderlands of the final sleep." Paido chuckled, also rising. Honey Lodge proved to be a tiny hamlet – no more than a couple of cottages, a barn and a stone watchtower gathered in a

The Rotting Land // 55 semicircle at the river's edge. Rain was slanting powerfully down, and Lone Wolf revelled in the cold spears as they battered his face and forehead. In the few minutes before the barge was securely moored by the little jetty the driving rain finally ejected the last clouds from his mind. He found himself beaming broadly as a gang of small boys and girls raced along the towpath, pacing the barge's movement, hopping over the occasional heap of fresh ghorka dung, squealing with excitement at the prospect of their fathers having brought home some special knickknack from the marketplace in Garthen or Phoena. Among the seven or eight passengers who walked down the gangplank was the tall figure of Count Conundrum who, seeing Lone Wolf and Paido at the rail, raised his conical hat and half-bowed at them in rueful respect. "Another time you shall not be so lucky, foreigner," he said. Although the drumming of the rain drowned the words, Lone Wolf was able to read the man's lips, and he bowed elaborately in response. A solitary new passenger had been waiting at the jetty, a tall thin man – taller and thinner even than Count Conundrum, whom he brushed past rudely as the entertainer was turning away – with eyes that gleamed coldly even through the mask of the rain. Drops of water balanced on the broad rim of his hat as he ascended the gangplank; his motion made them run together around to the back of the brim, there to drop off onto his wetness-darkened coat. He bore no luggage other than the narrow-bladed sword at his waist and a book, bound in black leather, which he clutched protectively close to him all the while he paid his fare to the bargee; clearly it was valuable enough to him that he preferred to risk its being damaged by the rain rather than tuck it away somewhere in his voluminous dark cloak. His transaction with the bargee done, he headed straight for the stairs leading down to the taproom. As he passed Paido and Lone Wolf he raised those cold grey eyes and regarded the two men sternly. Lone Wolf returned the stare, and followed with his eyes as the cloaked man paused at the top of the taproom stairs to look back at them once more. It was the prickling of the hairs on the back of his neck that gave Lone Wolf enough warning that he could erect a defensive shield of his Kai abilities. Almost before he had done so, a shaft of mental energy stabbed through into his mind. For an instant he had the sensation that flames were raging inside his skull; as they rapidly subsided, he felt clawed fingers scrabbling outwards from the heart of the abrupt vacuum where the inferno had been,

The Rotting Land // 56 attempting to rake through the banked arrays of his shocked memories. But it was as if his Kai powers had coated those memories in a slippery liquid, for the claws were unable to get a proper grip on them, and were suddenly withdrawn. Seeming startled, the tall man hurried away down the steps towards the taproom. "Are you all right?" said Paido, clearly unaware of what had happened. Lone Wolf, hearing his friend's solicitousness, realized that he was shivering; with a mighty effort he stilled himself. Despite the warning that his instincts had given him, the sheer ferocity of the mental probe had caught him unawares; without that warning he might now have been sprawled on the deck, the consciousness ripped from him. He shook his head dumbly, not yet ready to trust his lips to form the words of a reply. "Perhaps we should go below and shelter from the rain," said Paido after a couple of moments. "You look as if you're sickening for something, my friend. Too much of a good thing, this fresh air, maybe." Lone Wolf nodded. He could explain later. Keeping a close rein on his thoughts, so that they could not stray outside him – anyone who could direct psi energies so powerfully must surely be able to intercept them with equal skill – he allowed himself to lean a little against Paido's broad shoulder as the two of them clattered down the stairs and back into the taproom's welcoming fug. Trost was awake again, and half-rose to welcome them, but Lone Wolf scarce had eyes for him. He let his gaze rove around the room, trying to locate the tall stranger. At last he saw him, tucked unobtrusively away in the shadows of a corner, quietly reading his black book as around him other passengers jostled and drank. Unaware of Lone Wolf's sudden attention, Paido grabbed the Sommlending by the arm and drew him over to the table where Trost waited. "Our friend has been taken ill," he said to the soldier by way of explanation. "The Bor Brew's revenge, it seems." He pressed Lone Wolf down onto the waiting wooden stool and then shuffled concernedly beside him, obviously not knowing quite what to do next. Lone Wolf distractedly beckoned him to seat himself; there was something odiously familiar about the features of the gaunt stranger in the corner – as if Lone Wolf had somewhere before seen, not the man himself, but someone closely related to him. He saw a mocking face – a face whose eyes were flickering blue flames – framed by a wall of ice ...

The Rotting Land // 57 "By the stars!" exclaimed Trost. The soldier had caught the direction of Lone Wolf's stare, and had twisted around to look behind him. "What the – ?" said Paido. Abruptly Trost turned back to the table, the flush of drunkenness leaching from his face. He hunched his shoulders, like a child trying to make itself smaller so as to avoid being seen – and thereby making its presence three times as obvious. "Don't look now," said the soldier in a fervent whisper. "Don't look now but ..." He dug in an inside pocket of his tunic and eventually retrieved a crumpled sheet of paper. "These are everywhere in Garthen," he muttered hoarsely. "I'm surprised the man has the nerve to walk in the open with no attempt to mask his features. Look." He unrolled the paper and placed it face-up on the wet tabletop. "Tell me it's not him." Lone Wolf let his eyes fall. What Trost had produced was clearly a WANTED poster. He whistled inwards through pursed lips when he saw the rough lines of the picture on it: although the woodcut was crude, the resemblance of the face it depicted to that of the man with the black book could scarcely be denied. He rapidly read the lines of type beneath it: W44444444444444444444444444444444444444444444 44444444444444444444444444444444444444U Notice of Death

KEZOOR NECROMANCER

THE

Renegade Shaman of Mogaruith Leader of the Forbidden Sect of Dazudskul It is hereby proclaimed by lawful authority that in just retribution for vile acts of black sorcery perpetrated throughout the Freelands of Talestria, a bounty of

TEN THOUSAND LUNE is offered for the head of Kezoor the Necromancer. By order of QUEEN EVAINE OF TALESTRIA [MS5060]

W44444444444444444444444444444444444444444444 44444444444444444444444444444444444444U For a moment he could have sworn that there was a written addendum to the block of printed words – "Greetings, Lone Wolf, and welcome to this land" – but as he blinked in astonishment the

The Rotting Land // 58 neatly quilled letters faded from his sight. He glanced up at Trost's earnest face and realized that the soldier had seen nothing of this. "We could make a fortune!" hissed Trost eagerly. "Ten thousand lune! We could each buy ourselves a vast estate in the plains, far from these rumours of war, and still have enough left over to buy a ..." "Quite," said Lone Wolf curtly, his eyes narrowing. "Just capture one of the most powerful necromancers this side of the Durncrag Mountains – seems easy enough to me." Now I know why the man's face seems familiar, he thought. There's something of Vonotar about him. Not so much a real facial resemblance – more a similarity of disposition, of presence. And Trost, unimaginative old buffer that he is, may not have had such a bad idea after all: Paido and I should at least have a chance of tackling this sorcerer without endangering ourselves too much, and he may know much that would aid us. No. No! We might protect ourselves, but how could we guarantee the safety of these other wayfarers around us. Best to forget it. "No," he said. "It's a lousy idea. For one thing ..." But Paido and Trost seemed already to have come to some kind of silent agreement, for they were getting to their feet, their eyes fastened on the figure in the corner. "Guard the stairs," Paido muttered over his shoulder. "But –" "I said guard them, Lone Wolf! Move quickly, man!" Cursing under his breath, Lone Wolf moved to obey, shoving his way through revelling farmers and swaying soldiers. Paido must be far more confident of his Vakeros magic than Lone Wolf was of his own. As he reached the door to the stairs he turned and looked out over the crowded taproom. Despite the determined figures of Paido and Trost advancing towards the dark-clad man in the corner, none of the other passengers appeared to have noticed that anything untoward was afoot. Kezoor – and Lone Wolf was by now convinced that indeed it was the necromancer described in Trost's poster – remained absorbed in his book, seemingly oblivious to anything going on around him. Paido glanced at Lone Wolf and nodded. Lone Wolf nodded back, uncertainly. Paido nudged Trost. The soldier stepped up close to where the necromancer was seated and drew his sword with a flourish. "Stranger!" he cried, as all retreated from him suddenly save Paido. "Stranger! I declare that you are Kezoor the Necromancer, wanted dead or alive by our beloved Queen Evaine! Can you deny my accusation?" "Well, just fancy that," said the stranger mildly, looking up from his reading. "People have remarked on the likeness before, but none has thought fit to make such a song and dance of it as

The Rotting Land // 59 you. Has the good ale gone to your head?" His face was a beguiling combination of amiability, minor irritation and sweet reason. "You had best answer my friend's challenge." Paido's voice was quiet, but it hushed the taproom. "He does not make his accusation lightly." "Two of you, eh?" said the black-clad man, the seeming friendliness beginning to drain from his words. "And a third over there by the doorway, if I'm not mistaken." He jerked his head contemptuously towards Lone Wolf, who flinched as the cold wave of hatred swept across him. "Trying to shake me down, are you? I would have you know that the captain of this barge gives short shrift to slit-throats." "We are no slit-throats," blustered Trost, waving his sword agitatedly. Paido took an anxious pace away from him, eyeing the blade. "We are honest men seeking to arrest a malefactor – if indeed you are who we believe you to be. I ask you once more, can you deny that you are Kezoor the Necromancer, sought by the officers of our Queen?" "My patience is at an end!" The words came out in a thin snarl of fury. "Begone, pests!" "Then you –" Trost began. The stranger threw over his table and stood up to his full height – which seemed much taller than any mortal man's could be, so that his head brushed the hold's roof. His eyes flashed grey fire, and his hands reached out in front of him, twining themselves into a complicated series of knots. His whole figure – but especially those convulsively jerking hands – was limned with a crackling grey fire. Lone Wolf sensed the sudden introduction to the taproom of some of the same raw, unfettered Evil that he had experienced when confronting the Archlord Haakon in the Tomb of the Majhan. Trost's words died in his throat, and his sword dropped as he reached up to his mouth. Before he could cover his lips a jet of bright blood spurted out from between them, dividing into two streams in front of the awesome figure of the necromancer and spraying the bulkhead beyond. As he staggered backwards, clutching his face, his whole head seemed to erupt, becoming in an instant a grotesquely misshapen mass of suppurating pink and grey flesh. The room was filled with screams as men who had until moments before been looking on cheerfully, expecting a good scrap, dove for cover. A pack threw Lone Wolf aside from the door as they charged for the safety of the stairs; furiously he whipped at their heads with the pommel of the Sommerswerd, trying to keep both his balance and his line of sight.

The Rotting Land // 60 As Trost collapsed in a fountain of blood and pus, Paido's sword – a shaft of pure steel so finely honed that it seemed to be a rod of vengeful blue light – whistled through the air directly towards the necromancer's head. But a sword had appeared from nowhere in Kezoor's hand also – a blade coloured with the dismal light of a cold winter's dawn – and he adroitly parried Paido's blow. The two blades clashed, and lightning dazzled Lone Wolf; the taproom was filled with the sound of inhuman screaming and the acrid stench of ozone. As Lone Wolf's vision swam back into focus he saw a half-dozen or so of the travellers nearest to the two struggling men dissolve, their bodies collapsing in on themselves in a fraction of a second like the flesh of a fallen fruit might do over a whole season. As their garments fell away, Lone Wolf could see that their flesh had been transmuted to form seething, writhing heaps of darkness. Seconds later those heaps had separated themselves out into an army of countless thousands of eagerly scuttling black spiders, covering the floor like a hideous carpet, turning on their long, hairy legs to flow swiftly towards where Paido tottered backwards from Kezoor's renewed onslaught. Lone Wolf felt around with his mind, trying to gather his Kai abilities and the new techniques that the Elder Magi had taught him, but his subtler senses were in a state of disarray. His hands, however, seemingly without his command, had snatched the bow from his back and were notching an arrow. Moving swifter than thought, he sighted the arrow through the teeming throng and let it loose. For an instant he thought that it would strike home, spitting the sorcerer, but at the last moment Kezoor swayed aside and tilted up the hilt of his sword to deflect the missile. In a puff of grey dust the arrow was gone. Lone Wolf swore. The oily tide of spiders was driving Paido back towards a corner. Trost was nowhere to be seen. Few of the other journeyers were still in the taproom. He raised his bow to fire again, but it was struck from his hands by a bolt of crackling energy, shattering into flaming shards of matchwood. Forcing himself forward, he swept the Sommerswerd up from its sheath, feeling its soulstuff meld with his as the great blade hummed and glowed in a sudden burst of golden radiance. Kezoor, his attention now fully focused on Lone Wolf, threw aside his own sword and waved his hands in a yet more complicated tapestry of spells. The stink of ozone in the air became immediately more choking, and the light in the hold seemed to falter, as if it were about to die. Lone Wolf heard himself snarling, saw the red haze of his bloodlust beginning to encroach upon his vision. The blazing shaft of the

The Rotting Land // 61 Sommerswerd seemed to fill the room, with beyond that coruscating brilliance the tall, light-leaching figure of the necromancer, his fingers weaving Evil in a pattern so complex and swift that Lone Wolf could barely follow it. "You shall die, creature of Darkness!" Lone Wolf heard himself screaming hoarsely. "Your foul heart shall be with Naar before this ..." He was in the midst of a dark blizzard out of nightmare, the taproom and its contents gone from his sight, save for the necromancer's glowing eyes and flickering hands, which hovered in the bleak storm scant yards from Lone Wolf's face. He felt frost run over his body, stiffening his hairs and clawing at his face; his vision blurred as a sheet of ice formed over the cavities of his eyes. He could not move – his freezing muscles refused to obey him. Each breath he tried to take was like a jagged rock tearing a path through the flesh of his gullet. He tried to speak – to curse or shout – but no words would come. And still the necromancer's fingers wove; still the blizzard raged all around him. He felt the advent of unconsciousness like a warm blanket pressed against his nose and mouth. A scream formed, but it was trapped inside him. Don't panic. When he had first met Gwynian, long ago, the Gestalt entity had taken the form of an old man comfortably couched in a sheath of warmth while a savage blizzard raged and howled all around him. Now Lone Wolf heard that familiar voice in his mind, and he knew that he was being reminded of the lesson that Gwynian had been trying to teach him by his appearance during that first encounter – timeless as the Gestalt personalities were, their lessons and guidance could be given years away from the time Lone Wolf needed them. Don't panic, Lone Wolf, the dry, somewhat pompous voice repeated. Make yourself into the kernel of warmth that defies the knives of the storm. There is no razor wind, no spike of cold that transfixes you; without mind, all is illusion in all of the possible worlds, and the same is true of the existence into which the necromancer's spells have cast you. Through the machinations of your mind, you can impress the reality of your choice upon that false existence – you can will the life-giving warmth that the necromancer seeks to suck from you. Somehow Lone Wolf managed to send a sheet of calm out across the turbulent surface of his senses, lulling them into some sort of order. It seemed to take him an eternity, but at last he had them listening to his bidding.

The Rotting Land // 62 That's the way, my boy. Concentrating all his attentions, forcing himself to ignore the eyes and hands of the necromancer, he sent swift messengers through his body, quickening his heart, exciting his blood vessels. Others drew energies from their stores around his body and brought them together all around him, just beneath the surface of his skin, so that he seemed to be girt by an infinity of warming fires. Further messengers he despatched to his eyes and lips and ears, where they toiled to strip away the sheen of ice that the blizzard's gale had cast about him. A muscle in his right arm twitched. The glow of the Sommerswerd – as yet still the only warmth to be seen in all this drab scene – faltered for a moment, as a stampede of its soulstuff was ushered into him by the eager messengers of his own Kai abilities. The muscle twitched again, this time more strongly. His frosty carapace began to melt. Clear vision returned to his eyes. The swirling flakes of the blizzard were retreating from him, as if repelled by his presence – no, more as if suddenly too respectful and courteous to risk offending him by landing on him. His clothes were heavy and wet, as water started to drip from them and then to fall in a steady stream that steamed and hissed as it melted the thick snow at his feet. He was able to move the Sommerswerd, slowly and hesitantly at first but then with increasing confidence. Sensation returned to his skin, and he felt himself grow hot, as if he were a bright star. A torrid wind, like a blast of angry air from the equator, swept across him, blasting away the blizzard and its snows, revealing for an instant a red and seething landscape, bereft of all foliage, where the sand glowed white-hot and flowed beneath that gale's wrathful caress ... And he was back in the taproom. The light of the Sommerswerd was so brilliant that even he found it painful to gaze upon. He felt colossal surges of strength through his limbs – too strong, too strong! He took a small pace forward and almost tumbled to the floor as his overpowerful leg muscles whiplashed his body. His breath came in painful snorts as he recovered his balance: had he returned from the icy wastes of the blizzard to discover himself in some even worse nightmare? Kezoor screamed – the high-pitched scream of a small forest creature seized in the jaws of a weasel. The light from the Sommerswerd fought its way across the thick air towards him, annihilating the web of dark magic that he had spun around himself.

The Rotting Land // 63 More cautiously, Lone Wolf took another short step forward. I can control it, he thought, I can! But I must concentrate – must concentrate! It's so hard to concentrate when ... Again a shriek of fury and stark terror from the necromancer. The greyness of his eyes had vanished, and in their place were bitterly cold blue flames that grew and pulsed in their intensity as his eyelids narrowed over them. He was slowly pulling himself back against the worn planks of the hull wall, holding up his now-still hands against the advancing radiance of the Sommerswerd. Off to Lone Wolf's left, Paido made a move. Kezoor's attention was drawn by the motion. With an oath of such Evil that Lone Wolf felt it rather than heard it, the sorcerer found a spell from somewhere within his dark soul and lashed the spiders into a new fervour of malevolence. The dark hairy bodies tumbled over each other as they sprang in a thick clotted mass towards the Vakeros. Kezoor's momentary diversion of attention had given Lone Wolf the opportunity to take another pair of steps forward. Still the strength in his muscles was too great for him confidently to control his actions. He forced his fingers not to tighten too hard around the hilt of the Sommerswerd for fear he might crush the living metal. The golden brilliance was now surrounding the spasmodically moving figure of the sorcerer like a slowly shrinking cocoon, trapping within itself the man's last despairing bolts of piercingly bright grey necromantic force. Paido must have sensed that the spiders' assault on him was waning and found himself able to must some of his own Vakeros magic, for his sword became a fan of luminous orange flame, which coalesced and slumped to the floor, engulfing thousands of squealing marauders – yet leaving the boards of the floor unscorched. "Lone Wolf!" he shouted. "I can keep these little bastards at bay! Go for the big one!" Lone Wolf grunted in acknowledgement. The entire barge shuddered and creaked threateningly. His throat and mouth felt as if a lodged fish-hook had been tugged free, taking with it a wedge of torn flesh. Kezoor shrilled once more, clapping his hands to his ears; blood seeped from between his fingers. Paido, too, yelped, but his curtain of fire seemed to have absorbed most of the vibrations. Another thunderous pace. Something squishy – dead spiders? – flattened by Lone Wolf's footfall. Now he was within reach of the necromancer, who had abandoned all semblance of defiance and was cowering down into

The Rotting Land // 64 the angle where the wall met the floor. The Sommerswerd's glow surrounded him entirely now, save for a bubble surrounding his head like a helmet. "Spare me!" he was chattering. "Spare me, Lone Wolf! I will capitulate entirely to you, serve you as your slave – if you will only spare me! Spare ..." The bubble collapsed inward, draping his twisted face like a second, glowing pelt. Kezoor's staccato pleadings were suddenly cut off, although his lips still worked in frenzy for a minute or longer; a sheen of blood formed across his face as his teeth lacerated his tongue. His burning eyes bulged as he slowly smothered within the impermeable luminous skin. Lone Wolf felt the life flee from the man as if he himself had been released from some almost unbearable tension. The air in the taproom, which had been dancing under the stress of the burnished light, seemed to relax, to let out a sigh of relief. He slumped as the grossly excessive strength seeped out of his body, leaving him feeling weak by comparison – even though he knew that every cell in his body was singing with unaccustomed vitality. He sat down heavily on a table, knocking plates and tankards to the floor on all sides. The Sommerswerd thrummed in his hands. He looked at it stupidly for several long seconds, then slid it slowly – almost reverently – back into its scabbard. The crewman who had earlier been serving them with ale popped his head in through the door from the stairs. "Have you finished, then?" "Yes," said Lone Wolf. "No, not quite," said Paido. Lone Wolf looked at the Vakeros in slow astonishment. "He's dead, isn't he? And Trost, our new-found friend – he's dead, too, isn't he? What more is there to be done." Paido picked his way through hillocks of black ashes – all that was left of the hordes of spiders that had seconds before been assailing him. A more solid mound than the others marked the place where the Talestrian soldier had fallen. "Kezoor is dead," said Paido mutedly, "yet that is not to say that he may not yet live." "I don't know what you're talking about," said Lone Wolf, giving his head an angry shake, as if trying to loosen the jammed machinery within it. "Surely you must know, Lone Wolf – these priests of Evil do not leave their mundane bodies so soon after death as most mortals must. They can sometimes reawaken themselves to avenge

The Rotting Land // 65 themselves on their executioners. We must make sure that this one never returns to haunt us." Paido raised a hand as Lone Wolf half-rose to help him. "No, let me do this. You've killed him the first time; there is pleasing symmetry if it is I who kill him the second." He stooped down and warily caught Kezoor's head by the hair. The smooth golden skin had dissolved, leaving the necromancer's own grey and puffy flesh naked – the face contorted into a final, frozen howl of malice. The eyelids twitched open, and eyes of fire stared up into Paido's face – but too late, too late, for already the Vakeros's sword was hacking down into the skinny throat. Two further chops and the necromancer's head was clear of the neck. Paido held it up, swinging it from the long grey hair, and the two friends watched as the flame slowly ebbed from the bitter eyes. "The fish of the River Phoen will dine well on his body," said the Vakeros with a shrug, wiping his smeared blade on the sleeve of his tunic. "Bide there a moment, Lone Wolf, and I shall give them their repast." He stooped to lift the sorcerer's headless corpse, lifted it without apparent effort, trudged to the stairs and was gone. Lone Wolf stayed where he was, looking with a sad gaze at the heaped form of the dead soldier. He'd barely known Trost for long enough for the man to have come anything more than a casually encountered drinking buddy, and yet he was powerfully affected by the death of this mere acquaintance. A few months ago he'd almost certainly have been blaming himself for what had happened: now he knew that he could no more have controlled the destiny that had led to Trost's death than he could have predetermined the fate of nations. The only person responsible for Trost's dying had been Kezoor – and, perhaps, just a little, Trost himself. Yet that realization did little to staunch the wound of Lone Wolf's grief ... and did nothing at all to assuage the pain of his thoughts for the wife that had become a widow and the children who had become orphans. He shook his head again. Paido was returning. While the Vakeros was still shrouding Trost's corpse with a blanket, the barge skipper came bounding into the taproom. He was a short, plump man with a perpetual air of flustered harassment. Behind him came the aproned crewman and a small crowd of other passengers, all staring around at the scene of carnage and devastation.

The Rotting Land // 66 "In the name of the Gods, what's been going on here?" blustered the captain. "I was told there'd been a brawl, but this – this looks like the Darklords have been here with their armies!" Lone Wolf gazed around him. Every time he looked at the damage it seemed worse. He grinned dopily and nodded to the skipper. The gesture seemed to infuriate the man even more. "I'll see you pay for this! It'll cost hundreds of lune to fix this lot up! You two vagabonds had better cough up now or I'll take it out of your hides! Nadar" – he turned to the crewman, who was wringing his hands and trying to look as if he were somewhere else – "scuttle off and get me some reinforcements. Such slit-throats as these can be tough bug ..." "We're no slit-throats," said Paido wearily. "That's what they all ..." "Look at this," muttered Paido, picking up the WANTED poster from where it had fallen to the floor. He blew on its scorched edges and passed it to the captain, who took it with a show of reluctance. "The face may be familiar to you," Paido added, holding the necromancer's severed head up by its hair. "This trophy is yours to keep – ten thousand lune should than repair the damage, and more besides. We would ask you to give you to give at least half of the remainder to this man's" – he pointed towards Trost's shrouded form – "wife and children: there will be hard times ahead for them, beyond their grief, when they must survive without his earnings." The skipper had been scanning the poster while Paido spoke. He looked up with a wry grin. "I'll do more than that," he said. "They can have all that's over. I'll keep this place just the way it is – stench and blood and ash and all. Kezoor and his Evil are better known'n you two must know. There's plenty of folk as'll pay for the privilege of seeing the place where him and his foul heart met their end. Particularly if you two'll carve your autographs into the wall above where he breathed his last." Paido complied first. It was as Lone Wolf was wearing prising the tip of his dagger into the wood that he heard the Vakeros speak behind him. "Oh, look: here's his book. Wonder what's in it."

The Rotting Land // 67

HISTORY BOOK 2: LESA FADING Darkness was falling by the time the young woman strolled back into the tribe's camp. Catching up with her at last, Varnos was certain that darkness really should have fallen some considerable while before – about a week and a half, at a guess – but he saw no reason to complain. Thanks to his father's idiosyncratic command and the short-haired lady's incomparable walking skills, he was now the ordained ruler of a territory larger than any that the tribe had ever envisaged in even their wildest dreams. Now he, Varnos, could proudly boast, as his father had never been able to do, that he was in truth the undisputed Overlord of the Sky and All That Depends Therefrom! Moreover, he was four hundred and thirty-eight stanzas into what he had come to recognize was already a veritable lyrical bonanza. The old chieftain took one baleful look at the slender woman and another at his elder son, who'd got his foot tangled in his stirrup while attempted to dismount. Then he died. The tribesmen, awed, fell to their knees. "Our leader is dead. Long live Varnos," intoned Rongor, speaking for all of them. "Yes," said the strange woman quietly, standing off to one side, forgotten by everyone else there except the new Overlord of the Sky and All That Depends Therefrom, "long live Varnos indeed." # Later that night, once the perfunctory funeral was over and the under-provisioned celebrations were in the fullest swing they were likely to manage, Varnos, somewhat tiddly on his mother's sweet-rosehip pick-me-up, sought out the woman who had, quite literally, led him to his position of pre-eminence. She was sitting cross-legged in the flickering shadows well away from the roaring campfire and the banquet table, humming an atonal tune to herself. In the muted light her strange eyes seemed to glow. "I must proffer you my thanks, fair lady," said Varnos, bowing lankly. "Consider them proffered," she said. "Come here. Sit down beside me." She patted a miraculously dry piece of ground beside her. "You'll be wondering what you can offer me in return for the tremendous favour I've done you. Well, wonder no more: I've taken the burden of decision off your shoulders. You can marry me." Varnos stared at her, speechless. He had loved her – yea, passionately and true – for the whole of a livelong day, which was longer than he could

The Rotting Land // 68 remember having felt any strong emotion about anything before, unless you counted his mother. And, come to think of it, her spinach bake. But marriage – that was something he had never contemplated. According to all that he had read, and all that he had heard from the troubadors who occasionally passed hastily through these lands, the next steps along the path of true love consisted of silent yearnings, unspoken glances, insuperable obstacles, broken trysts, cureless afflictions, ashen countenances and, after a decorous period of pining, a mordant death. There seemed to him something vaguely improper about the prospect of marriage to the woman of his dreams. But then he thought of his ballad, and of how he might be able to recite it to her in its entirety rather than merely having to smuggle her the occasional stanza or two in the guise of a laundry list. His mouth snapped shut and his jaw adopted a new resolve. "Right willingly shall I take you to my heart, fair lady," he said grandly, sweeping his arm around as if to embrace the Sky and All That Depended Therefrom, as he now had every right to do. "To my heart and to my bed, and everything that I have I shall share with you." "We can discuss the `bed' part of that later, and probably acrimoniously," said the woman. More loudly she said: "I accept your proposal, King Varnos – `King', for that is what people shall come to call you. There's no need for us to bother with a long engagement, don't you think? We can just hop over and tell your mother and that'll be that." She pulled herself to her feet, brushed off her cape – even though for some unaccountable reason the mud and slime that adhered immovably to everything else seemed to shun her and her clothing – and led him by the hand towards the campfire. "Er, what's your name?" he stuttered as they picked their way. "You may choose the name by which you call me," she said. "Lesa?" "Apart from that." He tripped over a root and swore. "That's a nice name," she said brightly. "You may call me Evaine."

The Rotting Land // 69

3 MAKE LIGHT WORK The cremation over, they waited for the Guildmaster's ashes to cool and then scattered them from the topmost point of the Guildhall, so that they were caught by the wind and sown all over Sommerlund as seeds from which, it was to be hoped, fresh plants bearing his wisdom and goodness would soon spring. Banedon had found the whole affair depressing and curiously unimpressive. For all that he knew in his heart of hearts to be the case, he found it impossible to equate the grey-brown dust with the living, breathing Guildmaster whom he'd known – not the boisterous young man of the past few days, of course, but the seemingly aeons-ancient, benevolent-eyed, grey-bearded mage whom he, Banedon, had known since childhood and his own induction into the Brotherhood of the Crystal Star. While his mind was telling him that the Guildmaster's soul lived on, every bit as much as it had done while still inhabiting his fleshly frame, his instincts were saying that the Guildmaster was now as dead as any stone or stormcloud. His election to the vacated post as head of the Brotherhood had also seemed to him to be a dreary, faintly corrupt business. As the Guildmaster had cockily predicted, the Elders had raised no objection to Banedon's elevation: it had been left to himself to do that, and even now he had not definitively confirmed himself in the position, taking to himself the title not of Guildmaster but of Magemaster – as the young-old man had once jocularly addressed him – until such time as he should decide whether or not he could, with honour, accept the honour. Aside from his feelings that he was an inadequate successor, there was also the consideration that the post should – if his interpretation of his responsibilities matched those of his predecessor – bind him to Toran and the Guildhall for almost all of the time. He was not certain that he could so easily abandon the peripatetic part of his existing duties: more almost than magic he loved the sensation of being out on the open road, with no master nearby but himself, as he travelled from village to village aiding the poor and the sick. And there were other things that he had done out in the world, as well – other things, that sat uneasily with the weighty position of Guildmaster. He had sailed the skies in his proud ship

The Rotting Land // 70 Skyrider; he had shared adventures of skill and danger with his old friend Lone Wolf; he had loved and lost ... Loved and lost, he thought as he clattered down the spiral stone stairs towards the isolated chamber that lay at the core of the massive Guildhall. Somewhere out there in Magnamund may still be Alyss, who once said that she and I would become lovers ... That's unfinished business. I don't want to go to my grave still wondering what would have happened had her prediction – and my dream – truly come to pass. Do I? He was soon at his destination. The Cell of Contemplation had been excavated from the Guildhall's heart centuries before – not long after the erection of the Guildhall itself – at the behest of a wise Guildmaster whose name, like those of almost all of his successors, now adorned the walls of the hall's banqueting chamber. The stones and mortar were the least part of the construction: what had taken the greater effort and expertise had been the sigils worked into the chamber's fabric, for they acted in concert to create an environment composed of a rare and even now poorly understood magic. Banedon had been through the light wooden door only once before – when, at the onset of puberty, he had been conducted around the minor secrets of the Guildhall so that he could begin to have an understanding of the full nature of his commitment to the Brotherhood of the Crystal Star. Now was different. Now he wanted to use that bubble of wisdom in order to search the secrets of his own soul. No minor secrets, those. He closed the thin door behind him and stood motionless, feeling the silence pressing in all around him. The sigils maintained a dim, smoky grey-blue light here at all times; it was just enough to allow him to make out the cobbles of the circular floor and the rough stones of the walls that curved up to meet at a great, ornately carved plaster boss above. After a short while he began to move, stripping off his robes to leave himself wearing only a ragged loincloth. From a pocket of the discarded garments he produced flints and tinder. Sitting down on the cold floor with his legs crossed in front of him and his knees high, he made a neat little pile of the tinder and set to work with the flints. Soon his labours were rewarded by a thin coil of smoke, and then a timorous flame. The small fire would rapidly die if he didn't supply it with further fuel.

The Rotting Land // 71 He closed his eyes and allowed his mind to roam unfettered. His hands he held out in front of him, with their palms upward. He was seeking fuel for his fire ... His arms dropped suddenly as a log appeared on his upturned palms. He opened his eyes and looked at the wood: it was old, and had long rotted to dusty dryness. This was an old fear, one that would surely affect him but little now that he was in his early prime of manhood. He smiled, feeling more confident in himself than he had at any time during the past few days, and eased the log forward onto the heap of smouldering tinder. For just a second it looked as if the fuel might not catch, and he frowned; but then there was a reassuring glow of orange light from its underside, and he relaxed. Before a minute had passed there was a flame rearing up above the log, a flame composed of many colours – blues and pinks, greens and oranges and greys, like the light of the morning sky in the minutes before the Sun dawns. He leaned forward and watched intently. The flame took the shape of a dark-brown rat, rearing up on its haunches, its small front legs crossed under its long chin. The delicate whiskers to either side of its petite pink nose quivered; its black eyes were fixed on Banedon's face. A triangle of yellow-brown teeth showed as the creature raised its head a little higher so that it could examine Banedon more clearly. Its silhouette was lined by sparkles of a piercingly bright blue, betraying the magical energies that the chamber's sigils were employing to reify the animal. Banedon felt his heart beginning to pump more swiftly, and his throat was suddenly as dry as if he hadn't taken a drop to drink for a week. His vision blurred, and the rapidly moving air in his nostrils stung. An old terror. While the fear mounted in him, his panicking mind beat against the walls of its prison, screaming at him that he should flee. He controlled its anxiety by forcing himself, as calmly as he was able, to try to remember why it was that the sight of this creature – which seemed more disposed to be friendly than otherwise – should raise such a savage horror in his heart. And then he had it. He is five years old, and the Brotherhood of the Crystal Star is not even a name to him. His parents live with himself and his two elder brothers in a croft less than a day's riding from Holmgard. Today he has been caught stealing bread from the pantry, and his mother has beaten him with a switch of birch until she has drawn blood from his backside: the harvest has been poor and there

The Rotting Land // 72 is barely enough food for his family to survive the imminent winter, so the punishment is not unduly harsh, given the severity of his crime. Not wishing to be seen by his brothers as he weeps in his misery and humiliation, he has crawled here, to the barn, and up the creaking stepladder to the loft, where he has often hidden before among the bales of fresh- and not-so-fresh smelling hay. He determines that he will stay here in this hiding-place until his mother – his cruel, cruel mother – believes that he is dead, and comes hunting for him, weeping her distress so that she discovers what it feels like to be sobbing as he is sobbing now. It never occurs to him that this is the first place the family will look ... He has just drawn himself clear of the square opening at the ladder's top, and is beginning to pull up his breeches, which have been around his ankles all this while, when he hears a noise from among the gloomy shapes to his left. He stops, motionless, his fingers midway through the act of tying a knot. He hears the noise again. The light is poor, here in the loft. It is a grey day, with ponderous clouds filling most of the sky; the weak sunlight that penetrates through the knotholes and other gaps in the roof is barely enough to allow him to see his own limbs, let alone make out clearly his surroundings. There could be a murderer among the bales – a murderer of small boys. Banedon has heard his parents talking about such men: they beat small boys viciously, and assault them in some way that he doesn't understand but knows instinctively to be unspeakably filthy and painful, and then they subject them to painful and lingering deaths ... There is certainly one of those monsters in the loft with him. He knows it with every fibre of his being. And he's too frightened to move, too frightened even to scream the alarm. Each moment may be his last, so he tries to savour it – he doesn't want to waste it by succumbing to his terror. The thudding of his heart is louder than any other noise he has ever heard. Then, into a pale shaft of sunlight, a rat leaps. For a split second it is as astonished as he is. It freezes, facing him, resting back on its haunches, preparing to spring at him should he show the first sign of attacking it. Then it is gone, and all that are left of it are his bright memories and the furtive yet swift rustles it makes as it burrows its way towards some secure place of concealment. The child has wet the straw all around him. His nostrils are filled with the stench of his own excrement, and the stuff slithers hotly – but unnoticed – on the tender skin of his buttocks as he squirms down through the hole in the floor and – no time for the ladder! – drops dizzyingly down to land in a breathless, painful heap on the barn's clay floor. That's where his mother discovers him, scant minutes later. Unconcerned by the mess he is making of her dress, she pulls him to her breast

The Rotting Land // 73 and croons to him, hugging him tightly, until the colour at last returns to his face and his sobs no longer threaten to tear his throat open. His mind blanks out the short period of total fear – blanks it out completely until, two decades later, he calls upon the magic of this chamber to deliver up to him his most deeply rooted terrors so that he may use them as fuel for the fire, and so burn them out of his being ... Outside, beyond the walls of the womb-like Cell of Contemplation, the day wore steadily on, with the Brothers going about their business in an atmosphere of quiet reverence, marking the final departure from among them of their Guildmaster after his decades-long rule over them. The Sun rose towards its zenith, then slowly began the long climb down through the other arch of the sky towards Toran's ragged horizon. Within the chamber, silent except for the chugging of the fire and from time to time the wrenched torment of Banedon's breathing, the Magemaster consigned his fears, one by one, to the flames. It was night when he finally left the cell. It stank of stale smoke and of his own involuntary excretions; he would return in the morning to clean it and reflect upon the fact that, for all his powers and his authority over his fellow members of the Brotherhood, he was no less a fallible mortal than his five-year-old self had been. It was only after he had closed the door behind him that he realized that, among the many humbling dreads which he had spent the day confronting, there had not been Vonotar. # "I don't know," said Lone Wolf, turning. He reached down to where the necromancer's book lay covered in the dusty ashes of burnt spiders. "Hot stuff you bet," said Paido with a grin, making a great show of licking his lips. He seemed to have been far less affected be Trost's death than Lone Wolf had. That's one of the advantages of being of the Elder Magi, he thought sourly as his fingers touched the blackened leather cover. You're far more sanguine that death is nothing more than a staging-post between two forms of life. The thought was jolted from the mind by the sensation the book transmitted to his fingertips as they brushed it. He sprang back with an oath, shaking his arm. "What's the matter?" said Paido, his hand streaking instinctively for his sword-hilt.

The Rotting Land // 74 "The book," said Lone Wolf, still trembling from the shock of dark magic that had shot up his arm. "The book's Evil – I can feel it." "Are there wards on it?" "No – it's unguarded. I'll pick it up in a moment. I wasn't prepared for the energy-release, that's all. It's nothing much." His face felt clammy and cold. Paido was studying him anxiously. He was becoming, now that he thought about it, fed up of Paido studying him anxiously: he seemed to have received a lifetime's supply of solicitude from the Vakeros in the past couple of days. He growled angrily. Paido retreated a step, looking nervous. Slowly and watchfully, Lone Wolf squatted down and reached out to touch the book again. This time he was ready for the necromantic discharge, and it felt to him like no more than a vaguely unpleasant tingle. Confident now, he picked the book up and opened it. The pages were, he discovered on examining them more closely, made not of parchment but of silvery metal beaten so fine that it was more flexible than the best paper. Gingerly he turned over the leaves. They were covered in tightly formed, ornate curlicues of script etched into the metal – or so he could see out of the corners of his eyes: when he looked directly at any of the pages the outlandish script shimmered tantalizingly into nothingness, remaining frustratingly just beyond the range of his vision. He tried to read some of the characters sidelong, but it was no use: as if they were in some way hooked up to his mind, they seemed to recognize whenever his attention was on them and fade out of visibility accordingly. "What's it say?" asked Paido shyly, clearing expecting to get his head bitten off. "I can't tell you," said Lone Wolf thoughtfully, his brief anger forgotten for the moment. He turned the book over a couple of times in his hands, held one of the pages up to the lamplight in the hope that he might be able to see the marks of the script locked within the centre of the thin metal – but without success. "A grimoire of some kind, at a guess. Kezoor may have left no wards on this, but he certainly had no intention of letting anyone but himself be able to make any sense out of it. There's some type of magic being used here that seems totally unlike anything I've ever come across – it's as alien, in its way, as the Nadziranim's right-handed sorcery, but it's weirdly different even from that. It's Evil, though – I can sense that much: pure Evil. If there were any way I knew I'd suggest we destroy it, but ..."

