The Second Book of Swords
by Fred Saberhagen
Version 1.0

CHAPTER 1

	Fire from the sky came thrusting down, a dazzling
crooked spear of white light that lived for an instant
only, long enough to splinter a lone tree at the jutting
edge of the seaside cliff. The impact beneath the howl-
ing darkness of the sky stunned eyes and ears alike.
Ben winced away from the blinding flash-too late, of
course, to do his shocked eyes any good-and turned
his gaze downward, trying to see the path again, to
find secure places to put down his sandaled feet. In
night and wind and rain it was hard to judge how far
away the stroke had fallen, but he could hope that the
next one would be farther off.
	Ben's thick and powerful right arm was stretched
forward across the rump of one heavily burdened
loadbeast, his hand grasping the rope that bound the
panniers on the animal's back. Meanwhile his left
hand, extended backward, tugged hard on the reins of the
loadbeast reluctantly following.
	The little packtrain was composed of six loadbeasts, along
with the six men who drove and led and cursed the animals
forward. A seventh animal, considerably more sleek and
graceful than the six that carried cargo, came a few meters
behind the train. It bore a seventh man, a cloaked and hooded
figure who rode with a cold, flameless Old World torch raised
in his right hand. The torch shed an unflickering light through
wind and rain, projecting some of its rays far enough ahead to
give the train's drivers some hope of seeing where they were
going.
	Like some odd crawling compound creature possessing
three dozen unsynchronized feet, the pack train groped and
struggled its way forward, following a mere sketch of a path
across the wild landscape. Ben was pushing the first animal
forward, more or less dragging the second after him, and
trying to soothe them both. Hours ago, at the beginning of
the trip, the drivers had been warned that tonight the usually
phlegmatic animals were likely to become skittish.
	There would be dragon-scent about, the officer had said.
	Another flash of lightning now, fortunately not quite as
close as the last one. For just an instant the rocky and
forsaken wilderness surrounding the small train was plain to
see, including the next few meters of the path ahead. Then
darkness closed in deeper than ever, bringing with it harder
rain. Its parts linked by the push and pull of human arms, the
beast with three dozen feet advanced, making slow progress
over the treacherous footing of rain-slicked rocks and yielding

sand. Meanwhile the wind howled continuously and the rain
assaulted everything.
	Ahead of Ben, the soldier leading the first loadbeast was
wrapped and plastered like Ben himself in a soggy blue-gold
uniform cloak, with a useless helmet drizzling rain into his
eyes. Now Ben could hear him loudly calling down the doom
of demons and the wrath of gods upon this whole situation-
including the high functionaries whose idea it must have
been, and who were no doubt somewhere warm and dry
themselves this moment. The man was almost shouting,
having no fear that the priest-officer, Radulescu, who rode
behind the train, might be able to hear him above the wind.
	The cold torchlight from behind suggested, and the next
flash of lightning proved, that the scanty path the train was
following was now about to veer sharply to the left. At the
same time, a large indentation in the line of the nearby cliffs
brought their potentially fatal edge sweeping in sharply
toward the path from that direction. Ben, not liking this sudden
proximity of the brink, leaned harder against the animal whose
rump his right arm was embracing. Using his great strength
and his considerable weight, he forced the beast a little farther
to the right. Now the packtrain was moving so close to the
cliff's edge that when the lightning flashed again it was
possible to look down and glimpse the pounding sea. Ben
thought those rock-torn waves might be a hundred meters
below.
	He supposed that a common soldier's life in any army was
not a happy one. More than one old proverb, repeated mostly
among soldiers themselves, testified to that, and Ben had
been given plenty of chance to learn the truth of the proverbs
for himself. But what
worried him tonight was not the usual soldier's con-
cerns of dull abuse and passing danger. Not the storm.
Not really the danger of falling off this cliff-that risk
was obvious and could be avoided. Nor was it even
fear of the guardian dragon up ahead, whose presence
the drivers had been warned of because it might make
the loadbeasts nervous.
	What bothered Ben was a certain realization that
had been growing upon him. If it was correct, then he
had more than dragons to worry about. So, for that
matter, did the other drivers who were here tonight;
but Ben had no reason to think that any of them had
yet realized the fact.
	He wondered if he was going to have a chance to
talk to them about it without the officer overhearing.
He decided that he probably was not ....
	By Ardneh, how could any man, even one afraid for
his life, manage to think straight about anything in the
middle of a storm like this? Ben couldn't even spare a
hand to try to wipe the rain out of his eyes, or hold his
cloak together. Now, sodden as the garment was, it
had blown loose from its lower clasp, and streamed
out uselessly in the wind. Even in the brilliance of the
lightning the cloak no longer looked gold and blue. It
was so wet and matted that it might have been woven
out of the gray of the night itself.
	More lightning, more wind, more rain. Through it all
the twelve linked bodies of angry men and burdened
animals kept struggling forward. Under ordinary con-
ditions, one or two men could have managed six load-
beasts easily. But Ben had to admit that whoever had
assigned six drivers to this job tonight had known
what he was doing. Certainly two or three men would

not have been enough to manage it tonight, when
lightning and the scent of dragon rode the air together.
	Radulescu had earlier reassured the drivers, telling
them that he had at his command powerful spells,
sure to keep the dragon at a distance. Ben believed
that. Blue Temple officers, he had observed in his
year's stint as an enlisted man, were generally compe-
tent in matters that they considered to be important.
And this trip tonight had to be important . . . and that
led Ben back to his new private worry. He wanted to
be able to argue himself out of that dreadful idea, but
instead the more he thought of it the more real it
became.
	And the less time was left to try to deal with it.
	They had been told nothing about the nature of the
cargo, so well-wrapped, so compact and heavy, that
they were transporting through the night. Other hands
than theirs had wrapped it, and loaded it into the
animals' panniers. From the way it weighed, and felt,
it could hardly be anything but heavy stone or metal.
	Ben couldn't really believe that it was stone. He
could tell from the way the animals moved that it
must weigh like lead. But of course Blue Temple, the
proverbial worshippers and hoarders of wealth, were
unlikely to be trafficking in lead.
	That narrowed the possibilities down considerably.
But there was more.
	When the packtrain had left the local Temple, some
hours before dark, it had been accompanied by an
escort of some three dozen heavily armed cavalry. These
were mercenary troops, speaking only some bizarre
dialect of their own; Ben thought that they must have
been recruited from halfway around the world.
	Progress had at first been easy; the sky was threat-
ening but the storm had not yet broken. The armed
escort had surrounded the packtrain most of the slow
way, the loadbeasts had been docile, and the six drivers
had been able to take it easy, riding themselves on six
spare mounts. Their journey, along back roads and
then increasingly slender trails leading into the back
country, had been entirely on Temple lands-or so
Ben thought; he could not be completely- sure. Such a
heavy escort, on Temple lands, seemed to be over-
doing it a bit-unless of course the cargo was very,
very valuable.
	And to think that didn't help the new worry at
all ....
	Just before nightfall, the train had halted in a small
clearing amid the scrubby growth and boulders of the
wasteland. In a smooth and evidently prearranged
fashion, the laden animals with their six drivers had
been detached at this point from their escort, and
under the command of Radulescu had continued for-
ward over this rugged thread of trail.
	According to the announced plan, their escort was
to wait in the clearing for their return. As the separa-
tion was taking place, and almost as an afterthought,
the six drivers had been ordered to leave their own
weapons behind in the escort's care. Swords and
daggers, Ben and the five others had been told, would
not be needed up ahead, and would just get in their
way when they went to work on the unloading.
	Radulescu had been the officer who told them that,
raising his crisp professional voice above the rising
wind, while behind him the cavalry sat their own
mounts, waiting silently. And when the weapons of

the six drivers had been collected under a waterproof,
and the spare cavalry mounts returned, Radulescu
had ordered the train forward along this unknown
thread of a trail. Then he had followed it on his own
steed.
	Ben had never set eyes on the priest-officer before
today, and as far as he could tell the man was un-
known to the other drivers as well-even as they were
to each other. Certainly Radulescu was not one of the
regular cavalry or infantry officers assigned to the
local Temple's garrison. Ben suspected that he came
from somewhere very high up in the loftier strata of
Blue Temple power-perhaps he even had some con-
nection with the Inner Council that ruled the Temple
in all its branches. All of the regular officers had
deferred to him, even though his uniform of plain gold
and blue was devoid of any of the usual insignia of
rank. That, thought Ben, had to mean he was a priest.
Still, Radulescu seemed perfectly at home astride his
cavalry mount, and also quite at home with giving
orders in the field.
	And now through the night the men and animals
continued to struggle on, to move their heavy cargo
forward. Ben thought it might not be all gold that they
were carrying. He could imagine, inside the heavily
padded, shapeless bundles that filled the wicker baskets,
a certain proportion of jewelry, for example. Precious
stones, and maybe some things of art . . .
	With every minute the worry that had fastened
upon him grew and grew. And the wind continued to
blast the little procession, as did the rain, until even
the four-footed creatures were slipping and sliding on
the wet and rounded rocks that made up so much of
this poor excuse for a path.
	Again Ben shoved against the beast whose hind-
quarters were under his right arm. He shifted the
animal bodily a small distance to the right, farther
away from that dreadful brink that now again came
curving in from the left to run close beside the path.
	And now, to Ben's mild surprise, the officer came
cantering forward on the right side of the small train.
Radulescu was urging his mount to a greater fraction
of its speed, so that it quickly got ahead of the slow
loadbeasts. Lights and shadows shifted with the change
in position of the cold torch still held in the officer's
hand. That torch was a thick rod whose rounded,
glassy tip glowed steadily and brightly white, impervi-
ous to wind and rain. Ben had seen similar lights in
use a time or two before, though certainly they were
not common. In that steady light, Radulescu's officer's
cloak shone, glistened as if it might be waterproof,
and this head was neatly dry under a hood instead of
wet in a damned dripping helmet. From under his
cloak on the left side a sheathed sword protruded like
some kind of stiffened tail.
	As soon as Radulescu had gotten ahead of the train,
he turned back into its path and reined in his swifter
mount. And now, with a motion of his light, he sig-
naled to the drivers that here they were going to leave
the precarious path. He was waving them inland,
across utterly trackless country.
	The driver just ahead of Ben cursed again.
	With the officer now riding slowly on ahead of the
train, his cold light held high for guidance, the first
driver got the first animal turned off the trail and
headed inland, to the west. Ben followed, leaning on

the first animal's hindquarters as before. The animal
behind had to agree, with Ben's grip still on its reins.
The others followed.
	Now, moving across country on footing even worse
than before, they were traveling even more slowly.
From what Ben could see of the surrounding land, it
was absolutely trackless and abandoned. All six of the
drivers were cursing now; Ben was sure of it, though
he could hear no maledictions other than his own.
	The edge of the cliff was now safely distant. But
now men and animals had to pick their way over
uneven slopes of sand, push through prickly growth,
negotiate more rocks whose surfaces were slicked by
rain. This land, thought Ben, was in fact good for
nothing but raising demons, as the old folksaying had
it of the deserts. If indeed a large dragon was nearby=
and he did not doubt that it was-then it was hard to
imagine what it found to eat.
	He thought that the dragon was making its pres-
ence known. The farther west and south the loadbeasts
were made to struggle, the more restive they became.
And now Ben, who had more experience than most in
locating dragons, thought that he could detect the
unique tang directly in the wet air, coming and going
with variations in the wind. In that scent there was
something swinish, and something metallic too, and
something else that Ben could not relate to anything
outside itself.
	And now, unexpectedly, the packtrain was jouncing
and stumbling to a halt. A few meters ahead, the
priest-officer Radulescu had already reined in his ani-
mal and was dismounting. Reins held firmly in- one
hand, Radulescu lifted his torch high in the other, and
began to chant a spell. Ben could not hear him chanting,
but could see in profile a regular movement of the
officer's short beard, chewing words boldly out into
the wind.
	And now something else came into view, above and
beyond the cowled head of Radulescu, who now turned
fully away from Ben to face the apparition. First the
two eyes of the dragon were born in the midst of
darkness, greenly reflecting the Old World light. The
height of those eyes above the ground, and the dis-
tance between them, were enough to impress even an
experienced dragon hunter. In the next moment, as the
monster drew in a slow breath, there appeared below
and between the eyes a red suggestion, glowing through
flesh and scale, of the inner fires of nose and mouth,
an almost subliminal red that would have been in-
visible by day. The purring snort that followed was
a nearly musical sound, the rolling of hollow metal
spheres in some vast brazen bowl.
	Ben's sense of magic in operation was not particu-
larly strong, but now even he could feel the flow, the
working of the chant. The spell had already held the
dragon back, and now was turning it away. With
blinking eyes the great landwalker snorted again, and
then melted back out of the train's path, disappearing
into storm and darkness.
	With the going of the dragon, Ben's real worry only
sharpened. He had no trouble now in concentrating on
it. In fact, as he waited for Radulescu to conclude his
spell, demonstrating how firmly the powers of the
Blue Temple were in control, it was impossible for him
to think of anything else.
	The worry that deviled Ben was not rooted in any

single warning, any one thing that he had seen or
heard. Rather it had sprung into existence like some
kind of elemental power, out of a great number of
details.
	One detail was that all six of the drivers here tonight,
including Ben himself, were newcomers to this particu-
lar Temple garrison. That meant, Ben supposed, that
none of them were likely to have friends around. All
six had been transferred in from local Temples else-
where, within the past few days. Ben had managed to
discover that much from a few words casually ex-
changed while they were waiting for the train to start.
He had not been given any particular reason for his
own transfer, and he wondered if the others had, for
theirs. So far he had had no chance to ask them.
	At the time, the transfer orders had seemed to Ben
only one more incomprehensible military quirk; in a
year's service with Blue Temple he had gotten used to
such unexplained twitches of the organism. But now . . .
	In Ben's memory, repository of a thousand old songs,
one in particular had now come alive and was dancing
an accompaniment to his thoughts. He couldn't re-
member where or when he had heard it first. He
probably hadn't heard it at all for years. But it had
popped up now, as an ironic background for his fear.
	If only, he thought, he was able to talk to the other
drivers. They might be able to shout a few words back
and forth now through the wind, but Ben needed more
than that, he needed time to ask them things and
make them think . . . he suspected he wasn't going to
get the chance.
	He had only a very little time in which to decide
whether to act, or not to act, alone. And if he decided
wrong, either way, then very soon he would be dead ....
The priest-officer, in the act of concluding his spell,
used his wand of light to make one long, slow gesture
after the departing dragon. Then Radulescu held the
wand upright again, looking after the retreating beast
and perhaps trying to listen after it through the storm.
Then he remounted, turned to the waiting drivers, and
once more motioned the train forward.
	The drivers moved reluctantly. The loadbeasts were
more easily convinced than their masters that the
dragon had in fact departed. With dragon-scent now
vanishing quickly in the wind, the animals moved
forward again with more willingness than they had
shown for several hours. And now, as if to suit the
improvement in the atmosphere, the rain began to
lessen too.
	There followed a hundred meters more of stumbling
along their trackless way, now and then tearing clothes
and skin on thorns. Then the officer reined in again,
and again motioned the packtrain to a halt. Another
dragon? Ben wondered. He could perceive no other
reason for stopping at this point. Radulescu was indi-
cating with his light the exact place where he wanted
them to halt the animals, close beside a rocky hillock
that looked no different than a hundred other rocky
hillocks that surrounded it. There's nothing here,
thought Ben . . . and then he understood that that was
just what he was supposed to think.
	Radulescu had dismounted again. With torch still
in hand he moved to stand beside the lower end of a
great slab of stone that in itself made up a large
portion of the hillock's flank. Putting one hand on this
huge stone, he raised his voice above the wind: "You

men, secure the animals. Then gather here and lift this
rock. Yes, here, lift, I say."
	The boulder he was indicating looked too heavy for
a score of men to budge. But orders were orders. The
drivers hobbled their beasts, and crowded round. Some
of them were brawny men and some were not-but any-
way, the priest was proven not to be mad. As soon as
they lifted, the enormous stone went tilting and tipping
up with surprising ease, to come to rest balanced in a
new position. Now where its lower end had been, the
dark triangle of a cave opening was revealed. The black
hole in the hillside looked to Ben a little too regular in
shape to be entirely natural, and was about big enough
for a single man to be able to pass through it readily.
	First in was the officer, moving confidently, holding
his cold torch before him to light the way: The utter
interior darkness melted before that light, to reveal a
single-chambered cave, with its flat floor sunken three
or four meters below the land outside. There was room
on that floor for perhaps a dozen people to stand
without crowding. From where Ben stood at the trian-
gular entrance, a narrow stairway crudely carved from
rock twisted down to the floor, and now in the center
of that floor Ben noticed, between two lips of stone,
another man-sized aperture, this one leading into deeper
blackness.
	When he reached that lower opening, Radulescu
stopped. He leaned his torch against a wall, and from
some inner pocket, evidently waterproof, brought out
two stubby candles. He produced a flame-so quickly
that Ben did not see just how it was done-and in a
moment had placed a lighted candle on either side of
the hole in the floor.
	And now he looked up to where the drivers' faces were
crowding the small entrance. "Begin unloading," Radulescu
ordered briskly. "You are to carry the sacks of cargo down
here, carefully-carefully! And drop them here, into this
aperture:" With a light stamp of his foot he indicated the
opening in the floor. He had given the last order with special
clarity and emphasis, as if wishing to avoid having to repeat it
for those who thought they had not heard it properly the first
time. On either side of Radulescu the candles burned, blue
wax and golden flames; and on the flat rocks where they
stood, Ben could see drippings, encrustations of old wax. It
was evidently not the first time, nor the second or third, that a
cargo had been delivered here.
	The six drivers, as they drew back from the upper entrance,
getting ready to obey orders, all looked at one another for a
moment. But there was really no time for Ben to talk to them.
He could see surprise in some of their faces, but nothing like
his own fear mirrored.
	Will it be here, he thought to himself, as soon as the
unloading's finished? And if so, how? Or do I have a little
more time, until we get back to where the cavalry's waiting . . .
	"Move! Quickl Unloadl" Radulescu was climbing the stair
with his bright torch in hand. He was not going to give them
time to think about anything except getting the job done.
	The men had been trained, in a hard school, to obedience.
They sprang into action. Ben moved with them, as
automatically as any of the others. Only now, as he lifted his
first bundle from a pannier on a