The Rotting Land // 75 "What's that?" said Paido. Something had fluttered down from the opening at the book's spine. Lone Wolf stooped. On the floor lay a tiny shred of parchment – ordinary parchment this time, let Ishir be praised, rather than the beaten metal. He picked it up and flattened it against the cover of the closed book. The characters scrawled on it were nothing like the etched ones in the grimoire: they were angular, their lines seeming to depict a sort of savage hatred. They were maddeningly familiar to him, and yet he couldn't quite place the language ... "We wish to give your companion a decent burial, afore his body begins to stink the place out – which it'd do fast in this muggy weather," said the barge skipper, who had been going through Trost's clothing and baggage searching for identification papers as well as items that his survivors might wish to keep in memory of him. "Some of my lads knew him well, as did some of the passengers. It seems he was a man of good repute: he deserves a decent farewell." And this book could do with drowning, thought Lone Wolf. He jammed the piece of parchment into his pocket – he could have another try at reading it later – and turned to help Paido and the skipper lift Trost, still shrouded in Paido's brightly coloured travel blanket. Once they had carried the corpse up on deck, treating it with all due respect and solemnity, Lone Wolf made an excuse to retreat to the stern of the craft. Looking down into the Phoen's churning waters, he thought of what a long way he was from home. He raised his head and gazed around at the rain-greyed fields on either bank of the river. Talestria was as good a land as any, and better than many, yet it seemed so far to have reserved its worst faces for him. Bloody barges, he thought. They always bring me trouble ... With a spit of contempt he hurled the accursed book out across the choppy surface. It made a far bigger splash than it should have. When he returned along the narrow deck to join the others he discovered that the crew had discovered a long wooden chest somewhere on board and were laying Trost out in it. They had pulled the blanket back from his hideously distorted face, and had placed his sword on his breast. Lone Wolf looked down at the man and wished that he had something suitable to hand – a fistful of earth or a wreath of flowers – that he could toss on the blanket by way of farewell; all he could offer Trost's memory was a short but sincere prayer to Ishir that he accept the soldier's soul into her arms.

The Rotting Land // 76 He turned away, unaccustomed tears in his eyes. He didn't even know if Trost had believed in Ishir's existence. # With all the delays, it was close to sunset by the time they came within sight of Tharro. Lone Wolf had spent much of the remainder of the day leaning on the barge's rail, scorning the rain, watching Talestria slowly passing him by. The ghorkas had found the churned mud of the towpath heavy going, and even despite vicious whipping by the bargees – vicious enough that at one point Lone Wolf had intervened to pretest at the cruelty – they had made slow progress. There had been only one halt, at a hamlet even smaller than Honey Lodge; a pair of farmers had disembarked there but, to Lone Wolf's very considerable relief, no one had boarded. Paido had tried, intermittently, to make small talk, but Lone Wolf had rejected his advances: he felt too irritable in the Vakeros's presence right now to want to chat with him. In the end Paido had huffily retreated to a position at the prow, where he had watched the Talestrian plains alone, thinking his own thoughts and doubtless fuming over Lone Wolf's rudeness. At one point a flock of okrils had flown overhead. With their long, questing necks and their honking cries, the birds had spoken to Lone Wolf of freedom – of a kind of freedom that he himself would never enjoy until the last tool of Darkness had been expunged from the face of Magnamund. Their departure from his sight had left a bitter taste in his mouth. At first, in the distance, Tharro looked like nothing more than an oddly shaped slagheap. As they came closer, however, Lone Wolf could discern that the illusion had been caused by the streaky colours of the stone from which the city's tall, massive and crenellated walls were built: they were the colours of river mud freshly exposed after years under water – brown and sickly grey and an astonishingly bright dark green. The centuries-old Tharro had been constructed on a small hill and the walls built around the hill's base; as the barge moved lazily towards the city Lone Wolf imagined that he could, despite the persistent rain, smell the city's antiquity. The river's path took it sweeping past the city. Some little way south of the walls there was a lock, where a canal diverged from the main course to lead to a jetty directly in front of the main gates, beneath which the canal itself appeared to continue. Lone Wolf, bearded chin cupped in hand, looked at this arrangement with incredulity during the delay while the lock filled: even a child

The Rotting Land // 77 could have said that the set-up was strategically insane; the city would fall to siege within hours rather than days or weeks. The reigns of the various Kings Varnos and Queens Evaine must indeed have been relatively tranquil ones if the Talestrians were still so innocent of the elements of modern warfare. He shivered, and not from the cold or wet: their naïveté boded ill for their future, should the Ogians and their allies, the Drakkarim, be permitted to invade the country in full force. The barge passed wearily under a stout wooden bridge, supported by rough-hewn pillars of stone, and glided to a halt at the jetty, seeming to be eager to rest itself after its long day's journeying. Lone Wolf knew how it felt. His spirits improved a little once he was back astride his horse. The grey stallion was nowhere near as sensitive to his needs as his beloved Reason for Coming Back, but it was enough for him to feel the powerful muscles beneath him once more; he'd detested barges before, thanks to the pirates on the Storn River, but now his loathing for the vessels knew no bounds. The guards at the two huge, heavy, metal-bound city gates were frankly hostile at first, but the pass that Adamas had given Lone Wolf and Paido worked with more efficacy and considerably greater speed than many a magic charm, and soon the pair of them were riding through the gateway into a broad, neglected-looking square. "Map first or lodgings first?" said Lone Wolf glumly, knowing what Paido's answer would be. "Map, of course," said Paido, looking puzzled. "Then we'll have a few hours to study it before we sleep. The day's still not over, after all." Lone Wolf fervently wished that it were. Already his good cheer was evaporating: the events of the day had exhausted even his Kai abilities, so that he had no wish to draw upon them to refresh his jaded body unless he had to. What he wanted to do right now was sit down in front of a roaring hearth, eat and drink too much, and then fall face-first into a clean, comfortable bed. A bath wouldn't be a bad idea, either. But Paido was right – depressingly so. He squinted through the drizzle at the fresh-seeming Vakeros and snarled his acquiescence. There were few citizens out in the open, but at last an elderly man appeared tugging a small, fat, yappy dog on its leash. Paido asked him for directions to the best mapmaker in town, and about twenty minutes later they were walking the horses across another and much smaller square. Paido stared disbelievingly at a

The Rotting Land // 78 narrow, sordid-seeming alley that cut between two rows of gaunt, windowless buildings. "That chap said this was the way," he grumbled, wrinkling his nose, "but surely it can't ..." Lone Wolf tapped him on the shoulder and pointed wordlessly towards a small yellow sign perched on the angle of the walls. There was no writing on it: merely a stylized compass. "You're right, I suppose," muttered Paido. "That's what you'd call an unsubtle hint that we might indeed be on the right track." The alley was narrow enough that they had to hitch the horses to a lamp-pole in the square and, even on foot, keep to single file, Lone Wolf leading Paido, both of them keeping a wary eye out to all sides in case of attackers. There were broken bottles, chewed bones, fruit peelings, dog turds and worse underfoot; Lone Wolf wondered what in the world had persuaded the best cartographer in all Tharro to set up his establishment in such a downtrodden place. In due course, however, the alley broadened out to become a moderately sized street, lined on either side by prosperous-looking shops. Most of them were lowering their shutters, and Lone Wolf began to wonder if they had come here on a fool's quest – if they'd discover the mapmaker's shop closed. Then, his imaginings went on, they'd find that their diversion had taken long enough that all the available lodgings in the city would be already purchased for the night, so that they ... He was building up to a fine fury – primarily with Paido, who was nearest – when they noticed that, just round a gentle curve in the street, there was at least one shop still open, light pouring out onto the pavement from its window and its open doors. "That'll be it," said Paido cheerfully, earning himself a scowl from Lone Wolf. "Will it? Hmmf." As they came closer to the pool of light he squinted up at a sign hung from the wrought-iron balcony above the shop-front, and at last he could make it out: RHOLA RHADA – MAPMAKER Rhola Rhada proved to be an attractive young woman with long, jet-black hair woven into a single plait that adorned her back in a thick rope almost to her waist. Lone Wolf, who had been expecting a creased old scribe, stared at her first with admiration and then

The Rotting Land // 79 with something close to shock: just for a moment there he could have sworn that ... But no. Her eyes and figure and hair had much in common with those of the Nameless Woman, but this was not she. Rhola Rhada saw the twinge of disappointment in his face and clearly misread it, for she began to treat them with an offended formality, giving Paido curt responses to his various queries not just about maps but also about the various items of hunting and scouting gear heaped on the shelves that lined three sides of the shops interior. "We came for maps, not for knives or billycans," Lone Wolf muttered embarrassedly to the Vakeros. "I choose to have the time to deal with your friend's questions," Rhola Rhada snapped. Paido looked at him, aware that something was going on between the two of them but not knowing what it was. "Have you two met before?" he at last said. "No," they said simultaneously. Taking a deep breath, conscious of how lame it might sound, Lone Wolf continued: "But I've met someone who looks very her ... er, like you." She sniffed – not contemptuously, Lone Wolf suddenly realized, but because something was distressing her. "Have I off ...?" "Be quiet, Lone Wolf," said Paido. He moved around to the back of the counter. Rhola Rhada was leaning forward with her black-gloved hands on the flat top, her head bowed. Paido cautiously put an arm around her trembling shoulders. "What's the problem?" murmured Paido. The woman turned her head so that it was resting between his head and his shoulder, and began to cry in earnest. Yet more of his blasted solicitude! thought Lone Wolf. It's enough to make a man's stomach curdle! To hide his anger he turned away and began noisily to examine an assortment of differently shaped tentpegs. One or two of them were in a style that he'd never encountered before, and he scrutinized them closely, trying to work out their advantages. He had more or less decided to purchase a couple of them as potentially useful items for his backpack when a change in the pitch of Rhola Rhada's sobbing made him turn back. The woman was sitting on a low, backless stool, her face once more in her gloved hands; Paido was kneeling beside her, looking earnestly at the moist backs of her fingers, and murmuring to her soothingly. "We came for a map, not to fill our watersk ...!" Lone Wolf began angrily, but Paido waved him to silence. And besides, as all this wasted time trickles away, so do our chances of finding lodgings for the night!

The Rotting Land // 80 At last the cartographer raised her tear-crumpled face. "You mock me, stranger," she said accusingly to Lone Wolf, fixing him with red eyes. "Someone has put you up to this – someone who dislikes the thought of a young woman plying an old man's trade. I've had complaints before, but I never thought that any of the blockheads around here would be so cruel as to taunt me thus!" "What in the name of the Dark God are you talking about?" said Lone Wolf. He stared back at her in a mixture of fury and complete bewilderment. "All I said was that you briefly reminded me of somebody! At the moment all you remind me of is a ..." Paido glowered at him, and he subsided. "Tell us what's the matter," he said gently to the woman. "My friend meant you no ill." "My sister," she said, beginning to weep afresh. "He can only mean my sister – yet she has been dead these years, along with my father. Now there is only me left – my mother died when Betta and I were only children – she was trying to be kind to a crippled ghorka stray and it savaged her, inflicting on her a disease that made her slowly waste away – but I've tried to keep the shop going in memory of all the work that my father did – he was a better cartographer than I will ever be, despite his withered arm – and some of the people around here have been so nasty about it, saying I should have married instead and had babies – but my sister's dead and this uncouth barbarian is teasing me by pretending that he knew her – and ..." She paused for breath. "I assure you," said Paido reasonably, "that my friend had no intentions of hurting you. He did not say that it was your sister he'd known – just that he'd met someone who looked a little like you. Don't you think you're being ...?" She pushed him away. "You're as bad as he is!" she spat. Lone Wolf raised his eyes heavenwards. "Look, blast it all!" he shouted. "All we came for was a map of the Danarg Swamp! If you don't have one, then kindly just tell us so and we'll be on our way!" For some reason this gave rise to an even louder burst of wailing. "The ... Danarg ... Swamp," she said between sobs. "Now I know that you're toying with me maliciously! Go away! Get out of my sight! Leave my shop at once, before I call for the constable!" "Certainly!" said Lone Wolf. He made for the door. "Come on, Paido, we've got better things to do than hang around listening to this garbage."

The Rotting Land // 81 Paido was looking at him strangely. Lone Wolf vaguely wondered why, but the question vanished from his mind almost before he'd finished thinking it. He was halfway out of the shop, mouthing oaths to himself about the unpredictability and general cussedness of women, when he was arrested by a further cry from Rhola Rhada: "You cannot deny it! If you had not been sent by someone local to deride me, you would not have known that it was the Danarg Swamp that claimed the lives of my dear father and my beloved sister!" "Was it now?" said Lone Wolf. He crossed the shop and leant against the counter, regarding her sternly. "You must tell us more of this. For it is to the Danarg Swamp that we are bound, and it was in the Danarg Swamp that I last saw the woman whose face yours recalled to me." Paido stared at him. "You've never been to the Swamp in all your ..." he began. This time it was Lone Wolf's turn to gesture the Vakeros angrily to silence. "I'll explain later," he muttered harshly. "For the moment, I need to know more about this young woman's sister – and father, come to that – and of how they met their ends. If indeed they did." "With my own eyes I saw my father die," said Rhola Rhada through tight lips. At least she seemed finally to have brought her convulsive weeping under some sort of control. "He was seized by a monstrous Agarashi – it was at night, as the three of us were lighting a campfire – except Betta wasn't, she was off looking for wood, or something, if you see what I mean – and anyway the beast broke into the clearing and it grabbed my father in its huge jaws, with its huge teeth – and I was, curse my soul still to this day, too terrified to do anything except watch – and then it broke him right in half, tearing his belly out of him, and dropped him where it was – and I was still absolutely motionless so that's maybe why it didn't seem to realize that I was there, even though it was close enough for the froth of its maw to splash me, because it just turned with my father's blood and guts still dripping from its cruel leather jaws and stomped off into the jungle after my sister and I heard the thrash of the branches as it struck and then she screamed once, twice, a third time, a long long third time in her agony and at the end of her screaming I knew she was dead." Her eyes were wide, as if she were seeing the hideous scene all over again, reliving the events of that nightmarish night. "Yet you did not see her die?" said Lone Wolf. He took her roughly by the shoulders. Paido moved in protest. "Tell me

The Rotting Land // 82 straight: you did not see her die? It is important to me that I know this!" "Have a heart," said Paido. Lone Wolf ignored his tone of quiet reproof. "Tell me!" "I ... no, I did not see her die. But dead she is, for all that. No one could have survived that beast's fury ... no one could have screamed like that unless they were dying ..." She began to sob again, wrenching her shoulders out of Lone Wolf's grip as she hunched forward and covered her face. Lone Wolf stalked over to the shop's many-paned window and looked out into the almost deserted street. A tramp staggered by, warily eyed Lone Wolf through the glass for a moment, and then continued on his way. Lone Wolf saw his own reflection's blank stare, but hardly registered it. His mind was in a turmoil. It was surely asking too much of coincidence – or Fate, call it what you will – to believe that it could have guided him here to the sister of the woman whose identity had been for so long puzzling him. And yet ... and yet, the resemblance between the two women was more than just a fleeting one. He'd have been less convinced had Rhola Rhada's appearance been closer to that of the Nameless Woman, because that could have been something easily explained away by chance; instead, despite the similarities, her face was sufficiently different, sufficiently itself, that he was more than prepared to believe the two women were indeed sisters. And the cartographer had said that she'd last seen her sister in the Danarg Swamp – which was where, through that dream in Paido's guest room in Elzian, Lone Wolf had last seen the Nameless Woman. He realized he was breathing in short, rapid puffs; he drew on his Kai abilities to calm himself. All right, admit that the chances are reasonable ... but no more than that. Don't go assuming that two coincidences add up to make a certainty. Convince yourself that there's nothing in it, and then you can have a pleasant surprise should it prove to be the truth of the matter ... He turned back. Paido was once more bent over the woman. "You still haven't told us whether or not you have a map of the Danarg Swamp," he said curtly. "That's what we came for, after all." Paido started an angry exclamation, but stopped short. He glared at Lone Wolf, as if he would gladly beat him. "Well, tell us, woman," Lone Wolf continued. "No," she wailed. "No – I left all of our sketch-maps and notes with the rest of our stuff as I fled. I was more concerned with saving my life than ..."

The Rotting Land // 83 "A blasted nuisance!" spat Lone Wolf. "Why couldn't you have – ?" "Silence, Lone Wolf!" roared Paido. He sprang from his position beside Rhola Rhada and seized Lone Wolf by the collar. "By Ishir I swear that unless you stop acting like this I'll throw you right through that window! What in the name of Naar has got into you?" Lone Wolf's fists clenched. He snarled into Paido's straining face. "Unhand me, you Dessi scum!" Paido's eyes narrowed. "I gave my word to Rimoah – and to the rest of my brethren of the Elder Magi. Were it not for that fact, Lone Wolf, I would leave you here to go search the secrets of the Danarg Swamp alone! Ever since ..." His voice trailed off, and his face altered its expression. "We'll discuss this further anon," he muttered urgently, releasing Lone Wolf. "There are things afoot here that ..." "But I can remember much of what I saw there," interposed Rhola Rhada coolly, having restored her composure and her face during the outburst. "About thirty miles beyond the track that leads out of Syada towards the swampland there's a last outpost of dry land, a hill the people there call the Scarlet Tor for the ranks of cartleflowers that bloom there in the Spring. It's only a few hundred feet high, but from its ridge you can look out over the steaming jungle for miles. Betta and my father and I did that two days before" – she set her jaw determinedly – "two days before they were killed by the Agarashi. We could see far enough to know that, somewhere in the middle of all that poisonous greenery, there's a building of some sort, set in an isolated garden, as if a sorcerer had blasted a clear space in the jungle. We saw its walls shine in the sunlight like crystal prisms. It ..." "The Temple of Ohrido!" Lone Wolf snapped triumphantly. "That must have been what you saw! There can't be two such buildings in the swamp!" "It looked as if it might be a temple," said Rhola Rhada cautiously. "It was a long way away." "This ... this `Scarlet Tor' you mention – it's easy enough to find from the road out of Syada, you say?" She looked up at Lone Wolf, her eyes frank. "Yes, it is. Assuming you know the right course to take out of Syada. There are several. You could ask directions from one of the locals, of course, but if your manners towards them are as your manners towards me, then I doubt that any will tell you." Lone Wolf felt his cheeks and eyes bulge. "I'll have you know that ..."

The Rotting Land // 84 "Hush, Lone Wolf. Hush," said Paido, mollifying him with a gesture. "I think I know what Rhola Rhada is trying to propose to us." He looked at her earnestly. "You're sure about this?" he said. "You've made up your mind?" "Yes," she replied simply. "I have." "What are you two yakking about?" said Lone Wolf. Paido turned again to face him. "Our friend Rhola Rhada wishes to accompany us," he said. "I can understand her reasons – the deaths of her father and sister, and her flight from the scene, are old ghosts that need exorcizing. If she is to perform that exorcism – if she is to sweep those restless spirits from her mind – then she must return to face the Danarg Swamp in person: she must prove to herself that she has the courage to do so. It's not as simple as that, perhaps, but that's why she wants to come with us." "Just what we need!" exclaimed Lone Wolf. "As if our mission weren't difficult and dangerous enough already, now we've got to lumber ourselves with a blasted woman! We can cook our own suppers, Paido, can't we?" Paido's forehead knitted. It was clear even to Lone Wolf that he was controlling his temper with some difficulty. Then the Vakeros's eyes dropped. "I told you we'd have to discuss things later, in private," he mumbled rapidly, as if to himself. "We're equal partners in this venture, Lone Wolf," he said more loudly. "I cast my vote in favour of recruiting Rhola Rhada's aid. It's not just that she can guide us to the Scarlet Tor – she knows more about the Danarg Swamp from personal experience than we could learn from a score of maps. As to her other abilities ... well, I didn't hear you say anything about Petra being no good except for canteen duties before you and she went together into Kazan-Oud." Lone Wolf's mind was scoured by a freezing wind. His hand crept, unbidden, towards the Sommerswerd's hilt at his belt. "If you rake up old bones again, my friend," he hissed, "you will soon be nothing but old bones yourself." "Really?" said Paido with an easy calm that betrayed how far his temper had frayed. "You, with your Kai lore and the advantage of what we have taught you, are so powerful as to threaten me? Well, understand it, Lone Wolf: what we taught you was but a fraction of the magic we know." He waved his hand loosely, and something invisible struck Lone Wolf forcefully across the jaw, first one way then the other, so that his vision blurred and his teeth rocked in their sockets. "I tell you," Paido added quietly, "since you're unwilling to debate the subject reasonably, Lone Wolf, that Rhola Rhada will be accompanying us." "You –"

The Rotting Land // 85 "Silence, Lone Wolf! Silence, I say!" Fingering his bruised mouth warily, Lone Wolf lapsed into furious silence. I'll see myself revenged upon that smug, complacent Dessi pig if it's the last thing I ... "We'll leave tomorrow," Paido was saying to Rhola Rhada, who had been watching all this with something maddeningly close to amusement. "By then my companion will perhaps have recovered himself sufficiently to act like a rational human being. You have a horse?" She nodded. "Then have it and supplies enough for yourself for a week ready to depart an hour after dawn. Bring weapons, too, if you have any." "I have a sling," she said. "I'm a fine shot with my sling. And I trained as an auxiliary archer in the army of Queen Evaine. I would have been called up for active service before now had it not been for this ..." She peeled the black dyed-calfskin glove from her right hand and stretched out her fingers for them both to see. Across the back of her hand and up to her first knuckles was a mass of sickly pink, shiny scar tissue. Paido sucked in his breath sharply. "I told you," she said. "Some of the foam from the Agarashi's jaws spattered across me. Most of it hit my clothing, but some of it caught my hand. It was like acid, corroding away the flesh before my very eyes as I watched. I had to grab up a burning branch from the fire and cauterize the wound, to burn the acid out as well as the affected flesh, before I could trust myself to flee that place." Lone Wolf was impressed, despite himself. "How long before you were able to take it to a physician?" he said. She grunted, amused. "You don't go to physicians in the northern territories if you value your life," she said. "The healing arts are in a primitive state in those regions. I waited until I'd trekked back here to Tharro and then treated it myself. I have some knowledge of herbs, thank Ishir. A poultice of rootbladder and mock-oede took much of the sting away, and a nightly tisane of prenticeshoe and kineflop helped the wound heal." Lone Wolf nodded, and glanced at Paido. The Vakeros grinned back at him. "I almost forgot to mention," said Rhola Rhada carelessly, rolling the soft leather of the glove back over her unsightly hand, "in the matter of weapons I have some little proficiency also with the cutlass, the cross-staff, the pike, the broadsword, the morningstar and the garotte. A cartographer's shop," she added primly, "can on occasion be a rowdier place than you might imagine."

The Rotting Land // 86 Paido's grin was becoming dangerously broad. Lone Wolf scowled at him. "Oh, let her come, then," he said. "And lets get out of here – in case you've forgotten, we've still to find ourselves some lodgings for the night ... and the night's already well under way." "We meet again at dawn," said Paido to Rhola Rhada, pulling himself back up to his full height. "Can you tell us where might ...?" "There will be no lodgings to be had in Tharro this night," said Rhola Rhada demurely. She was looking up at the tall Vakeros with brightly inquisitive eyes. "I have a spare room in my apartments above the shop, but" – she shrugged – "with your friend in his present mood, I can hardly trust him not to smash the place up." "He's not always such a wild animal as this," said Paido, putting a hand on her shoulder, "but I accept your point. Besides, we would not wish to compromise your virtue ..." "It's not my virtue I'm worried about," she said tartly, "it's my furnishings." "... or whatever," said Paido. "Is there no tavern that might take us in, or at least let us shelter in an outhouse? We'd as soon not have to sleep in the streets." She thought for a moment. "There's a religious establishment about half a mile from here," she said. "The Brotherhood of the Sword. I've heard tell that they take in travellers sometimes. You may find that they'll wish to pound your ears with sermons, but ..." She shrugged again. "They may not have room for two, of course. If your friend" – her accent on the word was becoming more sarcastic with each use, Lone Wolf noted sourly – "would like to lodge with the monks, I could offer my spare room to you." "I thank you for your kindness," said Paido firmly, "but we stick together, he and I. He guards my back and I guard his: together we can fight off a troop of swordsmen. Also, there is much I wish to talk with him about before we find our sleep this night. If you could tell me the way to this Brotherhood of the Sword?" "Temple," she said. "Their monastery's called the Temple of the Sword. And I can do better than just tell you. Let no one say you entered Rhola Rhada's shop and went away without a map!" A few minutes later, having followed her fingers on the map of Tharro that she'd given them and having confirmed their arrangements for the morrow – they were to meet her outside the shop – they were leading their horses away from the shop, up a gentle hill. There were few other pedestrians in the street. The dark air smelt of woodsmoke and roasting food. The sky was

The Rotting Land // 87 clouded, but Ishir was occasionally showing her silver face through the haze and the glow of Tharro's streetlights. Lone Wolf sensed that there would be rain later. "Paido," he said brusquely as they passed darkened shop windows, "you've muttered more than once this past hour or two that you have something to discuss with me. Well, out with it! I can't stand a man who keeps things to himself." "You don't seem able to stand many of your fellow human beings just at the moment, Lone Wolf," said Paido softly, his breath showing in the dim light of a flickering streetlamp. "Haven't you noticed?" "I've never been one to suffer fools gladly," growled Lone Wolf. "And I seem to have encountered more than my share of fools this day." "Me included?" "Too right. I can't think what's come over you. Back there in that silly wench's shop you were ... ah, I see what it is. No wonder you were so all-fired keen for her to accompany us. You have designs to –" He stopped in his tracks. His horse, unknowing, kept plodding onwards. Lone Wolf ignored its jerk on the reins as it pulled up short a few paces ahead of him. "You'd run the risk of jeopardizing our quest for the sake of a doxy! That's what it is! You buffoon, Paido! You complete and utter ... !" "That's what I've been talking about. No" – Paido gestured in irritation – "nothing to do with any designs I might have on Rhola Rhada, though she's a handsome enough woman, despite her hand. Maybe in part because of it. What I'm trying to get at is the way you've been so surly since we left the barge – more than just surly: outright offensive. Back there in the shop you were cruel and callous beyond any sanity. It was as if you were determined to pick a fight with somebody – anybody. I think any man other than myself would likely have brained you. Even before that ..." "You want a fight, is that what you're saying?" said Lone Wolf tightly, his eyes narrow. "Why don't you just come right out and say so? Are you too much of a coward – huh? D'you plan to wait until you can creep up behind me and stab me in the back? Hmm? Come on! Tell me if that's what you plan! You blasted Dessi are all like that – treacherous –" He was silenced by a blow on the mouth that lifted him clear off his feet and hammered him back against a shop wall. As he slithered down the rough-hewn stone he was buffeted again and again about the body, as if someone were using his ribcage as a punchbag. By the time he was sitting, slouched, at the wall's foot his consciousness was a muzzy and uncertain thing.

The Rotting Land // 88 "That feels a lot better," he heard Paido say. He forced open one eye and looked up at the tall figure of the Vakeros, who was clenching and unclenching his right hand in the air. "I may have shattered several fingers – it certainly hurts as if I have – but by the light of Ishir it was worth it to deliver that first blow to you direct. You've had it coming to you!" Lone Wolf mumbled something. He wondered what it was. His mouth felt as if somebody had blocked it up with dry earth. He saw a drop of blood land on the front of his tunic. "But let it not be said," said Paido with mock piety, "that I finally lost my temper and landed you one, as you'd been so richly deserving. Rather let it be recognized that I was acting purely in your own interests. Lone Wolf, have you started coming to your senses yet?" Lone Wolf had rarely felt further from them. Again he tried to speak; again the words sounded like porridge. He wished some Tharran would come by and rescue him from the mercies of this madman that Paido had become. But the street was empty and silent apart from the horses' snorting breathing and a strange bubbly sound which he eventually realized was issuing from his own lips. "I think you've ... done me ... permanent damage ..." he managed to say through his mangled mouth. "Nothing I can't heal in due course," said Paido. "Tell me, have you begun to recognize how vilely you've been acting since we came ashore?" "I don't know what you mean." Lone Wolf thought that if he could just place his hands firmly flat on the paving-stones and push himself half-upright ... but the trouble was that the paving-stones wouldn't stay still: they seemed to be rocking gently from side to side as if they were floating on the surface of some viscous liquid. "The book," said Paido wearily. "You remember the necromancer's blasted book?" "Yes." Of course he remembered the book. Did Paido think that a mere sock on the jaw was enough to scramble his brains entirely? "Threw it off the back end of the barge. Drowned its Evil. It'll trouble us no more." "Ever since you handled that book," said Paido, "it's been as if there's a mindless, brute rage growing inside you. You've been wanting to strike out – to hurt something. Nothing's been right for you. Everybody's been an idiot except yourself – that's how you've been acting. Something from the book – some Evil – must have leaked through to you, even though you did no more than turn the

The Rotting Land // 89 pages. This is how I imagine Darklords must be like all the time, not Kai Lords!" "Don't know what you're talking about." By propping his back against the wall and forcing his legs to straighten out ... but his legs didn't want to straighten out. He subsided again, for the moment. "I set sentinel spells about the book so that it couldn't harm me. No Evil could have survived the journey past those guardian ensorcelments." "Yes, but that was only after you'd touched it the first time," said Paido intently. "You reached out and put your fingertips to it, and then you leapt back as though you'd scalded yourself. I remember it quite clearly. Then you swore a bit, and it was only then that you took any precautions. Think back, man! Can't you recall for yourself what happened? Can't you?" Lone Wolf tried. He could remember reaching out towards the black grimoire where it lay on the floor, surrounded and partly covered by oily ashes. And he could remember leafing through its pages, and watching the script on those pages as it flowed away furtively from his gaze. But of the interim he could remember little or nothing – as though that section of his mind had been wiped clean. He shook his head to try to clear it. The fog receded a little from his eyes. My mind wouldn't have mopped part of itself clean. Something else must have done that. Maybe Paido's right ... And maybe he's right, too, about the way I've been biting everybody's head off today. It was more or less from the moment that the grimoire stung me that the world suddenly seemed to have become very full of dunderheads. Rhola Rhada ... she's no dunderhead and yet I was treating her like one, and telling her she was useless for anything else but cooking just because she's a woman. What a bizarre criterion on which to judge a person – like that chap in the tunnels under Kazan-Oud did, what's his name? You're going to have to face it, Lone Wolf old pal: Paido's got it dead to rights on this particular issue ... "Wait a minute," he said. "Gimme a minute. There are things I can do – ways I can call for help that you maybe don't fully appreciate." "Your Gestalt selves." "Yes, Paido. But just knowing what they are doesn't tell you what they're like ... or what they can do. Stay where you are, guard me there – just for a minute or two. I ... I owe you an apology ... and Rhola Rhada as well. I ..." He touched the pommel of the Sommerswerd and pleaded silently with its soulstuff to come forth and mix with his own. He knew only too well that couldn't be relied upon always to obey his whim – several times in the past it had declined to listen to his

The Rotting Land // 90 importunings, even when danger had loured all around him – but on this occasion it chose to come to his aid. He felt the bubbling clear strength of its soulstuff flow up the length of his arm to unite with his own. He hooded his eyes slowly, waiting for reality to reconform itself ... Lone Wolf, said Gwynian sternly, at last you've had the sense to open yourself to me. The old man was bathing in the rich, blood-brown waters of a mountain stream. Everywhere, except where the flow had cut through the ice, the slopes were shrouded in moraine-streaked glaciers. Lone Wolf felt the freezing air like tiny sword-blades against the skin of his face and arms. The gusting wind smelt oddly of polished metal. Gwynian seemed oblivious to the fact that this was anything other than a warm summer's day. "Couldn't we go somewhere else?" said Lone Wolf, shivering. Gwynian looked up at him in surprise. What's the matter? Surely the cold doesn't trouble you, does it? But remember, Lone Wolf, all this is happening in your mind – your surroundings aren't really here at all: they're just metaphor, just imagery. They can't affect you. "Come to that," Lone Wolf remarked, seeing his words froth up in front of him in the crystal-cold air, "you're just metaphor and imagery yourself, my friend, and yet you've been known to affect me pretty comprehensively yourself." The old man paused in the act of scrubbing his back and grinned frankly at Lone Wolf. You're right, you know, young fellow. You've reminded me that, while mere metaphor and imagery I may well be, at least I'm not just a wraith, a figment of your imaginings. That pleases me more than I can say: it's a joy to discover that I truly have an existence in my own right. "You said that you'd been pressing me to let you through to me," said Lone Wolf testily. If Gwynian were allowed to continue unchecked, he could spend hours – subjective hours, that is, not hours in the world's timescale – chattering on about all sorts of subjects which, while interesting in themselves, pertained not a whit to the matter in hand. Oh, yes. Thanks for reminding me. Look, you couldn't scratch my back for me, could you? Right there between my shoulderblades. I used to be able to reach that spot when I was a younger man, but age has made these ... "You never were a younger man, Gwynian. Remember?" said Lone Wolf, but he slid across the ice to the side of the stream and began to scrape his fingernails up and down the ancient's livermarked flesh. I had my moments, I can tell you. I just don't talk about them much to a young whippersnapper like ...

The Rotting Land // 91 "Gwynian!" A threatening growl. Ah. Ah, yes! That's the spot – precisely. Now, what was I trying to say to you before you interrupted me? Oh – I remember. Look, your friend Paido's right about what's happened to you. Kezoor's grimoire didn't have any defensive wards set about it, as you so correctly deduced at the time. The necromancer had, however, placed around it some rather more attacking spells. What shot into you wasn't anything physical – oh, a little harder, right t-h-e-r-e – like an electrical discharge: it was a bolt of right-handed magic that a Nadziran would have been proud to produce on a good night. Living right-handed magic: not just a pattern woven from the darkness so that it would disassemble itself mindlessly in order to achieve its desired effect, but a sentient construct, one that would adapt and evolve. It's inside you now. Lone Wolf recoiled in horror, and Gwynian looked pointedly at his hand. There's no need to stop tending to a poor old man just because he's telling you you're doomed! came the waspish thought. Talk about killing the messenger! Just ... "`Doomed'! What do you mean by that – `doomed'?" Well, just what I say, of course. Kezoor's living necromancy is so intimately interwoven with you now – mind and body alike – that there's no hope of your ever being able to extricate yourself from it. And not much time, either. The way the course of its corruption is progressing, you're liable to be dead by about this time tomorrow – Magnamund's tomorrow, I mean. That is, if someone hasn't killed you by then, which is highly likely, considering as you're currently being even more obnoxious than usual ... "You mean, I'm going to die!" Ignoring Gwynian's protests, Lone Wolf leapt to his feet and began to stride backwards and forwards, punching the fist of one hand into the palm of another. After a few moments his foot slipped on the ice and he sat down suddenly, jarring his spine. "I can't die! The future of Magnamund depends on my staying alive! I mustn't die." We all have to die sometime, remarked Gwynian tritely. "Yes, but –" All of us. "But –" The prince as well as the pauper. "Belt up, Ishir blast you!" That's hardly a respectful ... "If I die, you die also!" Gwynian looked suddenly contemplative. You have a point there, young fellow. A very definite point. "So you'd better start thinking about how you can keep me – and you, the both of us – alive despite this accursed sorcerer's accursed tricks, hadn't you?"

The Rotting Land // 92 Your argument is certainly a very persuasive one. I must think on the matter. "You don't have much time to think on the matter, oldster! At the moment, in the real world, I'm slumped on a public street. I've probably lost half of my teeth, and I can't get my eyes to focus properly. I may have a broken rib – if not several. There's a killer spell working its worst inside me as fast as it can work. I'd describe this as being something in the way of an emergency." So, so impatient, the young people of today. Your heavy, puerile sarcasm hardly ... "Think!" I am thinking! The trouble is, Lone Wolf, that what Kezoor did to you ... or, at least, what the spell he left behind him to avenge his death did to you ... I do believe there isn't any cure for it at all. It began to snow. # It was late at night in Toran, too. In the study of the Guildmaster, close to the apex of the colossal edifice that was the Guildhall of the Brotherhood of the Crystal Star, Banedon sat looking unhappily out over a desk littered with parchments and curios, astrolabes and alembics, beetles' skulls and monkeys' feet ... The chair on which he was sitting was the wrong shape for him: it looked no different from any other chair, but over the years the old Guildmaster's use of it had worn it subtly into unique contours. He shifted awkwardly, scowling at the star-charts and sigilistic diagrams that decorated the walls. All the previous times he had been here he had been on the far side of this heavy desk, either standing there nervously in his youth or, in latter years, slouched in the armchair reserved for visitors. He felt like a usurper, now, sitting where he was. Yet at the same time it seemed important that he should stay in position for just a while longer, that he should resist the urge to leap up and charge off down to the canteen or to the hard, narrow pallet in his own room: if he conceded the Elder's wishes and accepted their election of him to the position of Guildmaster, then this would be his room, and he would have to discover how to be comfortable in it. If that proved impossible ... well, he would have yet one further confirmation that he was indeed unsuited to the post. What he needed most of all, he realized for the thousandth time, was a heart-friend with whom he could discuss his quandary. Had there been the time, he might have trekked to Lone Wolf's Kai Monastery, in the forests northwest of Holmgard; Lone Wolf

The Rotting Land // 93 himself was absent, Banedon knew, and Petra with him, but Viveka would be there – she would listen to him, and understand, and advise ... But there wasn't time: this was something that he was going to have to work out for himself. On one corner of the desk-top stood a shallow metal plate with, beside it, a simple earthenware ewer. Several times he had seen the old Guildmaster use this elementary equipment to perform the art of scrying – viewing events that were taking place in the far distance and, sometimes, even in a different time. Banedon himself generally employed a more sophisticated technique for this purpose, one that he'd discovered in a book on second-level magic that Loi-Kymar had given to him not long before that ancient and wise magician's death; it involved spinning a hollow paper pyramid on the tip of a pin and watching the scenes that appeared on the pyramid's faces as they flashed by. Yet he had never been able to achieve quite the same clarity and control that the Guildmaster had managed using no more than fresh water and that battered plate. He could at least scry to find out what his friends were doing. Perhaps merely by watching them he'd be able to give himself some hints as to what he should do ... He was well aware that his friends had, as it were, at least two existences: their objective existences as separate entities, independent of him; and their subjective existences within the matrix of his own perceptions of them. Perhaps if he couldn't draw on the advice of those independent persons, he could in effect instead consult their subjective reflections, through allowing his friends' observed actions to spark off hints in his mind. He drew the plate and the jug towards him, sniffing the top of the latter to make sure that the water in it had been replenished that morning, as usual, even though the old Guildmaster was dead. Then he carefully poured about an inch of water into the dish, setting the jug gently down once he was finished with it. Perfect inner placidness, he thought, that's what's called for. Do I need to go to the ...? NO – just concentrate on letting my mind float free ... Wonder what the Elders actually think of me, when they're not being so blasted respectful all over the place? I bet you they ... Shut up, up! up, Banedon! You're supposed to be relaxing, so that your inner mind can reveal ... He wasn't surprised when all that the surface of the water showed was what looked like a blizzard in progress. He shrugged and looked furtively at the corners of the room, as if he might find the Guildmaster in one of them, quietly watching him. Try again.

The Rotting Land // 94 Almost immediately, as he focused/diffused his concentration, the water's surface almost immediately began to waver and shimmer, and then within seconds it was in a state of violent agitation, as if it were about to come to the boil. Banedon tried to pull his face back from it, fearful of being scalded, but it seemed that a pair of hands had taken him by his ears and was holding him gently but firmly in place. He realized with a sudden chill that, though the water was roiling about in the dish, rocking the vessel from side to side so that it bump-bump-bumped on the desk-top, there was no steam rising from it – indeed, the tip of his nose, the closest part of him to the angry water scant inches away, felt cool, as if the dish were instead filled with crushed ice. He tried to pull away once more, but the soft and somehow feminine pressure on him was no more yielding than before. Then there was a spitting noise and the surface suddenly cleared. "Alyss!" he gasped. "I'd given up! I thought I'd never ..." "So I guessed," she said sharply, though there was a smile on her thin lips. Her eyes were dancing. "I can see mortals' thoughts as if they were living creatures, you'll recall, and lascivious thoughts in particular are like the giants of the thoughtly jungle. There are great elephants lumbering all around you much of the time, Banedon – capering and cavorting, they are." "That's not true!" he protested. "Not often! Not when you're not around!" After a minuscule pause he added, shamefacedly, "I meant that in the nicest possible way, of course." "Lies," continued Alyss, regarding her fingernails as if one of them had somehow dared to be less than completely perfect, "are rather smaller than lascivious thoughts, but so very much clumsier that you don't notice that." "Me? Lie? I'm practically the Guildmaster of the most powerful sorcerous brotherhood in the whole of Magnamund, and you think that I would stoop so low as to tell a fib! Alyss, you ..." "Hmm? Oh yes? And what about when you were sharing a house with that sorceress – Jenara, that was her name – in the desert south of Barrakeesh? You could have started a circus with the thoughts of yours that were gallivanting around. The walls of that villa" – her green eyes narrowed suddenly as she looked up from her hand – "the walls of that villa, I say, were like to be knocked flat by the sheer pressure from within of your riotous imaginings, Banedon." "I don't know what you're talking about!" She raised one shoulder in a half-shrug and moved on to inspect the fingernails of her left hand, which were looking very

The Rotting Land // 95 terrified indeed. "And Qinefer? – she was there with you for a while as well. Berserk hippopotami – hippotomuses – whatever ... Even godlings," she added drily, not looking at him, "sometimes have a bit of difficulty with the plural of `hippopotamus'." "I never so much as laid a hand on Qinefer!" He couldn't imagine what had got into Alyss. Surely she must know that he was chaste in thought, word and deed ... well, in word and deed, anyway. Certainly deed. Alas. "You kissed Jenara – and after she was married, too." "That's not true! She kissed me! That's a completely different thing entirely!" This time she seemed to recognize that he had truth on his side, for she chose not to pursue the point. "What about Viveka?" "Aw, come off it! I'm a man of principle! Besides, the very notion scares the socks right off me!" "Does it indeed?" She eyed him closely. "I do suppose it does. But the same didn't ap[ply to Petra, when she was alive, did it? When you were around the campfire with her at the Monastery, don't think I didn't see your thoughts then. They had all the subtlety of a herd of rhinoceros on ..." "Petra's not alive any longer?" he said, mouth dropping open. "You mean, she's dead?" "Oh, hadn't anyone told you. Yes: she sacrificed her life – her life on Magnamund, at least – helping Lone Wolf get his hands on the Lorestone of Herdos. He was very cut up about it, silly boy." "But that's terrible! Petra! Dead!" "We all have to die sometime, you know," she said, playing with her earlobe. For an instant Banedon thought she might even have turned her head to admire it, but he knew that would have been impossible. "With certain perfectly formed exceptions," she noted smugly. "It's a matter of no great import, really." "Shut up! I can't stand you when you're like this. Petra! She was so very alive the last time I saw her. It's hard to take it in that she's ..." "She's not extinguished, you know." Alyss was staring directly at him again, but this time there was no trace of amusement in her gaze. "She's just dead to Magnamund. The end of her life here was very swift – swift enough that she can hardly have had the time to feel any pain. It was much more merciful than most mortal deaths, which have a habit of ... you know, lingering. Would you rather she'd lived to be ninety, hobbling around with arthritis, and then spent six months or a year hanging around in her bed waiting in pain for the world finally to draw its

The Rotting Land // 96 curtains across her existence? Would you rather she'd suffered that? Tell me, if so, and I'll see if I can arrange something like it for your other friends." "No, no," he said hastily, realizing with something like respect that she'd successfully irritated him out of his grief. "I'm sure that whatever happened to her was for the best. Well, not the best, exactly, but ..." "Now," said Alyss, tossing her head as if her hair were much longer, "now that the preliminaries are done with, we can get to the reason why I arranged this meeting with you." "You arranged it? It was I who ..." "Banedon." She held up a palm. "Observe certain protocols of courtesy when you're in the presence of your elders. I'm approximately fifteen billion years older than you are, so I'd observe those protocols pretty blasted closely if I were you." He gulped. There's a certain imbalance in this off-on relationship of ours, he thought rebelliously. "I heard that!" she snapped. "Saw it, too! If ever a thought could be said to resemble a duck-billed platypus ..." He gulped again, and fortunately she took that as a gesture of apology. "Well," she continued, "as I say, it's time to get to the gist of the meeting: your friend Lone Wolf. He's in trouble." "Again?" "As usual, I know. But this time it's something that his own brawn and brains aren't likely to be able to get him out of. Even his Gestalt personalities are powerless – as you might expect, because the trouble he's in is of sorcerous nature. Not the sort of thing they're properly acquainted with." Banedon, more confident now that the discussion was entering a field in which he felt remotely competent, leaned forward. "Necromancy? The Nadziranim?" "No – he'd probably be able to extricate himself from a Nadziran web ... with the help of his Gestalt companions, and certainly if aided by Paido." "Paido?" "A Vakeros. You met him when you were in Elzian, treating with Rimoah." "I don't recall." "Hmmf!" She sniffed. "Mortal memories. Anyway, you did. I'd show you a picture of him, except that like all the best people he's a shapeshifter – of course he is, being a Vakeros – so ... Actually, it doesn't matter whether or not you remember meeting him: suffice it to say that he's a good friend to Lone Wolf, as

The Rotting Land // 97 stalwart a companion, almost, as you yourself might be, were you in Talestria at the moment." "Talestria?" "Yes, that's where they are, of course. Don't be so obtuse the whole time, Banedon! In Tharro, to be precise. He's got about a dozen hours to live. Maybe." "Thar –" started Banedon, then thought better of it. She smiled and nodded approvingly. "They're not far from Rhola Rhada's map shop, you were about to say? Quite right – quite bright, too, come to that. How in the world did you – ? But no matter: it's not important. What is important is that he's been infected by a self-replicating enchantment planted in him, indirectly, by a rather nasty little squit of a necromancer called Kezoor, for what that's worth." Banedon hissed between his teeth. He suddenly realized that the grip had gone from his ears – had been gone for some little while, indeed, without him having noticed its departure – and he relaxed back into his chair a little. It was beginning to seem more comfortable than before. "I've heard of such things," he said grimly, "but I've never encountered one before. Of course, all spells have the power to replicate themselves endlessly – they'd hardly be spells if they didn't – but in most of them it's either latent or severely restricted, if not by design then simply because of the fallibility of the replication process: they tend to fall apart after the first few repetitions of the re-creation. But if it's a true self-replicating ensorcelment that's got its talons into Lone Wolf, then indeed he is in serious trouble. It'll be using his own soulstuff, pulling it apart into its separate components and then rebinding them into dark configurations. Some of the brothers here in Toran have been doing some interesting researches into the possibilities of ..." "Quite," said Alyss frostily. "... using modular spell-bits to ... Oh. Oh, sorry. I'm teaching you to suck eggs, Alyss. You know a lot more about ..." "Quite," she repeated. "However, shortly you will find that you, too, Banedon, unworthy vessel though you might be, are possessed of sufficient knowledge not only to construct such a spell but also to set about the dismantling of one. I'm going to give you that knowledge because ..." "Because of your natural grace and generosity," suggested Banedon, who knew his godling well. "Yes, that of course, but more because, if I don't give it to you, Lone Wolf will die – which would be something of a disaster for Magnamund."

The Rotting Land // 98 "Something of a disaster for Lone Wolf, too." This time it was Banedon's turn to be dry. "Not really," she rejoined. "One of these days, I can see, I must have a little session on the subject of what happens to mortals after they die. It can all be rather jolly, actually – I told you as much already. No, my concern is with the future of Magnamund – a somewhat piffling little world, of course, if viewed in isolation, but of considerable significance when taken in the context of the game that the Gods have been playing with this universe ever since it came into existence." She seemed to be talking to herself, almost as if she'd forgotten Banedon's presence – which was of course impossible. "A universe's balance between Good and Evil – all poised here on a single little world. I've never come across anything like it before, not a billion universes. And so teeteringly poised! And there's nothing that the laws of the polycosmos permit me to do about it – not directly, at least! It's so frustrating!" Banedon had often been frightened of Alyss before, but for the first time, as she spoke on, he began properly to appreciate the true age of her, the true extent of her power, the true magnitude of the discrepancy between her concerns and anything that mortals might conceive. The vastness of that gulf – the chill of it – sent tendrils of purest terror stalking through him. Large parts of him wanted to throw themselves down on the floor, to prostrate themselves in worship of something so unimaginably huge, so alien. He saw the thin, finely sculpted face speaking, he saw its green eyes moving excitedly, and he heard the words that it spoke – he saw the white pointy teeth of a human mouth, and the pink tip of what must surely be a human tongue – and yet it was as if he were in the presence of the soul of the universe itself. He felt that freezing metal pincers had snatched him by the nape of the neck, and were cramping in on his spine, ready to pick him up and toss him away in a bloody heap. To call this `terror' or `awe' was to use not just the wrong words but the wrong language: mortals had never conceived such magnitudes of difference between themselves and the powers that shaped the universe, much less attempted to describe them. And, if that were true of Alyss, who seemed to know herself to be greater even than the universe's Gods, what of the yet higher authorities responsible for imposing the constraints of which she was complaining? "But I can influence things – I can do that, at least," she was saying, "though why I should bother just for the sake of a single universe I can't imagine. It's not as if I need Aon, after all. Whatever the case, I can affect Aon's outcome – that much at least is allowed,

The Rotting Land // 99 even though it's only through such poor, shoddy tools as there are to hand. Banedon's such a scrap of a human being, and yet he's so devilish useful at times. And thinking about him sometimes – not very often but sometimes – I begin to get a scent of that complex of primitive instincts that mortals dress up in fancy names and fancier thoughts: one of these days he's going to notice that females like Viveka and even Qinefer would snap him up if ever they thought there was a chance of him not running like a startled hare ... But for the moment ..." She looked up at him earnestly. "Banedon, you shouldn't have been listening to any of that." Fear froze his voice. "You'll forget all of it, except perhaps a few heart-warming shreds of the affection I ... No, on second thoughts, why should I make you forget it all?" She seemed to be holding her breath, as if she were thinking too rapidly to remember to inhale. "Look, Banedon," she said at last, "once upon a time I promised you that, in due course, you and I would become lovers. You remember?" "How could I forget?" he managed to croak. "Well, I was lying to you." He knew that this news should have made him miserable, but instead it came as a great relief. "I was toying with your emotions," she said, taking care not to observe his reactions, "because it was useful to me to do so. I knew that I'd need to be able to make use of you from time to time, and the best way of tying you to my will was to bind you in chains of false affection – false on my part, I hasten to add: I made sure that it was real enough on your part. I ... I apologize for that." "It's all ..." "No, no, Banedon" – again the peremptory palm was raised – "there's no need for you to be kind to me about this. It wouldn't make too much difference, in any case: a mere mortal's forgi ... no, I shouldn't have said that, either. I'm sorry again. That's two apologies you've had from me in the space of a few breaths, Banedon – from me, who doesn't apologize and mean it more than once or twice every million years or so. Count yourself lucky! Lucky! Only" – and Banedon could have sworn her catlike eyes were becoming moistly wistful – "only I really shouldn't have manipulated you that way, shouldn't have forgotten that things that are trifles to me, like mortal emotions, aren't so trifling for the mortals who're actually undergoing them. But that wasn't my real mistake ... no, not my real mistake ..."

The Rotting Land // 100 He waited, frightened of saying anything that might disrupt her chain of thought. "I deluded myself. When I present myself in mortal aspect I tend to make mortal mistakes." Once more she was talking to herself, not for his benefit. "I forget that mortal limitations aren't imposed on me. I say blithe things without realizing their consequences. In my own form I know entirely that everything I utter into being is given reality. Everything. Even – my – lies!" Banedon, motionless, stared. Could Alyss be ... weeping? Surely that couldn't be. And yet certainly he had the illusion that there were tears in her eyes when finally she looked up at him again. "Banedon," she said, her normally crisp voice now rough around the edges, "through my lie I inadvertently told truth. We will indeed become lovers – not long now, until then. Let me be honest with you – it's too long I've been dishonest with you! If there were any way I could stop myself being locked into this scenario I'd escape it if I could – and to Naar with your emotions! But I can't. I can't!" Her distress was shaking him. "Alyss, if you don't want your lie to cage you," he said, "then neither do I. For all that I've yearned for you these past years, I relinquish any claims you may feel I have on you. An unwilling lover is no lover at all. A caged Alyss is not Alyss; and it's Alyss I love." He shrugged. "I'll probably grow out of it," he added. "Your kind words bind me tighter." "I ... I ... What would you wish from me, then? Curses?" "Curses would bind me as tightly as caresses. You have a lot to curse me for." "You're ... well, you're sort of stuck with it, then, aren't you?" he said. Immediately her countenance was filled with its normal brightness, all traces of misery vanished. "Well, that's one way of putting it," she said in a businesslike voice, "and probably the best of all possible ways, under the circumstances. You do have the knack, Banedon, my dear, of using the blunt hammer of brute common sense to cudgel a path through to the kernel of things, don't you? I'm `stuck with it', as you say; and as soon as I look at it in that light it doesn't seem so bad at all. Make the best of things, eh? I'll make them so very, very best you won't be able to believe it! Believe me I will – no, on second thoughts, be incapable of believing me, but I still will! There'll be" – she drew a hand swiftly across her small features and was briefly a sultry temptress – "midnight assignations gal-o-r-e," a husky drawl, "and sings to

The Rotting Land // 101 make your mudder's hair stan' how you say right up on end, but" – resuming her impish appearance – "not quite yet. First of all I have things to finish off in Talestria, and so do you. But immediately after that's done – it'll be whoopee! My business there can remain gloriously enigmatic for the time being – I hate enigmas myself, but I know you mortals have a certain fascinated affinity for them – but yours is quite simple: you're going to save Lone Wolf." "What?" "Save Lone Wolf, I said. It's not going to be very difficult for you." She looked at him archly. "Stop making complications where there aren't any, Banedon." "But you say he's in Talestria. That's hundreds of miles away! How can I get there in a dozen hours? I could manage it if I enlisted the aid of the most powerful wizards of the brotherhood, but simply setting the requisite complex of spells in motion would take more than a dozen ..." "Patience, patience, Banedon. I know you can't transport yourself physically across that distance in the time. And it would be too risky for me to whip you from Toran to Tharro: such an alteration in the weave of reality might well rip its fabric. But Lone Wolf isn't at the moment in a physical existence: his body is – it's slumped up against a wall looking like something the cat's thrown up – but he himself is currently somewhere quite different. Now, listen carefully to me and I'll tell you what we're going to do ..."

The Rotting Land // 102 4 SOONEST MENDED Lone Wolf had lost track of the amount of time that he'd spent here in the blizzard – Gwynian's blizzard, as he thought of it spitefully. He was sitting on the surface of the glacier with his knees hard up against his chest and his arms wrapped around them. Until quite recently he'd been staring gloomily at the old man, who was continuing to bathe himself, but now the snow falling on his eyes had blotted out even that view. He imagined himself looking something like an igloo, what with all the snow that must have piled up around and over him. His mood had gone right past depression into a sort of timeless numbness. Don't let it get you down, remarked Gwynian for the hundredth time. For the hundredth time Lone Wolf ignored the comment. I'm sure it'll all turn out well in the end. These things usually do, you know. Lone Wolf tried to snort, but his nostrils were too full of snow. He discovered, to his detached interest, that his mouth was as well; he must have stopped breathing some while ago. He tested first his fingers and then his arms and found that he was incapable of moving them. That's interesting, he thought. I seem to have frozen solid. Like a block of ice. It was vaguely interesting. One moment he'd been thinking of himself as an igloo, and the next, without having noticed the slightest jolt of transition, he was a block of ice. A sculpture, that's what I am. The figure of a man hewn out of ice. In times to come, people will trek up here to look at me and marvel at the genius of the sculptor who made me. How nice for them. Must remember not to melt. Something was bothering him, but for a moment he couldn't isolate what it might be. Then: Oh, yes. My thoughts are getting kind of loopy, aren't they? I must have gone mad, I suppose. All these changes everywhere, and me not noticing them! It's a funny old life, when all's said and done ... Time passed. Don't let it get you down, remarked Gwynian for the hundred-and-first time. I'm sure it'll all turn out well in the end. These things usually do, you know. Lone Wolf, being made of solid ice, made no response at all. Are you all right, Lone Wolf? came Gwinian's querulous thought. You've been silent now for nearly a century. I mean, I can

The Rotting Land // 103 sympathize as much as the next man with your being in a bit of a huff – we all do silly things sometimes – but this is getting ridiculous. Lone Wolf's eardrums, frozen solid, no longer heard the howl of the gale. His synapses, crystallized, stirred not at all to Gwynian's probing fingers of thought. More snow fell. The wind blew harder. The man made of ice knew nothing of this. # "Here," Paido said, "Lone Wolf! Wake up!" The tall Vakeros, bent over the slumped body of his friend, slapped the unresponsive face a second time. Lone Wolf had been like this for over half an hour. At first Paido had been little concerned – had not Lone Wolf warned him that he would be "absent" for some minutes, conferring with one or more of his Gestalt personalities? – but as the minutes had added up his concern had grown until now he was filled with dread. Looking up and down the street nervously, he had called up threads of Elder Magi sorcery and tried to interweave them with Lone Wolf's consciousness, initially just in an attempt to reassure himself that his friend's soul was still in residence and then, finding those probes rebuffed by a thick shell of magical blockwork, in more and more frenzied efforts to determine whether or not Lone Wolf's soul still existed at all. Now he was reduced to brute physical measures. He gripped Lone Wolf's shoulders and shook. Lone Wolf's head rocked limply backwards and forwards, as if the neck were broken. With a clumsy thumb Paido shoved back one of Lone Wolf's eyelids, but the eye was rolled up so that the pupil was lost from view. "Blast and damn it!" said Paido. The street around him had grown unnaturally chilly while he'd been striving to get some reaction from his friend, and he buffed his hands together, trying to keep them warm. "Don't go dying on me, Lone Wolf. For all that I was saying earlier, you're needed. The final defeat of Evil relies on your attaining the Lorestone of Ohrido. It's not something I can do for you." He stamped his feet angrily. "Oh, pigsquit and blazes! Maybe I shouldn't have thumped you like that. But ..." Words failed him; they'd been failing him quite frequently in the past half hour. He reached forward and seized Lone Wolf once more by the shoulders. Unnoticed, his leg touched Lone Wolf's hand, still curled around the hilt of the Sommerswerd.

The Rotting Land // 104 There was a shrrrrnack! as if a massive thundercloud had just discharged all of its store of energy. Blue light filled the street. Several windows shattered. Screams from somewhere. Paido was thrown backwards, colliding with one of the horses, falling uncontrollably, limbs everywhere, cracking his head on the unforgiving cobblestones ... The horses, terrified, reared. He saw a swirl of colours and, imperfectly concealed by them, the head and forehooves of a horse looming high above him. He tried to roll away, tried to raise his arms to protect his face, but his body seemed to have temporarily forgotten that he was there. He couldn't even bellow his rage and terror. Horseflesh blotting out the muddy night sky. Blackness. # Gwynian ceased bathing himself for a moment. That the soul of Lone Wolf yet survived was something that he did not doubt – otherwise he himself, a product of the melding of Lone Wolf's soulstuff with that of the Sommerswerd, would no longer be here – but he very much doubted that it still resided in the snow-covered mound by the bank of this gushing rivulet. It was not in Gwynian to worry – although he was adept at producing its semblance – but now he was sensing that the thought-matrix of which he was constructed was being troubled by eddies and whorls of energy-pulses that should not have been there. Whether these had been produced by the soulstuff of Lone Wolf, the soulstuff of the Sommerswerd or – most radical possibility of all – by himself was a philosophical question that Gwynian was not equipped to handle. He stared at the pile of snow that was Lone Wolf and yet again sent a questing filament of thought towards it. Don't let it get you down. I'm sure it'll all turn out well in the end. These things usually do, you know. No reaction. Not even an echo. Lone Wolf ... He stopped. It was useless. A thought struck him. The self-reproducing, evolving spell with which Kezoor's ensorcelment had infected Lone Wolf might well be as frozen and lifeless as Lone Wolf's astral body now was. Although the entity called Gwynian did not possess the spark of creativity required to seek purpose in all things, he speculated now that it was feasible that Lone Wolf's becoming a block of ice might be not just a random accident. In the outside universe – in the world of Magnamund, which Gwynian could see more fully but

The Rotting Land // 105 less accurately than its mortal inhabitants – the necromantic disease might yet be rampaging unchecked through the plasma of Lone Wolf's body and brain, yet here at least, where the soul was the body, the spell was perhaps as impotent and lifeless as Lone Wolf himself. If that were the case, it seemed unlikely that coincidence alone was at work. He shrugged and resumed scouring his chest. Then he stopped once more. If Lone Wolf's soul no longer inhabited the astral body in which it had arrived here, then it must be somewhere else. This level of reality never had any existence beyond its apparent horizon, and thus it was inevitable – well, almost so; what passed for Gwynian's mind floundered at the concept – that Lone Wolf's soul should be within the equivalent of earshot. He had tried speaking to Lone Wolf only along a focused line of thought, and received no reply. However, if he broadcast his enquiry randomly, in all directions at once, perhaps ... DON'T LET IT GET YOU DOWN. I'M SURE IT'LL ALL TURN OUT WELL IN THE END. THESE THINGS USUALLY DO, YOU KNOW, he bellowed, filing the sleet-torn landscape with his distress. It seemed at first that his plea was answered instantly. The side of the mountain on which he bathed erupted. Twisting and dancing in a crazy slow motion, huge chunks of rock and huger chunks of ice flew towards the cloud-shrouded sky; loose snow sprayed in a silent, world-engulfing fountain. As if hinged at the backs of its heels, a vast figure – thousands of feet tall and clad in a robe of silver stars scattered on a rich blue backcloth – rose slowly to stand erect. From where Gwynian sat, eyes bulging and mouth agape, all that could be seen below the blanketing cloud were the figure's feet, legs and belly: the rest was lost in the sky. The colossal folds of the coarse-woven robe swayed as they settled, and hailstones the size of men's fists shook from them to fall in a lethal rain all around Gwynian and the unmoving mass of ice that was Lone Wolf. There was a long pause, during which the thundering pronouncement that Gwynian expected from the newcomer failed to materialize. There did, however, come a sort of seismic rumbling from far above, as if the heavens were arguing among themselves. Then, slowly at first but with increasing rapidity, the blue-robed figure began to shrink. As it did so, lumps of hillside sluggishly crept across the glacier's surface to return themselves to the gash from which they had been hurled. The gale died. Gwynian didn't like any of this. Not at all. The plane in which he dwelt was endlessly unpredictable, but that

The Rotting Land // 106 unpredictability had about it a certain quality that made it, if not actually predictable, then at least something close to it: he never knew exactly what was going to happen next, but he was never surprised by it when it did happen. This hugely catastrophic event was, however, of quite a different nature to anything to which he was accustomed. It was an intrusion. He released his disapproval in the form of a bolt of ice-cold revulsion, so that the clouds became a livid, steely green, but this had no effect on the still-diminishing intruder. Gwynian produced a senile snarl. Who are you, callow youth? he said to the now merely fifty-foot-tall figure standing in front of him. From this angle he could see right up the lad's nostrils, a fact that filled him with secret, naughty glee. And what makes you think you have the right to come barging in here, wrecking my nice icescape? "Sorry about that," said Banedon. "It was as unexpected to me as it was to you. Just a problem of scaling, I guess – unless it was one of Alyss's ... jokes." Alyss? You know that little hus ...? The giant sorcerer put a timber-thick forefinger to his lips. "Hush," he said. "Mind what you say. She's likely listening in on us." Huh! I'm not frightened of – yeee-ooo-owch! "As I was saying." Gwynian agonizingly tugged out the foot-long icicle that had transfixed him from his mouth up through the dome of his skull. In the mundane world the blow would have killed him; here it was more shocking than actually painful. The frozen spear might have been launched at him in malice or in mischief; he wasn't certain, and the difference would do nothing to assuage the sour discords of the energy-tangles inside him. Was it she who sent you here? "It was. Well, rather, I decided for myself that I would come here, but she took the burden of the actual decision-making off my shoulders." I thought as much. Nothing good will come of it. "What do you know about Alyss?" Not enough. Too much. As much as anyone does. As much as she allows anyone to know. I know enough to know that the completeness of her is unknowable – certainly to mortals, certainly also to entities like myself. "I thought as much. She's told me a lot about herself, but every fact she gives me is like a door opening on yet another long, darkly lit corridor I didn't know before was there, and down which

The Rotting Land // 107 my eyes aren't sharp enough to see. Look, would you mind if I sat down? I'm getting dizzy being this tall." Go ahead, loutling, if you must – no, no, no! Not there! That's Lone Wolf. Gwynian drew the back of his forearm across his brow. Well, it's his astral body, at any rate. I don't know what the effect on him would be if you flattened it. You still haven't told me your ... oh, wait a minute, I know you: you're Banedon. Nice to see your spots are beginning to fade a ... Suddenly Gwynian started scrubbing himself very industriously indeed. Alyss might not be as protective of her emissary's sensibilities as of her own, but even so ... Banedon, seated, poked inquisitively at the snowy mound beside him. "This is Lone Wolf?" Yes. Um ... or no. That was the astral body he arrived here in – the one he's always used before. But as to its, er, current status, I'm not so sure. "It's just a block of ice!" Banedon was removing the covering of snow by dusting at it with his fingers and blowing on it with his seemingly sequinned breath. "It's a rather second-rate sculpture of my friend!" He turned to gaze sternly at Gwynian. "Did you do this?" Gwynian, who had been searching vainly for his loofah – the blasted thing must have got swept away by the stream during all that schemozzle, rat and blind it! – stared straight back at the magician's vastly inflated face. Of course I didn't! What do you take me for? "Hmm," said Banedon, rubbing his chin. "On second thoughts, I'd have congratulated you had it been your work. With his astral body in this condition, at least his soul is protected from the further ravages of the ensorcelment. For as long as this frozen state of his should persist, at least. As far his physical body, however – well, your guess is as good as mine. With luck I'm not too late." You can cure him of the necromancer's Evil? "Not cure – not for certain. Even Alyss can't do that, she says. She told me that self-replicating spells reach clear outside this universe of ours in order to gather some of the probability-spars of which they're initially constructed." Banedon breathed a deep sigh, as if he were wondering not only how much of this Gwynian would understand but also how much he himself did. "While she can likewise stretch her influence through the skin of our universe into the gap between it and the next, at the moment she ... well, she just said it would be pretty inconvenient to her to do so. I assume she has a better reason than that, but can't or won't tell me it." Well, if you can't cure him, why are you here? To weep over his dying? You could do that as well back in ... in Toran, that's it.

The Rotting Land // 108 "There's half a chance I can cure him," said Banedon mildly. He was experimenting to see if he could loose the sculpture from its frozen base in the glacier. "Certainly I can administer to his mind, soul and physical body in such a way that he will be superficially normal in terms of all three for the next few weeks or so. That's as much as we can hope for, Alyss says. With luck and the good will of the Gods my temporary work will last at least until she ... finds it convenient to step outside our existence long enough to negate the enchantment from there. If not?" He shrugged again. "If not – well, we cannot guess what will happen except that it will be something profoundly bad, far worse than had we simply let the spell run its course." Gwynian calculated rapidly. Whatever he might think personally of Alyss, he had to concede that in this instance, given the limitations on her actions that Banedon had outlined, she'd chosen the least dire of the few options open to them. Banedon, he realized, was here merely as the godling's cat's-paw: as a transcendent being, she would be incapable of being present simultaneously on both the physical and the astral levels of existence within a single universe without distorting its fabric so grievously that that universe itself might crumple into destruction, yet she could exert her influence here through tools such as the icicle and, of course, Banedon. Presumably she had instructed the callow sorcerer in the particular feat of arcane knotting that she wished him to perform, unless ... and here was an interesting thought ... You're sure that you're Banedon? he asked. "Yes." Banedon had given up trying to shift the statue from its mooring, and was now sitting with his feet up close under his bottom and his arms around his knees, in unwitting imitation of Lone Wolf's frozen pose. "I know what you're thinking. Don't worry – the same thought would have occurred to me as well. No, I haven't permitted Alyss to take over my astral form and use it as her own." You may not have permitted it, but ... "And she hasn't simply seized it. She wouldn't. I'm pretty certain she wouldn't. Not after having bared part of her self to me. She would at least ask me." You think. "I think. Besides, does it matter?" For the first time since arriving here, Banedon grinned. "It's not going to affect what I do or the way I do it." And talking's not going to get that done, observed Gwynian caustically. Is it?

The Rotting Land // 109 "No." The grin vanished from Banedon's huge face. "No, it isn't. But talking with you might help me ... might help ..." Do what? Make a word-enchantment? Something as primitive as a word-enchantment's not going to be any use, nor even number-wizardry. Kezoor might have been a bit of a trifler, a dilettante in the magical arts – at least on the kind of scale I'm accustomed to – but he certainly wasn't any fool. A fool couldn't have discovered how to both construct and use a self-replicating spell. That's outwith the scope of even the second level of right-handed magic ... "It's not that at all." Then what in the name of righteousness have you been blithering about, boy? "You're not going to like this." There aren't very many things I like, so it's improbable that what you're about to say will be one of the rare few. You can set your mind at ease on that, lad. "It's not what I'm about to say: it's what I need to do if I'm going to give Lone Wolf even a temporary cure." Banedon was nervously picking at the rope-thick threads of his robe. Gwynian couldn't imagine what the enormous figure might have to be nervous about. And why shouldn't I like it? It's the purpose of my existence to make sure that Lone Wolf is as much protected from death and danger as possible, which is not often very. Add to that, young man, the fact that my own continued survival depends on Lone Wolf's soul remaining alive – not only alive, but here on Magnamund. I'll like anything that will effect that end – his and my safety. "I thought you just said you weren't going to like it, whatever it was?" I'm an old man, replied Gwynian swiftly. I'm allowed to have my quirky ways. An old man, remember. "No you're not," said Banedon, his brow wrinkling. "You don't believe that yourself, do you? It's just an act? Surely?" Hmmf! "You're not a man at all, or anything like one. You're a semblance. An image." That's what Lone Wolf was telling me when he came here – An imprecise wave of a blue-grey arm – when he came here, however long ago it was. Only the way that he put it seemed somehow less ... deprecating. "I'm sorry I was so blunt," mumbled Banedon. The sound was like a distant earthquake. "I'm sorry if I've offended you." Gwynian sniffed. Apology accepted, I suppose. But now will you just tell me what you plan? "You're not going to l ..." You said that already.

The Rotting Land // 110 Banedon hunched his shoulders, looking miserable. "I have to weave you into the counter-ensorcelment. You're the only nearby spiritual plasma available to me." Me! Me? "Er, yes." But ... But ... "It won't make all that much difference to you, you know. You come into existence afresh every time that Lone Wolf enters this level of existence, and you'll continue to do that, just like always." Banedon's voice was miserable, belying the reassuring words. "It won't be as if you'll be doing anything as crass as, well, actually dying, for example." But the indignity, burn and blaze it! What about that? Eh? "Lone Wolf's welfare? Your own? Isn't it worth some degree of indignity for that?" Gwynian directed a barb of extremely coarse thought in Banedon's direction, and the massive sorcerer flinched. But underlying Gwynian's fury there was a note of acceptance that both of them recognized. By twisting the soulstuff construct that was Gwynian back in upon its progenitors – Lone Wolf and the Sommerswerd, but most especially Lone Wolf – Banedon could create a sort of temporary soul that would stand as a crutch alongside Lone Wolf's own over the next few weeks. The configuration would be unstable, of course, since it depended on the Gwynian-ness of the pair of souls being able to resist its natural impulse to flow back into and conjoin with the soulstuffs that had brought it into existence. Although Banedon hadn't put it to him in so many words, Gwynian knew that he was being asked to withstand that impulse for as long as possible. Not an easy instruction to obey, for his identity would largely be lost in such close proximity to its source. The idea-matrix that made him up would have to stick with incredible tenacity to Banedon's overriding command: stay yourself at the same time as you are standing in for Lone Wolf. Not an easy task at all. I can do it, said Gwynian surlily, disguising rather poorly his realization that he had no option. "Can you?" Of course I can! What do you take me for, a lily-livered puce-wind? There are few enough abstract entities in all of the possible astral planes who could take the job on, but this isn't any of them you're asking! It's Gwynian! Never let it be said that ... "Good." Banedon clapped his hands together in a business-like way and made to rise. "Then, if you've nothing else to say, let's be getting about it, shall we?"

The Rotting Land // 111 Wait! The thought, Gwynian knew, had a despairing ring, but there was nothing he could have done to remove that. Wait just a few seconds longer. I may be created afresh every time Lone Wolf requires me, but that doesn't mean that each creation of myself doesn't have an infinitely extensive existence here. To me, to my own knowledge – not yours or anyone else's – I've been here forever. Were it not for this, I could spend the rest of my subjective eternity bathing in the deliciously sweet waters of this stream, you know. "Wouldn't that get boring?" said Banedon softly. "And wouldn't you spend all of that time knowing that what you were doing was, essentially, futile? You wouldn't be happy, you know: you'd just be not-unhappy. Wouldn't you be, through all that foreverness, tormented by the thought that, instead of simply perpetuating your pointless and powerless existence, you could have maybe saved Lone Wolf, and thus Magnamund?" How old did you say you were? enquired Gwynian suspiciously. "I didn't, but I'm 24 summers old." You've got an older head on you than that, I'll warrant. Alyss must have been tinkering with you: she's got age enough to spare you some. "Perhaps. Now, shall we commence?" Once again Banedon made to rise. No. One minute. One minute more. As if in sympathy with him, the sky filled once again with whirling flakes of snow, and the gale rose to sound its bleak but beautiful music for his ears. Gwynian gazed at the greyness; he felt the chilly pleasure of it seeping into him. He looked down at his shrivelled naked form in the stream's icy waters, saw the blue veins of his wrists and the backs of his hands. His toes wiggled at him, and he smiled back at them nostalgically. Existence is good, but it's not everything. Go on, then, Banedon. Get started. # One hoof landed a fraction of an inch from Paido's nose; the other caught in his cape just behind the small of his back. The former could have brained him; the latter would certainly have shattered his spinal column had it been just a little over. The underside of the horse's screaming head walloped him on the shoulder as the animal writhed backwards. Paido, briefly unconscious, pushed himself groggily up on his elbows, wondering what in the world had happened. It took him some while to sort out his scrambled thoughts. The last thing he could remember, he discovered, was the sight of the front of the

The Rotting Land // 112 horse collapsing towards him. Dazed, he looked around. The two horses had retreated to the far side of the street from where Lone Wolf's body slouched. Paido himself lay in the middle of the thoroughfare. He couldn't remember how he had got there: that was another blank in his memory. Someone – more than a single someone – was screaming in the middle distance. He wondered if it had anything to do with him. As he lugged himself up into a kneeling position he saw that lights were coming on in some of the ground-floor windows nearby. One of those windows was smashed, the glass seeming to have been punched inwards by a mighty fist. "Hooligan!" a woman's voice bellowed. It took Paido several long seconds to realize that the shout was directed at himself. "Terrormen! Ogian terrormen!" This time it was a man's voice. Paido grabbed for his sword. If there were Ogian terrormen in the vicinity it was his duty to defend the citizens of this town. Thar – Thar-something, it was called. He lurched to his feet, swayed twice, then fell over. The horses snickered mockingly at him. A boot bounced off the cobbles just in front of his eyes. Someone said there was Ogian terrormen ... Mus' do something about the Ogian terrormen ... Mus' do ... He was hit on the back of the head by something hard but squelchy. As it rolled away he was able to identify it in the gloom as a putrescing cabbage. One of the horses bent its head forward and sniffed at the vegetable suspiciously. "Leave that drunk be!" snapped the male voice. "We've got terrormen to fight! Them and their infernal machines! The scum!" Again Paido tried to get to his feet, this time more successfully. The shops to either side of him still seemed to be advancing and retreating in a regular pulse, but at least he no longer felt as if the cobbled street beneath his feet wished to leap up and smack him in the face again. He stumbled over to the wall and, panting loudly, looked down on Lone Wolf's lifeless form. It was something I touched, he thought. Something magical that put me in the middle of the street. Leerily he squatted down, inspecting Lone Wolf's clothes and accoutrements, searching for something that might be giving off some kind of overt magical aura – something nice and obvious, for Paido's preference: a fireworks display in miniature, perhaps. It took a while before his brain clicked into gear. Lone Wolf had "departed" in order to consult with his Gestalt otherselves, the most

The Rotting Land // 113 important of which arose through the blending of Lone Wolf's soulstuff with that of the Sommerswerd. Jutting outwards from the ruffled heap that was Lone Wolf stuck the pommel of the great golden weapon. Ergo, Paido must have inadvertently brushed against that hilt. Some magical influence emanating from the hilt must have the power of transporting objects – for example, a hulking Vakeros – instantaneously over short distances. It was a handy piece of magic, if that were the case. He wondered woozily if he could induce the Sommerswerd into doing the trick again. After all, as a citizen of Dessi and a servant of the Ruling Council of the Elder Magi, it was his duty to investigate any unknown manifestation of magic that he might come across, in case it was something that his own people could put to use. An instantaneous-transportation charm could have countless uses – in or out of battle. He reached out cautiously. Gloom and confusion punched him in the belly, so that his breath howled out of him. He rocked back on his heels, eyes instantly flooded, then staggered backwards as more and more blows landed all over his torso. This was not a bit how he remembered it – or, more accurately, failed to remember it. Weaving in an uncertain lurch, he crossed the street, retreating from the mighty swipes of depression and chaos. His heels tripped on the edge of the pavement and, in a shower of glass, he fell backwards through the window of a spiced-sausage shop. # So Alyss wasn't making any mistake or playing any trick when she sent me here this size, thought Banedon as he stooped down to pick up Gwynian. Even as he did so, he felt a curious stretching sensation all over him, and realized that he was rapidly growing once more. When he stood up, he reckoned that his head must now be something like a hundred and fifty feet above the grey glacier and the sinuous line of the stream. Gwynian, curled up, fit into his palm with plenty of space to spare. I'm placing in you all the trust that I have, came Gwynian's tremulous thought. In Banedon's mind it sounded high-pitched, as if the old man's relative smallness made his thoughts smaller, too. I don't want to sacrifice this existence of mine if it's not going to save Lone Wolf! Aren't you just a little young to be performing this kind of advanced sorcery, anyway? Wouldn't it be better if we found someone a bit older? Yes, that's it! We need someone a bit ...