loadbeast's back, did he realize how effective the Blue Temple
training had been.
	The bundle he had taken was small but very heavy, like all
the others. It was wrapped against weather in some kind of
waterproof oilskin that had been sewn shut. Inside the outer
covering Ben could feel thick padding, that made it hard to tell
what the true shape of the contents might be. To Ben the
loading felt like several metal objects, all of them heavy, hard,
and comparatively small.
	Despite the weight, Ben could have carried two of the
bundles at once easily enough. He did not do so, wanting to
prolong the unloading. He might have only the time it took to
do that job in which to try to think, to nerve himself, to act ....
	As he passed through the upper doorway of the cave for
the first time, bearing his first load down, he looked carefully
at the great stone as it rested in its raised position. Ben was
struck by how close it must be to its point of balance. What
six men had heaved to open, it appeared, could be easily tilted
shut again by one.
	Going down the crooked stairs for the first time, watching
carefully by candlelight where he put down his feet, he
noticed that the stairs were beginning to be worn. As if many
processions of laborers had borne their burdens here ....
	Think, he ordered himself. Think! But, to his silent, inward
horror, his mind seemed paralyzed.
	Down in the cave, putting his first bundle obediently down
into the dark hole in the floor, Ben noticed something else.
The heavy bundle made no noise of fall or landing when he
released it into darkness.
Either it was still falling-or it had somehow been caught.
	Moving in slow procession with the other drivers, now
emerging from the cave to get his second load, Ben saw that
Radulescu had again set his Old World torch leaning against
a rock, this time just outside the entrance. The officer had
gone back to his tethered riding beast and was taking
something from the saddle, untying a light, long bundle that
Ben had not really noticed until now. The bundle was just
about the same size and shape as the sword- that Radulescu
wore, and heavily wrapped like all the other cargo.
	Ben kept moving as he watched. He shouldered his second
load, lightening another animal's burden. Again the weight of
the package he picked up was startling for its size. No, it
wouldn't be lead that the Blue Temple was putting down into
the earth so secretly.
	The location of their main hoard had been a subject of
stories and speculation for generations. At least one song
had that hoard as its subject-the same tune that was still
running, very unhelpfully, in Ben's mind.
	The other five men in the line of treasure-bearers gave no
indication that they had guessed what they were about. The
implications of their situation, as far as Ben could tell, had
simply not dawned on them at all. Their faces were dull, and
set against the rain; set against knowledge, too, as it now
seemed to Ben. He saw no possibility that he would be able to
talk to them meaningfully before he had to act.
	Both the stairway and the upper entrance to the cave were
so narrow that the process of carrying in the cargo was
necessarily slow and inefficient; men moving down always
had to stop and wait for men moving

up to pass them, and vice versa. Even so, with six steadily at
work, the unloading wasn't really going to take very long.
	Six men, Ben kept thinking, who now know where
Benambra's Gold is really buried. Were there six other
workmen still living in the world who had managed to learn so
much?
	The unloading proceeded, and it seemed to Ben that the
process was going very fast. Outside the cave there was the
light of the Old World torch to work by, and inside the warm
smoky flicker of the two blue candles.
	"Move along there!"
	Ben had just dropped another bundle into the dark hole in
the cave floor. He was in the act of straightening up and
backing away when he brushed lightly against the officer who
came moving forward just behind him. As the two men grazed
past each other, the tip of the bundle that Radulescu carried
brushed Ben's arm. Even through his sleeve and the object's
wrappings, Ben could feel the passing presence of some power
of magic. It tugged at his memory as some old perfume , might
have done, some fragrance lost since childhood and suddenly
known again. And the incident made his fear suddenly more
powerful than ever.
	Ben had climbed the stair and was outside again, getting
yet another bundle to carry down, when Radulescu also
emerged from the cave. When the officer looked sharply at
Ben, Ben looked dully back.
	In his twenty-three years of life, Ben had learned that there
were only two things about his own appearance that were at
all likely to impress others. One, that never failed, was his
squat bulk; he was really not
shorter than average, but so heavily built that he appeared
that way. The second thing was his apparent dullness.
Something about his round slab of a face tended to make
people think he was slow-witted, at least until they knew him.
For some reason this effect was intensified by the fact that his
body was so broad and strong. It was as if no one wanted
intelligence and unhandsome strength to coexist in the same
man. Ben had convinced himself that he was not particularly
slow of mind, but he had learned also that there were times
when it was helpful to be thought that way. He let his jaw sag
just a little now, and returned the impatient officer's gaze
blankly.
	Radulescu stepped closer to him. "Move along, I say. Are
you taking root there? Do you want to stand out in this storm
all night?"
	Ben, who would have been delighted to settle for just that,
shook his head slightly and let himself be spurred again into
obedient motion. Mechanically he rejoined the slowly
shuffling line of the other drivers.
	Burdened again with what he thought must certainly be
gold, heading down once more into the cave, he observed
again how precariously the great sealing rock was poised near
its point of balance. One man standing outside the cave ought
to be able to close that doorway quickly, with one hand.
Whereas six men caught inside would never be able to crowd
themselves into position to reach the rock and lift it open. Of
course, if given time, they ought to be able to manage some
way of getting out. If given time.
	The rock was not going to come crashing shut behind him
this trip. Not all of the treasure had been unloaded yet.

	As he let this weighty bundle slide down into the hole in
the cave floor, Ben started back reflexively. Half a meter or so
below the level of the floor, a pair of hands, inhumanly large
and white, had come momentarily into view to catch the
package. As quickly as they had appeared, the hands were
gone again, all in utter silence.
	Ben turned away again, saying nothing. As he moved past
a line of burdened men all waiting to drop more cargo into the
pit, he realized with a pang of fear that the unloading must
now be almost finished. He took quick strides toward the
stair, wanting to make sure that he got out of the cave again
before the job was done.
	At the upper entrance, the officer had just delayed the last
driver, who was just about to start down with what must be
the last bundle on his shoulder. "Wait for me below, out of
the rain," Radulescu was telling him. "I want to speak to all of
you."
	And the last man, burdened, entered the cave. Just inside
the entrance Ben shouldered past him. Ben got out, leaving
behind him a voice that muttered obscene protests at almost
being forced off the stairs.
	The officer, with his Old World light once more in hand,
greeted Ben's emergence with another look of disgust; this
time there was perhaps something more dangerous in the
glance as well. And Radulescu cursed Ben wearily. No real
curse fortunately, but one of the hollow forms used
automatically to relieve feelings and abuse subordinates:
something about an Emperor's child, lacking in both wit and
luck.
	"Sir?" Ben responded numbly. Now, he was thinking to
himself, I must move now, before it is too late, before . . .
	"The unloading is finished," the officer informed him,
speaking slowly and plainly now, as to the company dullard.
"I want all of you to assemble in the cave. Go down there and
wait for me."
	Behind Radulescu the six unburdened loadbeasts were
waiting patiently. And down in the cave the five other drivers
waited, displaying the same kind of patience. Ben felt unable
to move. He had the sensation that he was about to be forced
to jump from a high tower into unknown darkness.
	Something must have altered in his face, for the officer's
own expression suddenly grew dangerous. "Inside!"
Radulescu shouted, and in the same instant cast down his
torch and began to draw his sword.
	Ben could feel the dead weight of training on him, and also
the weight of fear. Terrified at his own obedience, he took a
step toward the cave. But when he looked down through the
entrance at the burning candles, the old wax congealed on
rocks, and the five loadbeast faces of his fellow drivers, he
saw with sudden and dreadful clarity that he was about to
step into his grave.
	Instead he shot out his right hand, seizing the officer by
the upper part of his left arm. The man howled and tried to
draw his sword, but the action was difficult for Radulescu to
complete with Ben's strength pulling him forward, bending
him off balance. Suddenly pushing with all his power, Ben
sent Radulescu stumbling and reeling into the cave. The force
of the thrust propelled the officer right on down the stairs,
and if he had managed to draw his sword by now it was not
going to do him any good.

	Before Radulescu could draw breath for a second outraged
yell, Ben pivoted and threw his weight on the great sealing
stone. For one heart-stopping instant the sheer inertia of the
huge boulder resisted him. Then the mass moved, slowly for
the first fraction of a second, faster in the next, then falling
with a doomlike thud to close the cave. Ben pulled a foot back
just in time to save it from being crushed.
	Candlelight had been sealed down into the earth now,
along with yells and wrath, but the cold torch -lay as brilliant
as ever on the ground. Ben, who wanted to pull darkness
round him like a cloak, left it where it was. He turned and ran
into the night. He had already considered taking Radulescu's
riding beast, and had rejected the idea. Where he planned to
go his own feet would serve him better.
	That mode of travel had its drawbacks too. Almost at once
Ben banged his feet on rocks concealed in darkness, and tore
his legs on thorns. He had to slow down to a quick walk, to
keep from breaking a shin or toe. If he crippled himself now,
the damage would very soon become permanent. He was
moving, he hoped, south and a little east, trying to angle
toward the coastline with its irregular brink of cliffs
somewhere not far ahead. Ben had in mind a plan of sorts. It
was not an elaborate plan, having necessarily been made on
very short notice. That might be just as well.
	What he had feared was going to happen next now
happened, and almost immediately. Once more the dragon's
chiming snort came clearly through the night, this time from
right behind Ben, and disconcertingly close. The officer
Radulescu, though sealed into thecave and probably injured,
had been able to release
the binding magic. Now Ben could hear the monster coming
after him, the sounds audible through the unceasing wind
and his own heavy breathing as he trotted. He heard the
crunch and roll of stones beneath the dragon's feet, the
breaking of thorny bushes as it trod them down.
	Very little of Ben's bulk was fat. And he had been known to
dash for short distances at a speed that others found
surprising. But running was not really his strong point, and he
knew that he was not going to outrun a landwalker; nobody
was, not even on a fast and level track, which this certainly
was not. Running all out, gambling against the chance of
broken toes and shins, he angled more sharply toward the
east and the invisible clifftop.
	Now those huge feet behind him, terrible in the slow length
of stride that gained on him, had settled into what was
certainly direct pursuit. The groundshaking rhythm of that
walk grew perilously near, and nearer still. Ben, the
experienced dragon hunter, made himself wait until the last
possible moment before he tore his trailing cloak free of its
last clasp and flung it up into the wind behind' him. He dared
not break stride or turn his head to find out what effect the
action had.
	Two of his own strides later, his ears told him that the
effort at distraction had been at least a momentary success.
There was a thunder-roar behind him that came from a little
closer than the sky, and the earthquivering pursuit faltered.
	Ben managed to get in twenty more gasping strides before
he could hear the dragon coming after him again. And then he
came near running clean off the

ccliff's edge before he saw it in the night. Just in time
liff's he managed to throw himself down, clinging to the very
brink. He clambered over it as carefully as possible, groping
with his feet and legs for some kind of solidity below. At last
his sandals scraped on rock, found
purchase of a kind. As he had hoped, the steepness of the
cliffside here was not quite too much for human hands and
feet. Ben let go of his grip on the edge and found places
lower down where he could hang on with his hands. Then he
tried to extend his feet downward once more.
	Now, when he could have used some lightning to see by, it
had ceased almost entirely. Ben clung to one rock after
another that he could barely see, working his way slowly
down the cliff. And even more slowly he made some progress
to the south along its face. For the present he could no longer
hear the dragon. It might have given up on chasing him. Or it
might not. They were like that, unpredictable.
	With no lightning in the sky, the ocean a hundred meters
down was completely invisible. Just as well, no doubt. But
Ben could still hear its waves, rending themselves on rock.
Breathing devout prayers to Ardneh and to Draffut, those
two most merciful of gods, groping for one handhold and
foothold below another, half expecting each moment to be his
last, Ben fumbled his way down the face of the cliff toward
the absolute darkness of the sea.
CHAPTER 2

	The tall young man stood on the bank of a small,
muddy stream, looking around him uncertainly in
bright sunlight. Even in broad day, and even with the
distant mountains in the east to give a landmark, he
could not be sure that the village he was looking for
had ever existed on this spot.
	Still, he was almost sure.
	He could remember that most of the surrounding
territory had once been prosperous farming and grazing
land. No more. It was largely abandoned now. And here,
where the Aldan had once run clean and fair, this
mucky and unrecognizable stream now followed a
strangely altered course through a sadly altered coun-
tryside. Even the distant mountains bore new scars.
So much had everything changed that the young man
remained uncertain of precisely where he was until his
eye discovered a portion of a remembered millwheel
sticking up out of a bank of earth amid the dried
stalks of last year's weeds.
	Only one corner of one broad wooden blade was
visible, but the young man knew what it was at once.
Staring at that cracked and splitting wood, he let
himself sink down on the ground beside it. This sit-
ting was the heavy movement of an old man, though '
the youth could hardly have been more than twenty at
the most. His tanned face under its ragged growth of
beard was still unlined, though from the expression in
which it was set it seemed that lines ought to be there;
and already the blue-gray eyes were old.
	The bow and quiver that rode on the young man's
broad back looked well-used, as did the long knife
sheathed at his side. He might have been a hunter or a
ranger, perhaps a military scout. Parts of his clothing
and equipment were of leather, and some of these
might once have been components of a more formal
soldier's outfit. If so, their identifying colors had long
since been cut or bleached away. The young man's hair
was moderately short, as if it might be in the process
of growing out from a close military or priestly cut.
	He now put out a hand, large and tanned deeply like
his face, and as rough-worn as his clothing. With it he
touched the visible corner of the decaying millwheel
blade. He let his hand rest there briefly on the old wood,
as if he were trying to feel something in it. Meanwhile
he raised his eyes toward the eastern mountains.
	There was a faint sound behind the young man, as of
someone or something moving through the thicket there
to the west. He turned quickly, without getting up, then
sat still, watching the thicket carefully. In his position

he was half hidden by the rise of the earthen bank.
	Presently a half-grown boy dressed in ragged home-
spun emerged from the scrubby growth of bushes.
The boy was carrying a pail crudely fashioned out of
bark, and was obviously coming to the stream for
water. He was almost at the water's edge before he
caught sight of the motionless young man watching
him, and came to a vaguely alarmed halt.
	An Emperor's child for sure, the young man thought,
surveying that small dirty figure in wretched clothing.
"Hello, young one," he said aloud.
	The boy did not answer. He stood there holding the
empty pail, shifting his weight from one bare foot to
the other as if uncertain whether he ought to run away
or try to go on about his business.
	"Hello, I say. Have you been living around here very
long?"
	Still no answer.
	"My name's Mark. I mean you no harm. I used to
live near here myself."
	Now the boy moved again. Still keeping a wary eye
on Mark, he waded into the stream. He bent his head
to fill the pail, then looked up, tossing back long
greasy hair. He said: "We been here a year now."
	Mark nodded encouragingly. "Five years ago," he
said, "there was a whole village here. A big sawmill
stood right about where I'm sitting now." And he
moved a hand in a vague gesture that ought to have
included the village street. Only five years ago, he
marveled silently. It seemed impossible. He tried with-
out success to visualize this boy as one of the smaller
children in the village then.
	"That's as may be," the boy said. "We came here
later. After the mountains burst and the gods fought."
"The mountains burst, all right," Mark agreed. "And I
don't doubt that the gods fought too . . . what's your
name?"
"Virgil.,,
	"A good name. You know, when I was your size, I
played here along this stream. It was a lot different
then." Mark felt a sudden need to make someone
understand just how totally different it had been. "I
swam here, I caught fish... "
	He broke off.. Someone else was coming down
through the thicket.
	A woman emerged, as ragged and dirty as the boy.
Her walk was the walk of age, and much gray showed
in her disordered hair. A dirty bandage covered both
her eyes. Mark could see the ends of scars showing
past the edges of the cloth.
	Just at the edge of the thicket the blind woman
halted, one hand touching a bush-as if by that means she
could assure herself of her position. "Virgil?" she called
out. It was a surprisingly young voice, and it carried
fear. "Who's there?"
	"One lone traveler, ma'm," Mark called in answer. At
the same time the boy replied with something
reassuring, and came out of the water with his filled
pail.
	The woman turned her face in Mark's direction.
There were indications in that face that she was still
young, even evidence that a few years ago she might
have been called pretty. She called toward Mark
harshly: "We don't have much."
	"I don't want anything you have. I was just telling the
young man that I used to live nearby."
Virgil put in: "He says he was here five years ago.

Before the mountains burst."
	Mark was on his feet now, and approached a little
closer to the woman. "I'll be going right along, ma'm.
But could you tell me one thing first, maybe? Did you
ever hear any word of the family of Jord the Miller? He
was a big man with only one arm. Had a wife named
Mala and a daughter, Marian, real blue-eyed and fair.
Daughter'd be in her twenties now. They lived right
here on this spot, five years ago, when Duke Fraktin
was alive and claimed this land."
	"Never heard of any of 'em," the woman said at once
in her hard young voice. "Five years ago we weren't
here."
	"None of the old villagers were here when you
arrived?"
	"No one. There was no village."
	And the boy Virgil said, as if repeating a lesson
learned: "The Silver Queen now holds dominion over
this land."
	"Aye," said Mark. "I know she claims that. But I
suppose you don't see her soldiers way out here very
often?"
	"I don't see them at all." The woman's harsh voice
was no harsher than before. "The last time I saw them
was when they blinded me. We ceased our wandering,
then."
	"I'm sorry," Mark said. In his heart he cursed all
soldiers; at the moment he did not feel like one himself.
	"Are you one of her army too? Or a deserter?"
	"Neither, ma'm. "
	Virgil asked Mark unexpectedly: "Were you here
when the gods were fighting among themselves? Did
you see them?"
	Mark didn't answer. He was trying to discern in the
bandaged face of the blind woman the countenance of any of
the village girls he could remember. But it was useless.
	Young Virgil, evidently feeling braver now, persisted.
"Did you ever see the gods?"
	Mark looked at him. "My father did. But I have only seen
them in-visions, and that only once or twice:" He made
himself smile. "In dreams, no more than that." Then, seeing
that the woman had turned her back on him and was about to
retreat into the thicket again, he called to her: "Let me walk
with you, back up the hill, if that's the way you're going. I
won't be any bother to you. A manor house stood up there
once, and I want to see if anything is left of it."
	The woman made no reply, but moved on, groping her
way from bush to bush along what must be a familiar path.
The boy came after her, carrying the pail of water in silence.
Then Mark. The three of them climbed more or less together
along the path worn through the hillside thicket.
	When they reached the top of the little hill Mark could see
how little was left of Sir Sharfa's manor house. The great
stone hearth and chimney remained, and almost nothing else.
Against the chimney a crude lean-to shelter had been built
from scraps of wood. From inside the shelter came a snoring
sound, and a man's bony hand and wrist were visible in the
muddy doorway, their owner evidently lying on the floor
inside. The snore sounded unhealthy, as if the man emitting it
were drunk or dying. Maybe he was both, thought Mark.
	The boy, who had put his pail down now, was not ready
to abandon the subject of the gods. "Mars and

Draffut had their fight right over on those mountains," he
resumed suddenly, pointing to the east. "And the twelve
magic Swords were forged right up there. Vulcan kidnapped a
smith and six men from a village, to help him make 'em.
Afterwards he killed the six men, and he took off the smith's
arm. . . " Virgil stopped rather suddenly. He was looking .at
Mark, with the expression of a boy who has suddenly
remembered something.
	"How do you know how many Swords there were?" Mark
asked him. It amazed Mark how knowledge spread-or how,
sometimes, it seemed determined on remaining secret. It was
almost twenty years now, he knew, since the twelve Swords
had been forged, and half a dozen years ago still only a few
people in the whole world had known about them. And now it
seemed that the whole world knew.
	The boy looked at him, as if Mark had asked how it was
known that a woolbeast had four legs. "Twelve Swords,
that's how many there were. Everyone knows that."
	"Oh."
	Virgil's eyes were intense, his voice hurried. "But Hermes
played a joke on all the other gods. He gave the Swords only
to mortals, and he scattered them all across the world. Each
Sword went to a different man or woman to start with, and
none of the gods got any themselves. And each Sword gave
whoever got it a different kind of power."
	"Oh." It was true, for the most part anyway. He didn't want
to appear to possess superior knowledge, and he didn't know
quite what to say. "Why would Hermes have done a thing
like that?"
	"Part of the game that the gods play with each
other. Aye, he scattered them and gave them all to
people. I wish I could have got one."
	Mark was looking at the woman, who stood leaning
with one hand on the shelter, blindly listening. The
man inside snored on. Suddenly Mark felt a great
necessity to do something for these people; maybe he
could at least shoot them a rabbit or two before he
left. And then-yes, he had decided now. There was
something much more important that he was going to
do for them, and thousands like them.
	Virgil asked him: "Did you say that the miller only
had one arm? Was--he your father?"
	Mark studied him a moment, then put another
question in return. "If you had one of those Swords,
what would you do with it? Hide it away somewhere?"
	The boy's expression showed he thought that ques-
tion was insane. "Whoever gets all those Swords into
his hands will rule the world."
	"Aye," said Mark. "But if you had one? Coinspinner,
maybe. What then? What would you do with it? Try to
rule a twelfth of the world, or what?"
	Neither of his listeners answered him. Maybe he
had scared them now. But now that he'd started he
couldn't stop. "What would you say about a man who
knew where one of those Swords was hidden? Maybe
Dragonslicer . . . a man who could go and get it, but he
just let it stay hidden. When there's so many wrong
things in the world, like . . . when there's so much that
needs to be set right."
	The woman's scarred and blinded face turned slowly
back and forth. She was shaking her head. "You'll
straighten out the wrongs of the world, young man?
You might as well set out to serve the Emperor."