The Rotting Land // 114 "Alyss gave me some of her age," said Banedon flatly. His words made precarious chunks of ice shake loose from the mountainside. He looked down and saw a small avalanche playing around his legs. "I'm old enough, Gwynian." And he was doing so well up to now, he thought sadly; then. angry with himself: Stop thinking of the Gestalt entity as a "he". It's only an analogue, not a person! It was doing so well up to now, not he! If you keep on thinking of Gwynian as a person, you won't be able to do to him – it! – what you've got to do to ... him. Banedon sighed, and more snow tumbled down the slope. Logic and rationality weren't having much effect. He still felt like a murderer. It would have been easier if he could have performed the process entirely in the abstraction, as a sequence of interlocking spell-shapes that grew and developed according to their own, precisely defined geometrical rules of flux, acting upon other similar three-dimensional thought-shapes. The elegance and grace of the functioning of spells could be viewed as a dance, a dance performed to a clear, precise mathematical music. But here, on this level of existence, no such abstraction was possible: here spells took solid physical form. Looking down on Gwynian, curled up in a foetal position on the flat of Banedon's hand, it was hard to persuade himself that the old man – the entity – was merely a three-dimensional thought-shape. There were tears in his eyes. With his free hand he wiped them crossly away. # The sausage-maker, fortunately, was away from home that night with his family – either that or they were all very early and very sound sleepers. Rubbing his throbbing body, ignoring the shouts and shrieks of the neighbours, Paido advanced upon his quarry yet again. Focusing his eyes with difficulty, he reached out towards the exposed hilt of the Sommerswerd. I'm blasted going to find the trick of the thing, if it's the death of me! he blearily resolved. His first grab at the hilt missed by several inches. Steadying himself on his feet, controlling his urgent breathing, he braced himself for a second attempt. # Slowly Banedon, tears like small ponds oozing from his eyes and running down the plains of his cheeks, folded his hand over Gwynian's curled-up body. Farewell, young fellow! came a last weak thought.

The Rotting Land // 115 "Farewell, Gwynian," said Banedon hoarsely. Almost choking over the formal words, he continued: May the night of oblivion bathe you in the beauty of its darkness; May its emptiness fill you with its fullness; May the stars shine more brightly as a sign of your passing their sight; And may the wail of the night-birds be your keening-song.

from

His hand sensed an old man's bones crumpling in his grasp, and the flesh tearing. Trickles of blood emerged from the creases between his fingers. No matter how frequently Banedon repeated to himself, over and over, that this was not in truth an old man whose life he was taking – that he was not taking a life at all – still it felt as if he were slaying an innocent. He turned his head towards the grey sky, but shut his eyes against it, as if by so doing he could hide from himself the deed that he was forcing himself to perform. Inexorably he tightened his grip, as Alyss had told him that he must. Some of Gwynian's blood was running down his wrist; it felt like warm, sticky sweat. And then the sensation was gone. Opening his eyes at last, blinking away the fuzz of the tears, he looked down at his slowly opening palm. All trace of Gwynian was gone. He turned the hand over, examining its back. Still nothing. He raised his arm and looked at his wrist, where moments ago he had felt the old man's blood run; the smooth skin was unmarked. It was as if Gwynian had never been. Banedon looked stupidly around him, as if expecting to see a small tattered corpse splattered on the landscape. Alyss had told him, too, that this would happen, but that didn't make it any less of a surprise; the abrupt disappearance was incongruous enough to seem, for the moment at least, an impossibility. Yet all traces of Gwynian had not vanished. Banedon could feel the energetic patterns of the entity inside him – not as any powerful experience, not as any overriding sensation, but instead as if it were an echo of a barely heard whisper. The entity that had taken to itself the name of Gwynian and the form of an old man was not dead – could never truly be dead so long as Lone Wolf was still alive. Formlessly, it existed inside Banedon. But it doesn't belong to me – even though it's already settling itself into me, and adapting to being within me, it is not mine! Soon I must eject it from

The Rotting Land // 116 me. Already I must repel its minuscule advances, its million tiny attempts to anchor itself to my soul. The entity is Lone Wolf's. I must give it to him. All I have to do now is find him. "Lone Wolf!" the huge figure shouted at the horizon, at the sky, at the glacier beneath its feet. "Lone Wolf!" Across the valley a whole mountainside shuddered and released its load of ice in a thunderous cascade. Many minutes passed before the noise subsided. "Lone Wolf!" cried Banedon again, a little more cautiously. Maybe I should have thought of this before ... # A heavy hand fell on Paido's shoulder. Bracing himself instinctively for a fight, he slowly turned. "We've had complaints about you," said an officer dressed in the uniform of the Tharran Guard, with the shield-shaped crest showing a castle and open hand stitched across the chest of his tunic. "Creating a disturbance. Smashing windows. We don't much like strangers here in Tharro, especially strangers as makes a nuisance of theyselves." Paido stood up to his full height. Putting his hands behind his back, he moved his fin11gers to craft a surreptitious spell; he also modified his appearance, making himself seem slighter and less threatening. His head cleared instantly – Maybe I should have thought of this before, a voice seemed to say in his head – and his eyes were frank and bright as he regarded the officer. "I'm sorry if I've given your good citizens cause for concern," he said emolliently. "Hmmf." "But in truth, officer, I can see no broken windows." As the guard turned to point across the street, Paido's hands moved swiftly in an arcane weave. By the time the man was looking at the windows of the spiced-sausage shop, every pane of glass was in its correct place. There was no sign of breakage to be seen. The night sky, heavy and dank, looked on impassively. The officer harrumphed a couple of times, clearly at a loss for words. "Some of the other, er ..." he said at last. "Where?" asked Paido easily, swinging his arm around expansively to embrace all the shops and houses up and down the street; it would have taken a sharp eye to notice the dance his hand was making. There were muted shouts of astonishment from behind closed – and once more whole – windows in the upper

The Rotting Land // 117 storeys of several of the houses. Paido hastily put his arm around the officer's shoulders in amiable fashion, blocking off the man's view of one upper window whose owner had chanced to be stretching a hand through the empty frame; a swift gesture behind Paido's back sorted the problem out. "It seems to me, my friend," he said confidentially, "that troublemakers have been bringing false reports to your ears. I have been but tending my friend here" – a gesture towards the unconscious Lone Wolf – "who, as you can see, has been taken sadly ill." "Plague?" said the guard suspiciously, his hand on the club at his belt. "No," said Paido with a boisterous laugh. "He ate something that disagreed with him on the barge that brought us to your fair city. We thought that he'd got rid of most of the poison into the River Phoen, in the traditional way, but it seems that some of it still lingers." "His face looks bruised and battered to me," said the officer, not releasing his grip on the club. "His sickness was such that he fell face-first from the back of his horse." "Hmmf." "So I hauled him over to the side, out of the way of danger." "Shouldn't have been riding your horses in this street," said the guard with some show of belligerence, but it was clear that he was on the retreat. "We're strangers, as you correctly observed," said Paido, his face a mask of contrition. "If we offended against your bye-laws ..." "Think nothing of it," said the guard, pocketing the gold crown in a smooth, easy motion. "But you can't just leave your friend here." "Of course not." Paido laughed again. "As soon as I can stir him we'll proceed to the Temple of the Sword, where we hope to find lodgings for the night. I should hope he'll be back in the land of the living before too long." "I hope so, too. I'll be passing this way again on my rounds in less'n an hour's time, and if you two aren't being gone by then ..." The officer raised a stern forefinger; there was no need for him to elaborate the threat. "We'll be gone," said Paido humbly. "One way or another, we'll be gone." As soon as he was satisfied that the man had genuinely left him, he crouched down beside Lone Wolf's prone form. "Come on, my friend!" he hissed. "Come on! There's not much time to spare!"

The Rotting Land // 118 # Far, far away Alyss mouthed an oath that had been old long before the world of Magnamund had been born; her dainty enunciation of the tangled polysyllable failed signally to make it seem decorous. The air in front of her thickened and discoloured until she could see a miniature Paido chatting in the street with a miniature Tharran Guardsman. Still muttering wrathfully, she replayed the scene a couple of times. She was controlling the situation as much as she could and perhaps rather more than normally she'd have deemed wise. She'd told Banedon earlier that even her lies had a habit of coming true. All that was going on, in Tharro and on the higher plane of Lone Wolf's Gestalt entities, was currently imbued with her selfness. There was enough of herself devoted to it that, unless they were very lucky ... # "Lone Wolf!" Banedon yelled. There was no reply except, several seconds later, echoes from the distant mountainsides. He trudged on across the glacier. Imperceptibly, he'd been shrinking during his trek until now he was, as near as he could guess it, returned to his normal size. He couldn't understand why Alyss should have arranged for this to be the case: surely eyes one hundred and fifty feet above the ground would have been better able to scan the landscape ahead of him? "Lone Wolf!" Ahead of him, disrupting the greyness of the ice, he could make out a thin green line which, as he approached it, he determined was the far lip of a narrow declivity. He hastened his steps, peering through the remnants of the blizzard, but still he seemed to come up upon the gash with an infuriating slowness. Finally he reduced his pace to a casual amble, and found that he made as good progress. The valley was improbably tiny, perhaps a quarter of a mile long from one end to the other and no more than about seventy-five yards across at its widest point. To Banedon, poised at the edge, it seemed as if he might have been able to throw a stone across to the top of the opposite bank. The sides of the dell were improbably steep, and coated in a rich carpet of sombrely green grass and small, bright white flowers. The valley floor, some fifty feet below the surface of the glacier, was equally verdant, and a

The Rotting Land // 119 neat line of fruit trees in blossom made a stream of pink and yellow all down its centre. "Lone Wolf," said Banedon quietly. There was no reply, but he sensed that at last he'd found the object of his search. Holding out his arms to either side to maintain his balance, his robe flapping like a half-filled sail, he trotted down the slope diagonally. When he was about two-thirds of the way to the bottom his feet suddenly escaped his control and he fell in a rolling, sprawling tangle the rest of the way, landing up against the bole of one of the fruit trees with a bump that drove the breath from his body. He slumped over on his back and gazed dreamily upwards. The sky above the valley was an unbroken blue, whichever direction he looked; there was no sign of the bleak, cloudy grey covering that he'd left behind at the valley's rim. At the very zenith a fiercely bright Sun punched through the blue. But these incongruities were not what made his attention suddenly sharpen. The tree against whose trunk he'd thumped was not, as he'd thought, a fruit tree in blossom. The jar of his impact had shaken from its branches hundreds upon thousands of small butterflies, which had been basking there in the warmth of the sunlight. Now they fluttered and swirled in a chaotic cloud above him, their millions of tiny motions defying the power of his eyes to distinguish them. He sat up, the pain of his bruised abdomen forgotten. Looking down the file of trees he could see that all the others were the same. Their branches, though apparently healthy enough, were bare of foliage; in place of leaves and buds there were instead countless small butterflies, their wings vibrating gently so that it seemed as if the trees had been draped in sparkling liquid. "Lone Wolf," he whispered. His words caused a flurry in the cloud surrounding him, random-seeming eddies dividing up the mass of butterflies into constantly shifting centres of concentration. Slowly the cloud shifted until all of it was in front of him and slightly above him, so that he could see the lip of the valley-side below it. After several seconds, a pattern established itself, a regular array of coloured bands between which he could see the unobscured sky. Moving their wings rapidly in small motions, so that they could hover in place, the insects held their configuration as if waiting for him to say something.

The Rotting Land // 120 "Lone Wolf," he repeated, this time a little more loudly. He looked expectantly at the pattern above him, expecting it to change – but, if there was any change, it was too subtle for him to discern. "Lone Wolf?" This time it was a question, his voice beginning to grow doubtful. Then he heard it. The thousands upon thousands of tiny wings, beating against the air, were making a sound softer than the softest whisper. Banedon. The voice was far from devoid of character. Even in the faint whisper of that single word he could detect Lone Wolf's tone. "Lone Wolf! It's you! I thought it would be!" It is indeed I, Banedon. I wish you hadn't discovered my hiding-place. "Wish I hadn't ... What do you mean?" He sat more upright, looking incredulously at the swarm of insects. "I came here to rescue you from your doom!" What doom? This is a timeless place. There are no predators that butterflies need fear. The Sun always shines. The valley and the trees and the grass are beautiful, are they not? What is there that I so need to be rescued from? "It's what you need to be rescued for, Lone Wolf," said Banedon tersely. "You need to be rescued for the sake of Magnamund. For your own sake – well, do you really think you can find happiness in this mindless existence you've temporarily adopted? Would it give much succour to your soul to live here forever, in a place where nothing changes, where there'd never be any need for you to do anything, to feel anything?" That's one of the great attractions of this place, Banedon. The magician could detect no change in the volume or pitch of the whisper, and yet it seemed to him as if Lone Wolf's voice had become suddenly old, and tired. Here I never have to feel anything. "Surely you can't mean that, Lone Wolf! Surely you ..." Surely I can. From here, Magnamund seems to hold so many feelings for me that are painful. I can recall times of happiness – of course I can – but they're like minor breaches in a clouded sky. So much else was grief, or strife, or torment. Surely I've earnt the tranquillity of this place? "Anyone could say that!" Banedon was abruptly wrathful. He'd submitted himself to the indignity of being spiritually parcelled up by Alyss, and sent by her to this level of reality, with all its attendant terrors for him and without any guarantee that he'd be able to find his way back, and all for – what, exactly? To be told, if not in so many words, that he was merely meddling in the repose of the person whom he'd come to rescue? Had he been confident of his ability to craft independent spells here, he'd have

The Rotting Land // 121 sent a bolt of hot anger through the complacent-seeming pattern of insect bodies. "You're not the only one who's been having it tough these past twenty years! Think of all the people who've died – in agony, many of them, and many of them just kids! Petra didn't throw away her mortal life just so that you could relax her, lolling in smug whimsy, pitying yourself for your past adversities! And what of all the others who've suffered torments or died because you were near them! Was that all in vain? Was all their suffering undergone simply so that you could spend the rest of eternity in idleness?" You're angry with me, Banedon. "Too right I am!" He cut off the flood of further words that threatened to spill from his lips and controlled his temper by staring at his fingernails, in unconscious simulation of Alyss's habit. I didn't ask them to forfeit their lives, said the thin, infuriating voice. I never asked them to suffer. It wasn't done on my behalf. "No," said Banedon coldly. "And yes. Those around you, from the humblest neophyte at the Monastery to the full Council of the Elder Magi, have long enough recognized that the future of our world – and the final resolution of the aeons-old conflict between Good and Evil – rest in your hands. Like it or not, Lone Wolf, you're the one who's been ... been chosen to save our world from the claws of Darkness. Other folk may not have liked it either, but they've accepted the situation; some of them have had to die because of it, and they've accepted that, too. In that sense, yes, they gave their lives for you." I didn't ask them to. "No, most of the time you didn't ask. You just took." Recognizing that his voice was rising again, Banedon tried to make himself relax. He couldn't remember which hand it was whose fingernails he'd already checked. He shrugged. It didn't make much difference: either would do. I didn't know that I was taking. "And does that reduce your debt? Do you really think so?" There was no answer for a long time. Then, when the voice came again, it sounded even wearier and older than before. No – no it doesn't. But what does that change? There's no way that I can repay the debt to those individuals, whatever I choose to do. So why not just leave me here, Banedon? Leave me here to enjoy the peace that I've at last discovered. No matter how hard Banedon told himself that this new lethargy and selfishness must be a by-product of the necromantic disorder which Kezoor's book had launched into Lone Wolf's mind – no matter how conscious he was of the fact that it shouldn't be

The Rotting Land // 122 thought of as Lone Wolf's fault – he still found it impossible to rein back his fury. "You haven't discovered peace, Lone Wolf," he said through gritted teeth. "You said a few moments ago that butterflies have to fear no predators here. Well, you were wrong. There is a predator here – right here in this valley. A dangerous one. A wanton killer. Me." You wouldn't ...? Lone Wolf's voice took on an abrupt air of querulous anxiety. "Try me." But ... "This is a timeless valley for me, too. I, likewise, could spend the rest of eternity here, just basking in the sunlight and doing absolutely nothing except, maybe, spend a while, every now and then, slaughtering butterflies. By the thousands – by the millions, if need be. I could kill you within a few hours, Lone Wolf – really kill you, by destroying your essence – or I could spend as long a while as I wanted to doing it. If I made sure always to leave at least a few hundred of your butterflies alive, I could prolong your demise indefinitely – keep you in a state of beast-like semi-intelligence for all the eternity we both stayed here. Look – watch here – it's easy." He reached out and caught a single turquoise-winged butterfly in his hand and slowly, deliberately, squashed the tiny body, feeling the small coldness of its fluids on his palm and fingers. His mind recoiling from the necessary cruelty, he pressed on: "I could do that a hundred times, a thousand times, ten thousand times – each time killing you just that little bit more – and what could you do to stop me?" There was another long pause. I could come upon you in great numbers as you slept, said the voice at last, tentatively. I could settle the members of me all over your face, and into your mouth and nostrils, and smother you as you lay. I could ... "You have lost a deal of honour, in finding your richly deserved peace." Banedon's voice dripped sarcasm. "But your threat is a puny one. What need have I" – he swept an arm around as if to indicate the whole of this reality – "what need have I of sleep, in this existence?" This time it was Banedon himself who broke the long silence. "I never thought the time would come when I had to use threats of death to force a Kai Lord to fulfil his honour and hold fast to his valour," he added forlornly. "Nor my friend's." I'm no longer the person you thought of as your friend, Banedon. In leaving my physical body behind me, in Magnamund, I've become something far greater than ever I was before ...

The Rotting Land // 123 "Something far less!" Banedon snapped. ... so that I no longer even think the way that I used to. You've got to realize that. To me, now, the concerns of Magnamund – of all the physical universe, indeed – are trivial, of no more than transitory importance, if of any. I've come to be able to see things on a far vaster scale, beside which ... "Oh, stop talking rot!" Banedon was on his feet without any memory of having stood. "One minute you're whingeing away about how you want nothing more than to stay here and fester – to dodge out of all your obligations – and the next you're trying to justify your repulsive complacency by saying that you've become far too high and mighty for mere concerns of life and death! You can't have it both ways!" About the only thing you've got right, he thought sadly, is that you're not the person I thought of as my friend. People have had boon companions far weirder than a flock of butterflies, but few would willingly seek the alliance of someone who thinks the way you have come to do, once-friend. "Don't foist me off with false philosophies, Lone Wolf," he said out loud. "It all boils down to the simple matter: unless you agree to resume your rightful place in Magnamund, fighting for the rights of those who have placed their trust in you, then I shall start to pluck you from the air, one by one, and destroy you. Is that not clear enough for you?" The bald words had the desired effect. Banedon watched as the pattern quivered and began to break apart, dissolving at the edges like coloured oil on turbulent water. It seemed to be with difficulty that the main body of the formation dragged back its recalcitrant members to make itself whole once more. You drive a hard bargain. "I drive no bargain at all. I'm dictating to you. I'm using threats and blackmail. I'm not too proud of doing that, and I wish I didn't have to; but don't let my qualms lure you into thinking that I wouldn't do what I say – without any pleasure, perhaps, but with just as much ruthlessness as if your destruction gave me joy." Banedon became aware that he was jutting out his chin aggressively. Annoyed with himself, he tried to loosen his features into some more natural appearance, and found it incredibly difficult. He wondered if Alyss were grinning at him as she watched his efforts. The pattern of fluttering insects sighed. It was an ancient sigh, drawn reluctantly along an infinitely long corridor of time. Even my destruction seems less fearful than a return to the tempests of a physical existence, Lone Wolf's voice began. "And the ecstasies? You'd forego them too? You want never to ride on Reason for Coming Back again, never to feel the wind flensing through your hair? You never again want to hold someone

The Rotting Land // 124 you love in your arms? You never want to dive into water so cold it takes your breath away, or lie sprawled on the riverbank letting the Sun dry the drops of wetness from your skin? All of these things you want to do without?" They're tiny pleasures, Banedon, said the voice wistfully. I wish you could understand ... Banedon said nothing. Reaching out in front of him, he clapped his hands briskly, squashing half a dozen bright butterflies at the lower edge of the configuration. Before he could have time to think about what he was doing, he clapped his hands again. And again. His palms were already a mass of gelatinous colour as he drew them apart once more ... Stop! Stop, Banedon! If a noise so faint could be described as a yell, then that was what this was. Lone Wolf's tones spoke of childish desperation, of pitiful terror. Banedon could not recall having heard those emotions in such stark form from his friend before. Do not destroy me! I will obey you, though I will not love you for it! Stop, I say! Stop! My destruction I could face if that were to be an end of it; but now it comes to me that it may not. Oblivion I do not fear, but the unknown threats of the World beyond this existence ... Banedon stepped back, smearing the sticky juices of the dead butterflies off onto the sides of his robe. The Lone Wolf he had known of old would not have been terrified into submission by the thought of unknown threats – far from it, in Banedon's view Lone Wolf was generally only too eager to seek out and confront such threats. It was a contemptible motive that had driven his once-friend to concede, yet was it any more contemptible than the intimidation Banedon himself had used to gain the concession? It was something Banedon didn't want to ponder too long. "I take you at your word," he said stiffly. "I assume that the concept of honour still resides in your soul, craven though it has otherwise become?" I know what honour is, even though I can sense only the memory of it in myself. I give you my promise. We have a contract. I'll cooperate. Do what you will do. "Then you must come with me back across the glacier," said Banedon, his voice firm. You're not the only one who, given any choice in the matter, might opt to stay here in the warmth and ease of this valley, he thought wryly. "We must return to the ice-statue that your soul left behind." But I reside now in creatures of warmth and sunlight, complained the voice. "Your promise," reminded Banedon. I know, Banedon, I know. My promise. I gave you my promise.

The Rotting Land // 125 Without a further word, Banedon gathered his robe about his knees and strode the few necessary paces to the foot of the slope that led up out of the butterflies' valley. He turned to look back and saw that, obediently, the pattern of insects had broken down. Now, in a swarm, they were preparing to follow wherever he might lead. "Who knows, Lone Wolf?" said Banedon, trying to inject some cheerfulness into his voice. "Someday, when times in Magnamund have become less harsh, you and I may be able to return here together to enjoy the leisure of this Sun-kissed place." The butterflies made no response, but he could sense their scepticism. "Come on. Let's not delay." # At last there was some movement on Lone Wolf's face. Paido, peering anxiously, nevertheless took an involuntary half-step backwards. The Kai had been unconscious for approaching an hour now – over half of the time until the Tharran Guard's deadline had dripped away – and, after the long period of facial immobility, the sudden movement of the muscles around the eyes was somehow eerie by contrast. He found that his heart was racing. For a few moments the twitches around the eyes continued, and then suddenly the lids popped open. This time it was a full pace that Paido retreated. In place of their customary dark pupils, Lone Wolf's eyes had brilliant, kaleidoscopically coloured lights. Twin narrow beams of constantly shifting luminous hues slowly raked the far side of the street, coming to rest at last on the figure of Paido, who had fallen to his knees. He felt the brilliant shades focus upon his chest, then a curious burrowing sensation, as if the rays were fingers digging gently but firmly into soft butter. Thoughts scurried through his mind. Rimoah had told him, before Paido and Lone Wolf had departed Dessi, that Paido's life was secondary to the successful conclusion of Lone Wolf's quest. If, then, whatever magic Lone Wolf's Gestalt personalities were using required Paido's heart – which was what the radiant fingers seemed to be seeking – he would gladly give it up, not only through duty to the Elder Magi but also through loyalty to his friend and faith in the world's future. He even pulled aside the edges of his leather jacket as if to make the task of the bright beams easier. But, as he did so, another possibility occurred to him: perhaps the beams were transferring the poisoned magic from Lone Wolf to himself. He shrugged. Same difference. In that event, just as in the other,

The Rotting Land // 126 he would gladly forfeit his existence in order to speed the attainment of Lone Wolf's goal. He resigned himself to an imminent death. He hoped that the fingers of light would pluck out his heart rather than poison him. He would prefer a swift end. Then the sensation vanished. He looked up, startled. The lights, too, had vanished. He patted his chest a couple of times, as if expecting to find wounds or gashes, but his vest was unmarked. Lone Wolf's body still lay slumped in the same position as before, as if nothing at all had happened. He shook his head to clear it. What had that been all about? Had his worry and weariness conspired to make him start seeing things? No – he knew in his soul that the beams of radiance had indeed touched him. He shivered. There was the scent of rain in the night wind, but that wasn't the reason: this was some kind of magic far beyond anything that the Elder Magi had ever experienced – beyond, even, what they had predicted might exist. He shivered again. The dimly lit street seemed for a moment to filled with the insidious sound of millions of feathery wings beating, and with the smell of fresh wind through lush, sunlit grass. # "Do you require any more proof?" said Banedon in a tone of dry disparagement. Clustering in a haze around his head and shoulders, the butterflies seemed to be in total confusion. He had led them here unerringly across the icy wastes; the way had seemed shorter on the return than it had on his solitary quest into the unknown, and he wondered if this was subjective or if he had indeed taken a circuitous route on the way out. Once they had arrived by the ice figure, and he had brushed off a thick layer of fresh snow to reveal the form of Lone Wolf beneath, the butterfly-Lone Wolf had begun top display signs of reneging on his promise. The voice had been almost silent, and Banedon's understanding of it had been made yet more difficult by the whistling wind, yet at last he had understood that Lone Wolf was becoming suspicious that he had been lied to, that in fact few in Magnamund would mourn his abrupt departure to a more tranquil existence. At first Banedon had been lost for means of proof. Then, on impulse, he had gently reached into the swirl of butterflies with

The Rotting Land // 127 his two forefingers, and mentally directed one insect to land on each. With an angry sweep of his blue robe he had leaned down in front of the ice head and laid the two butterflies on it, one on the open, gaping surface of each chilly eye. Sitting back on his haunches, he had watched as the butterflies slowly ... melted, losing their forms to smear across the surface like paints laid on with a tender brush, their own bright hues changing and multiplying until each eye was a spiral of all the rainbow's colours. "See through your own eyes, Lone Wolf," he'd said softly, praying that the Kai's friend, the Vakeros – Paido, that was his name – would still, on the far side of the invisible barrier of transcendence, be near to where Lone Wolf lay. Then he concentrated on linking his mind to that of the butterfly cloud, so that he too could see Magnamund through Lone Wolf's eyes. Ishir had smiled upon his efforts. Or maybe it had been Alyss. He didn't know and didn't care. Despondency filled him even as he watched Paido show, unknowingly, quite how great his faith was in the cause of his unconscious companion. The need for this kind of demonstration of allegiance sickened him: it reminded him of spoilt children insisting that their parents show their devotion by constantly bringing presents and sweets to their loved one's feet. It was a power game, subordinating the integrity of another human being for the sake of satisfying one's own puerile need to dominate. He hoped against hope that the Lone Wolf who arose in Magnamund would not be much like the personality he'd been having to deal with here. If not, then there seemed little point in restoring Lone Wolf to his proper place in the scheme of things. "Is that proof enough for you?" he insisted. "Your friend was ready to die for something he did not understand, so long as it would aid you on your way. Would you have been willing to die for him, had your rôles been reversed?" There was no response from the insects. He wondered if their uneasy roiling were a sign of embarrassment. He hoped so. On the way back here he'd explained in some detail to his butterfly retinue what he must do, but he repeated it all over again now. Should the insect-Lone Wolf balk halfway through the procedure, Banedon was not certain if he'd be able to recover the entirety of Gwynian's soulstuff in order to begin the process over again. Better that the timorous entity's misgivings be, if not laid to rest, then at least brought into the open now. But there was no sign of rebellion. The requirement to know that he was truly needed in Magnamund seemed to have been the last temptation acting on Lone Wolf to break his promise. Perhaps this thin semblance of his character hadn't the courage to

The Rotting Land // 128 raise further objections; perhaps he'd simply resigned himself to whatever was going to take place. Not for the first time Banedon wondered how much of his lecture on the procedure the butterflies had taken in. He wouldn't have been surprised if it hadn't been much. He coughed nervously. I'm as bad as Lone Wolf, now it's come to it, he thought, with a slight self-deprecating smile. "We should wait no longer," he said. "We've wasted enough time." Banedon sensed something like a fatalistic shrug from the circling insects. He prepared himself for a final argument, or for some resistance, but obediently enough the butterflies fluttered down to the exposed surfaces of the ice statue, landing on it and flattening their wings. Soon the whole figure was covered in a many-coloured coat, with new layers of brightly winged brilliance laying themselves over the earlier ones. A last butterfly circled aimlessly, as if undecided as to which would be exactly the right spot for it, and then it too spiralled down to land, folding its wings down neatly so as to cover the exposed tip of the ice-Lone Wolf's nose. The thousands of wings slowly fused together, their colours spreading and mingling, until the silent Lone Wolf seemed to have been dressed in raiment of cloth spun from the rainbow. Banedon, watching, felt a chill up his spine. More and more, as his experience in this alternate level had continued, the disconcerting feeling had been building up inside him that somehow he'd been warned of all that would occur, but had forgotten it. As when he'd first spotted the gash in the glacier that had proved to be the valley, and on several other occasions, while he could in way have predicted that the butterflies would dress Lone Wolf in this spangled glory, he was not in the least surprised or awed by it now that it had happened. So often he'd been thinking, while here, that he was acting on instinct, that somehow his training or his intuition was pulling him through, making it easy for him always to select the right choices, and yet this curious sense of déjà vu was perhaps telling him otherwise. There was something of a hazy area in his memory between the time that Alyss had begun to instruct him and the time that he had reached this barren mountainside; now he wondered just how much detail she had given him. Much more disturbingly, he wondered if his subsequent forgetting of it had been a deliberate ploy on her part ... or a mistake. Alyss make a mistake? he thought, cross with himself. Alyss never makes mistakes! And yet she had admitted to him that sometimes she did.

The Rotting Land // 129 Impatiently he put the worry out of his mind. He held out his palms, cupped together, and concentrated his thoughts to drive the soulstuff of Gwynian towards this fleshly receptacle. The strain made the veins stand out on his temples and his eyes slip momentarily from focus. At last a first golden droplet formed in the centre of the palm of his right hand, slowly oozing up from the pores. With it came a minute fleck of blood. Perhaps that's fitting, thought a part of Banedon's mind. Perhaps some of my essence mixed in with Gwynian's and Lone Wolf's own will make Lone Wolf even stronger ... Now there was a second shining drop, and a third. Soon the level of liquid in his palms was rising at a perceptible rate, with more running down into the small lake from the undersides of his curling fingers. Oddly, not a drop leaked out below. Once the cup of his palms was full Banedon sensed that the last of Gwynian's soulstuff had exited him. Moving carefully, anxious to spill nothing, he sidled towards the many-coloured statue. The thin skin of its covering slowly peeled back, as if stripped by an invisible but razor-sharp knife, to reveal the glassy eyes. Banedon knelt down and stared into those impassive, emotionless, imperturbable depths of ice, and felt that he was gazing not so much into a statue as into a whole other lifetime, naked, with all its triumphs and vicissitudes and slow growth through youth and maturity into senescence. It was a more complete vision than he would have liked; he turned his head away for a moment as he raised his cupped hands to the level of those exposed eyes. But then he had to look into them again. Once more the sensation of seeing too much, even though all he could see was cloudy white and shine. He blew across the surface of the golden pond in his hands, and the topmost layers of Gwynian's golden soulstuff feathered away, drifting lackadaisically towards Lone Wolf's frozen gaze. They passed smoothly from the air into the ice as if there had been no transition, no boundary to cross. Banedon saw them dissipate through the cracks and veins of the ice until the colour had disappeared entirely. No, not entirely: there was a new sense of warmth, of vibrant vitality, about that flat, expressionless stare. He blew again, and another thin peel of gold scaled away, drifting through the few inches of air like flakes of charred paper in the breeze, slowly turning and rocking. Once more he blew, and yet another time. The level of the fluid in his hands seemed hardly to have fallen at all, and yet now the eyes staring back into his were definitely alive. As yet they gave

The Rotting Land // 130 no impression that any intelligent consciousness was present, but surely that could not be far behind. Blow again: a gentle puff of air, so as not to stir the liquid surface into too much turbulence. Like trying to obtain a note of the utmost purity from a flute. Again: your breath is stirring life within the statue, Banedon. Again: is this how the Gods feel when they're breathing the souls into unborn babes? If there are Gods ... Again: the soulstuff is the colour of love, and it is rendering up its love into the no longer frozen recesses of the statue. Again: this is surely as near to the creation of new life from dead matter as a mortal can hope to achieve. One final time, and the soulstuff is gone from your hands, Banedon. You straighten until you are standing, your knees creaking in protest. Looking down upon the statue, still crouched with its arms around its knees, you can see that your labours have not been fruitless. The form is no longer gripped in the ice's motionless fist; it seems to be vibrating with the life pent up within it. A faint ashy whisper of a thought comes into your mind. A formally enunciated thought: I thank you, Banedon, for your sacrifice and your true friendship – your friendship that goes beyond merely pleasing my whims. And now the colours of the rainbow coat are darkening, decaying, as the figure seems to shrink in on itself. The recognition dawns on you that the ice is melting, yet there is no pool of water spreading from the statue's base. Gwynian's soulstuff has permeated the ice entirely, you realize, and none must be allowed to run away to waste. And, a little later: The water is Lone Wolf's weakened soulstuff, brought to new strength by Gwynian's. It is seeping away as it melts, but not to anywhere in this level of reality. All the while the butterfly coat is rotting, sticky drops of resinous corruption oozing from between hardened, leathery plates. The last all happens very quickly. The scaly coat collapses inwards to lie on the grey ice like the discarded garment that in fact it is. You look at it, puzzled by the anticlimax; you stretch out a foot to turn over its heavy edge. Just a pelt of leather scales, like a crocodile's hide. Nothing left in it: no life. It's no more alive than a pair of boots. The wind catches it and, despite its weight, soon has it sliding away across the ice. You watch it go, knowing that if it had been important to stop it then you would have. How much did Alyss tell me? How much have I forgotten?

The Rotting Land // 131 You suddenly wrap yourself up in your arms, pulling the thick fabric of your robe around you. Until now you haven't really noticed how cold and cutting the gale has been. Your teeth begin to chatter; your lips and the tip of your nose are agony. You turn and see that the stream in which Gwynian once bathed is now frozen over. "Alyss," you say quietly. "Alyss – it's done. Alyss, I can return to Toran now. To Toran." The gale becomes more severe. From somewhere the sky conjures up an arrow-like sleet that assaults your exposed face. The mountains hide behind a grey curtain. The unbroken clouds press ever more closely towards the ground. "Alyss!" you yell, but your shout is whipped away instantly by the storm. "Alyss!" You're screaming. It seems to make no difference. "Alyss! Fetch me away! Alyss! ALYSS!" No answer. Nothing but the wind-driven ice, and the grey, deaf glacier beneath your feet. "ALYSS!"

The Rotting Land // 132

HISTORY BOOK 3: LESA, FADED Varnos was weeping. Two years had passed since his nuptial night, and the tiny tribal territory that his father had ruled was now the core of a large nation bordering the Danarg Swamp. On that bizarrely long day when he had pursued Evaine wherever she might lead him, he had unknowingly tracked out a colossal area of bogland and jungle, much of it poor but also much of it, especially along the river valleys and in the open land around the north of the swamp, fertile and rich. The minor tribes that had inhabited those regions in the old chieftain's day had with various degrees of gratitude conceded Varnos's rule over them, and he in return had brought to them a hitherto unthought-of prosperity. Even the Ghagrim, the gentle folk who dwelt along the fringes of the Danarg, had drawn themselves from their contemplations of the goodnesses of Nature long enough to acknowledge a truce between themselves and his people; Varnos even had hopes, never mentioned to his wife, that one day the ancient temple at the swamp's heart, built there by a race of people who had been long gone from this land before history had begun, would come under his sway. But that was to look far ahead. In the mean time, the threat from the Agarashi of the swamp had been at least temporarily contained: some of the gloomier of his shamans predicted that the foul beasts would soon erupt from their heartland and reclaim the territory they regarded as theirs, but for the moment that hazard seemed as far distant as the incorporation of the Temple of Ohrido into his realm, and the recently designed banners of the Freelands of Talestria fluttered carelessly above the turrets of Garthen (pop. 1706), the capital which Varnos had founded on the shore due south of his father's old camp, and which he had so-named in a not-so-subtle but apparently successful attempt to quell any rebellious thoughts that his brother might nurture. The Sun shone brightly on the Freelands of Talestria, as if it would do so for all the rest of eternity. And yet Varnos wept. His brother looked at him unsympathetically. They were in the regal apartments in the North Tower of Castle Garthen – a building only somewhat less grand than its name. Sunlight shone in through the narrow windows and played across the crudely tiled floor. From outside there were the faint sounds of the city going about its work. The wind, blowing today from the north, brought with it the sweet scents of rotting vegetation and fresh woodsmoke. "You got everything," said Garthen roughly. "You got the kingdom. You got the power. You got the doxy, for what the scrawny midget's worth. You got no cause to go blubbing your eyes out, like girls do."

The Rotting Land // 133 "I've got everything but the thing I want," sobbed Varnos. "Wossat?" Garthen's brows, undecided as to whether to knit or beetle, wrestled furiously. "The `doxy', as you call her. Evaine!" The right eyebrow seemed to have the left in an armlock, but the contest was clearly far from over. "But you and her, you tied the knot, di'n you? Spliced the mainbrace? I thought you was as close as chalk and cheese. What you mean you ain't got the doxy?" Garthen picked up a jug of mead from a jewel-encrusted table and drained it at a draught. Smacking his lips, he picked up another. Varnos picked at the hem of his lavishly embroidered robe, staring beyond it to the floor. His brother was coarse of locution, yet Varnos recoiled from the prospect of expressing himself in the same vulgar terms. How to explain to him in a way that he'll understand? he thought. As ever, his roving mind fell upon its old-loved topic. He imagined himself to be in a marketplace. All around him were stalls displaying the ripest and richest products of the farms and fields of the Freelands. But, to Varnos's mind's eye, the brightly coloured fruits and vegetables of the displays had an additional, fresh meaning: they were also similes and metaphors rendered into physical form, so that he could pick and choose among them as he wished. He felt his inner face wrinkle with indecision as he approached the first stall. The stall-holder beamed ruddily at him. Melons. Perhaps, in the circumstances, not. Nodding politely to the now disappointed countryman, Varnos moved slowly away towards the next display. Maybe pawpaws weren't what he was looking for, either. He controlled his breathing, forcing himself not to panic. The market was huge: he was aware without having to look that it stretched for hundreds of yards if not miles to every side of him. Unfortunately, however, he appeared to be the solitary customer, which meant that the fruit- and vegetable-sellers were eagerly watching his every move, hoping that their monarch would choose to purchase their products, and theirs alone. He felt as if he were at the focal point of a lens, his skin in danger of frazzling in the hot sunlight of their stares. Shiftily he continued to browse. Leeks were out, obviously, as were bananas and corn on the cob and especially aubergines. He gave the strawberries barely a glance, puzzled over the brussels sprouts and the rhubarb before hastily rejecting them – likewise the gherkins and the courgettes – and regarded the mangoes, figs, peaches, nectarines, apricots, cherries, oyster plants and walnuts in frank dismay. A towering heap of passion fruit made him shudder audibly. Celery, carrots, parsnips, plums, fennel, runner beans, gooseberries, jackfruits ... the nightmare continued. By now Varnos was sprinting in full hysteria up and down the aisles of his vast mental marketplace, seeing the strongly coloured displays as little more than blurs of light as he sped past them. The expressions on the faces of the stall-holders merged into a single, tooth-packed, miles-long leer. Chicory, chick-peas, chard, chives, checkerberries,

The Rotting Land // 134 cherimoyas and chillies smeared past him in a kaleidoscopic cornucopia. Lingonberries, lychees, loquats, limes and loganberries – a thin scream was trickling from the sides of his mouth – tangeloes, tangerines, tamarinds, turnips and tomatoes. A plantain cackled at him, a jaboticaba hooted, an olive ogled, a horse-radish whinnied and he was perfectly certain he heard a boysenberry belch. Huckleberries snapped at his heels like crazed terriers, while sapodillas spat and scallions scowled. His breath was coming in cruel, choking whoops as he pounded onwards, the thunder of the pursuing produce – a mountain of tumbling fruits and vegetables dwarfing him as it trundled menacingly after him – seeming to echo at him from the very walls of the Universe. With one last despairing scream he found himself back on the wooden throne of his kingly apartments. Garthen was eyeing him alarmedly. "What you bin doing?" "Trying to think of a way to explain my problem to you," gasped Varnos. Cold sweat was pouring from his forehead and down the concavity of his chest. "It's a bit ... well, personal." "Just say it, man!" Garthen hurled another empty jug towards the pile in the corner. "Say it straight out! I can take it. I'm a warrior." "Well, you know what ... er ... kohlrabi is." "Greens, right?" "Yes, that's it. And ... um ... guavas. And custard apples and persimmon. Not to mention grapes." "Yes. Girls' stuff." "Well, Evaine isn't letting me make a fruit salad out of those." Garthen blanched. "I say, that's a bit close to the knuckle, brother!" "I couldn't think of a more refined way to put it. I ..." "Yes, but – what if Mother had heard you?" The two men looked guiltily around the room's gilded walls, as if Lesa the Faded might at any moment spring from behind a panel and swoon at them. Reassured, they nevertheless moved closer to each other and began to speak in quieter, more urgent tones. "Right from the outset she's been the same," said Varnos. "The very night of our marriage, when I was expecting ... well, not much, because I'd been drinking a lot, but at least a bit of a squash, or maybe even an endive ..." "A cuddle, you mean?" "Yes, if you have to put it as crassly as that. But she said no way, not ever, that wasn't what she'd married me for. What she'd married me for was to install me as ruler over the Freelands of Talestria for as long as we both should live – which, she hinted darkly, would be a very long time indeed, or else." "Glug," went Garthen's throat as another pint of wine disappeared. "Couldn't you have, er, truffled?" "I truffled to the point of mushrooming!" exclaimed Varnos, slapping his thigh to emphasize the point. "`Honeydew,' I said to her, as civil as you'd wish, `honeydew, my sweet mamey apple, a married man needs his lentils, his

The Rotting Land // 135 okra and his onions. To deny him those is to deny the dictates of his inmost gumbo.' But all she said was: `Hagberries!' I didn't know what she meant then, but" – he began to sob afresh – "I do now." "Well, I still don't." Garthen's right eyebrow had been thrown right out of the ring, but was gamely crawling back in. "That first night, I tried to follow her into our tent. The very moment I crossed the threshold she ... changed. It was hideous – hideous!" Garthen said nothing, just stared glumly at the last jug of wine. He had the feeling that courtesy dictated that he should leave it for his brother, but he also had the feeling that courtesy was nothing but a blasted nuisance. He reached for it. "There, in the moonlight," Varnos was continuing, "she altered from the trim young bunch of spring greens I'd been following all day into ... into a crab apple! She looked as ancient as if she'd been in her grave six weeks. Her head was shiny – not a hair on it – but her nostrils more than compensated for that. Dewlaps ... pimples ... boils ... She gave me a terrible toothless smile, and just then her glass eye dropped out. I ... I'm not ashamed to admit, brother, that I fainted." "Sissy." "And it was the same every night after that, until finally I couldn't take it any more, and gave up. Since then I've been perfecting my epic ballad, born out of my ardour for her, but she refuses to listen to me declaim it. What can I do?" His final wail was truly piteous. He threw his face down onto his forearms and whimpered. Courtesy be damned: Garthen drained the last of the wine. "You've thought of getting yourself a bit of asparagus on the side?" he said to his brother's convulsing shoulders. "I know a perky little slice of civet fruit as'll give a man ..." "It's no use! It's her that I want – not some substitute! Oh, woe ..." Garthen shifted in his seat uneasily. After a last exchange of forearm smashes his brows declared a truce. "Well, brother," he said ponderously, "not to put too fine a point on it, you could always just put out the lights. As the old tribal saying goes, in the night all manzanillas are ... well, whatever colour manzanillas are. As of this moment I can't rightly recollect. But you get my ..." "You fool!" bleated Varnos, wrenching at the cloth of his robe and staring viciously at his brother through bloodshot eyes. "That's no help at all!" "Whyever not?" "Because she glows in the dark!"