CHAPTER 3

	In darkness Ben continued his methodical struggle
to work his way down the face of the cliff. Whenever
he could he made a little headway south along its face
as well. The plan he had in mind required that he go
south. It was a simple plan, basically. It was also
madly dangerous-or he would have thought it so,
had he not found himself in a situation where every
other course seemed suicidal.
	Anyway, he had now acted on his plan. He had
rebelled, assaulted an officer, deserted, and there was
nothing to do now but go on. From handhold to foot-
hold he moved down, and slowly south.
	At least he was able to see a -little more clearly now,
by the light of a horned moon that had recently come
up over the eastern sea. The sky was gradually clear-
ing after the storm, but low fog still shrouded the
ocean and its shoreline, which were still at a frightening
and discouraging distance below him. The sound of
breakers still came drifting up, weaker now, almost
indistinguishable from the weakening wind. And Ben
had certain bad moments, in which he thought he was
able to hear another sound as well-the voices of
six men trapped and howling in a cave. One of the six
was armed with a sword. But would that do him any
good, when the great white hands came reaching out
for him?
	Ben fought down the images springing from his
imagination. Then another kind of sound reached his
ears, and was enough to drive imaginary terrors away.
He heard the steps of the dragon. It was coming back
for him, walking the flatland now some uncertain
number of meters above his head. Ben continued to
descend, a few centimeters at a time. There was noth-
ing else for him to do.
	The dragon must have been able to sense his pres-
ence, for it came to the clifftop immediately above
him. Looking up, Ben caught one glimpse of its head,
a lovely silver in the moonlight, and saw the red glow
of its breath. After that he kept his own head down.
	The dragon bellowed at Ben. Or, for all he knew,
it might be the horned moon that drew its wrath.
Stamping with table-sized feet along the brink, it shook
down stones and clods of earth. Ben's helmet saved
him once from being stunned. The dragon projected
fire out into the night. Ben saw the glow on the rocks
around him, and he felt the backwash of the heat, as if
a door had opened briefly to some tremendous oven.
But either the creature could not bend over the cliff far
enough to breathe at him directly, or it did not care to

try. Ben was confident that it lacked the intelligence to
try to trickle fire on him along the rocks.
	Presently, as he continued moving down, the hail of
dirt and stones abated. Then the stamping moved
away, until he could no longer feel it in the earth. Ben
heard the chiming snort again, this time from some
considerable distance, and almost drowned in wind.
	As if he had never had any other goal in life, and
could imagine none, he kept on moving. Mechanically
he went down, and south. And presently he found to
his relief that the slope was no longer quite so steep.
He began to make real progress.
	His way now took him round a large convexity of
cliff, and out of most of the remaining wind. Looking
to seaward now, from a level only a little above the
tendrils of the fog, he saw that he was confronting a
long but possibly narrow inlet of the sea, a fjord that
stretched inland to the west for some indeterminable
distance. Ben could just discern high land across the
water, but in fog and intermittent moonlight he could
only guess at that land's distance and its nature.
	According to the mental map that he relied on for
guidance, he had to continue south if he was to have
any hope of leaving Blue Temple land behind him
before daylight. But now continuing south meant some-
how crossing this arm of the sea. There was no choice.
Unless he stumbled on a boat when he got down to the
shore-and he had no reason to think he would-he
was going to have to trust his fate to the powers of the
deep, and swim across.
	As he worked his way lower and lower, getting into
patchy fog, he kept trying to estimate the height and
distance of those opposing cliffs. But under the condi-
tions he could not. He was not even certain he was not
looking at an island. All he could really be sure of was
that if he stayed where he was until morning, he
would be discovered by Blue Temple searchers who
would be out in force. He had to assume that they
would have flying creatures out looking for him at
sunrise. And if they found him on this cliff he would
do well then to hurl himself to speedy death . . . .
	The land flattened briefly at the cliff's foot. Ben
moved among fallen boulders, able to feel the spray
now from invisible waves. He moved onto a shingle of
coarse rounded stones, and was granted a dim vision
of the sea at last. There was no boat, of course, nor
any sign of one. Not even a scrap of log.
	Uttering silent prayers to Neptune, he crept forward
onto a jutting rock, with sea-foam bubbling at his feet.
He stripped off a few more garments, and threw his
helmet out as offering to the sea. Then, not giving
himself time to think, he entered the water in a bold
leap.
	He surfaced gasping with the salt chill, and struck
out boldly. How the tides and currents might run here
he had no idea. His fate was in the hands of the sea
gods, but drowning was hardly the worst fate that
might overtake him in the next few hours.
	Ben was a strong swimmer, and all but impervious
to cold. The water was not warm, but he doubted that
it was cold enough to kill him. Glimpsing the horned
moon through ragged clouds as he swam, he tried to
keep it on his left. The waves were strong and regular.
Once he got out a little from the shore, it was hard to
tell if they were helping or hindering his progress.
Patches of fog closed in at times, obscuring the moon

and making him doubt whether he was swimming in
the right direction. But always the moon came back,
and he was never very far off his chosen course.
	Eventually he thought that the moon was higher.
Had he been swimming for an hour now? For two? It
couldn't have been for very long, he told himself, or
there'd be signs in the sky of the coming daylight ....
	He tried to hold his thought on how difficult it was
going to be for the Blue Temple searchers when they
came looking for him. They'd find his cloak right
away, up on the cliff, if the dragon hadn't swallowed it
whole. They'd think that it had swallowed him . . . they'd
never find him in this kind of fog.
	He was wondering seriously whether he was going
to make it, when a mass of land loomed vaguely-
ahead, and from the same direction he heard the
sound of waves on rocks again.
	The dawn rising grayly out of the sea seemed to
carry Ben up with it, lifting him onto land.
	On a small strip of sandy beach he lay quietly for a
few minutes, breathing heavily, having a little diffi-
culty realizing that he was still alive. He was nearer
exhaustion than he had realized. But he did not forget
a prayer of thanks to Neptune.
	A few meters inland, the foot of an unfamiliar cliff
confronted him. As soon as he felt able, he got to his
feet and began to climb it. The mist from the sea
seemed to rise with him as he climbed, like some
demonic substance seeking to escape the depths. Even
though he still moved through fog, the movement
dried and warmed him.
	When he'd gained what he thought was a consider-
able height he paused to catch his breath and look
back. Across the fjord, the headland that he'd fled was hard to
make out. Clouds shrouded it from the first direct rays of the
morning sun. The search for him had probably already started
over there, but he couldn't see it. He trusted that so far they
hadn't been able to see him, either.
	What he had to do now was get himself off this exposed
cliff, get inland as rapidly as possible. Climbing now at the
fastest pace he could sustain, Ben saw with alarm that his
tough hands were starting to bleed from their prolonged
struggle with. sharp rock. If the Blue Temples flying scouts
should come to visit this cliff as well, would they be able to
trail him by those tiny flecks of blood?
	If so, there-was no point in worrying about it. He was
doing all he could do to survive, he told himself. If he'd gone
meekly down into the cave that last time as he d been ordered,
he'd be quite meekly dead by now. That much he was sure of.
He was convinced that the five other drivers were. dead by
now . . . unless, he thought suddenly, they had somehow
been kept alive for questioning about the plot. The higher-ups
were sure to think that there had been some kind of plot.
Probably even Radulescu, if he was still alive, was being
questioned.
	Excuse me, sir, there wasn't no plot, sir. Just Big Ben, Slow
Ben, doing his best to stay alive.
	He thought about that as he climbed. Certainly, last night
when he'd started running, there'd been nothing more on his
mind than keeping himself alive. And even now, climbing
rapidly, he was willing to settle for that.
	But now . . .

	Now, with the possibility of escape looking more real with
each passing moment, other ideas were inviting themselves
into Ben's mind. True, he hadn't been trying to carry away any
important secrets. But, since they were going to hunt him
anyway . . . well, he'd be a fool not to try to get some chance
to benefit out of this, as well as the chance of getting killed.
	Twenty-three years' experience had taught Ben that the life
of a poor man was not much of a life. It was too bad the world
was like that, but so it was. He wanted money, enough at least
to promise some kind of minimal security. Once a man had a
little gold in his pocket, he could be somebody, could have
some kind of chance for a decent life. Ben had joined the Blue
Temple service a year ago only because he saw in it the
possibility at least of modest success, security-in a word, of
getting a little money. A man had to have a certain minimum of
that. At least he did if he was ever going to attract and keep a
woman whose own yearnings were for prosperous stability.
	Once Ben had enlisted, given his size and strength and lack
of other education, there was little doubt about which branch
of the Temple service he'd be assigned to. Not for him one of
the easy desk jobs, tallying and re-tallying the Temples wealth
in all its categories, figuring up the interest on all the loans
they had outstanding. He'd seen the rows of busy clerks,
scribbling at the long desks. That looked like an easy life. But
he himself had been sent into the Guards.
	For Ben, already accustomed to a hard, poor existence, and
not expecting much from his new career right at the start, the
life of a military recruit had not seemed too unpleasant. He
had already taken part in
more actual fighting than he had ever wanted to see, but he
had managed to live through it; in the peaceful Blue Temple
garrison where he was first assigned, he really did not expect
to be called upon for more. Adequate food and clothing were
regularly provided, and a man who did what he was told could
usually keep himself out of trouble.
	It had turned out, though, somewhat to Ben's own
surprise, that he was not the kind of man to always do what
he was told.
	He might have enlisted in other organizations than Blue
Temple, sought jobs under other conditions of service, in
other places, that would have offered him just as good a
chance of security. It was easy to realize that now. Now, he
saw that he had picked Blue Temple really because the idea of
its great wealth had attracted him. He hadn't been quite naive
enough to imagine that he was going to become personally
rich as soon as he signed up-as the recruiter had somehow
managed to suggest. No. But still Ben had known that all the
money, the wealth, the gold of the Blue Temple, was going to
be around, and the idea of it had attracted him. At the time
he'd told himself that he'd chosen to join Blue Temple because
it lacked the reputation for gratuitous oppression and cruelty
that was shared by so many of the world's other powers. The
Dark King, for example, or the Silver Queen of Yambu, or the
late Duke Fraktin.
	Blue Temple were the worshippers of wealth, the
harvesters and heapers-up of gold. Somehow they usually
contrived to extract the stuff from everyone who came in
reach, from rich and poor, devotees and scoffers, friends and
deadly foes alike. In the process they also

somehow financed and indirectly controlled much of the
world's trade. Ben's bunk in the guardhouse had been remote
from the inner chambers where financial matters were
seriously discussed, but information, as always, had a way of
seeping through walls. In the morning the Temple accepted a
rich man's offering, in return insuring him against some feared
disaster; in the afternoon it levied a tax on a poor widow-
making sure to leave her enough to sustain life, that next year
she would be able to pay some tax again.
	And incessantly the Temple complained about how
inappropriately poor it was, how much help and protection
and shelter it needed against the financial dangers of the
world. Always the Guardsmen were exhorted to be ready to.
lay down their lives in defense of the last shreds of assets
remaining. It was never actually stated that the wealth was
almost gone-any more than the location of the main hoard was
revealedbut the general implication was that it had to be
dwindling fast. Always the soldiers were reminded how much
their meagre pay, their weapons and clothes and food, all cost
their poor masters. And how essential it was, therefore, for the
soldiers-especially those who hoped someday to be
promoted, and those too who wanted to eventually draw a
pension-how essential it was that they return some generous
fraction of their pay as a Temple offering.
	If a man were to serve in the ranks for twenty years,
investing a substantial part of his pay as such an offering
each year, he would be able to retire at that point with a
pension. Exactly how much of a pension was a little vague.
	The recruiter had mentioned generous pensions to
Ben, but had somehow neglected to explain just what
a soldier had to do to qualify for one.
	So, there were financial as well as other reasons
why the enlistment hadn't been working out for. Ben
as well as he had hoped. Even before last night's crisis
he had been ready to get out. Of course he could have
bought out his enlistment at any time, if he'd had the
money to do so-but then, if he'd had that much
money he never would have joined up in the first
place. Barbara would have been willing to marry him,
or live with him permanently anyway. The two of
them could have stopped their precarious wandering
about with shows and carnivals, a life that kept them
usually very little better off than beggars. They could
have bought themselves a little shop somewhere, in
some prosperous strong city with high walls ....
	It was a year now since he'd seen Barbara, and he
had missed her even more than he'd expected to. He
didn't want to go back, though, until he'd accom-
plished something at last, got a start in some kind of
life that she'd want to share. He'd sent her letters from
his garrison station once or twice, when the opportu-
nity to do so had arisen, but he hadn't heard from her
at all. For all Ben knew, she'd taken up with someone
else by now. There had been no promise from her that
she would not.
	Ben's reason for enlisting had, of course, been to get
himself established in some kind of secure Blue Temple
post, something that would pay well enough to let him
send for her . . . looking back at it now, it seemed a
very foolish hope. But then, at the time he'd enlisted,
every other hope had seemed more foolish still.

	Now, in the gradually brightening daylight, Ben
continued his climb. This cliff was not quite so steep,
he thought, as the one he'd had to come down in the
dark. Or it might just be that having some daylight
made things that much easier. Anyway, he was mak-
ing good progress, and quite soon reached a place
from which it was possible to look up and feel sure
he'd be able to make it all the way to the top. He had
not the slightest idea of what he was going to find up
there, except he expected and hoped that he'd no
longer be on Blue Temple land. He might, of course, be
wrong ....
	When he had climbed a little farther still, Ben
paused to look upward again. Yes, from here on the
slope was definitely gentler, and he had no doubt that
he could climb it. He could even see a short stretch of
what looked like a genuine trail, up there near the top.
	Ben climbed another hundred steps and stopped to
scan the way ahead again. This time he received some-
thing of a shock. Right beside that upper trail, in a
spot where no one had been a few moments ago, a man
was now sitting on a squarish stone, gazing out to sea.
	The man appeared to be taking no notice of Ben,
and as far as Ben could tell he was not armed. His
body was wrapped in a plain gray cloak that effectively
concealed whatever else he might be wearing. The
cloak at least didn't look like part of any soldier's or
priest's uniform that Ben was familiar with. Maybe
the watcher was not a sentry, but he was in a place
that a sentry might well choose. And, should he be
minded for some reason to dispute Ben's passage up
the steep slope, his position would give him a definite
advantage.
	There was nothing for Ben to do but climb on, meanwhile
thinking what he ought to say to the man when he came near.
It occured to Ben that he might represent himself as a
shipwrecked mariner, just cast ashore at the foot of these
cliffs after clinging for days to a bit of wreckage. No notion of
where he was-yes, that was the idea. A story like that might
well be accepted; the gods knew that Ben was wet and weary
enough for it to fit him.
	The man who sat alone on the rock did -not look down at
Ben until Ben was only, a few meters below him. But when he
did look it was without surprise, as if he'd known all along
that Ben was there.
	"Hello!" the watcher called down then. He was a
nondescript sort of fellow in appearance, smiling and openly
cheerful. At close range his gray cloak looked old and worn.
	"Hello!" Ben called back. Something in him had wanted to
respond at once to the lightheartedness of the other's
greeting, and as his voice came out he thought it sounded too
cheerful for the tale of woe he had to tell-though on second
thought he supposed that any shipwrecked sailor who came
to shore alive might have good reason to sound happy.
	Ben climbed closer. The man continued- to regard him with
a smile. Not quite, thought Ben, like an idiot.
	Drawing even with the man at last, and no longer at the
disadvantage of the steep slope, Ben felt confident enough to
pause to regain his breath. Between slow gasps he asked:
"Whose lands have I arrived at, sir?" He was ready now with
some details of his shipwreck, should they be required.