The Rotting Land // 136

5 SPOIL THE BROTH "Lone Wolf! Good friend, Lone Wolf! Wake up, Ishir blast you! Lone Wolf!" Someone was slapping his face, just hard enough to irritate, not quite hard enough really to hurt. Obediently he opened his eyes. The world was a dark haze with a few faintly brighter glimmers. Two of the sources of illumination were clearer, more defined; after some little while of confusion he recognized them as the lights reflected from shining eyes, somewhere close to his own face. He struggled to bring them into focus. "Lone Wolf, you're back! Let thanks be offered to the ancestors of the Elder Magi!" He shook his head, and it banged painfully against a hard obstacle. What was his interrogator talking about? Lone Wolf hadn't been aware of having been away anywhere. Now his vision was far too full of lights: small shooting stars and larger, spreading fireworks in artificial-seeming metallic pinks and blues. He discovered his body, and all its aches and pains: someone had been using it as a football. His hands, exploring by his sides, found that he was slouched on a hard surface which, for some reason, he thought at first was ice; no, it was stone, like the wall against which he'd crashed his head. Then memories began to creep into his consciousness, like lamplight leaking into a dark corridor under the crack of a door. He had been arguing with a tall Vakeros, who had hit him, knocking him into a heap here. The Vakeros should die for having done this. Lone Wolf's right hand raised itself from the kerb and fumbled for the Sommerswerd's hilt, but then stayed: he was in no condition, just yet, to fight. Besides, he'd no wish to terrify the kindly passing soul who had slapped him back into consciousness. Paido. That was the name of the Vakeros who'd dealt with him so brutally, so treacherously. He'd thought the man had been his friend ... "Lone Wolf! Say something! It's me! It's your friend! Paido! I'm here!" Paido! Lone Wolf growled. The noise came out like the whine of a frustrated lapdog. He tried again, but the sound was little more

The Rotting Land // 137 satisfying to his ears. If the lapdog carried on like this it was going to get kicked out of the house. "I'm not a lapdog," he said, his voice laboured, hoarse and barely louder than the whine had been. "No," said Paido. "That you're not." "What have you done to me? Have you come back to torture me, now that I'm defenceless?" He could see enough detail of Paido's face now to realize that his question was puzzling the man. "I'm your friend, Lone Wolf." "Some friend. Beating me up for no reason. Kill you for that once I get my strength back." Exploring his mouth with his tongue he discovered that a couple of teeth were wobbly, but there were no new gaps. Paido's face cleared. "Oh, that. That was a long time ago. Once you've come properly to your senses, Lone Wolf, you'll wish it could have been you punching you, not me." The concept was too confusing for Lone Wolf. He abandoned conversation for a while, wondering if he'd ever return to it. He felt as if someone had been rinsing his mouth out with baking soda. Was I swearing a lot, or something? Was that why he belted me? But then he'd have to be belting half the population of Magnamund ... His Kai talents reacted slowly when he called upon them to aid him in the further exploration of his body; they began to repair the worst of the damage, beginning with the two rocky teeth, but their efforts were sluggish and diffuse, as if they were no longer fully under his control. He persisted, urging them, feeling like an officer who has lost the respect of his men. "Lone Wolf!" Paido was shaking him by the shoulders, bumping the back of his skull against the wall. "Don't go away again. We have to get away from here. Wake up, blast you!" He felt Paido's hands running over him. Wherever the Vakeros touched, the throbbing pain vanished. Within a few seconds Lone Wolf's body felt as if it had been reborn, as if it were new and fresh. At least superficially: whatever it was that Paido was doing failed to affect Lone Wolf's Kai sensibilities, which remained as unresponsive as before. And there was more: Lone Wolf had the disturbing sensation that he and his body were somehow no longer exactly a perfect match. He had a fleeting vision of himself as a hermit crab invading a new and not quite compatible shell. Did the Vakeros's magic change my body in some way? he thought. Or was it me that he changed?

The Rotting Land // 138 "I want to get up," he said, his voice sounding a little stronger now, at least to his own ears. "I'm uncomfortable here. Help me. Help me. I'll kill you later." Paido grabbed his wrists and dragged him to his feet. Lone Wolf swayed beside him, his arm around the Vakeros's shoulder. The world made a few swimming movements, and then settled into clear focus. It was night-time – yes, it had been well into twilight when Paido had hit him. He must have been unconscious for more than just a few seconds – more like half an hour, perhaps even longer. In which case, his recovery was swifter and more complete than he had any right to expect. He shrugged away the impression that his body and soul were not entirely in harmony; the gesture almost made him fall over, but Paido's supporting arm kept him erect until the moment's giddiness had passed. "Why did you hit me?" he said. "I'll explain as we go. I want to get you to somewhere a bit less exposed than this street. Anyway, there's an officer of the guard who was here earlier, asking too many questions. He's due to be back soon, and I want us to be gone before he is." With Lone Wolf's cooperation, it took Paido little time to drape his friend over the saddle of one of the horses; then the Vakeros took the reins of both animals and began to lead them up the street in the direction they had been going before his temper had finally erupted. As they went he explained to Lone Wolf as simply and succinctly as he could what had happened, and why. "But I didn't hit you that hard," he concluded miserably. "There was no blow that I delivered that should have made you lose your wits for an hour or more. The necromancy that Kezoor's spell was working in your soul must have weakened you beyond anything I thought possible. I can sense, though, that the necromancy's gone, now; perhaps the beating I gave you shook the dark magic right out of your system ... although that seems unlikely. You're still weak and dazed, but some warmth and food and drink should soon cure that. Only ..." The big Vakeros paused a moment in his stride, confusing the horses, before walking on again at a more determined pace. "There's something else I sense about you, something ... different. I don't think it's harmful, but I'd be happier if I knew what it was." "I'd be happier if I had some food inside me," said Lone Wolf's low voice. "I chucked up a couple of blocks ago." Paido laughed, his doubts briefly forgotten. "Your words tell me more than my senses can about how fast you're recovering," he said. "Do you think you're up to walking yet?"

The Rotting Land // 139 Lone Wolf grunted assent and Paido drew the horses to a halt. They were in an open square. There was a garden in its centre, with a still fountain. Off to their right was a narrow arched alley through which Paido could see a brightly lamplit quadrangle. Lone Wolf slithered down from the horse and used the pommel of its saddle as a support while he accustomed himself to standing upright once more. Within moments, confident in his balance, he released the prop. "Where are we in relation that place Rhola Rhada was talking about?" he said. His lips still felt rubbery, and he sucked on them to try to restore their sensation. The astringent taste of vomit on his teeth was now almost gone. "Or are we too late?" "The Temple of the Sword," said Paido. "According to her map, it's just through that archway there." He pointed towards the alley. "With any luck, even if they don't have a bed, they'll have a corner where we can curl up. And some food." "Food," agreed Lone Wolf solemnly. At the moment he didn't care whether he had a bed or not, but his stomach was yearning piteously for something solid and filling. Most of the lanterns illuminating the quadrangle were hanging from the first-floor balcony of a big, shining building on the far side from the arched alley; over its ponderous wooden door, at the top of a flight of three steps, was a bronze sign depicting a flaming broadsword with some writing along its blade that Lone Wolf couldn't decipher. The hooves of their horses clicking on the flagstones, he and Paido advanced across the quadrangle, looking up at the severe front wall of what must be the Temple of the Sword. The blue stones of which it had been constructed, flecked with silver and scarlet veins, had been polished to a mirror smoothness, so that despite the lanterns' yellow light the building seemed to glow coldly. Lone Wolf felt a crawling of the spine. I should be able to read that writing, he thought. Unless it isn't writing at all, but just some obscure motif. He nudged Paido. "What does the sign say?" he said, indicating it with a nod of his head. "`Temple of the Sword'," Paido replied, looking at him strangely. "Is there something the matter, Lone Wolf? It's written in standard Talestrian." "Nothing the matter," said Lone Wolf brusquely, although his mind was racing. I can read all the languages of the world. I can! I know I can ... could ... "Let's not hang around out here getting cold. I'm starving."

The Rotting Land // 140 Still looking concerned, Paido climbed the steps to the door and beat a couple of times with the knocker. The wood had hardly ceased vibrating when the door was snatched open, so suddenly that the tall Vakeros moved involuntarily backwards, twisting to retain his balance on the top step. "Welcome, strangers," said the old man framed in the doorway. He had a thin white beard and a head as bald and shining as the wall of the building. Behind him was a hall of the same blue stone but left unpolished. Candles and lanterns were everywhere – on the walls, on tables, in stands and even just on the floor – so that Lone Wolf was reminded of looking into the heart of a cut diamond. The light had the same coldness, too. "We of the Temple of the Sword receive you gratefully, glad of your presence among us." He raised his sticklike arms, the broad sleeves of his brown robe flapping below them. "Our blessings upon you." "We seek lodging for the night," said Paido, recovering his composure. "We were told that you might have some. We have money, and ..." "Silence," said the old man, turning colourless eyes upon the Vakeros. The command was gently spoken. "We have no need for the coins of road-weary journeyers. Let Kevh here take your horses – they'll be well fed and looked after, I can assure you – while I escort you inside. There is hot food still, and good wine, and warm beds for you both later." Lone Wolf glanced at Paido and grinned. It seemed that fortune was smiling upon them. "Sounds good to me," he said. The Vakeros nodded silently. A young novice – presumably Kevh – scuttled out from behind the old man in the doorway and with a few muttered words of greeting took the reins from Lone Wolf's hands. He vanished around the side of the building, the horses rather nervously following him. Lone Wolf mounted the steps and he and Paido entered the temple. As the old man closed the door behind them everything seemed to change, as if they'd strayed over an invisible boundary line and found themselves in the wrong world. The gleaming lights that Lone Wolf had seen from outside had gone, and in their place was a long row of squat red candles down the centre of the gloomy hall. The air was thick with the sickly smell of stale incense; as the old man fussily preceded them along the hall Lone Wolf felt as if he and Paido were having to push themselves against the air's resistance in order to follow. The monk led them through the plain doors at the far end of the hall into a vaulted, wood-panelled corridor; here the light was even poorer. The Temple of the Sword must be less well off

The Rotting Land // 141 than their welcome had indicated: Lone Wolf resolved that, whatever the old man's disclaimers, he leave some coins behind so that the members of the order could at least afford a few more candles. He remembered again how brightly illuminated the hall had seemed from outside, but the memory was now like the fading wisp of a dream; just a trick of his eyes, it must have been. Several flights of stairs took them into a large refectory. Lone Wolf guessed that they must now be thirty feet or more beneath the ground, and he wondered how much more of the temple lay down here; he shuddered as he recalled the labyrinth of tunnels through which he and Petra had scurried under the dire fortress of Kazan-Oud. Don't think about Kazan-Oud! And don't think about Petra ... At least here one could see what one was doing: there were torches at regular intervals along the walls, and their smoky light showed rows of polished oak tables, a floor tiled in muted colours, and roughly hewn benches and chairs. "As I told you," said the old man, "we still have some fine food left over from our dinner. We generally keep some back in case we're blessed by a visit from wayfarers such as yourselves." He sniffed expressively. "I can tell you, my friends, it tastes even better than it smells." And it smells pretty good, too, Lone Wolf conceded to himself. Through an open hatch on the other side of the refectory drifted the noise of people talking and the aroma of steaming meat and vegetables. "Be seated," the monk was saying. He gestured to a table where there were still cutlery and condiments laid out. "Our food is humble, but it's good, I assure you. Humble but good. Nothing better to revive you after your travels and fortify you for tomorrow's road ahead." He chuckled, as if at some secret irony. Lone Wolf and Paido sat down on benches opposite each other. The Vakeros's expression was unreadable. "I'm not so sure as I like this all that much," he mumbled to Lone Wolf while the old man's attention was distracted by another brown-clad monk's entrance from the direction of the kitchen. "Don't be foolish," Lone Wolf muttered in return. "Count your blessings, my friend." Under the benevolent eye of the old man the second monk lay huge platefuls of stew in front of them. The thick brown gravy was still bubbling from the pan, and the rich odour told Lone Wolf that plenty of heavy red wine had gone into the cooking. He would sleep well tonight.

The Rotting Land // 142 "Gaj kog zutag," said the monk, moving his hands in blessing over their food. He smiled shyly at them both before retreating towards the kitchen door, where he stood, leaning on the frame, watching as they ate. The old man had been right: it did indeed taste even better than it smelt. Neither Lone Wolf nor Paido spoke while they were disposing of the food: as well as the wine, spices from far beyond Talestria's borders had been combined with herbs grown closer to home to give the stew an aromatic tang that perfectly complemented the flavour of the tender meat. On finishing, Lone Wolf was surprised to discover from the old man that the meat was ghorka: it was difficult to associate the huge lumbering beasts with the succulent, soft pale flesh he had been eating. At Paido's behest the monk from the kitchen brought more. Lone Wolf, full already, watched amiably as his friend disposed of a second plateful almost as rapidly as he had done the first. "Come now," said the old man, wiping his arm across his bald pate, "come, now that you've eaten, to see our dean. It is his practice to bid a goodnight to any travellers who may have blessed us by their presence." Once more the two of them, shouldering their backpacks, followed him along corridors and through small deserted rooms; the monk who had brought them their supper tagged along behind. This time the stairways led upwards, so that soon they were able, as they walked swiftly past, to look out through the temple's rare windows on the brightly lit courtyard; at the rear of the building, likewise well lit, were pens for domesticated animals as well as, just as Lone Wolf had predicted to himself, a herb garden. When they reached it, however, the dean's chamber was windowless: the domed room could as well have been further underground even than the refectory. Around its walls hung tapestries and paintings showing mythological creatures and pastoral scenes of nudes. The dome overhead was made out of finely detailed marquetry; the floor was carpeted in deep woollen rugs that Lone Wolf recognized as the finest Vassagonian ware. A massive throne-like chair made from the same chiselled blue stone as the corridors was against one wall. Scattered everywhere were wooden and marble plinths, many bearing lanterns, and the rest supporting large bowls filled to their brims with a silvery liquid. Lone Wolf took especial note of these latter, recalling the rather similar dish that Rimoah had used for scrying, way back in Elzian's Tower of Truth. He took a step towards one to examine it more

The Rotting Land // 143 closely, but stopped himself for fear of seeming discourteous in front of his hosts. Out of the corner of his eye he saw movement on the far side of the room. One of the tapestries was lifting a few inches, as if disturbed by a gust of cool air. As it fell back to the wall again there slipped through the narrow gap yet another monk, as bald and emaciated as the one who had greeted them at the front door but dressed in a black robe rather than the brown Lone Wolf had come to assume was standard wear for the adherents of the Temple of the Sword. This must be the dean, he concluded, and he bowed from the waist. The dean paused in the centre of the room and looked around at the dishes of liquid metal as if they were rare and occasionally dangerous circus animals and he the trainer proud of his mastery over the beasts. At last he turned his attention to the two travellers. "Have you eaten?" he asked. Lone Wolf assumed that the question was addressed to himself and Paido, and began to thank the dean voluminously for the hospitality that had been extended to them. Before he had properly started, however, the two attendant monks drowned his words with their formalized response: "Yes, master, we have all eaten," they half-sang. "Our bellies are full and sated of the fine food and wine our Lord has supplied for us, and so are those of our friends new-arrived in His benign gaze." Lone Wolf's eyes narrowed, and he could feel Paido tense next to him: the words had the sound of ritual, of having been uttered many times before, on many other nights like this. He wondered who all those other travellers had been. The air in the room seemed suddenly chillier, and the walls more distant from him. "Good," said the man in black. His eyes glittered in the lamplight like green jewels as he turned to stare more closely at Lone Wolf and Paido. "You have done well, my brethren, to bring two such fine ... specimens to me here. Your work is done. You may leave us to ... talk." The man had a curious, breathy, aspirated way of speaking that again made alarm signals ring in Lone Wolf. He glanced at Paido and saw that the big Vakeros's knuckles were white around the hilt of his sword. Lone Wolf followed suit with the Sommerswerd; as his hands closed on the pommel there was no answering rush of exuberant soulstuff, but for the moment he thought nothing of the deficiency.

The Rotting Land // 144 As the two monks bowed their way out of the chamber, their faces still wreathed in smiles, the dean chuckled. The hairs stood erect on Lone Wolf's neck. It hardly required the use of his still semi-dormant Kai talents to tell him that he was in the presence of profound Evil. The dean threw back his hood more fully from his head, and as they watched his face grew younger and fuller. The smile on the thin lips was not pretty; the yellow teeth Lone Wolf could see between those lips looked disconcertingly sharp. With a wave of a skeletal hand the dean cowed the flames in the lanterns, so that the room became a gloomy cavern populated by flighty shadows. The nudes and monstrous creatures of the wall-tapestries seemed to come alive and begin to dance and caper. The robed man chuckled again, and then began to laugh out loud. In the dimmer light his eyes had lost their cold green hue and now showed as red flames. "Your futile quest is over, foolish mortals!" he shouted, pulling the robe from his shoulders and throwing it over towards one wall, revealing himself in the low light as a tall, straight, slender, fair-skinned youth – a boy with the delicate grace of a woman. "I have watched your progress these past days by means of my spying-mirrors" – he gestured towards a couple of the dishes nearby – "and I have followed you on your travels. I have heard, too, your plans – plans to rob Talestria of its heritage, the Lorestone of Ohrido." He paused and chuckled again. His voice had changed, becoming that of a young man who has not long bade farewell to childhood; the effect was more terrifying than if it had retained its original hoarse lack of cadence. "Talestria's heritage," he added sarcastically, his mirth doing nothing to dampen the flame of his gaze. "That's a good one." Lone Wolf, alternately seduced by the femininity of the youth's body and repelled by the Evil he sensed coursing from it, began to lug the Sommerswerd from its scabbard. But the weapon wouldn't shift: its dead weight of metal was too great for his strength. At most six inches of the blade revealed itself before gravity drew it inexorably thumping back down into its sheath. Paido screamed. Lone Wolf, twisting, saw that his friend was juddering uncontrollably, bouncing around like an empty sack on the back of a speeding cart. His face had lost all of its colour, becoming a puffy grey-white, and gouts of sweat were starting from his forehead. Trails of blood led from the corners of his eyes. A damp stain suddenly appeared on the front of Paido's tunic, and the air was full of the warm salty odour of fresh urine. The big Vakeros

The Rotting Land // 145 screamed again, his hands clawing as he tried to raise them to his face; now his limbs were jerking to a staccato rhythm, as if they were filled with far more strength than they were being permitted to use. He was clearly, even through the barrier of his horror at what was happening to him, trying to force himself to vomit; at last he succeeded. Lone Wolf, realizing what the Vakeros was doing, made himself follow suit. The Vakeros's last scream was even louder than the previous two. With a crash that rocked the dishes on their plinths, raising waves on the surfaces of the metal within, he crunched to the floor, his body still twitching and shuddering although it seemed that consciousness had fled from it. "What have you done to us?" snarled Lone Wolf at the dean. He was still wrestling with the impossible weight of the Sommerswerd. The lack of the weapon's soulstuff, which he had barely noticed earlier, was now a cause of glaring, howling fear in his mind; he felt as if he'd only just discovered that a part of himself had died – which in a way, he reflected bitterly, was exactly what had happened. "What muck did your murderers conceal in that stew, beneath the spices and the herbs?" The only reply that the dean made was further laughter. His lithe naked body had grown even longer and thinner, so that it stretched almost to the apex of the domed ceiling. Its cold white length swayed like a cobra preparing to strike. Now the pain that had felled Paido – killed him, for all Lone Wolf knew – was attacking Lone Wolf himself. It began in his guts: a red-hot metal hand was there, tearing at the soft membranes. The bile rose in his throat but he barely noticed it. Shrieking, he felt his legs buckling beneath him, and he collapsed to his knees, keeping his torso upright only by the exercise of his full determination. In his agonized vision the whole room had become deep red – the red of blood. The torment spread – more metal-gloved hands – downwards towards his groin and up into his chest. He knew that he was screaming, but there was nothing that he could do about it. He wrapped his hands around his stomach, as if by clutching it he could make the anguish disappear. If anything it got worse. At any moment he expected his flesh to burst asunder in a shower of gore and for one of those mail-clad hands to emerge, clutching its soft, steaming booty. There were iron hands at his throat, too, squeezing relentlessly, choking off the air so that eyes began to strain in their sockets, tears flooding from them and streaming down his cheeks. Still the dean – now more like a pallid snake than a naked youth – chuckled sibilantly. "My Lord will be pleased with me,

The Rotting Land // 146 Lone Wolf," it hissed. "I shall take your head to Him on one of the platters from the kitchens here, and pluck out your dead eyes so that He may pop them into His mouth as sweetmeats. Oh, how pleased with me He shall be!" Despite his shrieking incoherence, there was one part of Lone Wolf's mind that was still functioning logically. Without the infusion of soulstuff from the Sommerswerd he was surely bound to die as the monks' poison established itself in his body – retracing in physical form the psychic pathways that Kezoor's necromancy had etched out earlier in the day. Yet it was not the additional soulstuff that he required so much as the actual fusion of the two essences, his own and the Sommerswerd's. If the soulstuff of the weapon were incapable, for some as yet to be ascertained reason, of breaching the barrier between them to come into him, then surely the same effect could be attained by the reverse process. This solitary detached part of his consciousness set to work at once, rallying his semi-torpid Kai sensibilities and coaxing them into action. While his own mindless screams of agony still seemed like to deafen him, this objective segment gathered the small, weary troops of Kai aptitudes in his arm, and then used them to force that arm around until the fingers were just touching the sword's hilt. In a last burst of energy it directed its meagre forces towards the narrow, mere fingertip-broad area of contact between man and weapon. And succeeded. There was a flash of gold that even the weeping Lone Wolf noticed through his fog of anguish. The obscure corners of the room sprang into sharp relief as blobs of the golden light sprang from Lone Wolf's fingertip to fall hissing there; some touched the corners of the tapestries and were picked up by threads of gold woven into the fabric; the warm, soft brilliance spread along these, picking out peculiar, skewed outlines of the scenes depicted in the stitchwork. The cavorting nudes and mythological beasts were penned into their places by the thin, crooked bars of metal appearing among them. Nothing would make the pain go away – of that Lone Wolf was certain. Yet sanity was returning to the rest of his mind. Now the dean's screams of wrath were mingling with his own fading screams of misery. Doggedly, keeping his hand on the Sommerswerd's pommel, he hauled himself to his feet. His legs felt wobbly and fallible, and he had no Kai talents to send in their direction – all of his diminished powers were now embodied in the blade of the Sommerswerd: he prayed to Ishir that his knees would hold up.

The Rotting Land // 147 With a colossal, blinding effort he heaved the Sommerswerd from its scabbard. The chamber was awash with gold. The dean screamed – neither with glee nor with ire now, but in fear. Its body was shortening, thickening and darkening; its reptilian jaw retracted as its skull became less flat, more columnar; the skin of its face peeled away in scaly tatters to reveal dark, dirty-looking bone. Between the exposed teeth a still snakelike tongue darted, long and leathery and forked. The creature winced away from the rich light, holding up its stony, clawed hands to protect its face. Lone Wolf, tottering under the weight of the Sommerswerd, swore loudly. A Helghast – one of the most powerful and most nightmarish agents of the Darklords. If one of these shapeshifting creatures were here, as far south as Tharro, the forces of Darkness had infiltrated themselves far further into Talestria than ever Adamas had dreamt! All that was theoretical knowledge at the moment. His strength rapidly waning, Lone Wolf would be lucky if he survived the next few minutes, let alone long enough to battle against the forces of Evil as they strode into Talestria. "Gaj aki-amaz!" shrieked the Helghast – the dean. Lone Wolf gagged as he recognized the words. They were in Giak, a tongue he had been able to speak even before he had earnt the gift of languages. "Die, Lone Wolf!" the dean had yelled. Why had Lone Wolf not so much as recognized the language of that "blessing" the monk had spoken over their food in the refectory? Now he recalled the words: "Gaj kog zutag." The man – if he had indeed been a man – had had the effrontery to betray the monks' evil intent outright: "Die in pain," he had said insouciantly as he'd waved his hands over their poisoned meal. And to me it was just a phrase of foreign jabber, something incomprehensible ... just like the inscription on the burning broadsword outside this vile establishment. How far have my powers been lost to me? Are some of them gone altogether? The dean was making a move towards him, sidling forwards, taking advantage of the fact that his kind had momentarily wandered. Lone Wolf made a fumbling gesture with the Sommerswerd, and the Helghast withdrew a little, hissing and spitting its loathing as the golden light bathed it. The creature's obvious terror of him – or, more accurately, of the Sommerswerd – seemed to give Lone Wolf an infusion of additional strength. The weapon no longer felt so heavy as he held it aloft; his grip was tighter and more confident on its fine-wrought hilt. He growled as he stepped towards his adversary, and he saw

The Rotting Land // 148 the red cloud of his bloodlust start to encroach upon his vision. Often he had reviled that crimson haze, tried to disown it, been nauseated by the way that it reminded him of how near he sometimes veered to becoming nothing more than a killing-beast; now his heart welcomed it as an old friend. His other hand joined the first on the Sommerswerd's grip as he swung the weapon around to hold it vertically in front of him. He snarled again, menacingly, and took another step towards the cringing dean. He had never before known a Helghast to retreat before him so abjectly. The spawn were tough and skillful fighters, and not easily despatched – as he knew to his cost. Yet this creature was clearly already in mortal terror of him and of the weapon, even before a blow had been traded. His heart leapt in something akin to exultation as he realized what this must mean. The Helghast had recognized in himself and the weapon the enhanced powers that he had gained through his attainment of the first three of Nyxator's Lorestones, and though his education at the hands of the Elder Magi. Those powers must therefore still reside within him – even though he had been concluding that they had fled! He controlled his enthusiasm. Even though those capabilities were still his, they were not at the present available to him. A worse thought: the Helghast might be shamming, pretending its dread, lulling him into overconfidence before it delivered its fatal strike. His wariness formed a thin skin over his bubbling exuberance. The Helghast, retreating, stumbled over one of the plinths, sending it crashing to the floor; bright silvery liquid metal flew everywhere, running in rivulets along the cracks between the polished floorboards. Instinctively Lone Wolf picked his way over these, careful not to tread in one and slip. The dean was no longer screaming – no longer seemed able to. Its rank breath was coming in heavy, coarse gasps. If it were indeed faking terror, it was doing so better than any human actor Lone Wolf had ever encountered. He kicked out at it, retaining his balance with more difficulty than he would have liked. The spawn dodged away from his foot as if it were a bolt of lightning hurled at it by its wrathful master. Lone Wolf swung with the Sommerswerd. The great weapon was an arc of lethal gold. The blade took the dean in the throat, slicing out a wedge of corrupt flesh. Ichor gushed from the wound. The creature let out a thin whine of pain and dismay. Lone Wolf swung again, slashing across the Helghast's naked chest. The edge chopped through flesh and bones, springing open the spawn's

The Rotting Land // 149 ribcage. The Helghast, staggering backwards, lumbered against another of the plinths, toppling over it to land with a smash on the floor beyond. Its red eyes flared brightly as it clawed uselessly at the boards, trying to lever itself up again. Stepping around the fallen plinth and the gurgling liquid, Lone Wolf approached the beast charily, the Sommerswerd raised high to deliver the killing blow. Helghast could revive in an instant from near-extinction and slay a man. His caution had not been misplaced. Suddenly the dean had twisted round and was on all fours. A lightning-fast hand leapt out and snatched for Lone Wolf's knee, trying to pull him down. But Lone Wolf's own reactions, despite his weakness, were even swifter: the Sommerswerd hacked down and cleaved the creature's arm in two at the elbow. The Helghast howled in renewed agony. The severed forearm continued to try to grapple at Lone Wolf's ankles until he stamped on it with all the force he could muster, feeling its bones crack and crunch beneath his foot. Off-balance, he jabbed randomly at the screeching creature. The tip of the Sommerswerd's blade slid a couple of inches into the Helghast's eye socket before encountering bone. Lone Wolf twisted the weapon as he withdrew it; some of the angry red flame clung to the golden metal as the juices of the creature's eye flooded down the leathery tatters of its face. The stink of ichor was almost overpowering; through the red mist of his wrath he sensed that his consciousness was in danger of suddenly ebbing. He must put an end to this as rapidly as possible, lest he fall in front of a still-living opponent, and be subject to its vengeance. With a yell he threw his full strength into swinging the Sommerswerd down and around in a mighty crescent of singing death. There could be only one end to that appalling blow. The blade struck the Helghast on the neck again, but this time nothing would stay it in its sweep. The edge drove directly through tough skin and armour-like flesh and the steel-hard bones of the spawn's neck. The head of the false dean flew through the air, crashing against the far wall and pulling the tapestry there down from its hangings. A fountain of ichor shot across the room, beating a tattoo on the back of the chamber's closed wooden door. As Lone Wolf watched, leaning against the Sommerswerd and wondering if he were going to collapse, the kneeling Helghast crumpled in on itself. Its bones and its flesh dissolved; bizarrely, the severed head disentangled itself from the folds of tapestry and rolled back across the floor to rejoin the rest of the liquefying

The Rotting Land // 150 creature, and even the ichor that had hammered on the door ran back in a stream to feed the growing pond of fetid liquor at Lone Wolf's feet. He stepped back as the pool grew; with a sweep of his hand he cast aside one of the dishes of silver metal and sat down on the plinth thus vacated. The last part of the Helghast to dissolve into the expanding puddle of slime was its single whole eye, sinking into the sludge of the head. Lone Wolf imagined that its red flame gave him a final glare of fury just before it was extinguished. He winced, despite himself. The green-grey liquid was covered in a layer of tiny hissing, popping bubbles. Slowly the pool shrank as the fluid evaporated in clouds of noxious gas. Lone Wolf dispersed them from himself as best he could by waving his hands; luckily the draught under the door was sucking away the vapour in a thin steady stream. At last it was all gone. As it disappeared he became aware that the terrible cramping pains in his gut had never ceased – that they'd been only disguised, not cured, by the melding of his scant remaining soulstuff with the Sommerswerd's. He doubled over where he sat, coughing and trying to retch up the poison – trying in vain. Later he might laugh at the irony: that, despite his depleted condition, he'd managed to slaughter a Helghast – one of the most-feared minions of the Darklords – but now looked set to succumb to something as unsophisticated as a poisoned stew. At the moment, however, with his vision a blur of tears and his body racked by a terrible, eating agony, he couldn't see the joke. The backpack. He had drugs in his backpack. There might be some in Paido's as well, but better if he could locate his own. At some point during the turmoil he'd wrenched it from his back – or maybe it had been torn away. In spite of his hopelessly smeared vision, he cast his gaze around, hoping to spy the leather pack lying somewhere on the littered floor. No such luck, of course – there hardly ever was. Keeping a deathlike clutch on the hilt of the Sommerswerd, he dropped to his knees and crawled towards the door, shouldering aside any of the plinths that happened to get in his way. It was after the fourth or fifth of these had tumbled over that he recalled that many of them had been bearing lanterns rather than scrying dishes. A puff of heat on his cheek confirmed his worst fears. Now there was a new reason for urgency. At last his questing hands discovered his pack. Coughing a little – not so much because of the smoke, which was as yet thin, but in expectation of it – he fumbled with the fastenings, tearing a fingernail on a buckle before finally he had the thing open. He

The Rotting Land // 151 rummaged through small weapons and old talismans until finally he found what he was after: a small stone pot of oede. Clumsily he got the top off and stabbed a finger into the clammy gel within. The stuff tasted revolting as he dabbed it on his tongue and swallowed – like a mixture of decaying fishbones, storgh manure and unripe lime – but he resisted the urge to vomit it back up again. Soon his vision was clearing and the trembling in his limbs was coming under control; the pains in his abdomen and chest took the oede longer to vanquish, but in due course vanquish them it did. Even before then, Lone Wolf was groping his way through the thickening billows of black smoke towards the door. Paido! He'd almost forgotten Paido! Most of the lights in the dean's chamber had died, smothered by the smoke, and the remainder were fighting a losing battle, reduced to dim, flickering glimmers. Flame was beginning to creep in sheets across the carpet, but as yet it was too tentative to give much light. Sheathing the Sommerswerd, whose own golden glow had faded some while ago, Lone Wolf shuffled around with his feet, trying to be as gentle and yet as swift in his search as possible. At last his toe struck something solid yet yielding; reaching down, the straps of his backpack looped over his arm, he found that he'd stumbled on Paido's backside. He crouched, and worked his hands along to the bulky Vakeros's armpits. Dragging the heavy body to the door was almost beyond his flagging strength, but somehow he managed it. Ishir had heard his prayers: the false monks hadn't locked or bolted the door as they'd left Paido and himself with their equally false dean. Still gripping the Vakeros with one hand, he worked frantically at the claw-shaped handle and wrenched the door open. Around him the smoke thinned. He lugged Paido through the opening and tumbled him into an undignified heap on the far side of the stone corridor. He glanced up and down the corridor: there was no one else in sight, thank Ishir. Reaching back into the smoke-filled room Lone Wolf saw that the flames were now beginning seriously to catch hold of the rugs and tapestries; orange fire danced along the walls. In a few minutes the place would be a furnace. He grinned ferally. With luck the Temple of the Sword would be burnt to the ground before the night was over. A few minutes. Somehow he had to revive Paido in that time. The big fool had eaten twice as much of that accursed stew as Lone Wolf himself had – little wonder that he had collapsed so swiftly. Might he be dead? No – there were raucous, laboured snorts coming from Paido as he struggled to breathe. Lone Wolf tugged the pot of oede from the pocket into which he'd stuffed it.