	The man's smile faded to friendly seriousness. "The
Emperor's," he said.
	Ben stood there looking at him. If the answer had been
seriously meant, Ben could derive no sense from it at all. The
Emperor was a proverbial figure of fun and ridicule, and hardly
anything more. Of course, if Ben thought about it, he
supposed that a real man afflicted with that title might still
exist somewhere in the world. But . . . a landowner? The
Emperor was a clown-masked caperer through jests and
stories, a player of practical jokes, the proverbial father of the
wretched and the unlucky. He was just not someone that you
thought of as owning land.
	With a small shake of his head, Ben climbed on a few more
steps, just high enough to let him see inland over the final
sharp brink of the cliff. He warily kept half an eye on his
companion as he did so.
	He didn't know quite what he had expected, but the view
inland surprised him. Beginning from the barren cliff-face's
very edge, a lush meadow sloped inland, knee-deep with
dewy grass arid wildflowers, to end in an abrupt semicircle
where a stately grove or forest began, about a hundred meters
inland. Neither meadow nor forest showed any signs of
human use.
	Ben said: "Well, the cliff here is certainly poor enough to
be the Emperor's wall. But someone else must lay claim to this
meadow, and to the wood yonder."
	The fellow sitting on the rock looked quite grave when he
heard this. He gazed back at Ben but did not answer. Ben,
deciding that he did not need the complications of a debate
with some stray madman, climbed the last three steps to stand
gratefully in soft grass. He
saw now that the meadow formed a rough triangle, and he was
standing very near its seaward point. Not .enjoying this
exposed position on the cliff's edge, he at once walked inland,
heading for the baseline of the woods.
	After the long struggling climb, it was a joy to take swift
steps through soft grass on almost level land. Patches of mist
were rolling up over the edge of the cliff, as if determined to
accompany Ben inland. Fieldnesting birds, clamoring as if
they were unused to disturbance, flew up from almost under
his feet.
	He reached the trackless grove, and entered it. There was
little undergrowth and he moved swiftly. And now, almost
before he'd had time to wonder how far the wood extended, he
was confronted by a high wall, constructed roughly of gray
fieldstone.
	The wall stretched left to right as far as Ben could see,
losing itself among the trees. But it was so roughsurfaced that
climbing it proved easy. Raising his eyes cautiously above
the top, Ben observed that on the far side of the wall the
woods soon petered out, and innocent-looking countryside
began, with a narrow, rutted road winding across it from left to
right. In the distance Ben could just discern the top of a tall
white pyramid. That was the only building in sight, apart from
a couple of distant cottages.
	Ben observed that pyramid with relief, taking it as proof
that he'd put Blue Temple lands behind him-or, at the worst,
that he was just about to do so. In another moment he was
over the wall and trotting toward that winding road. As he
passed through the last of the trees, with patches of mist still
hanging about them to lend an air of mystery, it struck Ben for

the first time that the grove had the look of some kind of
shrine. For what god it was meant he couldn't guess. He
didn't think it was associated with the Temple of Ardneh-that
looked too far away.
	He should really stop at Ardneh's temple, he told himself,
and make some thanks-offering for prayers very recently
answered. He certainly would do that, if he had anything left
to offer, but he was practically naked as he was. On second
thought he would stop, and try to beg some clothes. Also,
now that he thought about it, a little food. Yes, definitely,
food.
	Less than an hour later, a white-robed acolyte of Ardneh
was ushering Ben up a long flight of white steps.
	When Ben emerged from Ardneh's temple a short time
later, he was dressed in warmer garments. They were third- or
fourth-hand pilgrim's garb, and patched, but they were clean
and dry. And he was no longer ravenously hungry. But he
was very tired, and frowning thoughtfully.
	Again he strode along the road, still heading south. He'd
have to stop somewhere soon and get some sleep, but right
now he wanted to make distance, to get as far from the Blue
Temple as he could. He had a better knowledge now of where
he was, and he'd known all along where he was heading for.
	Sometime this month the carnival that he and Barbara had
been with ought to be making a spring move to Purkinje
Town, if it kept to the old schedule. If she was still with it, he
would find her there.

	Ben made the long journey almost entirely on foot. It took
him approximately a month, so spring in these
parts was well advanced when he arrived. And the journey
was not without adventure, though if Blue Temple were on
his trail, as he thought they must be by this time, he saw no
signs of them. Gradually his fears receded, and he began to
believe that they thought him dead.
	By the time Ben reached Purkinje Town, or rather the place
outside the town's crumbling walls where the small carnival
was encamped, he'd worn out and replaced his sandals, and
had had to replace some of his pilgrim's garb as well. He had
also begun a beard, which was coming in a dull, bleached
brown to match his hair. He had acquired as well one of the
packs and something of the appearance of an itinerant
peddler he'd fallen in with early in his journey. The peddler,
once convinced that Ben meant him no harm, had been glad
to have the strong man as an escort, had cut a sturdy
quarterstaff for him to carry, and had rewarded his
companionship with food and clothing.
	But their paths had diverged, many kilometers back. Ben
was alone when he arrived outside Purkinje's half-tumbled
walls toward evening on a clear, late spring day. Those walls
were no longer a very impressive defense. The city, though,
was still flying its own flag of orange and green, evidently still
managing to maintain a measure of independence from the
brawling warlords whose armies endlessly came and went
across the land.
	The carnival still looked independent too, though in the
past year it had grown even shabbier than Ben remembered it.
The tents and wagons that Ben could recognize had endured
another year of wear and tear, and he found it difficult to
discover among them any

traces of repair, new paint, or fresh decoration. And there
were now a couple of wagons that he did not recognize.
	The crude painting on the cloth side of one of these
vehicles caught Ben's eye, and he paused to look at it. Large,
somewhat uneven lettering proclaimed Tanakir the Mighty.
Tanakir's painted portrait showed him expanding biceps and
chest to break great iron chains that might have held a
drawbridge.
	Ben delayed only for a moment to look at this. Then, with a
strange feeling inside his own chest, he went on to Barbara's
recognizable small tent. As usual she had the tent set up
beside her wagon. If she was keeping a small caged dragon
inside her conveyance as usual, it was hidden by cloth
coverings, and made no sound at Ben's approach.
	The flap of her tent was closed, but Ben could see that it
was not tied shut. Ben threw down the wooden staff that the
peddler had given him. Then, obeying the traditional rules of
courtesy, he cleared his throat and scratched on the tent wall
near the flap-there was of course no way to knock. He waited a
few decent seconds then, and when there was no response he
lifted the fabric gently and stepped in. .
	At a small table near the center of the tent sat Barbara,
wrapped in the shabby familiar robe that she often wore
around camp. Despite the poor light in the tent she was trying
to do something to prettify her fingernails. She looked up
sharply at the intrusion, her small, spare body coiled like a
spring. Between the two black sheaves of her hair, her round,
expressive face showed anger, even before she had time to
recognize Ben and be surprised-she had
been keeping her anger ready, he thought, for someone
else.
	"You've got a look in your eye, Ben." That was how
she greeted him after a year's absence, uncoiling the
spring of her body slightly. Barbara was very nearly
the same age as Ben, though not much more than a
third his weight. They had known each other for a
number of years. He saw now that her straight black
hair had been allowed to grow a little longer since he'd
left. Otherwise she looked just about the same. She
went on: "Fuzz on your chin and a look in your eye.
What are you up to now? I don't suppose you rode
back here in a golden coach pulled by six white show-
beasts?"
	"Thinking," he replied, choosing to answer the one
halfway sensible question in her speech, letting the
rest of it go by. It was a way he had. He thought it was
one of the things that she did like about him.
	"Thinking about what?"
	"About certain things that I've found out." Ben slid
off his peddler's pack, looked about for a place to put
it, then dropped it on the floor and kicked it under the
small table, conserving floor space.
	"It sounds like you've managed to addle your mind
somehow, whatever else you've done. I suppose you're
hungry?" Barbara gave up the pretense of continuing
to fuss with her nails. She turned to give him her full
attention and frank interest.
	Ben crouched and. reached under the table to get
something from his pack. His hand rejected a half-loaf
of bread that was going stale, and pulled out some
good sausage. "Not really. I have this, if you'd like
some."

	"Maybe later, thanks. Did you go to the Blue Temple
and enlist, as you were saying you'd do?"
	"Didn't you get either of my letters?"
	"No."

	That was hardly surprising, Ben supposed. "Well, I
wrote twice. And I did enlist." He took a bite off the
end of the sausage himself, and offered it again. "Ever
hear from Mark?"
	"Not, since he left." This time Barbara was not so
reluctant. Chewing, she regarded Ben for a little while
in silence, while he stood there unable to keep himself
from smiling at her. He could, as always, see thoughts
coming and going in her face, though he was hardly
ever sure of what they were. It sounded simple, but it
was one of the things about her that gave Ben a
sensation of enchantment.
	At last Barbara said to him: "There's more on your
mind than Mark, or bringing me sausage. I suppose
you've deserted. Is that the big secret I can see in the
back of your eyes? A Blue Temple enlistment should
run for four or five years, shouldn't it?"
	Ben's eye had caught sight of his old lute. It was
hanging in a prominent place, tied high up on the
tent's central pole. Seeing the instrument so honored
gave him a good feeling, and seeing it also brought
back memories. Ben reached up and took it down.
	"I've kept it as a decoration, like."
	He strummed the instrument, but only briefly and
softly. He could see at once that the strings were in
bad shape. It seemed too that his hands were well on
the way to losing entirely whatever poor skill they'd
once possessed. For years, for most of his life, Ben
had nursed deep, fervent dreams of being a musician.
His broad mouth twisted now, under his new beard,
remembering that.
	Now that he had some form of music in his hands,
the tune that had been haunting him ever since that
night of treasure and terror and flight came back
irresistibly. In his mind the music ran sweet and
clear-all tunes ran that way for him, in his mind. It
was only when he tried to get them to come out
properly through his fingers or his voice that his diffi-
culties started.
	He sang the old tune now, very softly and almost to
himself, in a voice that sounded as inadequate as he
had feared it would:

Benambra's gold
Doth glitter coldly . . .

	"Gods and demons, what a noise!" judged the harsh
bass voice of someone standing just outside the tent.
A moment later the entrance flap was whipped aside,
this time by no gentle hand. The man who had to bow
his head to enter seemed to fill up what little space
Ben's presence had left in the small interior.
	The newcomer could be no one but Tanakir the
Mighty, though perhaps he did not quite do justice to
his portrait on the wagon's side. Well, thought Ben, no
human figure could do that. Tanakir was almost a
head taller than Ben, and his upper body proportion-
ately broad. His shirt, a garment undoubtedly once
expensive though now badly faded, was worn halfway
open to reveal the carven plates of muscle on his chest.
His biceps were more than simply large, and as he
came into the tent his movements were ponderous, as

if slowed down by equal weights of muscle and of
vanity. At second glance he was a considerably older
man than Ben. There were a few gray hairs showing in
his long dark braids.
	Once inside, Tanakir paused, fists on hips in a pose
that might well be some part of his act. He glared at
the two other people in the tent as if he were demand-
ing an explanation from them.
	"We have a strongman now," said Barbara in con-
versational tones to Ben. "You never wanted that job
while you were here."
	Tanakir from his greater height glowered down at
Ben, who stood with lute in hand, blinking back at
him. "So, this is Ben," the strongman rumbled. "He
didn't want the job? Him? This chubby minstrel?"
	Ben turned a little away, to hang up the lute again
carefully, high up on the central pole, out of head-
knocking range. It was one of the few times in his life
that anyone had ever called him a minstrel, and he felt
unreasonably pleased.
	Tanakir told him: "You're leaving very soon:"
	Ben blinked at him again, then backed up carefully
and sat down on a small chest, which creaked a little
with the burden. He sat in a position that left his
hands and feet ready if they should be needed. "I
haven't decided about that yet."
	"I'm deciding for you."
	"All right," said Ben mildly. He allowed the other
just a beat in which to begin triumphant relaxation,
before he added, "One of us leaves tonight, if you feel
that way. Well, maybe in the morning. No one wants
to start out on the road at night."
	Ben paused briefly, then suggested: "Arm-wrestle
for it?" It was impossible not to notice how the other's
god-like arms had been circled with bands and brace-
lets to make them look still thicker, and what pains
had been taken with short, tattered sleeves, that they
might be best revealed. Ben's own arms, if they had
not been hidden in his long pilgrim's sleeves, would
by comparison have looked almost as chubby as they
did strong.
	Tanakir, after having been kept mentally off-balance
for a few moments, now looked pleased. All strongmen,
thought Ben, are certainly not bright. And this particu-
lar one must be a chronic pain to have around.
	"Arm-wrestle," Tanakir repeated, nodding. "All right,
we'll do that. Yeah."
	Barbara, who knew them both, must also have
been pleased by Ben's suggestion, for she made no
objection to it. When Ben saw this his heart dared to
rise again. He smiled at Barbara as she moved quickly
to clear the little table for their contest, and he got the
briefest of smiles from her in return.
	Before the contest could get started there was an
outburst of whispering from outside the tent. First, it
sounded like some conspiratorial meeting getting too
loud; and then, suddenly, like they were greeting some-
one in surprise.
	Then imperturbable old Viktor, who by consent and
diplomacy ran the carnival, put his head into the tent.
There was an uncommon smile on his face. Ben under-
stood the smile when, a moment later, the head of a
much taller and younger man appeared above Viktor's,
grinning.
	Still it took Ben a moment to make the recognition.
He jumped to his feet then, and cried out: "Mark!" It

had been two years. Ben would have moved forward,
but Barbara was in his way. She had already darted to
the doorway to give the tall young man a great hug
and kiss.
	Tanakir was upset all over again. "What is this?" he
roared at them. "Come on, arm-wrestle, or just get out:"
	Barbara turned to him. "Don't be so eager; you've
never managed to out-wrestle me." She turned back to
Mark. "Look at you, you're taller than Ben."
	"I was that when I left. Or very nearly."
	"And just as strong-"
	Mark had to grin at that.
	"Come on!" This was Tanakir again. "Whoever that
clown is, he can wait his turn."
	So the rest of the reunion had to be postponed. Old
Viktor, as usual, kept things moving with a few diplo-
matic words and gestures. Mark remained in the back-
ground, smiling. Viktor, having greeted Ben, nodded
sagely when he saw what was developing in Barbara's
tent. Then he sent one of his wives on an errand, while
he himself stood by, authoritatively twirling his gray
mustache.
	The wife was back promptly, bringing two stubs of
candles into the darkening tent, along with a burning
twig to light them. Ben noticed with irrational relief
that the candles were not blue beneath their golden
tongues of flame. They were set burning on the small
table to the right and left of the two contestants.
	Barbara gave up her single folding chair to Tanakir.
It creaked impressively when he sat down. Ben hitched
the little chest around and sat on it, so that he faced
his opponent across the table. He noted that Barbara
and Mark together were now finishing off his sausage.
Fortunately he, Ben, had not arrived weak with hunger.
Mark looked good-but there was something that had
to be taken care of first, before he could enjoy the
company of friends.
	The two big men sat facing each other, their noses a
meter apart. The carnival strongman made a show of
getting ready, rolling up his right sleeve a trifle more.
He managed to ripple the muscles of his arm impres-
sively as he did so.
	"Don't fear the flame," said Tanakir, leaning for-
ward to put his elbow on the table. Ben's elbow was
already there. The strongman's fierce scowl emanated
onions. "I'll not burn you very much. Cry out once and
I'll let you go."
	"Don't fear the flame," returned Ben, "for I'll not
burn you at all." And he reached forward, ready to
meet the all-out surge of strength that the other was
certain to apply as soon as he could grab Ben's hand.
	"Get him, Ben!" called Mark.
	Their grips locked in the surge, the table quaked
beneath their elbows.
	And Barbara, with a greater urgency in her voice
than merely friendship: "Win, Ben! Win!"
	Tanakir cried out, but not with victory, nor yet with
candle-burn. The back of his hand descending had
snuffed the flame before the heat could even scorch
the hairs. Snuffed out the flame, and thudded on to
squash the wax below.

CHAPTER 4

	The small man rode the once-paved road upon a
fine but almost starving riding beast, and wore at his
side a poor scabbard that had the hilt of a fine sword
protruding from it. Some things about this man, in-
cluding his long, carefully trained black mustache,
suggested that he might be castle-born. But most of
his clothing, and certain other indications, argued for
a more humble origin. He was bareheaded, and under
the shock of wild black hair his lean, elegant face was
grim. He was mumbling to himself as he rode slowly
through the warm spring sunshine.
	Two more men, on foot, were following the mum-
bling rider across the grimly peaceful countryside,
past abandoned farmsteads and untilled fields. And
several paces behind those two shuffled along a lad
not quite full grown, though already tall. On the right
shoulder of this youth there rode a hooded shape, that under
its covering of green cloth had to be that of some trained
flying creature, bird or reptile perhaps.
	Taken as a group, the four men looked like the token
representation on a stage of some defeated army. But the only
thing their various costumes had in common was the look of
wear and poverty; if this was truly an army, it had no other
uniform.
	Of the two who were walking together, one carried a battle-
hatchet in a kind of holster at his belt, and had a bow slung
on his back. His taller companion wore a sword on one side of
his own belt, with a sling and stone-pouch on the other. The
visible hilt of this man's sword, in contrast to their leader's,
was dull and cracked.
	The surface of the road they traveled had once been paved
and cared for, though like most of its users it was now
experiencing hard times. And the land through which the road
passed looked as if it might once have been well tended. A
feral milkbeast, lean and scarred, stared at the procession as if
it might never have seen men before, then leaped a broken
fence to bolt into a thicket. The man with the bow, hunger
starting in his eyes, made the start of a motion to get the
weapon off his back, but gave up before completing it. The
beast was already out of sight.
	The leader appeared to be paying very little heed to any of
this. He continued to mouth words to himself as he rode on,
eyes fixed ahead. One of the two men following, he who had
the bow, was more concerned than the other by this
circumstance. He now nudged his taller companion, and
signaled that they should lag back a few more steps behind
their leader.

	As soon as the gap between the two men and the rider had
widened enough to give them good prospects for some
privacy, the shorter man whispered: "Why does he mutter
so?"
	The taller man who wore the battered sword had a long
face with an habitually grave expression, that made him look
like a solemn servant dressed up as a soldier. And he
answered gravely: "I think his woes have driven him half
mad."
	"Ha. Woes? If that would do it, we'd all be jabbering and
snarling as we moved about. I wonder now . . . "
	"What?"
	"I wonder if I decided wisely, yesterday, when I chose to
follow him." The shorter man, whose name was Hubert,
paused at that point, as if expecting to receive some comment
from his companion. When none was immediately
forthcoming, he went on. "He spoke me fair enough-well, you
were there, you heard. I've yet to hear, though, just what
enterprise he plans to use us in. And you say he's not told
you, either. Well, at first I thought there was no need to ask.
There's little business of any kind to be transacted on these
roads, except for robbery. I've not done that before, but I was
hungry enough to try anything . . . and there you were,
looking sane and tolerably well fed, following him already.
You looked as if you might know where you were going. And
now you tell me he's half mad."
	"Sh!„
	"You said it first."
	"But not so loud." The taller, grave-faced man, whose
name was Pu Chou, appeared for a moment to be annoyed.
Then he answered thoughtfully: "I followed
him because, as you say, he spoke fair. He's fed me, so far.
Not a lot, but better than nothing. And he did promise when I
joined him that we were going to find wealth."
- Hubert said, flatly: "Wealth. And you believed him."
	"You said you believed him, when he spoke to you. He
can speak convincingly."
	"Aye. Well, we've passed travelers who I thought looked
like easy game, and not tried to rob them. He must have some
other means of gaining wealth in mind. Well, that sword he's
got is certainly worth a coin or two, even if the sheath is
poor."
	Pu Chou was quietly alarmed. "Don't even think of taking it
from him. I've seen him use it once."
	"Once? He hauls it out at every crossroad. There's some
fine charm of magic in it, or at least he thinks there is, for he
consults it to choose his way. Whether it works or not
	"I meant I've seen him use it as a sword. When I was his
only follower, and still unarmed myself. Three bandits
thought they wanted it. One of them got away. It's one of the
others' sword I'm wearing now."
	"Oh:"
	And for some time after that the little procession trudged
on in silence. Hubert glanced back once at the lad who was
still bringing up the rear, probably too far back to have
overheard the whispered conversation. The name of this
youth was Golok, and Hubert had rarely heard him speak at
all. Instead he appeared to spend most of his life staring
straight ahead as if in abstract thought. Whatever the
creature was on his shoulder -Hubert had not yet gotten a
good look at it

without its cover-it was as quiet as if it were asleep, or
perhaps dead and stuffed. Hubert had learned from Pu Chou
yesterday that Golok had once been apprentice to the Master
of the Beasts at some important castle; some kind of a
problem had arisen, and he had had to leave. Whether he was
the true owner of the thing that perched on his shoulder now
was a question that had not been raised. Hubert had no urge
to press for details in the lives of these his new companions,
even as he was content for his own history to remain
unknown to them.
	Now Hubert turned his eyes ahead again. The sky in that
direction was darkening, he observed, as if a storm were
coming. Especially ahead and off there to the right.
	Of more immediate interest was something that now lay
only a few strides ahead, namely yet another crossroads. Here
the disintegrating pavement of what had once been a king's
way intersected another and more common road. This was of
hard-packed earth and gravel, and it wound away to left and
right amidst the gentle rolling of the land. Like most roads in
this time of failing commerce, it was beginning to be
overgrown by weeds and grass..
	To the left, this intersecting thoroughfare led off into a
near-monotony of gradually improving fields. It was possible
to see for several kilometers in that direction, and in the
distance intact houses and barns were visible, as well as small
groups of laborers in those far fields. Maybe, thought Hubert,
they had now come to the edge of the Margrave's well-
protected lands. That suggested to Hubert that they might
expect to encounter some of the Margrave's soldiers shortly,
and
that in turn suggested to him that perhaps this would be a
good point to turn back. But then, he was not the leader.
	To the right conditions were different. In that direction the
simple crossroad soon became a dismal, muddy, heavily
rutted way, almost a sunken road. It lost its way among
leafless thickets, and clumps of inordinately tall thistles, that
seemed to have grown where they were for no other purpose
than to provide some ideal sites for ambush. A chill wind
drifted down on the travelers from that direction, where, as
Hubert had noted earlier, the sky was growing dark. On the
horizon to the right the clouds were really ominous.
	The leader had reined in his steed at the very center of the
crossroads. Hubert had expected him to draw his fine sword,
as usual, as soon as the intersection was reached. But the
horseman had not done so yet. He was looking from right to
left, and back again, as if considering. At last his mumbled
monologue had ceased.
	Tall Pu Chou, shading his eyes from local sunshine, was
squinting off into forbidding shadows to the right. "What's
that, I wonder? I can make out a certain tall structure, almost
half a kilometer off. Just at the edge of those trees, beside the
road."
	The youth Golok had come up close to the others now, and
it was his surprisingly deep voice that next broke the silence.
"That's a gallows," he intoned.
	The mounted leader looked at him, and made a brisk
gesture with one hand. Obediently Golok reached up and
whisked off the cloth covering the creature that rode his
shoulder. It's a monkbird, thought Hubert, moderately
surprised. He himself was no expert at

handling beasts, but it was his understanding that the small
flying mammals were notoriously hard to train, and that few
beast-handlers would attempt it. Golok crooned low orders to
the beast, as its eyes blinked yellow against dark brown fur.
Hubert noticed suddenly how handlike the tiny feet of the
creature were, at the ends of its hind limbs.
	"Go, Dart, fly," Golok whispered. His voice when he spoke
to the animal was much changed.
	In a moment the monkbird had risen into the air from its
master's shoulder. It flew in a low circle on membranous
wings, as if orienting itself. Then it flapped softly off to the
right, following a course above the road that led to darkness.
	The mounted leader sat motionless in his saddle, gazing
after the winged scout, long after distance and shadows had
taken the monkbird out of Hubert's effective range of vision.
The leader's hand was resting on the black hilt of his fine
sword. As if, Hubert thought, he knew that he was going to
have to draw it soon, but wished to postpone that act as long
as possible.
	And now the leader spoke again. He was still talking to
himself, but this time Hubert was close enough to hear some
of the words. " . . . cursed poverty . . . more real than many
another curse. Whether some wizard has fastened it upon me,
or. . . "
	The monkbird's reconnaissance did not take very long. It
reappeared in the shadowy distance and drew closer, until
with a final flourish of the forelimbs that unfurled its wings it
sat again on Golok's shoulder. Then it shivered slightly, as-if
it might have experienced a chill under that dark portion of the
sky.
	"Man on tree?" Golok asked it, evidently confident that it
would understand the question.
	"Two-leg fruit," the monkbird answered, the first
intelligible sounds that Hubert had heard from it. Its voice
was tiny but piercing in tone.
	"Two-leg is living?" Golok questioned.
	"No." It was the single, sharp note of a birdcall.
	At this, the mounted leader, with one final muttered
comment to himself, drew out his sword, wrenching it from the
scabbard with a violent motion and holding it aloft. As Hubert
had observed before, when that sword cleared its sheath it
negated all the poverty in the appearance of the man who
held it. The blade, a full, perfect meter in length, was
moderately wide, incredibly straight and sharp. A mottled
pattern on the flat side seemed to exist just beneath the
perfect polish of the surface, and appeared to extend into the
metal, to a depth greater than the blade was thick. The hilt,
was rich and rough in texture, of lustrous black, with some
small design worked on it in white. Earlier Hubert had been
able to read this design as the symbol of a small white arrow,
point aimed upward toward the pommel.
	The lean right arm of the mounted man held out the
weighty sword without a quiver. The blade was extended in
turn to each of the four roads leading from the intersection.
When the point was aimed along the rutty road in the
direction of the gallows, Hubert thought that he could seethe
blade-tip quivering, as if after all there might be a trace of
weakness in that determined arm.
	"This way," the leader ordered. And his voice was no more
unsteady than was the single ringing snap with which he
sheathed his blade.

	He rode along the rutted way toward that darkened sky, no
faster and no slower than before. This time, the two soldiers
and the youth all followed closely. And in silence. Their
surroundings, once they had turned at the crossroads, were
not conducive to unnecessary talk.
	A daylight owl fled through a roadside thicket, as if it were
horrified at something it had found within. The road here took
a winding course among the ugly thickets, making it
impossible for the traveler to see more than a few meters
ahead at any point. The gallows-if that was what it was-had
disappeared from sight for the time being. But it was waiting
for them, thought Hubert, up ahead.
	When at last the tall skeletal structure came into view
again, there was no doubt of what it was. The rude
scaffolding had room for three or four victims, but there was
only one in residence, though the frayed ends of other ropes
indicated that once he had enjoyed company.
	One lone, attenuated human shape hung from the
weathered crosstree. From the half-face that remained, a single
empty eyesocket looked down upon the travelers, and seemed
sardonically to mark their progress. Hubert could not keep
from looking up at it several times, though their march did not
pause as it went by. At last the windings of the road took the
gallows out of sight behind a screen of barren trees. All the
plants here were oddly leafless, Hubert suddenly realized,
though spring was well advanced.
	Still the mounted leader rode on in silence, concentrating
his attention on the road ahead and the surrounding woods
and thickets. Even leafless as it was,
the growth beside the road still seemed to promise
ambush. No birds sang. A hush held, as if some
enemy already lay in wait, and had only a moment ago
fallen silent in anticipation. At intervals the leader, as
he rode, put hand to sword once more. But he did not
draw. His fingers rested carefully, almost caressingly
on that black hilt, then slid away again.
	When they were a few hundred meters past the
gallows, he sighed gently, and appeared to come to the
conclusion that any immediate challenge from the
roadside was unlikely. He relaxed. a trifle in the saddle,
and, while still keeping an alert eye on his surroundings,
rode forward a trifle faster and more boldly.
	Hubert, reassured by this sight, and growing ever
more conscious of his rumbling stomach, speeded up
the pace of his own feet somewhat until he drew close
to the rider's stirrup. Then, when the way ahead
appeared to be clear for a little way at least, Hubert
dared to speak. "Sir? Will the blade show us where we
can find some food? I'm empty, pack and belly both-.."
	There was no immediate response. At least there
had not been, as Hubert had half-feared there would,
a flash of rage.
	Encouraged, Hubert tried again. "Baron Doon? Sir?"
	The rider did not turn his head by so much as a
centimeter, but this time he answered. "If food were
what I wanted," grated the low voice from between his
teeth, "what I, the owner and master of this Sword,
desired more than anything else in the sweet universe,
then Wayfinder would guide us to as great a feast as I
desired. But since food is not what I crave at this
moment, it does not. Now keep quiet, and follow me
alertly. Safety is not what I am looking for either."

	Wayfinder, thought Hubert to himself. Wayfinder.
I've heard some story about that, some tale of magic
Swords .... But, having been ordered to keep quiet, he
kept quiet.
	The four men continued to move forward-again,
more slowly, for now the riding beast, well-trained
though it was, was giving signs of reluctance to pro-
ceed any farther along this road. At a sign from Baron
Doon, Golok unhooded his monkbird again, though
for the time being he kept it on his shoulder.
	The road continued a progressive deterioration, till
now it was doubtful whether it deserved that name at
all. And now, as if capriciously, it branched again.
Again it was the right-hand fork that bore the most
unfavorable aspect, even though the left appeared to
lead into nothing better than another nasty thicket,
this one so overgrown as to almost swallow up the
track entirely.
	Still there was no doubt that the right-hand way
looked worse. Even though-and here Hubert rubbed
at his eyes, blinked, and looked again-even though it
did appear to lead to a house. Yes, there was an aban-
doned dwelling down there, right on the edge of an
encroaching swamp. It was a large house, or rather
it looked as if it might have been large before portions
of it had suffered a collapse. The swamp, thought
Hubert, had probably begun to undermine it from the
rear.
	The surviving portion had been sturdily built of
timber and of stone, the masonry discolored and
weakened now. There might be, Hubert supposed,
three or four rooms still standing roofed and usable,
counting the fragment of an upper story that remained.
Usable, that is, if the whole thing did not collapse the
first time someone walked into it.
	The road to the right did not go past the house; but
terminated at it, or, more precisely, at a narrow bridge
a few meters from the wooden door. The rickety, unsafe-
looking bridge spanned a noisome ditch formed by an
advanced arm of the swamp. The bridge was fashioned
of two thin, round logs, slippery-looking with damp
and moss. There was a sketch of a railing on one side,
and crosswise between the logs a scattering of short
boards for footing. Some of these floorboards already
hung down broken.
	Again Baron Doon had recourse to his Sword. This
time, Hubert observed with a fatalistic lack of surprise,
the blade quivered only when its owner pointed it in
the direction of the house.
	This time Doon did not sheath the blade, using it
instead to gesture to Golok. Then he went back to
watching the house intently.
	Again the flying mammal, after a low-crooning con-
ference with its master, took to its dark, membranous
wings. It circled the house first. Then it hovered briefly
in front of one shadowed window, but balked at entering
that dark, blank space. In another moment it had re-
turned to its master's shoulder, where it sat shivering.
When Golok spoke to it this time, it would not answer.
	Doon, drawn blade still in hand, dismounted. Then
silently, leading his mount behind him, he approached
the bridge. The riding beast allowed itself to be led,
though unwillingly, its hide quivering with its high-
strung nerves. Hubert saw how its feet curved, the
hard footpads trying to grip the slippery logs of the
bridge where the crossboards were missing.

	The others were all hesitating. Hubert swallowed,
and crossed second. Once he had made up his mind to
follow and serve a leader, he'd serve and follow him.
Until the time came when he decided to quit altogether.
Provided, of course, that when the time came he was
still able ....
	Firmly he banished thoughts like that. Become a
coward, and the world was through with you for good.
The bridge under his feet felt more solid than it looked.
	Once across the bridge, Hubert shot one glance
behind him, and saw that the other two were starting
over. He could not help seeing, also, that the world
back there, the distant parts of it at least, looked
infinitely inviting. Yonder in the background a clear
sky spanned fair, green hills, and happy fields ....
	Such pleasant things were not for the highwayman-
adventurer. Hubert turned his back on them. Now the
frowning, vacant windows of the house were scant
meters in front of him. They reminded him uncom-
fortably of the empty eyesocket that had seemed to
watch him, only a little while ago.
	As soon as Golok, the last man, was across the
bridge, Doon gestured to him again. In obedience
Golok again sent the monkbird forward. But again it
refused to enter any of those dark apertures, darker
than windows ought to be even on such a gloomy day.
	The Sword in Doon's hand quivered, lightly and
insistently. It was guiding them toward the single
broad door that was set in the front of the building at
ground level. Doon led his mount right up to the door,
and rapped on the panels with Wayfinder's hilt. Then
he tugged to open it. It proved not to be locked, but
only stuck; noisily it yielded at last.
	The interior revealed was not as dark as the upstairs
behind those windows. Hubert, looking past his leader, could
make out a passageway, surprisingly deep and broad. And at
the end of the passage-could that be some kind of an interior
courtyard? Somehow, the closer Hubert approached to the
building, the larger it became to his eyes. Yet he was never at
any point conscious of observing any unnatural change.
	Hubert would have liked to delay the others, to talk over
with them in whispers this fact and its implications. But Doon
was already leading them forward, into the house. The
passage was too low for a mounted man to ride through it
comfortably, and he continued to tug his animal after him.
	Once Hubert had gotten well inside, he blinked his eyes
again: Why, he thought, again it's grown bigger. The
passageway, its sides doorless and windowless, went straight
on for six or eight meters; and the interior court when they
reached it was ten meters square, surrounded by two-story
building on all sides. Four doors, one in each wall, were at
ground level. Only the door by which they were entering the
courtyard stood open. More dark windows showed in the
walls.
	"Magic," breathed Golok in the rear. He was following
Hubert and Pu Chou closely now, as if he feared to get very
far from the armed men. His word said no more than they had
all already realized. This courtyard, now that they were
standing in it, was certainly bigger than the whole house had
looked when they had first seen it from ,the road. There were
cloisters cracking into disrepair, and a dry, cracked fountain.
There were a couple of long-dead trees, and in the tile paving
blank clay places that might once have been meant for

flowerbeds. Most of the paving was covered with years of
blown-in dead leaves and dirt.
	Golok drew in his breath with a sharp sound. The door just
opposite that they had entered by was slowly creaking open.
In a moment a huge, black furred, twolegged shape had
appeared in the doorway. The figure slouched There, almost
of human shape, though it looked inhumanly broad and
strong. Bright eyes, of a different blackness than its fur,
glittered at the intruders, and white teeth showed sharp in a
black mouth.
	It was-at least, perhaps it was-no more than a beast, and
they were four men armed and ready. Yet three of the four
men started back.
	Doon had already swung himself back up into his saddle,
from which vantage point he now confronted the creature
with drawn sword. His mount, as if it were relieved to at last
face something in the way of concrete danger, snorted but
held steady.
	Doon cried, to the ebon beast: "Be warned, if ye have
power of understanding! I am not here to be entertained by
bogey-games. Nor will I be sent hence without that which I
need. Be warned also, that this blade when in my hand is
doubly magic!"
	The monstrous ape retreated. Hubert could not tell quite
how it managed the maneuver, only that one moment the
midnight bulk still filled the doorway, and the next moment it
was gone.
	There was a faint sound from the closed door to the right.
As one, the men spun in that direction, to watch that broad
door creaking open . . .
	. . . pushed by a skeletal hand. The hanged man from the
gallows was standing just inside it. Hubert could not be
mistaken about that face.
	Pu Chou uttered a sound that could not be described as
speech. But Doon, wheeling his mount, faced this apparition
as coolly as he had the other. As if addressing the same
entity, he went on speaking. "I tell you, trickery will not move
me, nor will threats. Now do you mean to fight me, or listen to
me?"
	Again, the thing that he confronted disappeared.
	All four men were now turning about, twisting their necks,
trying to keep all four doorways under observation at the
same time. None of them were taken by surprise by the next
appearance, in the doorway that had so far remained
unoccupied. The tall, richly robed figure that stood there now
was that of an old man, gray but sturdy. His massive bald
crown was surrounded by a long gray fringe that matched his
beard. Great blue eyes, with something in them as innocent as
infancy, looked out from under white bushy brows.
	Facing Doon, this man asked in a low, impressive
voice: "What seek you here?" 	-
	Doon lowered his Sword slowly. He started to speak, then
looked down at his mount. The riding beast had suddenly
relaxed.
	And now the Baron heaved a great sigh, as if he too felt
finally able to allow himself the luxury of weariness. When he
spoke, his voice was no longer as taut as a drawn bowstring.
"What I seek is simply wealth. No, not yours; I suppose your
treasure might be considerable, but even so it won't be
enough for me, and I don't purpose to take it. I believe that
the treasure I want is elsewhere. But for some reason the
pathway to it leads through your door."
	Now Doon's riding beast had suddenly turned its long,
gaunt neck aside, and was beginning to graze on

something near the ground. Hubert, with a sensation of
blurred eyes, saw that the flowerbeds were still active after all,
indeed that they were richly grown with leaves and blossoms.
There was a splash from the fountain, where moments ago he
had seen a cracked and dusty basin. Doon turned his head in
mild bewilderment of this new sound, then shrugged and
dismounted, letting his animal graze. But he retained his
Sword in his right hand.
	When a shadow wavered across Hubert's vision, he looked
up to see that a bright sun in a clear sky had been intercepted
by a full-leaved branch of a tree that was after all not dead.
	The tall old man in the doorway was asking: "What is your
name?"
	"I am the Baron Doon." The words were a quiet distillation
of pride.
	The old man nodded. "And I am known, for the present, as
Indosuaros. Do you need to ask my profession?"
	"No, I think not."
	"Nor I yours. Well." A songbird twittered in one of the
trees, and the monkbird, Dart, on Golok's shoulder replied in
happy mockery. Indosuaros added: "I am pleased to offer you
and your men my hospitality. Though, as you have doubtless
deduced by now, my usual habit is to discourage visitors:"
	Doon needed only a moment to think about it. "And we are
pleased to accept, with thanks." He sheathed his Sword.
	Now Hubert was aware that the house around them was
altering even more swiftly than before. Dust and dead leaves
had disappeared from the courtyard, as had the cracks from
the cloisters and the walls. Beside
the burbling fountain a table had materialized, flanked by
benches and chairs and covered in snowy linen. Hubert could
half-see moving forms, whether human or not he could not
tell, moving through the air around the table, juggling plates,
setting and arranging. The air held a sudden and delicious
smell of food, subtle, yet almost staggering to the hungry
senses. And, for one breath-catching moment, Hubert was
sure that he beheld the delicate shape of a young servant girl,
seductively clad. A moment later, only immaterial powers
swirled the air where she had been.
	An elderly serving man, whose drab shape seemed real
and solid enough, had emerged from the house to stand with
bowed head at the side of Indosuaros. The tall wizard
conferred with him in whispers, then made a gesture of
dismissal. Now the benches that had been placed beside the
table were whisked away, to be replaced presently by carven
chairs. Dishes and platters of substantial food began to
appear, and flagons of wine. The settings were enhanced by
cutlery and goblets of precious stone.
	"Pray be seated," said Indosuaros courteously. "All of
YOU."
	"One moment, if you please," said Doon, equally polite.
With a nod to the wizard-it was a gesture, Hubert thought,
that did not quite ask permissionthe Baron drew his magic
blade and consulted it again. It pointed him directly to a chair.
He took it. At his gesture, the other men moved to seat
themselves, with little ceremony.
	Indosuaros took his place at the table's head, in a chair
whose carven serpents, Hubert thought, could be seen from
time to time to move. The wizard lounged

there, nibbling at a few grapes from the banquet, watching
indolently while his guests satisfied their thirst and hunger.
Delightful soft music could now be heard, from somewhere in
the background. The courtyard was now certainly a pleasant
place, with the trees placed just right to shade the table.
	Doon scarcely relaxed. In businesslike fashion he polished
off a plate of food, and a single cup of wine, then signified
politely that he had finished eating. Again the form of the
serving girl was suggested in the air, and plates began to
vanish selectively. Doon scarcely glanced at her. He was
watching his host carefully.
	Indosuaros helped himself to one more grape. Then he
leaned toward his principal guest, and in a low and pleasant
voice began what amounted to a blunt interrogation.
	"We all want gold, don't we? But what makes you think
that, as you put it, your road to wealth leads through my
door? Speak plainly, please-as I believe you have, so far."
	"Why, I intend to do so," Doon answered calmly. "But
first, my thanks again for this excellent refreshment."
	"You are welcome. By the way, I am curious, Baron. You
ate and drank with no sign of hesitancy or suspicion. Did it
never cross your mind, even as a possibility, that . . . ?"
	Hubert, who had just mopped up some delicious gravy
with a morsel of soft white bread, experienced a momentary
difficulty in swallowing.
	But the Baron only laughed. It seemed almost too big a
sound to come out of his small frame. "Sir
Wizard, ordinarily, of course, if someone of your
obvious skill were minded to do me harm with poison,
I'd have little hope of avoiding it. But my Sword has led
me to your table, and I trust it to lead me well."
	"Your sword, you say." The old man sounded
skeptical.
	"Indosuaros, if you can read the page of magic a tenth
as well as I believe you can, you already know which
Sword it is I wear. Wayfinder. The Sword of Wisdom.
Forged, along with its eleven fellows, by none less than
the god Vulcan himself."
	Hubert forgot about swallowing altogether.
	Doon had pushed his chair back a few centimeters.
He had both hands resting on the table's edge„ and
looked ready to push himself back farther and leap up.
"God-forged, it is. And not even your powers, Sir
Wizard, I think, are able to turn it away from true service
to its owner. No magic that mere humans can control
can do so."
	"And it leads you where you command it?"
	"Where my wishes command it. Aye. On to
wealth."
	"And it makes you immune to death?"
	"No. Oh no. I have not commanded it to seek my
safety. But, you see, if you had been trying to poison me,
that would have been certain death, and certainly not
wealth. No, the Sword of Wisdom would not have led
me into that."
	The old wizard appeared to be giving all of this the
deepest thought. "I admit," he said at last, softly, "that I
recognized Wayfinder very quickly. But I was not sure at
first that you knew what you were carrying . . . .
However, Sir Baron, toward what sort of wealth do
you think the Sword of Wisdom is leading you?"