The Rotting Land // 152 He shoved a dollop of the greasy golden cream between Paido's teeth, rubbing his forefinger around the inside of the Vakeros's mouth to scrape the last of the stuff off. Getting it into Paido's mouth was only part of the battle: the big man showed not the least inclination to swallow. Lone Wolf had an image of himself frustratedly trying to ram the oede down Paido's throat with a fist as armed monks of the Temple of the Sword advanced upon them. He looked around him, but still there was no sign of anyone else. He gripped Paido's nose firmly between two fingers and, with his other hand, jiggled the man's throat. At last he felt the tough neck tense as the Vakeros swallowed. Some of the chalkiness ebbed from Paido's face almost immediately, and his hands, which had been like claws, relaxed. Eagerly Lone Wolf scooped more oede from the pot, and again he roughly persuaded the unconscious Paido to swallow it. This time the beneficial effects were less marked. Lone Wolf realized with a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach that the medicament on its own wasn't going to be enough. Whatever poison it was that the monks had used, it must have been something pretty lethal: oede was valued all over Magnamund for its ability to heal even the most tenacious of dietary afflictions. He guessed that he and the Sommerswerd, sharing their energies, might be able to help the oede effect its cure. If cure there was going to be. Gazing down at the obviously desperately sick Vakeros, he wouldn't have put any money on it. Time. That was another thing he needed. If his faltering Kai talents were to have any chance, he and the Sommerswerd would need time undisturbed with Paido – hours, perhaps. It couldn't be forever before the false monks thought to come up here for some reason or another, unless ... Now there was a notion! The reason that none of them had so far interrupted him might be that they were in terror of their dean: Helghast were not notoriously intelligent creatures, and it would be typical of them to institute a rule of fear even here in the monastery, where it was totally unnecessary. They would see a despotic leader as a strength rather than a weakness. And a despotic leader might wish to be left alone all night so that he could indulge himself in the pleasures of bathing in his victims' tortured screams ... There were too many assumptions in Lone Wolf's line of thought, but he had to live with that – die with it, if necessary. It was the best chance he had. Reluctantly he looked at the door through which he had not long dragged his unconscious companion. Behind that door was the safest place in the Temple of the Sword – perhaps in all of

The Rotting Land // 153 Tharro. If Lone Wolf's reasoning were correct. Highly speculative reasoning. It had to be correct – otherwise he might just as well give himself up right now. Or – and this thought was even less palatable – leave Paido to his fate and try to escape the monastery on his own. The trouble was that the safest place in all of Tharro was currently well on its way to becoming a furnace. I've got to try, though! There was no use squatting here thinking about it any longer. Fear of their dean or no fear of their dean, the monks might nevertheless come as near as this corridor – certainly would as soon as they caught the first whiff of smoke. The door's handle was as hot as a pressing-iron. Ignoring the scorching of the flesh of his palm, Lone Wolf pushed it down and opened the door on a scene of flames and destruction. This was to be his safe haven? # It seemed an eternity before Paido's eyelids flickered. Lone Wolf, who had been sitting on a scorch-blackened plinth nearby, was at his side in an instant, taking his friend's wrist solicitously. Several more times the eyelids moved before at last they opened. "What ...? What's ...?" "Hush," said Lone Wolf. "Don't try to move just yet. Don't even try to talk, if it's too tiring. You'll likely be very weak for a while yet." In fact, it was only a few minutes before Paido was sitting up, rubbing his head and his eyes. His face looked oddly like that of a small child who has just been woken after a long and comfortable night's sleep. Maybe, Lone Wolf mused, it was partly just general exhaustion that kept him unconscious so long. "What happened here?" Paido kept saying, looking around him in disbelief at the smoke-streaked walls and the charred floor. As succinctly as he could, Lone Wolf told him of the revelation of the dean as a Helghast – "Here?" said Paido. "Here in Tharro? That's hardly credible!" – of the struggle Lone Wolf had waged, and of the firing of the dean's chamber. He played down the dangers he had faced on returning to the chamber, slamming the door behind him to minimize the air getting to the fire; he had used the metallic liquid left in the scrying dishes to douse the flames – the heavy liquid had been remarkably effective – before beating out the last of them with his robe. Covered in burns, he had been barely able to summon the energy to break through the

The Rotting Land // 154 barrier between himself and the Sommerswerd; thankfully he had succeeded, and thus their combined soulstuffs had been able to heal Lone Wolf's burns and other injuries before moving on to the task of reviving Paido. It had been touch and go for much of the time; Lone Wolf didn't tell Paido quite how near to doom the whole venture had skirted, but he sensed that his friend understood. "And so you see," he concluded, "it's almost certainly not just a matter of a single Helghast here: although it may have been done under the dean's command, it was most certainly not the dean who poisoned our food, nor he who `blessed' it with the words `Gaj kog zutag'. If the other monks of the Temple of the Sword are not all Helghast themselves, still they must be in alliance with the forces of Darkness." Paido rubbed his chin, his eyes gloomily alert to the possibilities. "I wonder how long they've been here," he said slowly, "waiting for the right moment to reveal themselves and wreak havoc among the citizens of this unfortunate city. Come to that, I wonder what happened to the original monks of this establishment. Dead, I suppose. I hope their deaths were swift." Lone Wolf nodded in agreement. He hadn't thought of that. His worries lay elsewhere. He voiced them. "The monks knew who we were. The dean had been watching our progress ever since we arrived in Talestria, possibly even earlier. I can't believe that he was our only monitor. The Darklords must have been keeping a close watch on us, and for the sake of Talestria we have to assume that they're going to continue to do so. In effect, we've become unwitting spies for Gnaag: we've got to suppose that his minions may be listening in on everything we say and everything that is said to us." "Adamas!" said Paido. "Our conferences with him!" "Exactly." Lone Wolf heaved a sigh. "I've racked my brains, trying to think if the Lord Constable told us anything that Gnaag might not otherwise have learnt easily enough. As far as I can recall, we were reasonably lucky on that score. No, my thoughts have been more on someone else: the woman in the cartographer's shop." "Rhola Rhada?" "That's the name. Your stout right fist drove it from my mind," said Lone Wolf with a rueful half-smile. "Another reason why we should take her with us: if we leave her here she's doomed. She knows too much of what we're up to for the Helghast not to make a point of killing her, soon." He stood up and surveyed the

The Rotting Land // 155 room's wreckage with another sigh. "If they haven't done so already," he murmured sadly. "We must get moving," said Paido, likewise scrambling to his feet. He checked his armaments and hoicked his backpack to his shoulders, as if he proposed simply to walk straight out of the Temple of the Sword. "If Talestria falls to Gnaag before we reach Ohrido, then our quest will have failed. Besides ... Rhola Rhada." "Yes." Lone Wolf swallowed loudly. He was looking at one of the few scrying bowls not to have been emptied during his battle with the flames. "Rhola Rhada: we must save her if we can. But Paido: look here." He pointed to the dish where it sat on its plinth in a corner of the room. "Something's happening." As they watched, the silvery surface, which had been bubbling gently, began to glow with an unearthly steel-blue light. Soon a pillar of phosphorescent brilliance stretched all the way to the room's domed ceiling. Lone Wolf could hear Paido, at his side, whispering a rapid stream of words; he couldn't tell if they were prayers or incantations. He nudged the Vakeros to silence: time enough for such measures later; at the moment Lone Wolf wanted to see what was going to happen. The sparkling mist in the column of light slowly cleared, and out of it condensed a glistening pale-green image. It was a face, but like no face that any natural creature of Magnamund should bear. The eyes were multi-faceted, like those of a fly; they were like clusters of jewels shining with Evil. The head seemed to have been stripped of its flesh and bone to lay bare the malformed brain; too-bright blood oozed from the spongy pink-grey tissue. Around and below the vertical slit of the mouth emerged probing tendrils of white, dead-seeming flesh. The shoulders and the body were painfully thin, yet there was the sense of overpowering strength in the figure. "Gnaag!" breathed Lone Wolf. "Gnaag himself! It has to be!" His friend Carag had described the Archlord to him: surely, even in the vile cesspit of the Darklands, there couldn't be two who looked like this. As if in confirmation, the terrifying figure spoke. "Tan-ash-oko, Nadoknar Gnaag!" Hear my call ... Even before the echoes of that grating voice had subsided the face changed, as if seeing for the first time what lay before it. The shoulders rose in fury and the eyes flashed with a blackness that was brighter than any light. The voice had been quiet before, but now the Archlord gave vent to a bellow of wrath – cut off as the image began rapidly to fade.

The Rotting Land // 156 It was a moment or two before either of the two men could bring themselves to speak. "The Archlord came to interview his servant," said Lone Wolf finally, "and found us here instead. That blows it. I'd hoped he might think a while longer that all was well for him here, but now he'll be setting his other spies to watch for us with even keener effort. Perhaps I should have let you continue with your spells, my friend, though I doubt that they'd have been of much avail." "We'd better move," said Paido tightly. "That ugly scum may have other scrying dishes elsewhere in the monastery. If so, he'll be yelling through them already." Lone Wolf looked at the blackened door. If Gnaag succeeded in warning the other monks ... "There must be some other way out of here," he said. "The dean made his entrance from behind one of the tapestries." They set about ripping the fragile remains of the hangings from the walls, and almost immediately discovered the door through which the dean had entered. It was small, so that a grown man would have to stoop his shoulders as he stepped through it; it was also handleless, and locked. "Blast!" said Paido. "There must be a release for the lock somewhere in here." It took them some time to find it. It was in a mood close to desperation that Lone Wolf peered down the back of the great stone throne by the opposite wall. On the floor there he saw a sword, a bow, a quiver and some arrows – the sad relics of some earlier journeyer who had met his doom in the dean's chamber. More importantly, a small lever jutted from the throne's back, and instinctively he thumbed it downwards. Immediately, with a heavy creak, the small door opened. He snatched up the weaponry and, pausing only to grab his backpack and kick over the plinth bearing the scrying bowl that Gnaag had used, charged after Paido through the door. Not a moment too soon. There was a clatter of running footsteps from the corridor outside, and a thunder of fists on the barred main door. Panting heavily, Lone Wolf pointed towards a lever inset in the wall by Paido's hips. The big Vakeros obediently tugged it up, blocking them off from the burnt-out chamber. With any luck the workings of this small portal were as much a mystery to the monks as they'd been to Lone Wolf and Paido. Praying that the workings of the two control levers were connected, Lone Wolf jammed the sword he'd found into the gap beneath the one in the wall, wedging it solid.

The Rotting Land // 157 "Come on," said Paido. They were on a landing at the top of a flight of a narrow stairs, with torches to either side; the stained walls betrayed that for decades or centuries people – or, more recently, Helghast – had been brushing past on their way up or down. The two of them rattled down the stairs and found themselves in a short stretch of corridor. "Which way?" said Paido. "How should I know?" said Lone Wolf sadly. Had it not been for this ... this lack in me, I'd have known almost instinctively, he thought bitterly. "I'm relying on you, my friend." Paido closed his eyes momentarily, concentrating. "Then we go this way," he said decisively, pointing to his left. For the next twenty or thirty minutes they scampered and dodged through a maze of catacombs – like those under the doomful fortress of Kazan-Oud, but on a much smaller scale. Lamps of immortal crystalline m'lare were placed here and there, giving just enough light that Lone Wolf and Paido could keep their footing. Early on he muttered small prayers of apology to the dead whose repose they were disturbing by their passage, but thereafter he abandoned such courtesies and focused his efforts on keeping up with Paido, who was chasing along the route his magical probe had revealed to him as if terrified that it might suddenly fade from his mind. Finally they found themselves in a small circular tomb, lit by a single m'lare lamp. Water dripped from a trapdoor in the ceiling. Gesturing towards it, Paido stooped and offered his cupped hands to Lone Wolf as a stirrup. As Lone Wolf shoved the stone slab upwards and away he found his head and shoulders emerging into the depressed grey of a drizzle dawn. He dropped back immediately. "What's up?" whispered Paido from below. "It's some kind of a courtyard. My guess is that we're at the back of the Temple of the Sword. The only people around seem to be a couple of monks, but they're not looking this way. This trap's near some bushes – I'll get behind them and spy out what goes on. I'll give you a yell when the coast is clear. All right?" "Not too loud a yell, Lone Wolf," said Paido with the beginnings of a chuckle. "Funny ha ha." Hauling himself up through the opening and taking the few swift strides to the cover of the bushy trees, Lone Wolf discovered how much of his old self he'd lost to Kezoor's necromancy. Before, he'd have performed all this as a single motion, moving with

The Rotting Land // 158 cat-like fluidity. Now he was aware of how disjointed and wasteful most human manoeuvres were. As he watched, the monks reached their destination, a low timber-framed building with large doors – a stables, if Lone Wolf guessed aright. They vanished into it, speaking agitatedly to each other, reappearing a couple of minutes later on horseback; Lone Wolf nodded, giving himself a tick. The riders vanished through an archway over to his right. Looking around warily, he snaked back to the open trap. "They've gone," he said into the murky chamber beneath. "Ridden off. Oh – blast!" "What's up?" "Their horses – I've just realized. Those were ours." "Damn!" "Not all may be lost. Surely there are others in the stables. Here – grab my hand." Seconds later Paido was beside him, breathing heavily from the exertion – except at moments like this, it was easy for Lone Wolf to forget that the big Vakeros must still be weak from the shock of the poison in his system. Still the courtyard seemed deserted aside from themselves. "The stables it is, then," said Paido. They sprinted to the low building, throwing themselves in through its open doors with their swords in their hands. It took only a moment to check that there were no grooms or stable-boys in attendance on the dozen or so horses tethered in their stalls. A couple of the beasts stamped and snickered angrily at the disturbance, and after brief thought Lone Wolf decided that these high-spirited steeds were probably their best bet. "Keep an eye to the door," he snapped to Paido. There was a heap of tackle – of good quality but much of it scarred by years of ill-use – at the rear of the stables, and he sorted rapidly through it, selecting the two best sets. The horses he'd chosen reared and twitched as he saddled them up, but he retained enough of his aptitude for animal control to keep their fears in check. He was just wrestling with the last buckle when he heard Paido's urgent whisper from the door. "Monks! Four of 'em! And coming this way!" Flight was foremost in Lone Wolf's mind. There was a chance all four might be Helghast – too great a force for himself and Paido safely to take on, especially since they were both depleted. He hauled himself into the saddle of the nearer horse and

The Rotting Land // 159 gestured imperatively at the other. Paido ran across the stable floor and vaulted up on the beast's back. The monks scattered when they saw two horsemen bearing down on them. One of them plucked his sword from his sheath and hurled it at Lone Wolf's retreating back as the pair spurred their steeds on through the archway, but it was a futile gesture and the weapon bounced off the arch before skittering away safely across the flagstones. They found their way easily enough around to the quadrangle at the front of the Temple of the Sword. Without pausing they raced through the arched alleyway and into the street. There were few people around so early – the Sun was only just beginning to show its disc above the rooftops – and so they kicked and kneed their stallions to a full gallop. No one tried to stop them as they charged down the almost deserted streets to Rhola Rhada's shop – even the guardsman who had challenged Paido the night before just watched them go by, his mouth open in rage and disbelief. Ishir be thanked: the woman was waiting for them. Her piebald horse was rather smaller than the ones they'd stolen from the monastery's stables, but as Lone Wolf swiftly ran an experienced eye over it he realized that it was if anything better chosen for the task ahead than the two flighty stallions he'd selected for Paido and himself. He nodded when he saw the full saddlebags and the metal water-cans: Rhola Rhada had thought to bring sufficient supplies for the trek. She was also impressively armed, and looked as though she knew exactly how to use her weapons. Briefly Paido told her enough for her to know that they must flee without delay – the denizens of the Temple of the Sword could surely not be far behind – and she flung herself into the saddle. "Follow me!" she cried. "The north gate." Riding more fleetly than strict considerations of safety would have permitted, she led them through twisting backstreets, alleys and wynds; often they had to go in single file, with the walls to either side of them only an arm's reach away. Most of the windows they passed were still dark, but there were lights and movements behind some, and often enough the smell of food on the stove. Lone Wolf promised himself that, as soon as the three of them had quit Tharro, he would call a halt so that he and Paido could replace all the food they'd lost the night before. But hunger was one of the least of their problems. At last the route along which Rhola Rhada had been leading them debouched out of the dark byways of Tharro into the open square

The Rotting Land // 160 behind a guardhouse much like the one through which they'd entered the city the previous day. She slowed her steed to an amble, and with rather more difficulty Lone Wolf and Paido followed suit. "Gate dun open for nother hour yet," said one of the guards. Both the men of the night watch looked weary. "Ain you gotten no warm beds to stay'n?" "We must leave now," said Rhola Rhada courteously, although the clippedness of her words bespoke urgency. "Matter of lifendeath, be it?" said the other guard, leering up at her. "Scrumso young squeezily squeezable missy like you heh-heh no needter botherin your preddy lilhead with lifendeath sure?" The tattoo on his cheek twisted impossibly as he forced his face into what was presumably intended to be an ingratiating grin. Lone Wolf saw Rhola Rhada's foot quivering, and realized that the man's head was not far from it. "Our orders are from Adamas," he said hastily. "It is the will of the Lord Constable that we depart Tharro at once." The two men looked dismayed – "Wastergood thize," mumbled the one with the tattoo to his mate – but, shrugging to each other, they set about the portcullis's heavy crank. A couple of minutes later the road out of Tharro lay open before them. "A coin for your trouble," said Lone Wolf, tossing a gold crown towards the guards. Rhola Rhada gave them a sweet smile. "As my reward to you," she said crisply to the man with the tattoo, "I give you your sight." The guard paled as he noticed the tiny dagger that had appeared from somewhere in her gloved hand. Its gleaming tip was pointed directly towards his eyes. Soon the walls of Tharro were receding behind them as they rode at a good pace along the broken dirt track that led northwards. The next habitation of any size along their road would be Syada, high among the hills that overlooked the Danarg Swamp. From time to time one or another of them would swivel in the saddle and peer back towards Tharro, dreading the sight of riders setting off in pursuit, but to their relief they saw nothing like that, and within an hour the city was lost in the distance behind them. All that they had for company as they traversed the scrubby plain were the ravens circling overhead, their caws and screeches sounding like dreadful warnings in the riders' ears.

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6 THAT ENDS WELL The Ogians had reached Syada before them. As the trail had wound up through the foothills they'd seen no one else. The grey-green grass of the open plain had given way to clumpy, sick-looking patches of small, thin-leaved plants. They'd paused for a while by a stream so that Paido and Lone Wolf could at last eat something – Rhola Rhada had breakfasted before meeting them – but had then made a good pace, ever climbing. For the past hour or so they'd noticed the tang of smoke in the air; now that they'd come to the crest overlooking the high valley where Syada stood they had grim confirmation of their worst suspicions. Lone Wolf's first impression was that the hills on the far side of the valley were a vast ants' nest which some giant had stamped with his foot. The slopes were aswarm with dark shapes – thousands upon thousands of black-clad troopers waiting under the wolf-head banners of Ogia for their final assault upon the doomed town. Around Syada itself, the fields and outlying farm buildings were burning furiously; there were further flames from within the town's fortress-like walls. Rhola Rhada turned to look at him, and he saw tears in her dark eyes. "I made friends in Syada, when I was here with my father and Betta," she said brokenly by way of explanation. He reached out a hand, and to his surprise she took it, her gloved fingers curling tightly around his own. Yesterday she would as soon have cut her hand off. Paido must have been explaining matters to her as they rode. It felt good to hold someone's hand. Winding up the hill towards them was a long raggedy convoy – the refugees from the condemned town. Men, women and children trudged on, some pulling carts, a lucky few on horseback. Most of the latter were soldiers in the brightly coloured uniform of Talestria; they were doing their best to herd their empty-eyed charges along, and to make sure that those who fell exhausted by the wayside were taken aboard wagons to be carried to safety. Some, after examination, they left where they lay; on occasion Lone Wolf saw a dagger rise and fall as some poor wretch was consigned to a merciful oblivion. As always, it was the children who affected him the most. Some seemed little more than toddlers; others were carried in their

The Rotting Land // 162 mothers' or fathers' arms; all bore on their faces the shock of war – a mental scar that would never be healed. Some of the corpses sprawled by the roadside were children, too. Rhola Rhada's hand squeezed his tighter. He would have glanced at her, but now there were tears in his own eyes. "Westwards," said Paido. "There's a road that keeps us well clear of the town." "But we could ..." Rhola Rhada began. "There's nothing useful we could do here," said Paido firmly. "Despite appearances, the Ogians are not entirely ruthless conquerors. They'll allow most of these poor miserables to go where they will; the rest will be allowed to live so long as they swear their allegiance to Warchief Zegron." "Would true-blooded Talestrians do such a thing?" said Lone Wolf tightly. "They will if they've got any sense," said Rhola Rhada beside him. He felt her shudder. "We Talestrians aren't fools. An oath taken under duress is no oath at all. Surely it must be the same in Sommerlund?" "The Sommlending lack your pragmatism," said Paido. "It pleases me that the folk of Talestria have wiser heads on their shoulders – which is why, if they're lucky, they still do have heads on their shoulders when the time comes that they can be released from their bondage." Lone Wolf was vaguely dissatisfied with this reasoning, but he let it pass. "Westwards, you say? What lies there?" "That way lies the Danarg Swamp," said Rhola Rhada before Paido could reply. "But it's the way that leads through the Forest of Mordril. There are dark tales told of that forest. Travellers' fantasies, I imagine." Her sniff told him that she was a lot less certain about that than she pretended. "There doesn't seem to be much choice," Lone Wolf conceded. "It goes against the grain to leave these people to their fate, but ..." "Exactly," said Paido. "`But.'" The narrow path took them first along the length of the crest before it descended in a slow curl towards a dry, downward-sloping gully. As Rhola Rhada manoeuvred her horse expertly down a steep bank of loose shale Lone Wolf was amazed – and ashamed – by the degree to which he'd misjudged her when first she'd proposed accompanying them. Kezoor's necromancy had wrought strange changes in him; looking back on yesterday was like remembering thoughts and actions that belonged to someone else. In terms of sheer competence, the woman was

The Rotting Land // 163 probably at the moment a more useful member of the expedition than he himself was. He felt his face grow hot. Once they were in the gully they could no longer see Syada, and the three of them breathed more easily. There were only a couple of hours left before nightfall, but none of them showed any inclination to stop and find a campsite just yet: it would be good to wait until not just the town but the high smoke of its funeral pyre was out of sight. Better still would be to get out of earshot of the vast Ogian army; its noise was a distant thunder. They rounded a corner of the gully and found fresh water. From a hole in the gully's rocky side bubbled a clear stream. They followed it for an hour or more until it finally entered a long, natural avenue of towering dark trees that led down the slope towards a small, swift-flowing river, one of the many tributaries of the River Syad. Rhola Rhada, who had been plotting their position, folded up her map and stowed it away in one of her saddle-packs with a sigh of satisfaction. "We should camp somewhere here," she said. "There's nowhere else suitable that I can see until we reach the far side of the Mordril Forest." Lone Wolf stared out over the dark blue and green mass of thickly growing trees that covered most of the western horizon and nodded his agreement. The din of Zegron's army was still audible, but it was a distant buzz, as easily ignored as a moth's flutter. He scanned all around them and could see nothing except tranquil-seeming countryside. "This seems as good a place as any." Paido evidently concurred, for he was already down from his black stallion and leading it towards the shelter of a small copse set a little back from the rest. "Thanks for holding my hand," said Rhola Rhada quietly to Lone Wolf as they dismounted. "I needed my hand held, back there." "No need to thank me," he said, equally quietly. "So did I." # Darkness had fallen by the time Paido had the fire going. With the chattering of the little brook and the lower mumble of the river in his ears, Lone Wolf felt curiously at peace in the middle of this strife-torn land. He felt something of the same tranquillity from the other two: the morrow might hold untold dangers – almost certainly would – but for now there seemed to be nothing

The Rotting Land // 164 threatening in the world. Standing at the edge of the copse, looking up at a field of piercingly brilliant stars, he wondered if there were other worlds like this one out there. Had the Gods filled the universe with countless millions of other Magnamunds, where Good waged its tireless battle against Evil and where people like himself might sometimes look up at the heavens and feel this deep yearning in their souls? Or were those other worlds – if any existed – instead havens of peace, like this stream-girt copse appeared to be? From the depths of his heart he hoped so. The three of them made their meal from the rations that Rhola Rhada had brought with her, washed down with copious draughts of the stream's clean water. The food itself was dried meat and as tough as leather: Lone Wolf felt his stomach lurch as the stuff hit it. As they ate, Rhola Rhada told of how, even within living memory, the Mordril Forest had been one of the finest sites in all Talestria, of how the trees were the tallest and the birds and the beasts the fairest that any human eye had ever been clapped on, and of how in the past few decades the poison of the Danarg had insidiously crept into it, so that the once fine forest was now a dark and dismal and hushed place. "Few creatures dwell there now, and those that do are of hideous form. The old trees are twisted into dying shapes, and the young ones are monstrous to behold." In a few more decades, if the malignant spread of the Danarg Swamp continued unchecked, the whole of the Mordril Forest would be lost to its venom. "But will there still be Talestrians to mourn its passing? My compatriots, too, are being attacked by foreign venom, and know no antidote to it." Her voice was sorrowful in the dark red light of the dying fire, and yet Lone Wolf found that his own heart was incapable of responding to her seeming fatalism. Instead, his mind was out amid the starfield he'd been looking at earlier, cruising unhindered through the emptiness. That profound yearning remained within him, seemingly drawing every cell of his body skyward ... and yet every cell of his body was likewise pinned down here on Magnamund by the brute force of gravity. Qinefer had once, on a night like this, talked to him of the yearning, and he'd failed to understand her. He did now. He wondered if, perhaps, her soul was now wandering free among the stars, the way his longed to be ... There was beauty in the pain of that yearning. He recalled having seen that beautiful pain in her expressive dark eyes, and not recognizing it. "I'll keep the first watch," he said softly once Rhola Rhada had finished talking of the forest. He heard the soft noises the two

The Rotting Land // 165 of them made as they settled down to sleep, and not long afterwards Paido began to snore softly. Lone Wolf grinned when he heard Rhola Rhada start to do likewise. His two companions must feel totally relaxed if they allowed themselves the luxury of snoring. Satisfied that there was enough fuel on the fire to keep the embers glowing until past midnight, he eased himself back into his maudlin memories of Qinefer, and of how she had been the first to see that their paths must diverge unless he made changes in himself that he was in those times incapable of making. It might be a different story now, he thought, but life rarely allows you second chances. Squinting up through the trees at the stars, he sent her a message. Qinefer, he thought, wherever you are now, know that my love for you will never die. # Splashing out onto the river's far bank the following morning, Lone Wolf saw the tracks of some large animal in the soft earth. During the hours of night it must have come here to drink – not long ago, by the looks of things. He waited until the other two had ridden their horses up out of the water to join him and then pointed to the spoor. "A bear?" said Rhola Rhada. "No, too big for that." She scrutinized the tracks, drawing her horse up carefully alongside them. They led more or less directly towards the fringes of the forest. "I don't think I particularly want to meet the creature who left those," she said, an edge of nervousness in her voice. Lone Wolf was surprised for a moment, then realized she had good cause for fear. She had encountered the Agarashi of this region at first hand, and knew what there was to be fearful of. "Yes," said Paido. "Looks to be a beastie worth avoiding. Considerate of it to have left its marks so that we know which way not to go." He grinned broadly, and Lone Wolf realized that the big Vakeros had detected Rhola Rhada's apprehension long before he himself had, and was acting swiftly to lessen it. He wondered how much else Paido had perceived about her that he had missed. They rode along the riverbank for the best part of a mile upstream before they found a narrow trail leading into the forest. It had clearly been a long time – years certainly – since last anyone had followed this road. They urged their horses up the steep slope between the morbid trees, instinctively twisting their bodies out of the way of outflung branches. There was something deathly about the moist foliage, something that made all three of them eager not

The Rotting Land // 166 to be touched by it; the horses, to judge by their small snickers and nervous movements, felt exactly the same way. They did not have to endure single file for long. The track opened out and they were able to ride abreast, their horses picking their way carefully on the slippery moss and over dead branches. They would have ridden easier had it not been that, as they rose through the trees, they could once more hear the distant grumbling of Zegron massed army. It was a relief when the noise of nearby waterfall drowned out that ominous murmur. At a bend in the track they came into view of the torrent, and reined in their horses for a moment to stare at it in awe. Beyond the cataract the mountainside rose severely towards a mist-shrouded peak. The edge of the fall was only about fifty feet above the level where they sat their horses, but the water plunged down far more than that beneath them into a gulch whose bottom was hidden from view by the clouds of bright, rainbow-tinged spray. It was hard to reconcile this magnificent spectacle with the sleepy-seeming stream they'd followed for a while further downriver. Ages ago a vast tree had fallen across the gulch, and whoever had later created the track on which they'd been riding had made use of the time-hardened trunk as a natural bridge. Lone Wolf looked at it charily: it was broad enough to take a horse, for sure, but he was concerned that the monks' spirited stallions might take fright at the prospect. He flicked a glance at Paido, who was obviously thinking much the same thing. "The quicker we're over ..." Lone Wolf began. "... the quicker we'll be on the other side," Paido concluded, nodding. "Come on. Let's get going, then." "Hmmf," said Rhola Rhada, but she seemed disinclined to argue the matter further. Spurring his horse, Lone Wolf set off at a good pace towards the bridge. He could hear Rhola Rhada and Paido following in like fashion. Now that he was actually in motion he relished the prospect of galloping so close by the falls – so close, indeed, that he would be almost beneath them. Had the horse beneath him been Reason for Coming Back his happiness might have been more complete, but he patted the neck of the black stallion and spoke a few words of affection to the beast. And then they were on the bridge. They'd gone only a few yards when a bizarre, echoing howl drowned even the thunder of the waterfall close by. Lone Wolf felt his horse striving desperately to pull up, its hooves scrabbling on the wet surface. He leaned low over its neck,

The Rotting Land // 167 guiding it, trying to soothe it. For a few seconds he had no eyes for anything but the task of keeping the beast from sliding over the edge and down ... down ... Almost miraculously, he succeeded. Holding the horse still, feeling it tremble between his knees, he grinned back at Paido and Rhola Rhada. Then he saw the expressions on their faces. Spinning forward, he saw for the first time the monstrosity that was slowly advancing across the bridge towards him. Its ululating howl had been less terrifying than its aspect was. The beast – surely an Agarashi – was roughly pear-shaped, with a hunched back and a white, lizard-like head decorated with long, up-curved helical horns that looked to be murderously sharp. It shuffled upright on two large, hairy paws. The tracks by the river! thought Lone Wolf at once. Yes, it must indeed be an Agarashi, for it had about it the incongruity of members that so many Agarashi displayed. It might have been made up of two quite different creatures joined together at the waist. The lower half, ponderous and bear-like, was covered in a coarse, spiky fur; the upper body and the long, sinewy forearms, tipped by clawed paws, were pale and hairless, with rope-like veins standing out from the flesh. Two tongues flicked restlessly across the pallid, protuberant torso. The beast raised its snout, savouring the fear-scent from Lone Wolf's terrified horse. It opened its jaws, revealing incurving fangs, and released another of the spine-jarring caterwauls. Lone Wolf thought that he was dead. His horse reacted to the noise with panic. It struggled to get out from under him – to throw itself from the bridge to whatever might await it in the mists below, to be anywhere but here, facing the vast beast, which had now resumed its relentless slow shuffle towards them. Gripping the reins tightly, stopping the head from turning, Lone Wolf somehow kept the stallion under control. He cursed the foolhardiness which had made him ride the animal rather than lead it. If only the fallen trunk had been broad enough to allow the horse to turn ... The bow. He couldn't retreat, so attack was his only choice. He fumbled the weapon down from his shoulders and snatched an arrow. Paido was riding up behind him with some mutton-headed plan of rescue; Lone Wolf, without looking, furiously gestured to the Vakeros to keep his distance. The scaly head looked impervious even to arrows. Sighting his shot, Lone Wolf bellowed a fair imitation of the Agarashi's own howl, hoping that the beast would respond in kind. For a moment it carried on shuffling towards him. Then something in its slow brain must have recognized the call. Rearing

The Rotting Land // 168 above its intended prey, the Agarashi opened its mouth to respond in kind ... Lone Wolf's arrow transfixed the creature's tongue and slammed into the green-pink flesh at the back of the throat. Instantly the lower chamber of the mouth was filled with vinegar-smelling gore. Gurgling, the beast tried to eat the shaft of the arrow, instead champing through one of its tongues, which fell, still writhing, into the haze of the waterfall. Somehow Lone Wolf held his skittish horse steady as ichor rained down around them. The bow dropped from his nerveless hand. The Agarashi was clawing at its own throat, tearing the flesh open in its efforts to get at the agonizing intruder. Its yellow, slitted eyes rolled heavenwards in torment as it made one last, despairing attempt to rip the arrow free ... It lost its footing. One moment it was swaying on the bridge, the next it was lurching sideways into wet air. A claw of one of its flailing arms caught in the harness of Lone Wolf's horse, dragging the animal with it. The world seemed to spin around in circles as his mount jerked away from under him. Lone Wolf was twirling in the air, completely disorientated. Sky and trees and waterfall and Paido's open-mouthed face mixed and smeared in an impossible blur. And then he crashed face-first down on the wet wood. He gripped hold of consciousness as best he could in the confusion, refusing to release it even when his whole body seemed to be screaming at him that he should do so. He'd landed lying across the width of the bridge, with his head right at the edge. Past his eyes dropped the Agarashi and the stallion, both shrieking, the Agarashi trailing blood from its horribly wrecked mouth. In an instant they were lost in the mist. Groggy, he shook himself like a wet dog and clumsily dragged himself to his knees. Suddenly, to his right, there was another scream. He turned his head and saw that Paido's horse was likewise in trouble. The Vakeros must have been trying to back the stallion off the bridge, but one of its hind-hooves had caught in a rotting stump. As Lone Wolf watched, the horse tried to rear on its single supported leg. Just as Paido threw himself clear the stallion went to join its fellow in the gulch far beneath. None of the three said anything for a while. Paido, who had succeeded in landing on his feet, came across shakily to help Lone Wolf to his. "That was a close thing," said Lone Wolf once his tongue succeeded in discovering the words.

The Rotting Land // 169 "Yes," said Paido. They retreated to where Rhola Rhada waited for them on her placid, sturdily built mare. "Three riders and one horse" was the obvious calculation, but none of them spoke it out loud. "We'd probably have had to abandon the horses soon, anyway," she said tightly. "Yes," sad Paido. He seemed to have grown fond of the word. "That's your only comment, is it?" said Lone Wolf, looking up at Rhola Rhada. "Various others spring to mind," she said. "`Irresponsible idiots' is the mildest. Some of the others I might utter in the company of other women, but not here." Then, to his astonishment, a small grin began to spread across her face. "Trouble is, the worst of the remarks apply to me, as well. If I'd really wanted to stop the two of you, I would have. But I thought it'd be fun, too." "Yes," said Paido glumly. "It would've." Rhola Rhada, now beaming broadly, turned to him. "It's not as bad as all that," she said. "I meant what I said about us having had to ditch the horses soon anyway." "Bit rough on the horses," Lone Wolf remarked. Her smile vanished and she looked at him sternly. "It would have been anyway," she said. "Your quest is too important for its outcome to be hazarded by your squeamishness over the fate of horses, Lone Wolf." "Yes," said Paido. "Or do I mean `no'?" # "Yucch!" said Lone Wolf and Paido together. Rhola Rhada watched them, her amusement transparent. "The stuff tastes disgusting," explained Lone Wolf unnecessarily. He licked the last of the oede from his finger and then put the pot away safely in his backpack. "But we daren't stop taking it. The poison may not yet be fully flushed out of our systems." It was the twilight of another day. All through the late morning and afternoon they'd been trekking through the dense Forest of Mordril, leading the mare, though the trees were often so close together that they'd had difficulty squeezing her through. Here in the gloom there was barely any undergrowth but instead a carpeting of thick dark lichen and treacherous mulch, so that it had felt as if they were less walking than wading. The overriding smell

The Rotting Land // 170 was depressingly reminiscent of rotting meat. Wisps of an uncanny white mist had taunted them, and the chill of the forest had crept into their bones; even the few open places where the bright Sun could shine through had felt cold and clammy. Yet their mood was, if not ebullient, then at least far from low. Rhola Rhada had been largely responsible for that. She had kept the two men going with a succession of jokes that had veered just this side of being risqué, and sometimes beyond. The fear of the Danarg that Lone Wolf had detected in her earlier seemed to have evaporated; either that or she was disguising it very well. He didn't know whether to be delighted or disturbed by the number of things that Rhola Rhada was showing them that she could do very well. "Do you know where we are?" he said to her for the hundredth time. "I've a fair idea. It's difficult without any proper landmarks, but I think we've been keeping a fairly steady course westward. The angle of the Sun has confirmed that, any time we've been able to see it." She paused. "My guess is that we're within a couple of miles of the rim of the Danarg crater," she added. "We'd be best to spend the night here." She looked around the glade in which they were standing. "Unprepossessing as this place might seem." "Better than among the trees," agreed Lone Wolf with a shudder. They couldn't find enough dry wood for a fire, and some of their blankets had fallen from the bridge with the two horses: they were in for a cold night. They made the best camp they could, and then sat around gloomily chewing on Rhola Rhada's dried ghorka meat. Their evening toilet was an embarrassing business, since none of them dared wander as far into the gloom as would have taken them out of earshot of the other two. Paido wanted to toss a coin for who should take the first watch, but Lone Wolf wasn't much in the mood for such games and was perversely glad when he lost. Once again he enjoyed the company of his own thoughts while the other two slept. This time neither of them snored: both were too wary of possible attack to risk falling into a deep slumber. Lone Wolf himself, tense as a drawn bow, had little difficulty in staying awake. The forest seemed to be entirely dead: no sound disturbed the soft, rhythmic creaking of the trees. In the hour before midnight the moonlight was cut off by the treetops, far above, and a little after that Lone Wolf was shocked into alertness by the sight of two pin-prick yellow eyes in the darkness at the edge of the clearing. He drew the Sommerswerd in readiness, but after

The Rotting Land // 171 regarding him motionlessly for several minutes the nocturnal creature silently slipped away. At midnight he woke Rhola Rhada for her watch and fell into an uneasy sleep, his dreams disturbed by yellow eyes. The blanket retained some of her warmth for a while, and for that he was thankful. The slight, soft smell of her was soothing, doing something to counter the stench of the forest. He was glad when a greying of the gloom told him that dawn had arrived. Breakfast: more dried meat and the last of the water from Rhola Rhada's saddle flasks. All of them, at different times, had eaten worse. Just. They said few words to each other as they loaded up the horse with their two remaining blankets, the saddlebags and the empty water-cans. The patch of sky that they could see overhead was grey and louring: it looked as if it were going to be a cloud-smothered day. They plodded westwards. At least, that was the direction that Rhola Rhada thought they were taking. Lone Wolf hoped that she was right. The prospect of having to retrace their steps was not one he wanted to entertain. Even Rhola Rhada's supply of jokes seemed to have dried up. He had no idea how far they'd gone or how long they'd taken getting there, but at last the trees began to thin a little and the ground to slope up ahead of them. Here and there he could see outcrops of flaky grey volcanic rock. "Do those mean what I think they mean?" he said, pointing to one. "Yes," said Paido. "We must be close to the edge of the Danarg crater." "As predicted," said Rhola Rhada. Lone Wolf stared at her incredulously: she'd managed to sound smug. In the chill gloom of the forest, with the weird fingers of mist still reaching for them, no emotion could have been more incongruous. She grinned cheerfully back at him: another reason to make his mouth drop open. The Sun was directly overhead, shining as best it could through the cloud cover, when they reached the crater's lip. Ahead of them they could see a panoramic view of the huge caldera, with the sickly green of the swamp almost filling it. They paused for a while to rest, gazing over the scene in a mixture of awe and revulsion. Somewhere rather further away than in the centre of the green Lone Wolf thought he could see a glimmer of white reflected light, framed by four shapeless brown blodges, but at this distance it was hard to tell if it wasn't just a matter of his eyes deceiving him – of him seeing what he so desperately wanted to see. He smiled

The Rotting Land // 172 bitterly to himself: in any case it would take more than a remote glimpse of the Temple of Ohrido to lift his sullen spirits. He was glad they had the starguider with them; without it, trying to find the temple amid that mass of greenery would be a nightmare. A worse nightmare, his mind corrected. After half an hour Rhola Rhada began to chivvy the two men into activity. "Come on," she said. "Two great lumps like you shouldn't be shagged out from a morning's stroll. We've got a long way to go before we can rest easy tonight." Groaning and complaining, they got to their feet. "Here," she said to Lone Wolf. "You carry this." He looked at her in puzzlement. She was holding out one of the mare's saddlebags to him. It was half-empty, but still not an inconsiderable weight. "We're leaving Bright Prancer here," she explained. "She'll not be of much use to us from here on, and I'd rather give her her chance here than release her any closer to the swamp." She smiled, though her eyes were moist. "You're not the only one who cares about the fate of horses, Lone Wolf," she added with attempted lightness. He shrugged and accepted the burden. Paido did likewise with the other saddlebag, leaving Rhola Rhada herself to carry the water-cans, slung together on a rope that she could loop over her shoulder. The descent was initially easy going, and Lone Wolf wondered for a while why Rhola Rhada had chosen to abandon Bright Prancer. The outriders of the Mordril Forest soon thinned, giving way to twisted dead trunks and stunted, branchless saplings. Patches of brown grass spread between low, miserable-looking bushes. The three of them said little, cowed by the hostility of the terrain they were nearing. There was something missing, Lone Wolf knew, but it took him a time to realize what it was: there were no sounds of nature around them – no birdsong, no buzzing of insects. He looked up at the sky and saw the grey clouds racing; they seemed more alive than anything in the landscape around him except for his two companions. There was no fixed moment when they entered the Danarg Swamp. Gradually the ground underfoot became softer, so that often enough they had to tug their feet from its muddy clutches, with great sucking noises that at first made them laugh uneasily and then made them laugh not at all. They skirted small stagnant pools, overhung with a pale mist like that they had encountered in the forest and fringed by rushes of a green so dark they were almost black. They were among more trees, but these thick-boled, stubby

The Rotting Land // 173 specimens were a far cry from those of the Forest of Mordril: their ravaged barks were covered in lumpish grey fungal growths, and many were shrouded in coils of tough, thorny vines; in some places bizarre, free-standing structures of lopped vines showed where trees had been strangled and had rotted away, leaving their murderer as a grave-marker. Lone Wolf had the uncomfortable feeling that the air was hotter than it should be, as in the hour before a thunderstorm; everywhere hung the soapy, warm stench of mould and decay. Time lost its meaning: only the position of the Sun in the sky told them how long they had been plodding and squelching through the rotting landscape. They were scrambling around the shore of a large pond, through withered trees under a ceiling of tangled vines, when the screaming started. "What in the ...?" said Paido, slipping as he spoke. He sat down in the mud and was immediately slapping off the small worm-like – but apparently harmless – creatures that infested the moss. Rhola Rhada gave watery smile. "You'll be getting accustomed to such noises by nightfall," she said, reaching out a hand to help him up. "With luck the creatures won't notice us, whatever they are." Lone Wolf said nothing: Rhola Rhada's hope was misplaced. He wrenched the Sommerswerd from its scabbard, cursing as his feet slithered. The racket intensified: it sounded as if a pack of rabid dogs were fighting each other in the gloom. Paido, now on his feet, and Rhola Rhada likewise drew their swords. "Discretion might be ...?" began Paido. Lone Wolf heard himself give a little yip! of dismay. From out of the gloom crept a score or more of willowy, leather-scaled creatures, taller by half than a man. As the mouths in the toad-like faces barked and shrieked, rows of glistening pink teeth were revealed. Slitted lidless eyes regarded the three human intruders malevolently. Black rivers of brackish water ran off their pallid underbellies as they swayed, waiting to attack. The creatures' short, stumpy arms were tipped by webbed hands and forests of brown needles that looked sharp enough to rip away a person's face with a single slash. The creatures stopped screaming. The silence seemed noisier than even the screaming had been. Rhola Rhada leapt forward, her sword a silver song as it darted through the air to impale the foremost of the attackers.