	"Why, no less wealth," said Doon, "than the greatest in
the world. I speak of the main hoard of the Blue Temple
itself. And you may be sure, Sir Wizard, that I know what
sort of an idea I am carrying when I speak of that."
	Hubert could behold his own amazement mirrored in
Pu Chows face, and in Golok's. Rob the Blue Temple?
Impossible! was his own first reaction, held in silence. On
second thought he had to admit that to a master who
could hold his own amid all this enchantment, and sit
bargaining calmly with its creator, anything in the world
might well be possible.
	" . . . so you," Doon was saying to the wizard, "ought
to have no objection to my plan. If you'll provide me
with whatever it is the Sword has brought me here to
find, why then I'll be pleased to share the treasure with
you. Or help you in whatever other way I can."
	"And if I do not," asked the wizard softly, "choose
to provide you with this help?" 	-
	Doon considered this, drumming his fingers on the
table, as if such an idea had never crossed his mind
before. "Then, by all the gods," he said at last, "I'll find
some way to hinder you."
	Hubert, listening to the steady voice, thought that he
had never heard a more truly impressive threat.
	The old man at the head of the table was silent for a
little time, as if he too might have been impressed. Then
he gestured with one large, gnarled hand, its fingers heavy
with ornate rings, and Hubert watching felt a pang of
apprehension. But the gesture evoked nothing stranger
than the old manservant, to hold another whispered
conversation with his master. And now the clearing of the
table proceeded more rapidly.
	Hitching his chair a little closer to the table, the wizard said
to the baron: "Let us talk. When -you say you mean to rob
the Blue Temple, I gather that you mean to despoil it in no
trivial way."
	"I have spoken plainly, as you wished."
	"Indeed . . . you don't mean, I suppose, one of those little
vaults, that all local Blue Temples have, for the day-to-day
business-"
	"I've told you what I mean, wizard, as plainly as I know
how. And I understand what I am talking about."
	"Indeed." Still looking doubtful, Indosuaros lounged back
in his chair again. "Well, I can only say that, coming from
anyone less well-equipped and less determined than yourself,
such an announcement would deserve derision."
	"But coming from me," Doon answered calmly, "the
announcement is to be taken very seriously. I am glad you
have been so quick to grasp that essential point."
	"I think I have. But let me restate it just once more, so
there can be no .ambiguity. You intend to carry off some
substantial portion of Benambra's Gold."
	"A substantial portion," Doon agreed, nodding affably.
"Yes, that's well put. I'd try to take it all, you see, if I thought
there was any chance that my men and I could carry it."
	"And do you know," asked Indosuaros, "where
Benambra's Gold is kept?"
	"Wayfinder is going to lead me to it," Doon answered
simply. "And now you know the bare bones of my plan.
Before I go into any greater detail, let me know whether you
object to it."
	The grizzled manservant was still standing close by his
master's chair, and the two of them now exchanged

a glance. In a moment the old wizard began to make a peculiar
noise, and perform little lurching motions in his chair. It took
Hubert a little while to realize that their host was laughing.
	At last Indosuaros said: "I? Object to the Blue Temple's
being robbed?" And he laughed again, and waved a hand
about him in a gesture that seemed to take in his whole
establishment. "I have secluded myself like this from the
world for one reason only: that I may devise the most terrible
vengeance possible upon the Blue Temple and all its leaders.
For the past . . . for never mind how many years, I have
devoted all my energies to that one object. And what worse
vengeance could there be, upon them, than to rob them of
what they hold dearer than life itself . . . hey, Mitspieler? Are
we going to throw open those vaults of theirs or not?" And
with a gesture that looked somehow out of character, he
thumped his manservant awkwardly on the arm.
	The servant called Mitspieler looked, if not quite as old as
his master, somewhat more worn. His was a workman's face,
beardless and lined. His stature was fairly small, his build
sturdy, his arms emerging wiry and corded from short sleeves.
His hair, short, curly, and dark, was richly mixed with gray.
	His dark eyes gazed off into the distance as he answered.
"In those vaults lies treasure, truly beyond price and beyond
compare . . . aye, we can open them. When we are ready. We
have been waiting for the help we need."
	"And I have woven spells," said Indosuaros, "that the
needed help might be brought to me, for until it was, a
robbery on the requisite scale seemed well-nigh
impossible:' He smiled at Doon. "And you still think that your
coming here was a matter of your own choosing?"
	"I have told you what it was-the Sword's guidance. But
come, I'm interested. Just why are you devoting your life to
getting back at the moneybags? Vengeance for what?"
	"It is a long story."
	"I'll hear one, if necessary."
	"Later," said Indosuaros, vaguely. "Baron, will you draw
your Sword once more if I request it? And hold it up for me to
see?"
	Doon pushed his chair back farther, and stood up, to make
the motion easier. And yet once more he brought Wayfinder
bright out of its sheath. The wizard now appeared to focus
his full attention for the first time on the blade; and the
servant standing beside his chair gazed at it too.
	All the others were quietly intent, watching Indosuaros.
	At last the old magician looked away, frowning lightly. "I
will admit," he said, "that your Sword is genuine.
Considerable power rests there in your hand."
	"Considerable?" Doon came near to being outraged. "Is
that the best word that you can find for it?"
	Indosuaros was unruffled. "My own powers are also . . .
considerable. And I tell you that they have been at work for a
long time to solve the problems of attacking the Blue Temple.
I have set them to bringsomeone well qualified-perhaps you-
here to help me. So, whether your presence here is actually
due to the Sword, or-"
	Doon brandished Wayfinder once, then clapped it

back into its sheath, as if to save it from the gaze of
disrespectful eyes. The Baron cried: "Forged by a god! By
Vulcan himself!" It appeared that he could not credit the
other's attitude. He seated himself again, banging his chair on
the pavement.
	"I have admitted that your Sword has worth." Indosuaros
was looking at his guest more sternly now. "My chief
question now is, what do you, yourself, bring to this
enterprise? Apart, that is, from your indisputable greed, and
courage-or perhaps foolhardiness. Are you the man whose
help I need? I must seek an answer to this question in
practical terms:"
	"Then seek it."
	It was probably Hubert himself who unwittingly gave
warning. Doon must have seen, mirrored in Hubert's face, that
something untoward was developing behind the Baron's
chair.
	The door leading into that wall of the courtyard had swung
open, to show blackness gathered behind it, an interior as
dark as ever. And the ebony ape was there again, as silent as
before. As soon as its eyes fell upon Doon, it came hurtling
toward him from behind. The rush was swift and noiseless,
and made with log-sized arms uplifted to seize the man or deal
him a crushing blow.
	Hubert was on his feet. But he knew he was too late, too
slow, knew it even as he stood there with his own weapon but
half-drawn, his chair still in the act of toppling behind him.
Doon had meanwhile rolled sideways from his own chair,
coming out of the movement somehow on his feet even as the
great ape's fists crashed down to splinter his chair's back.
Hubert had not seen Wayfinder drawn again, but now it
flickered
in its master's hand, the silver tongue of some swift
serpent.
	The ape turned with a roar, but not in time. Black
fur gushing red that was not wine upon white linen, it
sprawled forward among the remaining winecups. Gur-
gling its death, it slid off the table slowly, dragging
cloth and cups to crash down with it.
	Four men stood around the table armed, ready for
the next threat-but there was none. One man sat
smiling at the tables head. Nothing but approval glinted
in the eye of Indosuaros.
	Once more Doon waved the Sword. "I told you,
wizard!" he roared in triumph. "I told you! In my
hand; doubly magic!"

CHAPTER 5

	The three of them, Mark, Ben, and Barbara, had
been awake most of the night. They had been busy
packing, swapping histories and stories, trading off to
the other carnival people things that they weren't going
to need. Then they had left the carnival at sunrise,
driving in Barbara's wagon, one item she hadn't wanted
to trade just yet. Tanakir had bartered them some food
and a little coin for Barbara's little dragon and its
cage, which he meant to incorporate into his own act.
He was staying on with the carnival, seeing that she
and her friends were leaving. Viktor waved goodbye to
the three of them at dawn, and shouted his hope that
they'd come back next season.
	Mark doubted that very much. One way or another,
he thought, they were sure to be somewhere else.
	Purkinje Town and the carnival encampment were
a couple of hours behind them now. The road ahead
had already straightened out, entering a long rise of
nearly flat and mostly empty country that mounted
slowly toward distant mountains that were now only
just visible. An hour ago they had paused for breakfast,
and Mark, as in the old days, had used his bow to
hunt down a couple of rabbits.
	Now they were well under way again, heading south
by mutual though still largely unspoken agreement.
The decision had been arrived at in the camp, sur-
rounded by eavesdroppers, and the reasons for going
south had not been discussed as yet.
	Ben was driving the wagon at the moment, and
Barbara talking.
	"Ben, you haven't told us what you're up to. You say
you joined the Blue Temple, but you're not with 'em
any more. All right, so you deserted. But you've got a
look about you. What're you planning now?"
	Ben smiled faintly. "I'm planning to marry you."
	Barbara looked exasperated. "We went through all
that before you left. Nothing's changed. When I marry
somebody, it's going to have to mean that I can live
like a real person somewhere. No more-" She waved
a hand, vaguely indicating the wagon and the road.
	"Fine with me," said Ben.
	Her curiosity obviously aroused, Barbara looked at
him closely. "Have you got any money in your pockets?"
	"Not in my pockets. Not with me."
	"Hidden somewhere, then?"
	"I haven't got it yet. But. . . "
	With a loud sigh, Barbara sat back between the
men, folding her arms. One more dream-possibility
demolished.

	Mark enjoyed listening to the two of them. He was
curious about Ben's plans too, but he didn't want to
interrupt. Now Ben appeared to be content, for the
time being, to look mysterious as he gazed into the
distance along the road ahead.
	They drove for a while without conversation. Then
Barbara said to Ben: "I know what it is. You want to
get your Sword back, you're ready to try to sell it."
	"I want to get it back, yes. Sell it, no. We got rid of
the idea of selling them even before we hid the two
Swords. We'd get cheated or murdered for sure. No,
I've got a use for Dragonslicer."
	Mark asked him: "A dragon hunt somewhere? Even
Nestor never made much money doing that, remember?"
	They all remembered. Ben said: "Nestor wasn't at it
long enough. Anyway, it's a special hunt that I have
in mind. There's just one dragon that needs to be got
rid of."
	"Everyone who's plagued with dragons on his land
says that," Barbara advised him. "Get your pay in
advance." Now she swiveled her head to look at the
two men in quick succession. "Both of you, coming
back at the same time like this-I wonder if there's
some connection?"
	"I want my Sword back too," said Mark. "But I'm not
going dragon hunting. And I had no idea Ben had gone
off to enlist, or that he'd be looking for Dragonslicer
now."
	"What do you need Coinspinner for?" Barbara asked
him. "Not that I have to know. I'll get it back for you
anyway."
	"No secret about it. I'm going back to Sir Andrew's
army."
"Why do you want to do that?" Ben shot at him.
	"I don't know if I want to. I just feel like I've got to. I told
you I was with him for a while, and then things got to
seeming hopeless, and I left. And then. . . "
	"They probably are hopeless," said Ben.
	"Then I went back to my old village, Arin-on-Aldan, to see
if I could locate my mother and my sister. There . . . wasn't
any village any more. Five years since I've been there. Maybe
I'll never know what happened to them." Mark paused. "But
I'm going back to Sir Andrew now. With Coinspinner, if I
can:"
	"Why?" pursued Ben.
	Mark leaned forward to talk past Barbara. "Look, he's
trying to help his people. The people who were his, before he
lost his lands. Don't you think they want him back? It isn't
just the lands, the wealth, that he's trying to recover."
Feelings, ideas, were struggling in Mark but he couldn't find
the words to let them out. "He keeps on fighting the Dark
King," he concluded, feeling even as he spoke how
inadequate the words were.
	"Sounds hopeless," said Ben, remorselessly practical.
	"Everything's hopeless, as long as people don't try." And
Mark added suddenly: "I wish that you and Barbara would
come with me."
	"To join an army?" Barbara laughed, though not unkindly.
	Ben just shook his head in silence.
	Mark hadn't really expected any other answer, but still the
refusals, Ben's in particular, irritated him. "So, you're going to
hunt dragons instead? That's as hard as fighting in a war,
even if you do have Dragonslicer."

	Ben turned. Enthusiasm entered his voice again. "I told
you, the hunting's only a small part of it. The dragon is just in
the way of something else. I wish that both of you would
come with me."
	"I'm no good at riddles," Barbara said.
	"What would we do?" Mark asked.
	"Gain some money. More than just that. Wealth."
	"I'm not out to get wealthy," Mark told him.
	"All right. You're out to help Sir Andrew fight for his land
and get it back-"
	"And for his people."
	"All right, for his people. Now you could help Sir Andrew a
lot more by taking him a share of treasure, couldn't you?
Imagine yourself showing up in his camp with jewels and gold
enough to feed his army for a year."
	"An army, for a year?"
	"Ten years, maybe."
	Barbara had turned to look at the huge man with concern.
"Are you sick?" she asked him. The question sounded
uncomfortably serious.
	And Mark asked: "Where's anyone going to find wealth
like that?"
	Ben was calm. "I'll tell you both if you say you're with me."
	This wasn't like Ben, and Mark couldnt figure it out. "Look,
Sir Andrew needs real help. Not some scheme that .... I'm
going to get Coinspinner and take it to him. If it's still
wherever Barbara hid it."
	Ben was looking stubborn now, maybe offended. Mark
added: "I think now that we were wrong to hide them the way
we did."
	Barbara said: "Then you've forgotten how tired the
three of us were of Swords. Remember? Wed worry
that they'd be stolen. Or that somebody powerful
would find out that we had them, and an army would
come after us, or a demon, or some magician that we'd
have no way to cope with. Then we'd think of trying to
sell them to someone, and we'd realize that we'd be
cheated when we did, and murdered afterwards. Then
we'd worry that Coinspinner would get lost of itself
. . . remember how it'd move around? We'd hide it
underneath something on one side of the wagon, and
find it on the other. Or just outside. I'm not sure it's
going to be there when we look for it."
	"We'll look, though," said Mark. He paused. "Neither
of you has ever heard anything of Townsaver, I guess?"
	As he had expected, the others signed that they had
not. Mark's father, Jord the blacksmith, had been the
only survivor among the half dozen men conscripted
by Vulcan to forge the Swords. And when the job was
done, the god had taken Jord's right arm-and given
him, in payment he had said, the Sword of Fury,
Townsaver. All this before Mark had been born.
	Then Jord, and Mark's older brother Kenn, had
died in the fight when Townsaver saved their village -a
hollow victory indeed, as Mark had seen for himself ....
	" . . . recovered from his wounds?" Barbara was
asking him something.
	With an effort Mark recalled his thoughts, and fig-
ured out what she was talking about. "Sir Andrew?
You mean his wounds from when his castle fell? That
was five years ago. He's had more wounds since then,
and overcome them-he does right well for a man his
age. Or of any age, for that matter. Keeps his own
small army in the field, most of the year. Supports

Princess Rimac, and her General Rostov. Harasses the
Dark King. And fights Queen Yambu, of course; she
now holds Sir Andrew's old lands."
"Dame Yoldi's still with him?"
	"Sir Andrew'd not trust any other seer, I think. Nor
she, I suppose, any other lord."
	Now again for a time there was silence, except for
the plodding of the loadbeasts' feet and the creaking of
the wagon. All three people riding in it were examin-
ing different but related memories. Ben reached up,
unconsciously, to rub a scar that crossed his left shoul-
der and the upper part of his arm. It was from a
wound received in the fierce defense of Sir Andrew's
castle, five years ago ....
	And Mark returned to that day now, as he some-
times did in nightmares. Seeing the scaling ladders
nosing up over the walls, the Gray Horde ready to
swarm up. And massed behind its hideous ranks were
the black and silver of Yambu, the blue and white of
the army of Duke Fraktin who was now no more. That
had been Mark's first real battle, and very nearly his
last.
	Barbara said: "Every time I think of that day, I
think of Nestor."
	"Aye," said Ben. And then again all three were
silent. On the subject of Nestor there was no more to
be said. Dragonslicer had been Nestor's, as had this
very wagon; and Nestor must have fallen at some point
in the defense, perhaps with Townsaver still in hand.
By inheritance, or at least by unspoken agreement
among Nestor's friends, Dragonslicer had come to Ben.
	"How large is Sir Andrew's army now?" Barbara
asked Mark.
	"Even if I knew the numbers, I'd be wrong to tell
them. Even to you two . . . anyway the numbers change,
with fortune and the seasons. But he needs help."
Raw urgency was in Mark's voice as he repeated: "I
wish you'd come with me. Both of you."
	Barbara laughed again. It was not a mocking sound,
but quick and unhesitating. "I'm fed up with armies
and with fighting. I'd like to try the opposite side of
life for a while. Live in some peaceful town, and be a
stodgy citizen with my own house and my own bed. A
solid bed with four legs, one that doesn't roll. Let the
world do its fighting outside the city walls." Again she
looked quickly to her companions on left and right.
"The last time that the three of us were in a fight, you
two had to carry me out of it-that should have been
warning enough for all of us:"
	"And I," said Ben, "have had enough of armies too.
March back and forth to no purpose, take stupid
orders and sweat and freeze and starve. That's what
you do on the good, days. And once in a while bad days
come along. As both of you know." He faced Mark. "I
admire Sir Andrew, but I have to say that I think his
brains are addled. Ire's never going to win his lands
and people back."
	"So instead," said Mark, "you are going back to
something safe and pleasant, like hunting dragons-
all right, just one dragon. And that's going to make
you fabulously rich. Is that what you said?"
	"I didn't say that. But it will."
	Barbara made a derisive sound. "The dragon guards
a treasure?" That was a situation arising only in old
fantastic tales.
	"In a manner of speaking, yes, it does." Her mock-

ery had stung Ben. "And I'll tell you something of
the treasure. It has at least one more of the Swords
in it. I know. I saw it put there myself, down into
the earth."
	Mark blinked, and suddenly found himself listening
to Ben seriously. "One more Sword? Which one?"
	"That I don't know," said Ben calmly, "The Sword
was well wrapped when I saw it put away, along with
six loadbeasts' burden of some other treasure. But I
brushed against the Sword once, and even through the
wrappings I could feel the power. After living with two
of 'em here in the wagon for a couple of years, I know
what I felt."
	Barbara's face had altered. And her voice, too, when
she spoke again. Now it came out in a whisper, almost
awed. "You were in Blue Temple service."
	"Of course. That's what I've been telling you."
	But plainly the implications, the possibilities, hadn't
really dawned on her till now.