The Rotting Land // 174 With both hands she dragged the blade upwards, releasing a torrent of foul-smelling guts. She stepped back nimbly as the beast fell at her feet. "Come on!" she snapped at the two men as she danced sideways, cutting a green-red streak diagonally across the face of another of the creatures, ripping open one of its eyes. Her command broke the spell of fascination that had been immobilizing Lone Wolf and Paido. To either side of her they advanced on the swamp beasts, their blades carving out a trail of destruction as they tore at faces and bellies. Their assailants seemed astonished by the ferocity of the three humans, whom they must have regarded as easy prey; for several long seconds none of them attempted to retaliate and, when they did, it was a sluggishness that belied the sinister grace with which they had emerged from their dark lair. But, once they began to fight back, they had the advantage of numbers. And weight. Lone Wolf was almost crushed as one of the beasts, still flailing with its needle-tipped arms, toppled towards him; had he not tripped over a tussock of dead grass, himself falling sideways, he might have been doomed. As it was, once he had picked himself up, he scrambled over the corpse and stumbled to where Paido was being forced relentlessly towards the evil-looking waters of the pool by three growling monsters. The Sommerswerd howled downwards in a lethal arc, splitting one of the beasts in two down its spine as far as its middle. Paido, with his free hand, punched one of the others in the face, confusing it enough that he was able to eviscerate it with his sword. Lone Wolf hauled the Sommerswerd from the wreckage of the beast he had just slaughtered and, falling to one knee, hacked a gash the length of his forearm in the third creature's side. As it lumbered towards him, trying vainly to contain its innards with a too-short arm, Paido fell, shrieking as the back of his head splashed into the edge of the pool. Instantly the maimed creature turned towards him, then back to Lone Wolf. Its anguish was speeding its movements. Its head leapt for Lone Wolf's throat, the jaws opening, a thin tongue lashing at his face like a whip. Green saliva sprayed his eyes as he ducked. He heard the jaws crash scant inches above his head, then a maddened bellow of agony. Wiping his eyes on the back of his sleeve, he twisted away, almost tripping over the Sommerswerd's blade. Bouncing from the bole of a tree, he saw that the swamp creature was crashing to the ground, Paido's dagger embedded to the hilt in its back. The Vakeros had dragged himself to a kneeling position, his face and right arm streaming blood, leeches twining and

The Rotting Land // 175 flipping all around his head like some hideous mop of serpentine hair. "Behind you!" the Vakeros screamed, but already Lone Wolf was swivelling around, the Sommerswerd a flat crescent as it hewed into the side of the beast that had been creeping up on him. The blade was nearly wrenched out of his grasp as the brute contorted and spasmed in its death throes. Lone Wolf looked up through a blur of red, seeking for further enemies to slay. Out of the corner of his vision he became that Rhola Rhada, her face and clothing a mess of red and green gore, was regarding him with a sour smile on her thin lips. Heavy corpses lay all around her. The smile stripped the haze from his eyes. Paido! The same thought must have struck Rhola Rhada in that instant, for she was at his side as he began to lug the heavy body of the Vakeros from where it had fallen back into the shallows. While Lone Wolf stared into Paido's eyes, seeking for signs of inner damage, Rhola Rhada's small gloved hands moved deftly over the man's face and arm, nipping off the small, fat leeches that clung there and hurling them back into the sullen, dark pond. "I can walk," said Paido after a few moments, his blood-drenched face a landscape of pain. "Let me up. Let me away from the water." They pulled him to his feet and he threw his good arm around Lone Wolf's shoulders. "Away from the water," he repeated in a broken voice. "Likely bigger beasts than leeches." He coughed, bringing up a stream of blackness. Somehow, with Rhola Rhada hewing out a path through the web of lichen-covered branches, they got through the thick clump of trees from which the brutes had emerged. On the far side it was little better – still a soggy carpet of mosses in unnatural greens and greys – but eventually Lone Wolf and Rhola Rhada found somewhere dry they could lay Paido down. In the light of a watery sun they could see how grievous was the damage he'd sustained; he must have been clinging to consciousness through willpower alone, and it was a marvel that he had let no more than a few grunts of pain escape his lips. "He'll live," said Rhola Rhada depressedly, "but it'll be a while before he's able to walk on his own." She had darted back to retrieve their abandoned saddlebags and water canisters, and now dropped them wearily at her feet. "Bilge," said Paido weakly. "I've taken worse treatment than ..."

The Rotting Land // 176 "Shut up," said Lone Wolf kindly. To Rhola Rhada he said: "With herbs and potions, you'd be right. But my Kai aptitudes should be able to deal with his injuries soon enough." Then he stopped, remembering. "I'll try to draw on the Sommerswerd," he said. "I dislike the tone of doubt in your voice, Lone Wolf," said Rhola Rhada coldly. "So do I," admitted Lone Wolf. "But ..." He let the word hang. In fact, it proved easier than he'd anticipated. He had the sense, as he pressed his consciousness against the thin barrier that separated him from the Sommerswerd's soulstuff, that there was an eager welcome awaiting him, and there was a tingle of joy as the golden soulstuff bubbled up into him. Soon he was moving his hands over Paido's mangled face, feeling the flesh knit beneath his fingers. As he worked, Rhola Rhada plucked a last few leeches from their legs, tossing the wriggling bodies back over her shoulder. At last Paido was able to rise unassisted. His face was pale where it was not smeared with blood, and there were new scars across his cheeks, but the sparkle had returned to his eyes and he seemed no longer to be suffering any pain. "I thank you, Sommlending," he said with formal courtesy, "and you, too, fair Talestrian." As he nodded to Rhola Rhada he smiled slightly, and Lone Wolf noted her answering smile. The place where they'd discovered themselves would have been vile in any other context, but here in the Danarg it was like a sunlit glade in a leafy forest. Over to one side stood a tall tree, its trunk – for a miracle – rising straight up from a tangled root mass at the side of a pool of clear water. It was a like a small cameo of normality amid this riot of the abnormal, the illusion broken only by the fruits of the tree, which were globes of a poisonous-looking bright red. Paido nodded towards the tree. "That'll be a good place for sighting the starguider," he said. He shucked off his backpack and looked ruefully at the smirched canvas. A final leech seemed to be doing its best to tunnel in under the flap, and he picked it away, crushing its body between his fingers with a moué of disgust. Delving rather warily inside the pack, he unearthed the globe of indefinable blue that Lone Wolf had last seen back in Elzian. Rhola Rhada regarded it with frank interest as the Vakeros held it up in his big hands and briefly explained to her its function. "If I can get a clear sighting of the spire of the temple," he concluded, "I can calibrate the readings so that we can use it something like a compass."

The Rotting Land // 177 "Wish I'd got one of them," said Rhola Rhada. "A boon to any mapmaker. Once we get out of here, you wouldn't consider ... er ...?" Paido, kneeling, grinned up at her. "I should think that could be arranged," he murmured. Lone Wolf, becoming bored by what he recognized as incipient lovers' banter, drifted away from them. His hands were sticky with already blackening gore – the swamp beasts' mixed with Paido's – and his face felt stiff, as if a mask had been pained on it. The waters of the pool beneath the tree looked invitingly cool, although he already knew better than to trust appearances here in the Danarg. As Paido began to clamber up the straight trunk nearby, Lone Wolf stood looking down at his own filth-streaked reflection on the surface of the water, trying to probe beyond it in search of movement or any other sign that creatures might be lurking within. There was nothing. "Keep an eye on me," he said to Rhola Rhada, who had wandered over. "We'll need fresh water before too long is out. If the stuff is in this pool is as pure as it looks ..." While talking he had let his hand fall. As his fingers brushed the surface of the water he let out a hiss of dismay. The clear liquid felt nothing like water – more as if he'd stroked a jelly. Vibrations sprang from his touch, and then the fluid suddenly retreated underground, leaving a parched-seeming crater of black earth at whose centre lay an-orange brown egg. Rhola Rhada's sword was in her hand. "By the – !" she started. The shell of the egg tore open along a narrow line. From the gap sprang a wire-thin tendril that whipped itself around Lone Wolf's neck. At once he felt the life being choked from him. His hands swiped uselessly at the cord. He tried to pull himself away, but that only pulled the knot tighter, cutting into his flesh. He felt blood gush as his vision greyed. He felt for the Sommerswerd at his side, but his movement was powerless, as if the egg-beast were interfering with the commands from his brain. A scream struggled against the constriction of his throat. As he fell to one side he saw Rhola Rhada making useless gestures with her sword. If she tried to hack through the tendril and failed, the impact of her blow on it would decapitate Lone Wolf. At last Lone Wolf's outstretched fingers touched something hard. The pommel of the Sommerswerd. As if the weapon had been drawing his hand to itself. This time he did not have the energy to penetrate to its soulstuff; instead he simply let his mind

The Rotting Land // 178 form a prayer to Ishir, and the Goddess must have heard him, for suddenly the soulstuff of the Sommerswerd was in him. Much use that would do him if he died in the next few seconds. But he sensed that this time the Sommerswerd's soulstuff was acting of its own volition, forming itself into configurations of energy that his fading mind dimly recognized but had no part of. A spasm of bright white pain shot through him. He screamed. "You're all right, thank the Gods," he heard Rhola Rhada saying in his ear. More distantly, Paido was bellowing words that Lone Wolf couldn't make sense of. His face was lying with the cheek sinking into cold mud, and he relished the clammy touch as if it were a mother's caress. I screamed! he thought. That thing must have ... "What happened?" he said, opening his eyes. The Sommerswerd's soulstuff seemed to have been blasted back out of him by whatever it was that had sent the bolt of pain through him – or maybe the pain had been caused by the sudden withdraw ... Who cares? I'm alive! Paido was descending the tree with more speed than grace. Lone Wolf, recovering his senses, turned to look at the egg, his hand tightening around the hilt of the Sommerswerd. But the shell was no more. In its place was a heap of dust. A thin line of dust led from the main heap up the sides of the shallow crater to where Lone Wolf sat gasping. "That was the most remarkable thing," Rhola Rhada was saying. Lone Wolf, gulping air, barely heard her. Relief that his life had been saved flowed through him, but more than that was the delighted realization that the Sommerswerd's soulstuff had acted through him so powerfully. These past days he'd been assuming that its unaided power would be as great only as his own would have been, had he still been able to tap his own – no, even less than that. But the lethal psychic blast it had been able to generate in order to destroy the egg-creature had been as powerful as even the Gestalt fusion of himself with the weapon could have created. Of course, his reliance on the Sommerswerd was not ideal – there would inevitably be a delay any time he called on it for aid – but it was a great deal better than what he'd resigned himself to. It had even, as if by way of afterthought, healed the lacerations of his neck. He explained much of this to his companions, then stood. Rhola Rhada was gracing him with a smile, but Paido's face remained gloomy.

The Rotting Land // 179 "What's up, my friend?" said Lone Wolf. "The starguider – it seems not to be functioning." "Damaged?" Lone Wolf thought of all the battering and bashing that Paido's backpack had received during the ardours of their journey north through Talestria. "No – of that I'm sure. There are various tests you can run on these things, and it seems to be in perfectly good order." He shook his head worriedly. "Another thing: from up that tree I couldn't see the temple, either. Can something have happened to it?" "That can't be!" Lone Wolf exclaimed. Infuriatingly, Rhola Rhada was grinning. "I saw it only this morning," he continued, disregarding her. "From the rim of the crater. Surely it couldn't just have vanished into thin air." "I saw it also," said Rhola Rhada quietly. She rubbed the back of a gloved hand across her forehead, making the mess there even worse. "You can tell you're no cartographer, Lone Wolf. You must have seen, as I did, the four lava outcrops surrounding it. The difference between us is that I, having seen them, remembered them. I'll wager you," she added, turning to Paido, "that all that's happened is that we've strayed a distance north of our course. Does your navigation gadget work through solid rock?" "Depends," he said, looking a little more hopeful. Already Lone Wolf was shinning up the lower part of the tree, the starguider jammed under one arm. "Hey!" shouted Paido. "Take care of that thing!" From as high as he dared go – here the branches were only just thick enough to support his weight – Lone Wolf scanned the ocean of green jungle. Sure enough, away towards the west, he could see the four outcrops that Rhola Rhada had mentioned: they looked like volcanic islands jutting up through the surface of the sea. And, now that he saw them, he remembered the splotches of brown he'd noticed from his perch by the rim of the Danarg crater. He played with the starguider for a few moments, pressing any part of its surface that looked as if it ought to be pressed, but failed to get any reaction from it. "I guess she must be right," he said to Paido as he rejoined the others. "Certainly hope so. If she's not ..." He shrugged expressively. Rhola Rhada put an arm across his shoulders. "I usually am," she confided to him with heavy sarcasm. "I usually am." #

The Rotting Land // 180 Nightfall found them at the top of a low plateau. They had scrambled here in flight from a horde of lizard-like creatures that had suddenly erupted from a belt of mire. The mire had been the lair of a colossal snake that had attacked Paido, and which Lone Wolf and Rhola Rhada had finally succeeded in driving off. It had been that sort of a day. None of them could have reckoned how many times each had saved the lives of one or more of the others; each had lost count, too, of the number of times his or her own life had been saved. Sitting or lying on the thin grass covering the jagged rocks of the plateau's tabletop, grunting and gasping from the exertions of the climb, they looked at each other and, despite everything, began to laugh. "If you two tried to walk into one of the taverns in Tharro," said Rhola Rhada through her giggles, "you'd be thrown out before you'd even crossed the threshold. Assuming the bouncers dared tackle you." "Looked in a mirror recently?" said Paido, taking her arm. Lone Wolf drew the Sommerswerd and offered her the flat of its shining blade. She took one glance at her reflection, winced, and refused to look again. "We could camp here for the night," said Lone Wolf at last. Looking westwards he could see little but the glowing red ball of the Sun as it sank towards the horizon, its light touching the mists over the Danarg Swamp so that they looked like sprays of blood. "I can't think we're likely to find anywhere safer." Paido shuddered and looked around him as if expecting attack at any moment. Bearing in mind the events of the day, it had become an automatic habit of all of them. "I'd not like to close my eyes anywhere in this infernal swamp," he said. "But you two can try to grab some sleep if you want to." Rhola Rhada had got to her feet and wandered a little way off – presumably to try to get away from her own reflection in the Sommerswerd's blade. Now she was calling to them. Reluctantly, forcing an extra effort out of tired muscles, they clambered over to where she stood. "Look at this," she said unnecessarily. She was standing by the edge of a well used track which looped up from the side of the plateau, somewhere over to their right, and led away towards the setting Sun, on their left. The trail was easy enough to distinguish: the spongy vegetation was crushed flat along it, and a profusion of spoors had impressed themselves on the surface of the loamy soil. Scuffing idly with his foot, Lone Wolf stared at these marks: they had been left by web-toed bipedal

The Rotting Land // 181 creatures which, to judge by the length of their stride, were as tall as or taller than a man. He ran his eyes along the path's direction and noticed something he hadn't seen earlier. "And look at that," he said. They followed his pointing finger and saw a thin outline silhouetted on the Sun's disc. "The spire of the Temple of Ohrido," breathed Paido eagerly. "It can't be anything else." He lowered his backpack carefully to the ground and rooted around in it for the starguider. His fingers moving more quickly than Lone Wolf's eyes could follow, he adjusted a key here and a wire there, and a few moments later the device began to emit regular clicking noises. Now Paido's manipulations of it became more fastidious, and Lone Wolf guessed he was making accurate adjustments to the calibration rules on the globe's side. "I could lead us directly there if it were as black as night," he eventually said. "Which it soon will be," said Rhola Rhada caustically. "We'll have about an hour to wait before the Moon comes up. We might as well wait here as anywhere else – unless either of you two can think of anything better to do?" They nodded agreement. All three were hungry, but they were also desperately thirsty. Rhola Rhada produced a few scraps of dried meat, but none of them felt like eating it. We'd likely be dead, Paido and me, if she'd not thought to bring that stuff, reflected Lone Wolf as she tucked the food back into the sole remaining saddlebag – the other had vanished into the maw of the swamp serpent that had attacked Paido at the plateau's foot. Was Kezoor's necromancy affecting my intellect, or have I always been that stupid? And Paido, too? He looked around for somewhere to urinate in privacy – although privacy no longer held much of a premium for any of them. There was a rock about fifty yards away that looked disconcertingly like a gravestone, and he headed for it. About halfway there he noticed a change in the texture of the plateau's sparse grassy covering. Here was a stretch where all the stalks seemed to have been flattened in one direction, as if something heavy had been dragged past quite recently. It was something that he'd not have noticed had the Sun not been so low in the sky, its sombre red rays making the shadowed gaps between the squashed blades inky black. His need to urinate temporarily forgotten, he crouched down and examined the grass more closely. Yes: this was another track, one seemingly far less frequently used than the pathway Rhola Rhada had come across. His eyes

The Rotting Land // 182 narrowed. The grass had been flattened not by the dragging of a heavy weight, as he'd thought at first, but by some kind of saw-toothed implement. Whoever – or whatever – made use of this trail had gone to some considerable effort to conceal the evidence of its passage. And it would have succeeded, had the Sun been high in the sky ... Thoughtfully he continued towards the concealment of the isolated rock. On his return, Rhola Rhada agreed immediately with him. "If the trail's worth concealing, then it's worth our following it," she said. "No one'd bother to hide it if it didn't lead somewhere important." "But not necessarily the Temple of Ohrido," said Paido pointedly. "Can you think of anywhere else of any importance whatsoever in the Danarg Swamp?" she said, glaring at him. "If you can, perhaps you've been keeping some secrets from us, Vakeros." Lone Wolf scowled at both of them. Earlier in the day he could have sworn that they were becoming sweet on each other; now they seemed to be looking for a reason to be at each other's throats. "Rhola Rhada's more likely to be right than not," he said heavily. "I just hope we're not going to walk straight into a nest of vipers, that's all," said Paido, raising his voice. The veins on his temples stood out. "We knew that was a risk before we set off from Elzian," said Lone Wolf. The Sun's last crescent slowly dipped from view. High overhead a bat-like creature fluttered against the backdrop of the orange sky. He scanned the heavens wearily. As Rhola Rhada had predicted, there was no Moon, and as yet no signs on the horizon that it was on its way. His concern was that the night might cloud over. "I think we should ..." Rhola Rhada began. "What you think, right now, is not of any particular relevance," said Lone Wolf firmly. Seeing a sudden glitter of apprehension in her eyes he added, more gently: "No, it's not a resurgence of Kezoor's necromancy making me surly. It's just that, if one of us doesn't make a decision on this, you two are likely to stand here arguing with each other all night long. Since I'm at least nominally the leader of this expedition, I'm taking to myself the powers of command. All right?" She drew a breath to speak.

The Rotting Land // 183 "Because, if you've got any objections, you can just keep them to yourself," he said with soft menace. Her hand went to her sword, but the movement was an instinctive rather than a reasoned one. "Perhaps I'll come to believe that this is right," she said, "and perhaps I won't. If it's the latter, Lone Wolf, then look to your ..." "If it's the latter," growled Paido, "he'll buy you a drink in Tharro when we get back, and apologize to you most profusely." The big man seemed in a perverse way to be grateful that Lone Wolf was at last stamping down hard on the freewheeling democracy that had held between the three of them since leaving Tharro. "Lone Wolf's right, Rhola Rhada," he said. "From now on we must do as he commands us." "Unless it's something stupid," she said tautly. "If it's something stupid we'll probably be dead anyway," said Paido reasonably. "Once you two have finished debating my tyranny," remarked Lone Wolf drily, "perhaps you'll have time to hear my first commands." They stared at him. "Rhola Rhada, Paido, while there's still some light left in the sky, I want the two of you to scout around to see if you can find any fresh water. Even a rain-pool would be good enough. Take a canister each with you. Stick together and keep your hands ready to your swords – we don't know what the night holds." Still they looked at him, but he declined to explain himself further. Let me be a proper despot, if that's what I'm going to have to be! he thought. As soon as they'd sloped off into the shadows he set himself to building a small fire using flints and tinder from Rhola Rhada's saddlebags as well as what small amounts of dead wood he could find among the unhealthy shrubs of the plateau. It wasn't going to be much of a blaze, he reflected as he struggled to get the tinder to catch, but it should be enough to boil a potful of water. They returned within about a quarter of an hour with a single canister slurping in Paido's hand. "You were right," said the Vakeros. "A rain-pool was as much as we found." Lone Wolf raised the neck of the canister to his face and sniffed. "Not nectar," he said, his lip curling. Paido chuckled. "After the stuff down there" – he waved towards the lake of blackness beyond the edge of the plateau, where night beasts rent the air with their screams of triumph and anguish – "it looked like the well of the Gods themselves to me." Rhola Rhada said nothing. Lone Wolf could almost hear the hostility emanating from her.

The Rotting Land // 184 He took another scent of the water and decided to hope for the best: they were all becoming so dehydrated that they were as likely to die through sluggishness of wit as through drinking bad water. Besides, the stuff would be boiled. The Moon had risen fully by the time they were picking the last strings of meat from their teeth. The jerky had made a poor stew, but the gravy in which it had floated had not tasted nearly as foul as Lone Wolf had feared. In an hour or two they would regret the meat's saltiness, but at least they at last had some liquid inside them. He twisted his mouth as a particularly loud screech from somewhere beyond the plateau tore the night asunder: some of those beasts out there sounded colossal, vastly larger than anything they'd encountered during the day. He hoped they'd be in luck, that Ishir would smile on them and guide them clear of the most ferocious foes. As if on cue, the Moon moved clear of a straggle of cloud, illuminating the plateau in silver. "Let's go," he said. Minutes later they were following the almost imperceptible trail across the plateau. After about half a mile it dipped steeply downwards for a short way, tunnelling through dense vegetation which at first Lone Wolf thought was made up of trees; it was only when he looked back upslope and saw their tops in the clear moonlight that he realized that these were hugely tall flowers, their heads, as large as small tabletops, unfolded towards the radiance of the Moon. He decided to take this as a good sign. Down here there had been few if any attempts to hide the course of the pathway. Once it was on the level again it widened a little, although still not enough for them to do anything other than walk in line. Rhola Rhada led, her sword questing through the air ahead of her; she moved with the alertness and silent ease of a cat, and he guessed that she was suppressing the urge to dash ahead. Paido followed her, with Lone Wolf in the rear. Small creatures, most of them thankfully invisible in the darkness, scuttled out from beneath them; every now and then Lone Wolf's foot landed with a nauseating squelch as one of the beasts delayed its escape too long. They had left the high moonplants behind them now, and were making slower headway. The trail led them around mires and stagnant pools. Branches above them frequently blotted out the moonlight; Lone Wolf was grateful that they were still a hundred feet or more above the main level of the swamp, for progress there might well have been impossible. From time to time a brutish shriek would shatter the gloom nearby, but for some reason none of the Danarg's great beasts seemed to wish to come too close to the path. Perhaps they've learnt to be terrified of whoever made this track,

The Rotting Land // 185 thought Lone Wolf, or perhaps it's just us. He grimaced. Either way, I thank Ishir for it. "Halt!" came Rhola Rhada's urgent whisper, interrupting his reflections. Paido and Lone Wolf stopped instantly. "Ahead," she breathed as they came up beside her. "Look." About a hundred yards in front of them flickering yellow revealed the presence of a fire. Now that the three of them were still they could hear the faint sound of human voices. Lone Wolf strained to hear, trying to make out any words, but he was rewarded only with a soft babble. "Assume they're our enemies," he breathed. "Too right," said Paido. "I think I know what they are. Ghagrim. Tell you later." Keeping to the path they crept past what was obviously an encampment – indeed, to judge by the ramshackle wooden structures that had been set up it was at least a semi-permanent settlement. In the uncertain firelight Lone Wolf saw shadowy human figures moving about between the huts. He waited until they were well clear of the place before he tapped Paido on the shoulder. "Pause a moment. Tell us more," he said. Rhola Rhada looked angry at what she clearly regarded as a waste of time and Paido seemed surprised, but Lone Wolf was insistent. The more they know about any other humans that lived here in the swamp, the better equipped to deal with them they'd be – although he sincerely hoped they wouldn't have to. "The Ghagrim?" he prompted. As swiftly as he could, Paido explained. Rimoah had shown him pictures of beings very much like these. In the distant past the Ghagrim had been a gentle, primitive folk who had lived here in harmony with the animals and the birds. The Elder Magi had helped them where they could, but had largely left them alone – which was exactly as the Ghagrim had wanted it. A similar relationship had already built up between the Ghagrim and the people of the nation of Talestria, whose monarchs had extended their protection to cover the folk of the jungle. But in recent centuries, as the nature of the swamp had changed towards Evil, so had the inclinations of the Ghagrim, as if their meditative minds had been poisoned by the miasmas of the festering swamp. Now it was a brave person indeed who did not flee at the sight of these jungle-dwellers. Rhola Rhada had been nodding throughout Paido's discourse. "I, too, have seen pictures of these folk," she said,

The Rotting Land // 186 "though normally they are shown far more monstrous. The map-makers of Talestria draw them at the edges of their charts to indicate areas where only the unknown is ruler. Now my own maps shall have far more accurate embellishments, though doubtless half my customers will complain that I'm not giving them their full value." She smiled. Her temper seemed to have improved again. Lone Wolf briefly speculated about her mood-swings, but could think of no reason for them. "Let's keep going," he said. Within about a hundred yards the trail petered out. At first they couldn't believe it: they'd become so accustomed to the path guiding their way that they'd almost come to believe it had been made specially for them. "What now?" said Paido as they huddled together. Lone Wolf bit his lower lip reflectively. "We press on," he said at length. "Dangerous," said Paido. "No more dangerous than staying where we are." Rhola Rhada muttered agreement. "So long as the Moon stays visible, I can hold us roughly to the course we've been following. For whatever that's worth." Lone Wolf tried to disguise his uncertainty. He'd been convinced that the trail would lead them somewhere of significance, but now it appeared to be no more than a Ghagrim pathway. He felt, illogically, as if Ishir had let him down in some way. Again he chewed his lip for a moment or two before replying. "We've been going roughly northwest, by my estimation," he said. "And by mine too," she said. "That's the way we want to go. The temple's somewhere beyond this plateau. At least we ought to be able to pick it up on the starguider when we reach the edge." "Sounds good to me," said Paido. Rhola Rhada gave Lone Wolf another of those fleeting smiles. "Then we're all in agreement. No objections from the troops, Lone Wolf." He forgave her the sarcasm, which had clearly been meant amiably. "Lead on," he said. The going wasn't as bad as it might have been. He guessed that the reason the Ghagrim hadn't extended their path was that, here where the terrain was easier, there hadn't been any need for it. The night beasts seemed less frightened of them now, however, and the three of them were forced to move more slowly through

The Rotting Land // 187 having constantly to guard each other's backs. Once a great creature, the size of a doomwolf but fortunately not one of those savage killers, stepped out in front of Rhola Rhada and stood there for a few moments, its long jaw gaping and its tail switching from side to side; before they had their swords fully up, however, it had vanished back into the undergrowth. At last they found the trees and bushes thinning around them, and soon afterwards they were walking in clear moonlight. Ahead of them an area of tumbled stones and silver-seeming grass stretched out towards a finger of rock that stabbed outwards into the blackness. "The edge of the plateau," said Rhola Rhada. "Just as you ordered." The irony of her tone was less friendly than before, and he stared at her. Eventually her gaze fell. The Moon was high overhead: there were still four or five hours before the dawn. It would be insanity to do anything other than try to catch some sleep. Lone Wolf laughingly refused Paido's offer to toss a coin for the privilege of first watch, and soon he was standing guard over two silently slumbering forms. Sitting cross-legged in the moonlight, he tried to recapture the tranquillity that he'd felt on earlier occasions like this, but it proved elusive. Perhaps even things as ephemeral as quiet thoughts were not immune to the influence of the Danarg Swamp. # He dreamt once more of being in the Temple of Ohrido with the Nameless Woman. This time, however, he did not bear the body of a mouse but instead that of a middle-aged man. She was leading him along mirrored corridors, her diaphanous garments trailing like salt-water spray in her wake. He was trying to keep up with her, limping along behind. As they passed doors opening off the corridor he glanced this way and that, catching glimpses of the rooms beyond: bedrooms hung in satin of rich purples and creamy greys; dining-halls where haunches of roast meat and heaped dishes of vegetables steamed; a bathroom with a densely carpeted floor and mirrors on walls and ceilings. In one of the rooms he saw Banedon, imprisoned in a cage of gold; the sight did not in the least startle him, even when Banedon began to bellow for help and punch against the bars. At the end of the corridor she stopped and turned to look into his eyes seriously. You are ageing and your belly is plump, Lone Wolf, she said. Your hair thins and grows grey around your ears. Your beard straggles and your eyes are mounted in bolsters of creases and folds. Your breathing pains you when you

The Rotting Land // 188 walk too fast, and your legs fail you too often these days. You have to hold writing up close to your face when you want to read it. You think of death and its nearness more than you think of life and its longness. Why do you think to be near me, to deserve me? The question was not an enquiry, he knew: it was something spoken in ritual, and he felt his lips moving to make the prescribed response. "Look inside me," he said. "The heart of a lover is strong, even though frail. The body of a lover has a youth that cannot be counted in years. The soul never ages. And lovers do not deserve each other: they are each other." Will you touch the sky for me? "I touch the sky when I lay my hand upon your arm." Will you bring the rainbow to me? "I have no need, for you are at the rainbow's end." Will you defeat death for me? "Our union is death's vanquishment." She looked him up and down, and now there was a mischievous twinkle in her dark eye. Have we met somewhere before, buster? "We have never been apart." You're old enough to be my father. "And I'm young enough to be your son." You're you. "And you're you. That's all that matters." He was beginning to choose the words for himself, departing from the often rehearsed script. "I love you even sad and sorrowful, for those songs are my songs also. I love you when the joy-music makes you dance above the ground, for you have taught me your dance." And age is no barrier? "I will kiss each wrinkle every night and every morning, as I have always done." Then joy is ours. Joy will be ours if you look inside yourself, Lone Wolf. "Joy is ours." Our joy. "The joy we give each other, and the world." The world's joy, she agreed. # "Wake up, blast you!" He squeezed one eye open, then the other. Rhola Rhada, whose face was so disturbingly like that of the Nameless Woman,

The Rotting Land // 189 was kneeling next to him. From the ache of his nose, she had been yanking on it in her attempts to rouse him. The whole of the Sun's disc was well clear of the horizon: it must have been dawn a full hour ago. He sat up irritably. Paido was standing some little distance off, making final calibrations to the starguider; in the distance the glistening korlinium spire of the Temple of Ohrido could be seen towering above the jungle's spinach-green. The sky was an unbroken azure. "You can be as hard to waken as my husband," said Rhola Rhada, turning away. "Your husband?" said Lone Wolf. "You never told us ..." She looked back at him. "I don't talk about him much. It's not worth it. Old regrets, you know." Paido, having overheard the exchange, was gazing across at her. She sensed his eyes on her and looked a little embarrassed. "It was a few years back," she said to him. "Quite a few years. He died. There've been a few men since then, of course, but none of them have I thought to make my husband. What's it got to do with you two, anyway?" Quite a lot to do with Paido, if I'm not mistaken, mused Lone Wolf as he massaged his aching back muscles – he'd rolled over in his sleep and a rock had been digging into his spine. "Nothing at all," the Vakeros was saying. He turned back to the starguider, losing interest in the matter. Lone Wolf smiled up at Rhola Rhada, who seemed engrossed with the intertwining fingers of her gloved hands. "He means that, you know," he said gently. "You could have told him earlier. It wouldn't have bothered him in the slightest. Why did you think it would?" "Stick to your own business, Sommlending!" she snapped. He shrugged and continued to knead his spine. Descending from the plateau took much of the morning. They had ropes with them, but for the most part they lowered themselves by use of the long trailing vines that grew on the steep slope. Early on during the descent Lone Wolf accidentally squashed one of the blue-brown fruits of the vines against his fist and reflexively licked the juice away. It tasted sweet and good to him; after consultation with the others he ate several more of the fruits and, after an hour during which he'd shown no ill effects, all three feasted on the juicy berries. When they paused on a ledge Rhola Rhada carefully stashed away several large bunches in one of the saddlebags; the juice might be the only liquid they had before they reached the Temple of Ohrido.

The Rotting Land // 190 If they reached the Temple of Ohrido. Lone Wolf doubted this momentarily not long after they had reached the plateau's base when they ran into the nest of a colossal spider. They retreated at once, but Paido's foot caught a trailing strand of the beast's web, and it gave them pursuit for some while before Rhola Rhada dug in the saddlebag that Lone Wolf was carrying, found the last of the dried meat and threw the unappetizing parcel back towards the creature, which fell upon the food. "Rather it than me," gasped Lone Wolf, not certain himself whether he was talking about the meat or the spider. His apprehensions proved, however, to remain mercifully unfulfilled. Although as the day wore on they were attacked several times by various creatures of the swamp, nothing as vicious as the spider came close to them. Lone Wolf had the odd sensation that the larger beasts had in some way called off. He wondered if the benevolent influence of the Temple of Ohrido stretched out some little distance into the corrupting jungle. Paido's theory was that it was the clicking of the starguider that was repelling the mightier beasts; perhaps, he speculated aloud after they'd paused to cram their mouths with handfuls of the berries Rhola Rhada had brought, the clicks mimicked the aggressive sounds of some creature so unimaginably deadly that all the other denizens of the jungle dwelt in terror of it – in which case, should they have the misfortune actually to come across a specimen of that hypothetical monster, the clicking would presumably antagonize it to a height of fury so great that ... Rhola Rhada cuffed him to silence, none too gently. # "Take a look at that!" Paido yelled. He had been leading the way, and had emerged ahead of the others into one of the jungle's rare clearings. They rapidly joined him and looked up at the dominating spire of the Temple of Ohrido, rising up through the mists and tangled branches of the Danarg Swamp. The Sun was low behind it, casting a sheen of dull orange over the gleaming white of the korlinium. "We'll be sleeping under a solid roof tonight!" said Paido excitedly. Rhola Rhada sniffed. "We still have several hundred yards to go," she observed. "A single yard in this vile place can be like a mile anywhere else." She jerked a thumb towards the dense mass of knotted vegetation that still lay between them and the temple.

The Rotting Land // 191 "But let's not judge them as that before we reach them," said Lone Wolf quietly. She turned sharply to stare at him, then nodded. "You're right," she said. "I lost my father and sister to this blasted jungle. That fact ... colours my perceptions." He put a hand on her shoulder. "Your pessimism may not be misplaced. We'd best take extra care." They crept onwards with exaggerated caution, swords at the ready, eyes combing the undergrowth for the slightest sign of danger. Their wariness was almost their undoing. Rhola Rhada, peering upwards into the maze of branches and foliage above her, tripped over a root and came within an inch of ripping a gash in Paido's back as she fell. Only Lone Wolf's swift reactions, buffeting her sword arm so that the inadvertent swipe was driven off course, saved the Vakeros from injury. Lying in the slimy moss, Rhola Rhada rubbed her bruised shoulder and giggled with released tension. "That was some nudge, Lone Wolf." About fifty yards from the walls of the temple the jungle suddenly stopped, as neatly and cleanly as if a line had been drawn. They came out onto a sward of lush, ankle-high grass, and at last saw the Temple of Ohrido in the fullness of its glory. As they walked slowly closer to it Lone Wolf found his eyes drawn upwards by the building's severe yet gracious lines. Superimposed on the vast ground-level slabs of white marble was a second stratum, this one of some soft golden sandstone inlaid with gemstones in elaborate patterns. Above that were layers done in different metals, and further up, towards the base of the spire, came tiers of ruby and sapphire and emerald. Black windows eyed the three newcomers from the temple's lower levels. Lone Wolf felt the small hairs of his neck and forearm tingle as he stared at those windows. Someone is watching us. I know they are. But I can't see them. He glanced at Paido. "Feel it?" "Yes," said the Vakeros. "But I sense no enmity. Rather, I get the impression that ..." He sheathed his sword. "No matter," he concluded weakly. Lone Wolf looked at him accusingly, but the big man refused to meet his eyes. If I had access to my full Kai abilities or to the magic the Elder Magi gave me, thought Lone Wolf angrily, I'd know what he was talking about. He's detected something extra, and he's teasing me by withholding it. Now that he's made his mind up to play this game I could him senseless and he'd still never tell me ... "Over this way," Rhola Rhada said. She was walking away from them towards a flight of steps – carved in solid amber, so far as Lone Wolf could see – that led up to a pair of triangular doors

The Rotting Land // 192 hewn out of the same material. "There's surely no danger here. Come on." The two men hurried to catch up with her. As they did so, Lone Wolf began to feel a trace of what Paido had sensed. Far from being hostile to them, the temple was radiating a warm goodwill towards them, as if they were long-awaited friends. Perhaps it was this very benevolence that repelled the jungle from the mighty building. Lone Wolf felt his muscles relax as a wave of peace flowed through him. A thought fluttered across his mind: The temple must often have gazed up at the immensity of the night sky ... The doors were locked. The three of them stared at each other blankly. There were no keyholes, no levers, no dials to spin: just the impassive faces of the great amber slabs. "Any ideas?" said Paido glumly. Rhola Rhada said nothing. Her face was working as if she were in anguish. She threw the roped water canisters away from her and they bounced and clattered across the stairhead. Her hands began clutching convulsively at the hem of her short jacket. Clearly she was being racked by some powerful emotion, but Lone Wolf couldn't guess what it was. Then he knew. She was being drawn – drawn by something beyond the doorway. As soon as he recognized this in her, he discovered that he, too, was being allured by something on the far side of the amber doors. Swiftly the level of the pull stepped up, so that he had to use all his willpower to resist throwing himself against the doors and beating on them with his fists, begging to be let in. He took a deep breath. Even if I did that, he mused, the doors wouldn't open. The thought brought him up short. How do I know that? Surely if whatever's in the temple desires me so greatly, it'll open the doors at my pleading? No: if that were the case the doors would've been opened by now. Paido was looking backwards and forwards between his two companions, clearly perplexed by their agitation. "What's going on?" he said to Lone Wolf. "Don't you feel it?" "Feel what?" The enticement was growing stronger. Lone Wolf sensed that Rhola Rhada was close to breaking point. And yet there was nothing hostile in the waves of emotion that were pulling at him. Quite the contrary: desire, passion, affection, yearning, even love – but not enmity. Something beyond the door was desperately wishing to enfold him in its arms. Him and Rhola Rhada.

The Rotting Land // 193 "Your sister!" he shouted suddenly. Rhola Rhada seemed to draw herself back from a precipice. "Betta," she said. "Yes ... Betta." "I was right! As soon as I saw your face I recognized in it the Nameless Woman. And as soon as you told me of your sister you kindled a hope in me that she might be the one, and that we would find her here." The other two were looking at him as if he were a madman, but he plunged on. "Each in a different way, she wants us to be in Temple of Ohrido beside her: you because she loves you, and me because she ... she ..." "Loves you?" said Rhola Rhada, briefly regaining some of her customary coolness. "You put a high estimate on your own attractions, Lone Wolf. My sister never heard of you, let alone met you. Besides, she must surely be dead. It's beyond credibility to assume that she might have escaped all the horrors of the jungle and found sanctuary here. She's dead, I tell you! Don't torment my feelings by pretending she could be otherwise." Her voice modulated, taking on fresh colours. Lone Wolf squinted at her, seeing Rhola Rhada's lips move but hearing the voice of the Nameless Woman. She was speaking within him now: Joy will be ours if you look inside yourself, Lone Wolf. Making himself move calmly, he strolled away from the doors and sat on a low balustrade along the edge of the stairhead. "She's not your sister, is she?" "I don't know what you ... Oh, you mean the thing that's pleading for us from within the temple? No – that's not my sister. My sister is dead. Stop teasing me so cruelly, you bastard!" There were tears running down the narrow face. "It's Betta who's beseeching us to join her," said Lone Wolf. "You know that as well as I do, for all your shams. But Betta's no sister of yours. I'll wager your father died somewhere far from the Danarg Swamp – if indeed you ever had a father in this world. That mapping expedition you described so histrionically to us, back in your shop – did it ever occur? I doubt it. You've been here before – certainly that's so – but not with a father or a sister. That bit you made up. Or maybe you got the story from somewhere else ..." Paido exploded. "What in the blood and bowels of the Dark God are you talking about, Lone Wolf? This is drivel! Why should Rhola Rhada have lied to us?" The big man went to put his arms around the woman's shaking shoulders. Lone Wolf drew himself up to his full height. The snarl of emotions beyond the doors still had its hooks in him, and it was

The Rotting Land // 194 drawing on him more powerfully than ever, but a new strength rising in him was enabling him to cope with it. "She lied about it because she wanted to come with us," he said stiffly. "Needed to come with us. She was terrified of making the journey on her own, because she was – is – incomplete." He spat the word, not vituperatively but because a sudden surge in the stress on him seemed to have planted a claw in his guts. He fought to control the pain, then resumed in a more measured tone. "She drew us to her cartography shop – by what magic I can't guess, but magic it surely must have been. We didn't need a map, Paido! Even if we'd lost all the stuff that the Lord Constable had given us, we could still have found our way here. All we had to do was trek north along the main highway from Tharro to Syada and then strike west – easy enough to do without the benefit of a map, wouldn't you think?" The Vakeros nodded gravely. His eyes were no longer regarding Lone Wolf as a lunatic. He turned his gaze downwards towards Rhola Rhada's face, nestling in the crook of his arm. She stared straight back up at him, a smile beginning to form on her now untroubled face. "It's true, what he's saying," she murmured. "I deceived you." Paido looked as if he couldn't decide whether to hug her more tightly or hurl her away. In the end he did neither. "She told us all sorts of circumstantial details that convinced us at the time – but what happened to them?" Lone Wolf said. "Have you seen that hill she talked about, the Scarlet Tor? I've noticed nothing of it – have you?" Paido shook his head sombrely. Lone Wolf turned his attention to Rhola Rhada. "You were worth as much either one of us, back there," he said tersely, with a wave towards the jungle. "You saved my life more than a dozen times – and Paido's as well. But each of us saved your life, too. You needed us, just as we needed you. If we'd come on our own, without you, we'd doubtless have died somewhere out in that hell. But I don't think that was as important to us as the fact that you needed us to be with you if you yourself were going to succeed in returning to the Temple of Ohrido." "All that you say is true, Lone Wolf." She smiled at him. He saw that she was still being pulled with colossal, irresistible force from beyond the doors, but that now there was no urgency in the attraction. Before she had been like a lover separated by dire circumstances from her loved one; now it was as if she knew that he was waiting for her in the next room, and was intensifying her delight by delaying going to him.

The Rotting Land // 195 "Was it a lie about your having had a husband, too?" "Not just a lie: a test." "Why did you need to test him?" "`Him'?" She looked briefly surprised. "Oh." A glance at Paido. "Him. No, that wasn't who I was testing, Lone Wolf. It was you." "Me?" "Yes." The word was drawn out, as if Rhola Rhada had stumbled into bewilderment, and didn't like it much. She recovered herself swiftly. "But we can talk about that later, Lone Wolf," she said hurriedly. "Once we're inside." "I still don't follow what you two are jabbering about," said Paido. "Who's inside the temple? Both of you seem to know, but you haven't blasted well told me yet!" As his voice rose the muscles in his arm were tightening around Rhola Rhada's neck, and she had to slap at his chest to make him desist. "That's an easy enough question to answer," said Lone Wolf. "The person inside the temple? Why – that's Rhola Rhada herself." "You're nuts," said Paido flatly. "He tells you the truth," said Rhola Rhada, wriggling free of his grasp. "Bonkers." She laughed affectionately at the look of stupefaction on the big Vakeros's face. "Stark staring bonkers. And nuts." Lone Wolf was beginning to grin as well. "You don't mean us any harm, do you," he said carefully. "You and your ... `sister'?" "No. Far from it. The very opposite. Once I'm reunited with myself – inside – I'll tell both of you more about it." He looked at the blank faces of the amber doors. "That's easier said than done." "Oh, come now, Lone Wolf – surely you remember. My `sister' told you herself, did she not?" "Your `sister' has told me many things over the years," he said. Remembering his dream of the previous night he suddenly coloured. "Too many things," he added in a low voice. "She gave you the key. She told me she had." Now Rhola Rhada was once more beginning to look concerned. "She may well have done so," said Lone Wolf, "but, if she did, I don't know what it was." And then that sentence of hers from the dream came back into his mind: Joy will be ours if you look inside yourself, Lone Wolf.

The Rotting Land // 196 He repeated the words aloud, and looked at the doors expectantly. They didn't move. "My `sister'," said Rhola Rhada with seeming shyness, "may have meant something more than that you should repeat a few words by rote. True magic is more than just mumbo jumbo, as your friend Banedon must have told you often enough." "Then what did she mean? Stop taunting me! Surely you must know!" "Surely you must know." He repeated the sentence under his breath, savouring each word as it rolled across his tongue. Then he realized the truth of it, and laughed out loud. So simple! He'd been looking for something cunning, when all he had to do was take the sentence literally. He looked inside himself and found that he was walking along a well trodden path of memories and emotions. He rounded a corner and bumped straight into the door of the place where his own self intersected with those of Qinefer and Petra and now, it seemed, Rhola Rhada. There was a bell-push on the doorjamb, with a neatly printed sign above it saying PRESS ME, DIMWIT Obediently he pushed it with his thumb, and the doors of the Temple of Ohrido opened to admit himself and Rhola Rhada and Paido, and they closed behind the three companions, who found themselves standing in a magnificently large hall of polished white marble. Their reflections shone up at them from the centre of the golden floor. In the centre of the hall was a small oak table, decked with two twin-forked silver candelabra and three settings of silver cutlery. Three chairs were by the table. At the far end of the hall stood Rhola Rhada's `sister', clad in a robe of blue-tinted gauze. The Nameless Woman. The Rhola Rhada who had accompanied Lone Wolf and Paido from Tharro through the jungle raised a few inches from the floor and swung around until she was facing them both. "Welcome," she said softly. The puff of air from her lips as she spoke the word seemed to drive her backwards. She rose gracefully as she passed over the table, and then she shrank in midair – to the size of a sparrow, to the size of an insect, and then to the size of a mote of dust that danced lazily in a pale shaft of sunlight before speeding onwards to the heart of the figure in the robe of gauze.

The Rotting Land // 197 "Rhola Rhada!" Paido began, but Lone Wolf laid a hand on the big man's wrist. "Wait." The woman at the far end of the hall was changing. Her face was becoming a little fuller and her nose a little longer, and gloves appeared on her hands, but it wasn't any physical change that Lone Wolf was noticing. Instead he saw how the figure of the Nameless Woman was losing the dream-like transience her image had always presented to him, how the contours of her body were acquiring mass and texture. She was losing, at the same time, some of her idealized femininity: he could see wrinkles at her waist, a brown birthmark at the top of her thigh, a shadow of dark hair at her armpit. The thinness of her face and the prominence of her cheekbones, which had so fascinated him during his encounters with her both in his dreams and in the plane where his Gestalt personalities dwelt, were now recognizable as fleshly defects ... and yet, for that very reason, more beautiful: they were real, in the same way that she was becoming a real person. On the few occasions that she had touched him in her aethereal form her skin had been cool, but now he knew that it would be warm as he held her to him. She would sweat in the warm weather, just like Qinefer and Petra had, and sometimes her breath would smell a bit when she woke, just like Qinefer's and Petra's had done. She would have times of ill temper, like them, times of clumsiness, times of obtuseness ... And all of these imperfections would add up to – perfection. He found that he was flying through the air, just as Rhola Rhada had done before him. In a second he was by the woman's side, smelling the perfume of her unscented body as she put her arm about his waist. At the far end of the hall, standing in front of the amber doors, Paido was scowling at them. "Come and join us, friend!" called the Nameless Woman – no, not nameless. Now she had a name: Rhola Rhada. "I can't fly," said Paido. His voice was thick. He was close to weeping. "Yes you can!" cried Lone Wolf. I wonder how I knew that. Because you did, said Rhola Rhada's voice in his mind. Don't always look for the complicated things, Lone Wolf. And, sure enough, Paido was flying. His passage through the air was less dramatic than Rhola Rhada's had been and, Lone Wolf hoped, less easy than his own flight; the traversal of the hall certainly took the big Vakeros longer than it had the other two. As he floated over the table, flapping his arms like a flamingo having

The Rotting Land // 198 difficulty lifting from the water, a broad smile began to replace the bitterness that had been suffusing his face. As he landed beside them he let out a whoop of exuberance. The echoes of the yell slowly settled among the corners of the hall. As they did so, a frown returned to Paido's face. "I thought ..." he said to Rhola Rhada. "I know," she said, placing a finger on his lips. "And I shouldn't have let you think it. It was my fault. I was too lost in my own concerns to see what I was doing to you. Try not to blame me." "I ..." "Hush. Close your eyes, Paido." Standing on tiptoe, she ran the flats of her hands over the Vakeros's forehead and cheeks, stroking them softly. As she did so the lines of his face faded, as if youth were washing over him. "Open your eyes again, Paido," she said softly, stepping backwards from him. He did, and then opened them further. "Strike me dead, Rhola Rhada!" he said. "Don't you think you'd better put a few more clothes on? You'll be awakening ideas in this coarse heart of mine if you carry on like that much longer." He clapped her on the back with sufficient force to jolt her half a step forwards. "On second thoughts, don't bother. You're a comely enough lass that you make a distinct improvement to the scenery. Even the scenery in here, which is grand enough as it is." Shading his eyes with his hand he looked around at the darkening hall. "Aha!" he cried. "A table set for supper. Let's get to it, eh? I could eat a horse – no, make that a brace." The candles lit themselves as the three of them walked towards the table, Rhola Rhada leaning affectionately on Lone Wolf's arm. Invisible attendants withdrew the chairs to let them sit. Crystal goblets, filled with a smoky wine, appeared at their elbows, and plates of food arrived before them. Just before he plunged his fork into a sweetly green vegetable, Lone Wolf glanced up, beyond Rhola Rhada's shoulder. The windows which had looked so plain from outside were, he discovered, of stained glass. Now the light of the Moon – of his Goddess, Ishir – was shining through some of them to paint moving pictures on the marble walls. In the image directly facing him he saw the field where he had so often met with the Nameless Woman. There were two figures walking there now, and almost immediately he recognized them as Rhola Rhada and himself, both naked.

The Rotting Land // 199 He averted his eyes hastily, saw that Rhola Rhada was grinning at him from the other side of the table, and began to concentrate busily on his food. # "The Temple of Ohrido," said Rhola Rhada, belching decorously as she pushed her empty plate away, "is not so much an edifice as a living organism. The Elder Magi, as they raised it from the Danarg using the most complicated tapestries of magic they had constructed to that date, imbued it with consciousness, giving life to its stones. To understand this, Lone Wolf, you have to know a little more about the Elder Magi than Rimoah or Paido, here, ever thought to tell you. Always the Elder Magi have had a relationship with their Gods that must be almost incomprehensible to someone brought up in Sommerlund, Lone Wolf, like yourself. It is a part of their belief – their knowledge, as Paido might readily inform you – that, while it is true that the Gods created mortals and the universe in which we all dwell, so, too, did mortals create the Gods. They see no contradiction in this state of affairs, and nor do they see any reason why they should not have the freedom to create new Gods, should that course seem wise – just as the Gods may, as they see fit, dabble with our universe. "What the Elder Magi were actually doing when they constructed the Temple of Ohrido was creating a God – a lesser God, perhaps, but a God nevertheless. They wanted at least one of their Gods to be down here on Magnamund, so that he (or she, come to that) wouldn't just be able to cavort among the other Gods and sneer upon the doings of us mortals as trivial, temporary and of no consequence; since their was no way of inducing one to descend from the heavens, they built one afresh. The temple itself – the stones and the crystals and the precious metals and all – is merely a physical manifestation of the God. The edifice could have been razed as soon as built, but the Elder Magi left it here both as a symbol and as a dwelling-place. In fact, in the early times, `dwelling-place' was a polite way of putting it. In fact it was a prison: they knew that, unless he were bound here, the God – Ohrido – would swiftly depart to join the others, leaving behind the concerns of mortality. "Gods are not innately wise, though they have an almost infinite capacity to learn wisdom. Most of them don't bother; others, like Naar, take playful pleasure in learning not wisdom but the ways of Evil. The God the Elder Magi had created and imprisoned here, once his fury had died down, began to look around him at the world to which he had been confined and saw

The Rotting Land // 200 that all those antics of mortals at which many of the other Gods merely laughed – wars, pestilence, starvation, brutality, slaughter, misery, suffering, pain, privation – saw that these were not the trivial things that they seemed to be when looked down upon from on high by beings to whom these travails meant nothing. He also realized that such a recognition, while a small wisdom to mortals, was one to which few of the Gods had attained: that brought him humility, which is in itself a very great wisdom. He called to the Elder Magi – who were still, then, free to frequent the Temple of Ohrido – and told them of his enlightenment. Accordingly, they released him from his shackles, and thereafter it was of his own free will that he remained here. "The Dark God Naar heard of all this – how could he not? – and he knew that the existence of, Ohrido, the God of the Temple, among the mortals of Magnamund represented a threat to his plans to bring all the universe under his sway. He tried to strike directly at the God of the Temple, but his hand was stayed by several of the other Gods, most just because they were fascinated by the prospect of what might happen next and didn't want their entertainment to be snatched away from them, but a couple – Ishir and Kai – because they had compassion for the sufferings of mortals and because they had no wish to add to the strength of Naar's Evil within the universe. "So Naar tried a different tack. If he could not attack this upstart God directly, instead he might destroy the God's servants – and creators – the Elder Magi. Naar sent down to Magnamund the seeds of a virulent plague. Nine out of ten of the Elder Magi succumbed to the pestilence within a decade or less, and Naar filled the Darkness with his cries of glee as he saw how well his plan was working. "He had not reckoned with Ohrido, who all this time had been gathering not only further wisdom but also greater power. He was far from as mighty as Naar, who was and is the most potent of all the Gods, but his efforts were not inconsequential, nevertheless. He was able to save from the plague those of the Elder Magi who yet survived, although in doing so he had to send them halfway across to the world, to somewhere that their presence would not induce further assaults from the Dark God. That place was of course Dessi, where the Elder Magi have hidden themselves to this day. "The God of the Temple, fearful of what Naar might do next, called for help. But Ishir and Kai were bound by their oath not to interfere directly with the affairs of mortals, and none of the other Gods would deign to stoop so far as to journey to humble

The Rotting Land // 201 Magnamund. Believing that his call had gone unheeded, Ohrido prepared to defend himself as best he might against the full force of the Dark God's hostility – knowing that his best was not nearly as great as he would have wished, for had he not been unable to counter Naar's last assault before nine out of every ten of his beloved Elder Magi had perished? "But the God of the Temple's call had not in fact gone unheard. One of the beings of the greater universe – that inconceivable complex of all universes, the polycosmos – had caught an echo of his plea for aid. Vastly greater in power even than the Gods of Aon, though circumscribed in her exercise of that power once she had confined herself to any single universe, this entity, Alyss, resolved to send an Aspect of herself to assist the God of the Temple as soon as she had finished her business elsewhere. And in due course she did come, although not before Naar had begun impregnating the land all around the Temple of Ohrido with his Evil, planning slowly to strangle the influence of the world-bound God rather than merely stamping it out, as he had wished but as he was not permitted to do. It was his hope that his slow, creeping murder of Ohrido would go unnoticed by his fellows in the heavens until it was too late for them to stop him. "His scheme might have succeeded had it not been for the arrival of the being from beyond the boundaries of Aon. The restrictions under which she was enabled to bring an Aspect of herself into this single universe did not permit her to counter the Dark God directly, but she was able to bring the shrinking of Naar's cordon around the temple, if not to a halt, then at least down to a crawl. She thought for a while that that might be the limit of her success – the granting of a mere temporary reprieve to the God of the Temple – but she determined to leave this Aspect of herself in Magnamund for a few thousand years, hoping that within that time something would occur in the world itself, or elsewhere in Aon, that would permit her to thwart the Dark God's intentions entirely. Her Aspect took on mortal form – or, rather, forms, for even this tiny Aspect of the being was too great to be confined to a single mortal shell – and she established herself in a place near to the Danarg Swamp so that she might be as sensitive as possible to any alterations in the web of Evil that Naar had woven here. "It was well that she waited, for there were indeed significant changes in Magnamund, some of which she was able to initiate herself. The Shianti came and went, having brought the Moonstone into existence. The Sommlending arrived from what they have always thought to have been homelands somewhere far

The Rotting Land // 202 to the icy north, but in fact from a different universe through a doorway that she was able briefly to open. Once the Sommlending were here in Magnamund it became possible – although far from inevitable – that one of them might stumble upon the mortal wisdoms which have since come to be known as the doctrine of Kai. As indeed happened. The Sommlending who discovered those wisdoms within himself, little knowing that he had been guided to them by this sliver of a greater being, was the man who came to be called Sun Eagle. For a long time the Aspect thought that Sun Eagle might prevail against Naar's servants, the Darklords, and thus by happenstance also eliminate the mortal threat against Ohrido, but this was not to be. "Still she waited, hoping that another of the Order of the Kai might succeed where Sun Eagle had failed, but instead she saw the Order imperceptibly weaken over the centuries, until at last it was overthrown by the machinations of the necromancer Vonotar and the might of the Darklord Zagarna. All would have been lost had the Aspect not been able to swoop to the scene on the very eve of this destruction and preserve the life of a single acolyte of the Order, a youth who went by the name of Silent Wolf, but who has ever since called himself Lone Wolf, as a testament to those of his kind slain in that dreadful dawn. "She has guarded you most assiduously since then, Lone Wolf – and guided you, too. You have come within an inch of your life countless times; you would have certainly traversed that final inch into the embraces of death had it not been for her vigilance ... and, to be fair, your own tenacity and courage, and the wisdoms handed down to you by Sun Eagle through the medium of the Book of the Magnakai. Just as she guided him to the Lorestones, so she has more recently been guiding you. She imbued the Sommerswerd with soulstuff so that Sun Eagle might raise himself through melding with it to raise a Gestalt; you, too, Lone Wolf, have shared her soulstuff in this way, and also through the essence that she implanted in your horse, Reason for Coming Back. Both of the Gestalt personalities you have so far formed have been brought into being by fusion of your own soulstuff not merely with those of dumb objects, as you have believed, but with that of a being greater even than the Gods. "And yet, as I've said, she must operate within constraints: from outside our universe she can know everything that occurs within it, but the Aspect of her that is limited by the confines of Aon cannot have such knowledge. She was not aware of the incipient treason of Vonotar to the Brotherhood of the Crystal Star until it was almost too late; the necromancer Kezoor was a force

The Rotting Land // 203 for Evil so slight as to slip beneath her notice until in fact it was too late, and he had destroyed such of your soulstuff as was not at the time meshed with her own in the Gestalts you have called Gwynian and, until an hour ago, the Nameless Woman. In returning to you enough of your soul that you might at least scrape by until she could think of something better she inadvertently imprisoned your friend Banedon in the plane of reality where your Gestalt personalities reside, and as yet she is uncertain as to how she can release him. In the fullness of her own being she would not make such errors of judgement and ignorance: the Aspect of her that is all she can transmit into Aon is, however, fallible. "She is not the only being who has been aiding you, Lone Wolf. Almost thirteen hundred years ago Ohrido sent an avatar of his own into the greater world to act as the helpmeet of Sun Eagle, so that the God, too, could play a part in his quest for the Lorestones and their wisdom. When Sun Eagle failed in finally wiping the Darklords and their minions from the face of Magnamund, Ohrido drew his avatar back here, to his Temple, reuniting her with his greater self. In due course, obviously, he learnt from the Aspect of your emergence as the spiritual inheritor of Sun Eagle's mantle, and he resolved to send his avatar out into the world once more. To her he gave a cartographer's shop in Tharro and an elaborate false history; with due attention to detail, he even created `true memories' in the minds of her neighbours of her having had a father and a sister who'd been tragically lost to the perils of the Danarg Swamp. She waited, trading as any minor shopkeeper would – and a very competent cartographer she was, too, I might add! – until yourself and your companion came within reach of the God's influence. Then your minds were tweaked so that you believed yourselves to require a map – and the rest you know. "But there was an extraphysical facet of the avatar as well: an incorporeal distillation of part of the God's own spirit. This facet of himself the God sent out into the world also, but not into the physical world. Instead she – my `sister' – travelled within two of the other planes of reality: the place where your Gestalt entities exist, Lone Wolf; and also the universe outside Aon, but intersecting in part with it, where your own dreams are set. Unable to give you her name in the former plane – for there you must earn the name of another individual, rather than simply be told it – and therefore unwilling to alert you to too much of her strangeness by telling the name to you in the latter, she allowed you to call her merely the Nameless Woman, confident that in the due course of

The Rotting Land // 204 time you would end up at the temple, guided here by her physical `sister', the mapmaker Rhola Rhada. "What the two `sisters' did not realize – and really, you must recognize, they are both in fact the same person – was that the God of the Temple had given the physical facet of his avatar sufficient humanity that she – both of the `shes' – would begin to feel more for you than merely divine love, Lone Wolf. But that is a matter for another hour: it is a complication that Ohrido has resolved in his own way, by granting his avatar her independence from him – her mortality – so that she may come to union with you. But not quite yet. He has brought you here, guarding your life all through the jungle of the Danarg at considerable risk of himself being tainted by its Evil, not just so that you may attain the Lorestone of Ohrido – though that is an important enough, even a greater, goal, let there be no doubt – but also so that, in so doing, he might reverse the tide of the Dark God's Evil and save himself to wrestle alongside your own Gods Ishir and Kai. "The Evil of the Danarg Swamp will not die at once, of course: it is rare for the dealings of the Gods to have so swift an effect. But it will begin to die this very night, and in a generation the jungle will have been returned to its primal nature: neither Good nor Evil, yet capable of succouring either. It will be in the hands of mortals as to which it is given to succour." "And where exactly," said Paido after Rhola Rhada had finished, "is this God of the Temple?" Rhola Rhada leaned back in her seat. "You're looking on his face, Paido. I am the God, and also the God's face: the two statements, for now, mean the same thing. In only a few minutes I shall be a mortal, but for the moment I am still the face of Ohrido." # Rhola Rhada led them along a corridor of gleaming silver to another hall, one carved out of the heart of a single enormous crystal. The rough-hewn walls and ceilings, covered in thousands of rocky projections – like stalactites of diamond – were reflected a millionfold in the polished tiles of the floor mosaic. In the centre of the hall was a platform, and in the air above the platform hung a globe of even clearer, purer, brighter light than the crystal of the hall. "Approach the platform," whispered someone in Lone Wolf's ear, but whether it was Paido, Rhola Rhada or even Ohrido himself was something he could not have told. His feet were

The Rotting Land // 205 guiding him forward across the multifaceted floor and up the three steps to the dais. Standing beneath the brilliant globe, he raised his arms as if in supplication. A flood of light poured down from the orb, bathing him in its warm, cleansing rays. He lifted up his cupped hands, as if he were offering a gift in return; but he had no gift to give, for most of his soulstuff had been lost to the necromancy of Kezoor. He felt the Lorestone thanking him for offering all that he had as a tingle of its gratitude ran the length of his arms and spread through all his body. The suspended globe above him faded as a new one formed in the cup of his hands, this one radiant with a golden light. For a moment he was shrouded from all outside view by the brilliance; then he was walking, almost casually, back down the steps from the platform. He seemed younger, more vital, more present. "I feel as if I know what it must be like to be a God," he confided to Paido and Rhola Rhada. "That's nothing so special," she snapped. "I'm just beginning to discover what it's like to be a mortal, and already I'm beginning to have second thoughts about all this." # They lost Paido. In a chamber halfway up the korlinium spire of the Temple of Ohrido there had been an ancient dusty skyship, a relic of the times when the Elder Magi had been free to come and go as they pleased. An antique the craft might have been, but its engines leapt into life as soon as Paido set his hands to the controls. A portal had opened in the spire's shaft, and the skyship drifted free from the constraints of gravity, the Danarg Swamp a dark stain beneath. No time seemed to have passed while they'd been in the temple – it was still dusk. Once the starguider had been set for their course to Elzian, Paido had joined Lone Wolf and Rhola Rhada in the stern of the craft to gaze for a last time at the Temple of Ohrido, glowing like a sultry ruby in the twilight. It was then that a squadron of black-winged Kraan, each with a Vordak riding astraddle, had swooped down upon them. The fiendish riders had been armed with weapons that resembled blunt iron staves when not in use, but which blasted bolts of necromantic energy when triggered. The three passengers of the skyship had defended themselves as best they could, and had slain several of the Kraan and their vile riders; but it had seemed that the aim of the attacking spawn had been not indiscriminate slaughter but the capture of Lone Wolf. Their mistake had been an

The Rotting Land // 206 easy enough one to make: they had cast down a net from the sky and snared the bigger of the two men who were fighting them off from the deck. The last Lone Wolf and Rhola Rhada had seen of the big Vakeros whom they had both come to love was as the Kraan bearing the net flew off into the darkening sky above the Danarg Swamp. "We do not know if he is dead or alive," said Lone Wolf to Rimoah. He and Rhola Rhada had spent much of the afternoon reporting on their experiences to the High Council of the Elder Magi. "We couldn't chase after them – they were gone before we could get the old crate turned around. It hurt like hell, but we had no choice but to leave him to his fate. I know there was nothing else I could have done, and yet I'll never forgive myself for deserting him ..." "He may still be alive," said Rimoah gently, peering at Lone Wolf and Rhola Rhada through kindly eyes. "The Vakeros have a habit of surviving, and Paido is the most resourceful of all of them. Besides, we have not yet sensed his death, and we would normally do so. Do not chastise yourself, Lone Wolf – nor you, Rhola Rhada. Paido himself would absolve you of any blame." "I know that," said Lone Wolf. "But will I?" "Yes," said Rhola Rhada, "you will." There was no trace of uncertainty in her tone. "And you have other things to do than mope about your perceived failings," said Rimoah. Pulling back his dusty-looking robes from his knees, he went over to the great hollow he used for scrying, set beside a heavy oak trestle. "Come here. There is much to show you, and almost all of it gloomy. The longer you delay in setting out to recover Nyxator's three remaining Lorestones, the gloomier the affairs of Magnamund will become before you can strike back against the might of the Darklords." The mage spun his hands in a strange, jerking dance above the surface of the liquid metal in the hollow. "See here, Lone Wolf," he said as the image of a fortified city, surrounded by rolling hills, emerged from the silvery mists. "You look upon the city of Tahou in the land of Anari. It is a city that was built during the very dawn of Magnamund. The Lorestone you must next find lies deep beneath its streets." Lone Wolf shivered. Even the image in the bowl seemed to radiate antiquity. "Tahou holds many dangers for me, does it not?" he said, his mouth dry.

The Rotting Land // 207 "I fear it does, my lad," said Rimoah gravely. "Many, many dangers." "Yet Rhola Rhada shall be at my side?" Rimoah said nothing, but waved his hands once more over the scrying liquid. "See," he said, conjuring up a rapid succession of images, "even in the few days since you left that land, Talestria has fallen, deserted suddenly by her Evaine LXVIII. The hordes of Darkness have placed their boots on the necks of the people of that sorry land, and it will be years before they can be thrown off." Lone Wolf heard a snarl, and for once discovered that it was not his own. The face of Rhola Rhada, standing beside him, had become like that of a wildcat. She was twisting her gloved hands together as if she were trying to pull the fingers off. "The Stornlands, too, have been overrun," said Rimoah, "and even your own land, Lone Wolf, Sommerlund, has not escaped unscathed: her province of Ruanon has been conquered by the armies of the Archlord Gnaag. The smoke from the execution pyres rises high above her fields. For the moment the rest of Sommerlund holds firm against the foe, but without your help – and that of the Lorestones – it must surely fall before Gnaag's might." "Then I must prepare to make my departure before I've hardly returned," said Lone Wolf grimly. He turned to the woman next to him. "Rhola Rhada," he said, "will you fare to Tahou by my side?" "I – " "What's this?" exclaimed Rimoah, interrupting her. His face showed his consternation as he peered more closely at the surface of the liquid in his scrying well. "There is something new here, something that I did not summon." Lone Wolf, leaning beside the thin old man, saw a face emerge from the confusion of the agitated surface. He recognized the eyes first of all: they were greenish yellow, and became less human the more one looked at them. The short-cropped coppery hair, the pointy teeth between the smiling lips, the slight cleft of the chin ... "Alyss," he breathed. "What brings you here?" "My conscience." "I never knew you had one." She cocked her head to one side, presenting the aspect of an inquisitive bird. "You were right. I was trying to make things simple for you. The thing that has brought me here isn't even vaguely similar to what you mortals would describe as a

The Rotting Land // 208 conscience. Let's just say that I feel it's my ... my `duty', though I really hate that word ... my" – she made a burlesqued gagging noise – "duty to make a few things clear to you before I depart this scrubby little universe of yours." "Come on. Tell us." "Lone Wolf," she said, wagging a forefinger at him, "anyone with a civilized braincell in their skull would deduce that a little respect might be called for when a transcendent being, of powers greater even than those of Aon's Gods, is being addressed by a mere mortal – and a rather scruffy mortal, at that. However, I've known you for a long time, in mortal terms, and I've become fonder of you than otherwise, so in your case I'll settle for just a little common courtesy. Hmm?" Lone Wolf found that he was grinning. He glanced around and saw that Rhola Rhada, too, was smiling. She quietly slipped a hand into his. The warmth of her satin glove was reassuring. "Please, Alyss," he said politely. "That's better. Well, the God of the Temple has already explained to you, through the intermediary of his avatar Rhola Rhada – a rather overblown sort of beauty, I've always thought, but perhaps she'll age well – various of the things that were probably mystifying you. But there's more to it than that: things that even the God didn't know. So I'd like to tell you a story – not just you, and not just all those people gathered around you in the Chamber of the Elder Magi's High Council, but everyone. If you like, what I'm going to do is open up for you the pages of a history book. And then it'll be a question of so long, fare thee well, toodle-oo, au revoir and a general singing of `Auld Lang Syne'. "So sit yourselves down, make yourselves comfortable, and then I'll begin."

The Rotting Land // 209

HISTORY BOOK 4: STAINLESS ALYSS She's got to sleep sometime, thought Garthen grimly as he prowled the castle that night, sharpening the blade of his favourite sword. My brother may not be much, but I owe him something – didn't he go and name a whole city (pop. 1706) after me, after all? I'll rid him of his soursop, and then perhaps he can find himself a complaisant jujube and reign happily ever after. The queen, who never slept any time, smiled as she listened to his thoughts. Garthen didn't know it yet, but he was going to have tremendous difficulty tonight – and any other night – finding his way through the castle's maze of corridors. The very next door he charged through should land him in – yes, the swearing had started – the castle midden. Leaving him to his fate, she thought for a few seconds longer of the more important problems that faced her: Varnos, and his happiness. She had really grown unconscionably fond of the gawky youth – as fond as she could ever be of a mere mortal – and she had no wish to hurt him unnecessarily. The thought of succumbing to his blandishments was momentarily appealing – she liked a good laugh – but only momentarily. No, far better to tell him at last of the reasons that had brought her here and had led her to create the nation of which he was now monarch. And, too, she should inform him of her plans for his future. She issued a silent summons, and felt Varnos, in his own bedchamber, suddenly jerk out of his fitful sleep. Half a minute later he was at her door. He was staring at her, aghast, his knees beginning to fold beneath him ... "Oh," she said, "silly me. Sorry about that. Just habit." She swiftly readjusted the pimpled, dewlapped image of herself that she had projected into his mind. "There, is that better?" His eyes told her that it was. Sitting in the middle of her bed, she looked to him as she always did during the day – like a slim, wiry but somehow very feminine woman, dressed in incongruously boyish clothes. She ran her fingers through her hair absently, smiling affectionately at him. "It's time that you and I had a talk," she said. "But you'd better keep your distance." "What about?" "About the future we're going to share, you and I." "Together?" "Together. Not all of the time, and not quite in the way you might think, but together."

The Rotting Land // 210 "Evaine ..." "For a start, you should know that my real name is Alyss. `Evaine' is the name that you gave to me, and I'm happy enough to live with it. But Alyss is the name by which I've been known since time began – and it's my name for myself, as well. You presumably know it well." She preened. "Er ... no," said Varnos. "Now look here, Evaine, you once said that we'd rule the Freelands of Talestria together for a very long time. Just quite how long did you mean by that?" "For a few thousand years." Pouting, she ignored his open mouth. "About three and a half thousand, to be exact. At least. After that, if you still want to, you can carry on ruling in my absence. But I need to be here, as the long-established queen of the Freelands, in the year MS5060." "You're immortal?" he said at last. "I'm surprised it surprises you," she said calmly. "You must have noticed that I am not ... not as other women." He looked at her dumbly, and she abruptly realized that he had had little to compare her with except his mother. Which meant that ... It struck her that she'd been being crueller to him than she'd intended, these past two years. "I mean," she said gently, "mortal women don't shapeshift at will. They can't fly. They can't walk faster than a speeding horse, or make a single day endure for weeks." She read in his face that this was all news to him. His mother couldn't do any of these things, of course, but obviously it had never dawned on him that his mother was a woman. She brushed his mind lightly and discovered that yes, indeed, he'd concluded that women were all magical, strange supernatural beings like herself. Except that other women grew old and eventually died. She wondered how he'd been able to derive some of the more fevered images involving herself that were currently clogging his mind. "I'm not really a woman at all," she breathed. "I'm female, I think, inasmuch as that term has any meaning when applied to me, but it's only an illusion that I'm a woman. I've deceived you – and I apologize for that: it's been a necessary deceit. With your collusion, I propose to continue that sham." She thought it best not to add that it would be pifflingly easy for her to enforce his cooperation – enforce it in such a way that he would never even be aware that she had done so. She would rather that he be her willing partner in this enterprise. "Why?" "I told you. I need to be the queen here in the year MS5060, when a certain individual will come to Talestria on a particularly important quest – one that is so important that I don't exaggerate if I say that the future of Magnamund hinges on it. Moreover, I need, with your help, to have guided the history of this nation in such a way that the conditions here are just right for that individual to have the best possible chances of attaining his goal and escaping afterwards with his life."

The Rotting Land // 211 Unspoken questions were making a battleground of Varnos's face. Again she brushed his mind, extracting from it a list. She held up the little finger of her left hand, resting the index finger of her right hand on its tip. "One," she said. "No, I have no objections to your taking up with an occasional `perky little slice of civet fruit' on the side, as your brother so eloquently put it, so long as you're discreet in doing so. I think it would be good for you if you did. Indeed, as part of my plan you will spend extended periods away from the capital, so you may well wish to have a succession of families quite independent of your relationship with me. Two" – she adjusted her fingers accordingly – "if you value your good looks, such as they are, you won't even think the bit about `if she's not really a woman then – yippee! – doesn't that mean our marriage is null and void?', because that would be to cast a slur upon my form and my personality, which are perfect the way they are. As you can imagine, I can be very dangerous if someone makes me petulant. Varnos cowered. The sight cheered her up, and her voice was bubbling as she continued. "Three, in order that the people of our domains don't eventually rebel against what they might come to regard as our necromantic reign, we will perform a simple charade, whereby we will seem to grow old and die, to be succeeded on the throne by our children, who will of course look remarkably like us as they slowly grow old and die, to be succeeded by – you follow my drift?" He nodded. "Sometimes we'll rule together, sometimes singly. Your `son', Varnos II, for example, will be a fearless fighter, and will drive back into the Danarg Swamp the Agarashi that I, in my weakness as your empty-headed widow, will have allowed to terrorize the countryside in the years after Varnos I's `death'." She grinned at him. "Four – gosh, Varnos, this is a silly question. Of course I can confer immortality on you. Don't regard it as an unmixed blessing though. You've got only a mortal's brain, with all the limitations of potential that that implies, so in due course you'll become bored by the vistas of eternity – they'll be largely beyond your comprehension. By the time Lone ... by the time the individual I was talking about has come and gone, and me with him, it's my guess you'll be keen enough to be allowed to die. But it'll be your decision." "Five – no, I'm not a God. If I were, things would be run a little differently around here. There'd be no need for all these quests and subterfuges. Unfortunately the Gods insist on running their universes their own ways, and in this particular one the Gods are very keen on allowing the free will of mortals to have full rein – twerps. All I can do is influence outcomes a little, in the same way that a teacher can help children understand things but can't actually do the understanding for them. "Six – it's a very flattering idea, but I thought I'd made my feelings on that issue crystal-clear. At least for the next couple of thousand years. If that

The Rotting Land // 212 offends you, then just tell yourself that one of the disadvantages of immortality is that headaches tend to persist for an awfully long time." She touched his mind once more, and discovered that a seventh and an eighth and a ninth question had come shuffling to the fore. "Yes, I did say `universes' in the plural. The reason that I'm in this one at the moment is that I'm in all of them at the moment. And no, I'm not making your mother immortal as well – she'll just have to take her chances like the rest of them." He stared at her. Most men would have fled for the refuge of insanity long before, but with part of her attention she'd been redecorating his mind so that it seemed to him far too alluring an environment to leave. "Why," he said at last, "why do you wish this individual to succeed in his quest?" "Because otherwise Evil will swamp the world – and in due course the whole of your Universe. He is an important factor in the maintenance of Good." "But why –" He broke off, and she watched him fondly as he fumbled to find the words. "Why are you on the side of Good? Why does it make any difference to you whether Good or Evil comes to rule the Universe?" She smiled at him. "I could tell you that it's because I'm so inherently Good myself – although I don't that you'd believe that. There are qualities within me that roughly correspond to what you mean by the word `Good', but they're not the same, and I know that by their very nature they'd be incomprehensible to you. Or I could tell you that it's because the God of the Temple – Ohrido – begged me to come here to this rather poxy little universe. But that wouldn't be true, either: that would be to impute to me a motivation greater than whim, which is the most I ever feel." Her smile deepened. "You know something, Varnos, my dear, dear Varnos?" "What, my love?" She giggled. "You know something terrible? I haven't a clue."