	At sunset they made camp. As so often in the old
days, Ben and Mark slept under the wagon, with
Barbara inside. In the morning they moved on, stead-
ily and without hurry.
	Several days passed in a southward journey. Spring
would have shaded into summer around them, except
that the country was growing higher. Modest moun-
tains rose up ahead, apparently barring their progress.
Mark had never learned the right name for this range,
though he had passed this way at least once before.
	Next day the road started to wind upward. It
remained a comparatively easy way, for a route that
traversed a mountain pass. Here at higher altitude the
end of winter lingered still, in wasted fragments of snowbanks
that survived among the bold spring flowers. The scenery
began to tend toward the tremendous.
	"I remember this place now. This was where we turned."
	There was a small side canyon, that went curving up from
the main road that traversed the pass. The wagon could get
up the side canyon for a couple of hundred meters, and that
was far enough. Suddenly the three who rode in. it came in
sight of a ruined shrine or temple, built on a small rise. It was
a beautiful setting, prettiness nearby in the grass and
wildflowers, and grandeur in the distant vistas. What god or
goddess the temple might have been raised to honor seemed
impossible to determine now. Certainly it was very old.
	It was midday when they stood before the ruin. They had
left the wagon standing just a few meters downslope, where
the drivable surface petered out completely.
	"You hid them in here? In the ruins?"
	Barbara nodded.
	"Why in here?"
	"Coinspinner itself directed me to the place. I thought I
told you that it had guided me."
	The wind sighed through the walls of the canyon, rocks
splintered with some ancient heaving of the earth. In the
distance, far down the pass, the gentler slopes were beautiful
with spring. Mark could see a group of white-robed pilgrims
there in the distance, approaching slowly through the pass. If
they were chanting a song to Ardneh, as seemed likely, he
couldn't hear it at this range.

"Is this one of Ardneh's shrines, I wonder?"
	"I suppose the local people would know," said Barbara.
"If there were any local people."
	But when they went inside the roofless walls and looked
about, they found strong evidence that there were. Dried
flowers, and freeze-dried fruit, were arranged on a low, flat
stone, that might or might not originally have been part of an
altar.
	Two years ago, Barbara had climbed up to this place alone
one night, from their camp a couple of hundred meters down
the hill. She had climbed by night, with moonlight to show her
the way picked out by the Sword that quivered in her hands.
	Once the three had decided among themselves to hide the
Swords, Coinspinner itself, in their troubled juggling with it,
had shown them how to proceed.
	Every time Mark or Ben had taken that weapon in hand,
and tried to think of where it and its fellow should be hidden,
the point had indicated Barbara.
	And then, when they gave her Coinspinner to hold, she
could feel no power in it at all. Then she had picked up
Dragonslicer too-Mark had been apprehensive lest the two
Swords come into contact, and something awkward, or worse
than awkward, happen as a result. Then Coinspinner had
vibrated almost angrily in Barbara's grasp, pointing out for
her a path to follow. But it had ceased its indications
whenever the men had tried to follow her.
	So they had let her proceed alone. The moon had been the
only witness of her climb up to this temple. The ruined
structure was not visible from the main road through the
pass, and she had not suspected
its existence until the Sword of Chance had led her
to it.
	When the final place was indicated to her, she had
hidden Coinspinner and Dragonslicer with a feeling of
great relief. After years of hiding them and carrying
them about, the nerves of all three people were worn
with the strain. At that time their friend Sir Andrew
had been a hunted fugitive, hiding they knew not where,
and none of them had yet heard of Princess Rimac or
her General Rostov, Sir Andrew's potential allies.
	Swordless, Barbara had returned to camp. Mark
and Ben, both obviously relieved to see her, had started
to ask questions.
	She had declined to answer. "It's done," she told
them shortly. "We can stop worrying. And now I'm
going to get some sleep."

	And now, almost two years later, they were back.
	It was hard to tell, by looking at the temple, what
style of building it had been originally. Time and ruin
moved all things toward simplicity. If any of the stones
had ever been painted, they were now all white again,
matching the surface of some nearby cliffs. If there
had been carving, it was crumbled now. Architecture
had all but vanished, leaving rubbly walls that in
places were little more than outlines.
	As soon as Ben saw the modern offerings on the flat
altar stone, he dug into his pockets until he found a
few fragments of bread. These he tossed beside the
dessicated fruit and flowers. When he saw the others
looking at him, he explained. "Some gods may not
amount to much, but it pays to keep on the good side
of Ardneh. I've found that out."

	Mark was shaking his head. "We don't know it's his
temple anyway."
	"It might be."
	"All right. But Sir Andrew says that Ardneh's dead.
And out of all the gods we know are living, there s
none whose attention I'd like to attract."
	Ben stared at him for a moment, then shrugged and
tossed a few more crumbs. "If Ardneh's dead-then
this is for the unknown god who means us well,
whoever he may be. Or she, if it's a goddess. Can't do
any harm, certainly."
	"I suppose not," Mark admitted. And, because he
could tell that Ben would feel better if he did,. Mark
dug into his own pockets for some scraps of. food, and
tossed them on the stone.
	Barbara was ignoring them, and had already moved
on to more practical matters. "It was dark, before,"
she was murmuring, more to herself than to the men.
"Moonlight, but... " And she moved from one angle
of wall to another, pausing to look at the ancient
stonework thoughtfully. Most of the blocks that were
still in place were finely fitted together, without mortar.
Few of them were large.
	At last she bent, and, with wiry strength, moved
aside what looked like a portion of a windowsill. "Come
help me. This is the place."
	In the men's hands the stones moved rapidly. Pres-
ently the old sill had disappeared. The low wall here
proved to be hollow. Between the larger stones that
made its base, a sizable cavity appeared.
	Barbara stepped back, making room for them to
reclaim their property. "Reach in," she directed.
	Ben pulled up his right sleeve, revealing an arm
that looked almost stubby in its thickness. He thrust it into
the hole up to his shoulder, and at once pulled out a sword-
shaped bundle. The wrapping on it at once started to fall free,
exposing portions of the fabric that had been folded under.
Now Mark could recognize the cloth's pattern as that of an
old blanket that Barbara had once had in the wagon.
	Ben, murmuring something about the feel of power, shook
the bundle, and the dusty wrappings fell away entirely.
Dragonslicer, unchanged from when they'd seen it last,
gleamed forth in meter-long straightness and sharpness.
There was the mottled pattern, inside the flat of the bright
steel, undimmed by rust. As Ben held the Sword up, cradled
in two hands, Mark could see on the jet-black hilt the tiny
white outline of a stylized dragon.
	Ben made room beside the wall, and Mark knelt and groped
into the cavity. He could feel stones and dust, but no
wrappings and no blade. He reached farther, extending his
fingers slowly and cautiously, in case Coinspinner's blade
might be exposed-well he knew the extreme sharpness of the
Swords. But still his hand found nothing-no, here was
something. An object small and hard and round.
	Wonderingly Mark brought out the coin, and held it up
and saw that it was gold. The symbols on it were in some
language that he could not recognize. The face on the
obverse looked to him like that of Hermes, depicted as usual
in his cap.
	"It ought to be right in there," Barbara was saying to him.
"Unless.. . " Her voice died when she saw what Mark held in
his hand.
	Mark gave her the coin to look at. Then he and Ben

removed more stones, and looked into the wall more deeply.
The whole cavity was now exposed, but Coinspinner was
gone.
	No one sang Coinspinner's verse aloud. But it was running
in their minds.
	When they were satisfied that the Sword of Chance was no
longer there, they restored the half-ruined wall, to a condition
at least a little better than it had been on their arrival.
	Then Mark sat down on the reconstructed sill, staring at
the gold coin that was now in his hand again, while Ben and
Barbara stood nearby regarding him.
	"The coin is yours to keep," said Barbara.
	"Of course," added Ben.
	"Worth a good deal," said Mark, flipping it. "But not a
Sword. I want to take a Sword back to Sir Andrew."
	"Mine does not go there," said Ben. He paused, then
added: "But I know where there's at least one more."
	Mark, who had forgotten about other treasure for a time,
turned Ben's offer over in his mind. He looked up, about to
speak, and then was distracted by the oddity of a certain
small shadow in the sky. He jumped to his feet, hushing
Barbara with a raised hand just as she was about to say
something.
	High above their heads a creature flew, a small dark shape
against the sky. Mark could see that it was a monkbird-that
peculiar twisting of the wings in flight was a hard thing to
mistake. It was surprising to see a monkbird up here in the
highlands, far from its usual habitat.
	The creature's flight path was curving in a circle around
the zenith, as if it were deliberately observing the ruined
temple and the three people who were inside it.
	Barbara had scrambled up atop one of the ruined walls, to
get a better view downslope. "Some men are coming up the
canyon," she announced. "Six of them, I think."
	Ben and Mark got into position to see for themselves. On
the trail that ascended from the main road, two mounted men
led four who moved on foot. Some of them at least were
heavily armed.
	"Following our wagon tracks?"
	"No-maybe not-see the rider's drawn sword? I think he's
using it for guidance:"
	"Coinspinner, then!"
	"It could be Wayfinder."
	As they, watched, the monkbird left off circling and flew
down to the approaching procession. It landed on the
shoulder of the man walking in the rear, and presumably it
could be reporting what it had seen.
	Barbara hopped down from the wall. "What do we do? We
can't retreat uphill with the wagon:"
	Ben spat. "I don't feel like just giving them a team and
wagon. Six aren't that many, even assuming that they do mean
harm." So the three, with good rocks at their back and some
advantage in high ground, stood to face those who were
approaching.
	The leader of the six, he who rode holding a drawn sword
in front of him, drew up his mount when he saw the three of
them waiting. He was a small man with a large mustache. His
gestures at once suggested an imperious manner. And,
certainly, it was one of the

Twelve Swords that he gripped, though it was impossible to
see at the moment which white symbol marked its hilt.
	The second rider was a tall, graybearded man-a wizard,
thought. Mark, if he had ever seen one. Four more men came
tagging along on foot, none of them looking particularly
impressive.
	When the leader drew up his riding beast some twenty
meters or so away, Ben-in response to that brandished Sword-
let the wrapping fall free from Dragonslicer. Mark had an
arrow already nocked, and Barbara had drawn the sling from
her belt and slipped a smooth stone into it from her small
pouch. Now she was holding the weapon in expert readiness,
letting the weight of the stone swing gently on the thongs.
	The armed men in the other group began to draw their
weapons also, but without any great appearance of
eagerness. He who was so obviously a wizard, however, was
frowning and shaking his head. "Peace!" he cried out, in a
huge voice, and held up an open palm toward each side.
	Ben made no move to put down Dragonslicer, nor Mark to
lower his bow. Having weapons out and ready was probably
the best move that non-magicians could make to ward off
spells.
	"Oh, aye, I'll have peace, if I can." The voice of the
mustached man was easily loud enough for those confronting
him to hear, as he replied to the wizard. Then, when Ben
brandished his own Sword again, the man rounded on him
and added "But peace or war, I'll have my treasure. Unless it's
Shieldbreaker that you're mishandling there so awkwardly,
young man, I'll be able to take it from you if I try."
	Mark chose to answer that. "And if that's Coin-
spinner in your dainty hand, you'd better know that it
belongs to me, and that I mean to have it back. If it's
Townsaver, the same. That's mine by inheritance."
	The rider controlled his mount. "Ha, we've met an
owner of two Swords, by Hades! Neither of which he
happens to have with him at the moment, unfortunately
. . . since you appear to be so well-versed in the lore of
Swords, I'll tell you that I hold Wayfinder here. It's
guided me to this place, and now I must determine
why." Again the rider had to struggle briefly with his
high-spirited mount. He added then: "I am the Baron
Doon, and this at my right hand the wizard Indosuaros.
And who are you?"
	"Mark," said Mark, touching his chest with his free
right hand. Then he gestured to his side: "Ben, and
Barbara."
	"Ha, a notable economy of names. And a lack of
pretension in the way of titles. But why not?" And
now the mustached one heeded his wizard, who had
jockeyed his own mount, a pale loadbeast trained for
riding, closer to speak to him in a low voice.
	After a short whispered conference, the man who
had called himself Baron Doon looked up again. "So.
What you have there is Dragonslicer. Doubtless the
very implement I need, to break the second sealing."
He spoke like a man making his private plans aloud.
	There was a moment of ominous silence. Then Ben
said in a calm voice: "Why, I have heard of a dragon-
sealing, in a song. An old song, about treasure, where
the sealings are numbered up to seven."
	The Baron-Mark was beginning to believe that he
might be such, for he looked proud enough to be a

king-the Baron studied calmly the three who faced
him. "It may be," Doon said at last, "that I will have
use in my enterprise for some of you, as well as for
that Sword. We had better talk."
	Barbara spoke up, as bold as he. "Use for us in
what enterprise? And at what rates of pay?"
	The Baron looked at her appreciatively for a moment.
Then he said: "I mean to have Benambra's Gold. You
say that you know the old song; then you may know as
well that it is more than a song, much more than a
story. It's real, and those I choose to help me are going
to share in it generously."
	There was a silence, broken only by the wind feel-
ing its way down the pass to mourn in the stones of
the ruined temple. And now the wind brought with it
the faint voices of the distant pilgrims, chanting to
Ardneh as they drew slowly closer. 	-
	Mark exchanged glances with Ben. Then he called
to Doon: "We might be willing to join you. We'll have
to hear more, first."
	And Ben, to Doon: "Whether we agree or not, this is
my Sword, and it stays with me."
	The Baron called back to them: "I want to consult
Wayfinder on which of you, if any, I ought to enlist.
You'll pardon me if I come nearer to you with it
drawn."
	And Barbara: ' As long as you'll pardon us for hold-
ing our own weapons ready."
	Doon now rode slowly forward, while the rest of his
group stayed where they were. At a distance of no
more than three or four meters he halted again, and
now he pointed with the blade in his hand at Mark,
Ben, and Barbara in turn. Mark could see the tip
quivering, lightly and rapidly, when it was aimed at
himself and at Ben. But it remained steady, he thought,
when Doon leveled it at Barbara.
	Doon told the two young men: "Your young piece
there is not going to come with us. Can you trust your
lives to her ability to hold her tongue?"
	And Ben again: "Speak of the lady gently, or you
might get Dragonslicer where you don't want it."
	Doon raised an eyebrow, a signal more elegant by far
than his attire. "Your pardon, I'm sure, your ladyship. I
meant only that I decline to invite you to take part in this
enterprise. And I most strongly advise that you say
nothing to anyone about it."
	She flared back at him fearlessly, "It's well that you
decline to invite me, for I'd decline to go. And if my two
friends are going, my tongue'll not put them in danger."
Her manner softened just a little. "You don't know me,
or you'd spare yourself the worry."
	Doon slid his Sword back into its poor sheath.
Suddenly he appeared somewhat diminished, though still
vital and flamboyant. He sat his mount in silence for a
few moments, looking over a people who faced him.
apparently he was satisfied by what he saw, for he smiled
suddenly; it was a better smile than any of the three
confronting him expected.
	"If there are any farewells to be said among you," he
told the three, "say them now. My men and I will be
waiting for two of you a little down the slope." With that
he turned his back and slowly rode away, signing to his
men to put their weapons up. They fell in behind him,
and without looking back proceeded down the canyon.
	The three who were left behind looked at one
another.

	Ben drew a deep breath, and addressed Mark. "Well,
then. I take it we are going?"
	"Benambra's Gold," Mark marveled softly, shaking his
head.
	"And Swords," said Ben, "for Sir Andrew."
	"Aye, you tell me there's a Sword."
	"Or maybe more than one."
	"I'll have to go," said Mark. "I'll have to risk it then."
	"And I know you're going too," said Barbara to
Ben.
	Mark went to her, and put his golden coin into her
hand. "What do you have to say," he asked, "about our
leaving you? I see no way around it."
	"Nor do I, I suppose." If Barbara had any strong
feelings in the matter she was keeping them well
concealed. "There are some pilgrims moving through the
past; and I expect they'll be glad to have someone with a
wagon join them, for a time at least." She tossed the coin
once, then put it away inside her garments. "I'll keep this
for you. It's less likely that I'll lose it than you will, where
you seem to be going."
	"Spend it if need be-you know that. It won't buy you a
shop in a walled city, but-when Ben comes back, perhaps
you can." Mark paused, aware of Ben waiting his turn to
say goodbye. "Are you going back to the carnival, then?"
	"I didn't think so when I left it. But now-what else?
First, though, I'm going to watch from a hilltop, to see if
that gang tries to murder you both right off."
	"We'll scream for help," said Ben. He took her in his
arms and kissed her roughly, swinging her off her feet.
"I'll find you with the carnival, then, when I come back
with a fortune. And listen. Tell
that strongman, if he's still there, that-that- '
"I can manage him. I have so far."
	And Mark heard no more, for he walked apart a little,
to let the two of them say goodbye. alone. Presently,
looking back, he saw Ben lifting Barbara into the
wagon. She waved her arm once more to Mark, and
then drove off.
	There had evidently been an old scabbard in the
wagon, for Ben was fitting Dragonslicer into it, and
belting it round his waist, when Mark caught up to him.
	"Let's go get our treasure, comrade."
	Following the swiftly driven wagon down the hill,
they saw Barbara drive past the place where Doon and
his men were loitering, waiting for their two recruits.
Moments later they saw her pause, looking back,
watching from a small hilltop as she had promised.

CHAPTER 6

	Doon welcomed the two of them briskly when they
came striding downhill to him, and the combined
descent to the main road got under way without delay.
Introductions went round among the men while they
were moving.
	When they reached the place where the trail from
the side canyon rejoined the main road through the
pass, Doon drew and consulted his Sword again.
Barbara's wagon was now out of sight, around the
curve of the main road; and the pilgrims' chant was
faintly audible from that direction.
	Doon's Sword pointed back to the north, in the
direction from which Ben and Barbara and Mark had
come. Dismounted now, leading his animal, the Baron
set the pace in that direction, and motioned for Mark
and Ben to walk close beside him.
	Now Doon began a conversation by posing them a few
cautious questions about their background. He seemed glad
to hear that they claimed some minor experience as dragon
hunters. Their claim was more readily accepted, thought
Mark, because they made it modest.
	"And what about yourself, sir?" Mark countered.
	"What about myself?"
	"How do you come to be leading this expedition?" Mark
asked bluntly. "It seems to me that qualifications beyond the
ordinary are required."
	Doon did not appear to object to being questioned in such
a way, but smiled at them graciously. "True," he agreed, "and
my qualifications have already been tested, in more ways than
one. But it is chiefly a matter of will."
	"How's that?" Ben wanted to know.
	Doon smiled again. "You see before you, gentlemen," he
began, "a man almost devoid of what the world calls wealth.
The powers that rule the universe have determined, for what
reason I do not know, that pauperism is to be my lot. Whereas
I, on my own behalf, have made a different determination. I will
have wealth:" He said it with majestic sincerity.
	"I am impressed," said Mark.
	"You should be, young man. If I am willing to defy gods,
demons, and unguessed-at powers, think how little likely I am
to be turned aside by any merely human obstacles:"
	"The gods must favor you somewhat," said Ben, "or you
would not have a Sword."
	"They can never all agree on anything, can they? Tell me-
"

I 		I 
Yes.
	"Why were both of you disposed to believe me so quickly,
when I mentioned Benambra's Gold? Most folk of any wit
would be more skeptical."
	"I was a minstrel once," said Ben. "I knew the old song."
	"More than that."
	"Yes:" He looked at Doon steadily as they trudged along.
"A couple of months ago, I helped to bury part of it. I've seen
it with my own eyes."
	"Ah. What have you seen, exactly?" The Baron's question
was calm, reserving judgement.
	"The gold of the Blue Temple, I'm telling you. Six
loadbeasts' burden of it. It was wrapped up in bundles, but
there was no mistaking what it was."
	"You helped to bury it, you say."
	"To put it into a cave, and I know where that cave is."
	"What I have heard," said Doon, "is that the men who do
that work are always slain, immediately afterward."
	"There were six of us, and I think five were killed. I didn't
wait to make sure."
	,,Ah. '
	The wizard was riding close behind the three of them and
doubtless listening. The four other men were keeping close -
as well, taking in every word.
	Doon said: "Wayfinder of course can lead me to the site.
But 'it will be good to learn the location from you in advance,
so we can begin to plan more carefully."
	Ben squinted up at the sun and got his directions. "I'll tell
you this much now. Your Sword is taking you in the right
general direction."
	"Ah. But you see, for the past month it has been leading
me on a zigzag path. I wondered about this when I first
realized it, but the reason quickly became clear. When I began
I was alone, and I have been gathering the necessary tools
and helpers. The Sword has led me to different people-as to
you-and to other necessities. But it has been up to me to gain
them for my cause, by one means or another."
	"I see," said Mark. "And when will your expedition be
finally complete and ready?"
	"It may be so now, for all I know. Your friend says that we
are now heading toward the gold."
	"There are a few more things," the wizard put in suddenly,
"that I could wish we had, before we reach the hiding place
and try to breach it:"
	Mark turned to look at him. "Such as?"
	"You-or your friend-spoke of the sealings, back there. Do
you truly know what all six of them are?"
	"The song says seven-doesn't it, Ben? And they must be
the various protections of the treasure."
	Doon meanwhile was looking round, and appeared to be
considering the extent of the train of men and beasts he now
had following him. In an aside to himself, he muttered: "A few
more, and I'll have to form them into companies, and start
making out duty rosters . . . well, there s good as well as bad
in numbers. The more of us there are, the more treasure we'll
be able to carry out. When I know the location, I'll be able to
make some better plans on that as well. The gods know there'll
be enough for all of us. No need for greedy squabbling."
	"No need at all," agreed Ben. And Mark murmured
something similar. Then again he looked back at the

tall gray man who rode behind him. "Sir Wizard, what are the
other things you wish we had?"
"D'ye know the song?" the wizard asked.
In answer, Ben sang it lightly:

Benambra's gold
Hath seven sealings . . .

He let it die there.
	Doon chuckled. "I already know what the next lines are, I'll
not be frightened if you sing them." He pressed on, though,
without pausing for any such performance. "Indosuaros and I
have pooled our knowledge, and we make it but six sealings
that guard the gold, the number seven being merely a poetic
convention." He glanced back at the gray man.
	Indosuaros nodded confirmation. "The song does not
name seven individual barriers."
	"No, it doesn't," Ben agreed.
	"All right, then," asked Mark, "what are the six?"
	"The first," said Doon, "is the location of the placepretty
well impossible to rob it if you don't know that. The secret of
the location has been kept for a long time, and with incredible
success. But since your friend knows where it is, and we
have Wayfinder, that should present no problem." If he had
any doubts about the veracity of Ben's claim to knowledge,
he was not expressing them.
	Mark said: "I suppose the second barrier is some kind of
fence or patrol, or both, around the area where the cave is."
	"The fence," said Indosuaros, "is made of dragon's teeth."
	"A landwalker," said Doon. "I suppose that you, my big
friend, may have seen it-?"
	Ben only nodded. "With Dragonslicer I think we can get
by. Though it still won't be easy."
	"We have another trick or two that we can try as well,"
Doon assured him.
	Ben said: 'And the third sealing, I suppose, is something
that I saw inside the cave. Just a glimpse, in darkness, of giant
white hands. They were grabbing the sacks of treasure as we
put them down into the floor, and they looked-well, dead-but
at the same time very strong and active. The song doesn't
mention anything like them, but-'
	The tall wizard, his frame bobbing with the motion of his
loadbeast's walk, was signing disagreement. "No, I think not, I
think not. Those huge- pale creatures are no more than
laborers and clerks. They can be trusted by their Blue Temple
masters, because they never emerge into the light of day, and
have their only contact with the upper world through the Blue
Temple priests themselves."
	"They're very large and strong," Ben repeated doubtfully.
"What are they called?"
	"I have knowledge of them from other sources." And the
wizard glanced back suddenly over his shoulder, as if
someone or something of importance could be following him.
"'Whitehands' is as good a name as any," he concluded.
	Ben repeated, stubbornly: "Whatever they are, their hands
are very large."
	"Well, so are yours," said Doon. "And my hands are well-
armed, as are your friend's, who walks beside you. And we
have sturdy company."

"I am only trying to be clear about what we face:"
	"An admirable plan. No, the third sealing is something else.
The researches of my learned friend here" -and he nodded
toward the wizard, rather formally"confirm some small
investigations of my own. The third sealing is in fact a
subterranean maze, and, as might be expected, one of no little
danger and difficulty. But I have a long key here at my side to
open it." And again he fondled Wayfinder's hilt.
	The eight men trudged on in silence for a while. In the
distance, past the mouth of the pass, flatlands stretched for
many kilometers, greening here and there with crops or only
with onrushing summer. Beyond, more mountains, very far
away and barely visible.
	"And the fourth sealing?" Mark finally prodded.
	"A kind of maze again," said Indosuaros. "But this one of
pure magic. I have been preparing for more than a century to
breach it, and you may depend upon it that the key to it is
also with us."
	"And then, the fifth?" asked Ben.
	"There is an underground garrison," answered the
magician, "who guard Benambra's wealth. They are human
soldiers, yet not human as you and I:"
	"What does that mean?"
	"We will have to discover exactly what it means. But I am
confident that we can pass."
	Mark put in a question: "Who's Benambra, anyway?"
	Ben, who had undergone some indoctrination in the
history of the institution he had once joined, could answer
that one. "He was the first High Priest of the Blue Temple.
From him, all who worship wealth still draw their inspiration."
	Doon was closely studying the huge man who walked
beside him, no doubt revising a first impression of his recruit.
	"So," said Mark, "let's try to complete this inventory that
we've begun:" It came to him as he spoke that his own
attitude had already been revised. He had entered this
conversation to learn what Doon s plans were, but now he
found himself taking part in the planning, as for an enterprise
he had already joined. "Whoever these guardian soldiers of
the fifth sealing may be, they appear to stand in our way.
What means do we have of getting past them?"
	Doon said briskly: "Wayfinder will point one out to us,
when the time comes. Of course we are going to face risks;
but what prize could be worth greater risks than this one?"
	"So we come to the sixth sealing," Ben urged. "You said
that there were six."
	Indosuaros answered shortly. "The sixth-and last -is
apparently some kind of demon. You. need not be too much
concerned, young man, only do your part to get us through
the others. I've dealt before with demons, as you and your
friend have with landwalkers."
	Ben did not appear entirely satisfied. "I don't suppose you
have this particular demon's life in hand? No? Then you have
words of magic certain to command him?"
	The ghost of a fearful murmur could be heard among the
listening men. The wizard appeared to be making an effort to
restrain his temper. "I have not his life in my hand, no. His
name, yes, though I should not speak it now. I have said that
there are things I wish we had. But what we do have is
sufficient. Else I should not be here now."

	"Whatever we may truly need," Doon said firmly,
"Wayfinder will bring us to it."
	Wherever it might be bringing them now, they passed four
more days in the process, entering lands that none of the men
knew very well.
	Ben warned them all, first Mark in private and then the
others, that Wayfinder's last few crossroad choices were in
fact taking them farther and farther from the place where he
,knew the gold to be. Doon did not argue the point, calmly
insisting that there might well be something else they had to
obtain first. Nor did he press Ben to reveal the location of the
hoard.
	Ben had already given that information to Mark, privately.
The two of them continued to meet frequently, apart from the
others, to assess their situation. They were doing this late
one afternoon, on a hillside covered with a wild orchard of
tall, almost tree-like bushes, covered at this season with fine
pink and white blossoms that had drawn innumerable bees.
	The two sat on a patch of grass, in conference, and Mark
was asking: "Doesn't it come down to this: How long can we
trust Doon?"
	"As long as he needs us. Which ought to be till we've got
past the dragon, at least."
	"Of course after that, he's still going to need all the help
that he can get, to get past the other sealings . . . . "
	"And after that, if we win through, there'll be more treasure
in our hands than we can carry, if we were eighty men instead
of eight. No reason for us to fight over it then, that I can see."
	Mark still marveled, silently, every time he thought about
it. If he could bring Sir Andrew two Swords,
possibly, or even three .. . . "Blue Temple won't be watching
the area, you think? I have trouble believing that."
	"If they are watching, we should discover the fact when we
get near. Then . . . I don't know. But I don't think they're
watching. They probably think I'm dead, as I've told you.
Even if they doubt that, they won't believe that I could be
coming back so soon, with a band as well-organized as this
one is:'
	"I suppose. You know, Ben, about Doon . . . '.'
	"Yes?"
	"Indosuaros wouldn't have joined up with him, would he,
if Doon didn't know what he was doing? I get the feeling that
the wizard definitely knows what he's doing."
	"Me too. Good point:" Ben stretched his arms, then lay
back on the grass, staring at the sky. "I hope Barb made it
back to the carnival safely."
	"We could ask the magician to send one of his powers to
find out."
	Ben shook his head. "I don't want to draw his attention to
her."
	"Hm. Yes. I wonder why he hates Blue Temple so?"
	"Hah, why not?" Ben reared himself up on an elbow. "If
ever I meet someone who doesn't hate them, then I'll be
puzzled and ask why."
	Their talk was interrupted by a small black shadow, that
darted toward them among roseate blossoms. The monkbird
had plainly not come spying on them, but had been sent to
summon them to rejoin the others. It clung for a moment to a
nearby branch with its handlike feet, whistling at them with
soft urgency. Then next moment it was gone, back in the
direction it

had come from, keeping its flight below the tops of the
bushes.
	Wordlessly Mark and Ben grabbed up their weapons. As
silently as possible they scrambled after the messenger.
Doon and the others were gathered at the edge of a
slope, peering downhill between branches toward a
road not much more than a hundred meters away. The
Baron pointed. "Look." 	-
	A slave caravan was passing on the road, from right to left.
It consisted mainly of short columns of people chained,
together, men, women, and children in separate groups. They
were being watched over and prodded along by mounted
spearmen wearing the red and black of the Red Temple. There
were a few litters in the procession too, some of these borne
by male slaves and some by animals.
	Mark, hearing a drawn-in breath from the Baron, turned his
head. Wayfinder, in Doon's hands, was pointing straight
downslope at the caravan. There was a fierce vibration in the
blade's tip.
	Suddenly the monkbird flew among the men at head height,
yammering. Then it sought shelter on its master's shoulder,
just as a new sound arose from a little distance uphill among
the trees and bush.
	The men had their weapons drawn, but little time to
accomplish more in the way of readiness, when the mounted
Red Temple patrol burst shouting out of the bush and onto
them, sabers leveled and scarlet-lined cloaks flying in the
charge.
CHAPTER 7
	The charge was clumsily planned, coming as it did through
the awkward bushes where it had to be both slow and noisy.
The men who were its target had plenty of time and plenty of
places in which to step aside. Still the long cavalry swords
were formidable weapons. Mark saw Pu Chou go down before
that first rush, amid a blizzard of pink and white blossoms.
Golok also had been struck down, or had thrown himself flat,
while his creature Dart howled, and managed to hover like a
hummingbird in the air above its fallen master. Indosuaros
and Mitspieler were crouching under showers of blossoms,
presumably doing as much as they could with their magic
given the conditions. Ben, like Mark himself, had taken shelter
behind a bush. Then Ben had stepped out at the right moment
to use Dragonslicer to good effect on a trooper thunder
ing by. Doon and Hubert had adopted the same tactic, and
both had done damage to the foe.
	Mark nocked an arrow to his bow while he avoided that
first rush. Stepping into the open again to shoot, he got his
first clear look at the face of the Red Temple officer who had
led the attack. The man's countenance was flushed and
glassy-eyed, as he fought to wheel his mount around
between constricting bushes, presumably with the idea of
making another charge. That charge was never ordered, never
made, for Mark's arrow took the officer in the throat an instant
later.
	The other riders of the patrol were circling in the bushes,
milling around in what looked like complete confusion. Mark
saw one man scraped from his mount by projecting branches;
a stroke from Hubert's battle hatchet finished him off in an
instant. Many of the mounts were already riderless, thrashing
and crashing in panic through the wild orchard, and the
snowstorm of delicate petals did not slacken.
	Doon, back in his own saddle now, parried a saberslash
and killed a rider in his saddle. Dragonslicer hewed at human
flesh. Red-and-black capes lay crumpled and twisted on the
ground, amid the blossoms and the blood. Hubert's bow
twanged. The last survivor of the patrol had dropped his
saber and turned his mount to flee, when Mark's second
arrow of the skirmish struck him in the back. The rider
screamed and fell.
	Even more quickly than it had begun, the crash of combat
ceased. Mark turned to look for Ben. The big man was on his
feet and apparently unhurt, and gave Mark a salute with
bloodied Dragonslicer.
	Now there was almost silence. Mark could hear the

blood in his own head, his own panting, gasping breath, the
loud thrashing of a downed and wounded riding beast. Doon,
prevented by the noise from listening, set his foot on the
animal's neck and cut its throat.
	Golok had risen to his hands and knees and was crawling
toward the animal, evidently with the intention of giving it
some kind of help. The youth paused, transfixed in horror and
disbelief with his eyes on Doon.
	His leader was paying him no attention. But now Doon
started to relax. There were no sounds of any more enemies
approaching, or of any who might have gotten away to alarm
the other troopers with the caravan.
	Indosuaros and Mitspieler were both on their feet again,
apparently unhurt, their four arms spread, their two mouths
chanting softly.
	A quick look at Pu Chou was enough to show that he was
beyond help; a heavy saber-stroke had caught him full in the
forehead. Of all the fallen men, only the enemy commander
still breathed, with Mark's arrowhead protruding from the side
of his neck. A good arrow, that one, Mark found himself
thinking distantly. If the shaft's not cracked, I'll have to
retrieve it before we go on.
	The officer's lips were moving. Doon bent over him, trying
to hear whatever the man was trying to say, then sniffed and
straightened up, frowning with contempt.
	"Stoned blind," Doon muttered scornfully. "You can smell
it on him." He looked round at the human wreckage of what
had been this officer's command. "Probably his whole patrol
was in the same shape. Typical Red Temple:"
	Hubert looked up from his self-assigned task of going
through Pu Chows pockets. "But usually they're not this hot
to get into a fight."
	"Usually," said Doon, and bent to wipe his Sword before
putting it away. The fallen officer was not going to mind this
misuse of his cloak, for he had now stopped breathing
altogether.
	Wayfinder, thought Mark, heightens risks. One more
flower petal drifted down past his eyes, and sideslipped, just
missing a landing on another dead man's face.
	And now Wayfinder, already gleaming clean again, was
pointing in the direction of the passed caravan.
	"Well, we must overtake it," said Doon, moving on quickly
to the next order of business. Briskly he climbed a tree, trying
to see more of the hillside and the road below. "This slope is
all ravines below us-we could hardly have jumped on their
caravan from here. Very poor operation on their part. Well,
Golok, get your little monk up in the air, bring us some news of
the caravan-I can't see it from here now. Indosuaros, now that
swords are put away again, see what you can do to calm these
riding beasts and bring them to us. We'll need six new mounts-
no, Pu Chows gone, five will be enough."
	The magician and his aide began a process of soft
soothing magic, summoning the hurt and frightened animals
to submit to strange human hands. Golok, as the riding beasts
came within his reach, touched and spoke to them, using
beast-master's lore to soothe their hurts and make them
tractable.
	Doon watched this process impatiently, and meanwhile
issued orders to his other men. "We're going to dress
ourselves in these Red Temple uniforms-in

parts of them, anyway. It's all right if we look sloppy, half out
of uniform, that's typical Red Temple too. If we look totally
like swine, they'll take us for some of their mercenaries. Or
maybe even regulars. I want to be able to get close to that
caravan without another fight."
	Golok and Mitspieler had to physically treat the hurts of a
couple of the animals before five mounts were ready. By then,
all the men had replaced some of their garments with those of
the dead enemy, and helped themselves to choice weapons
here and there. Very shortly afterward, what now indeed
looked much like a Red Temple mercenary patrol was on its
way.

	The caravan had had no very great start on them, nor was
it moving any faster than a weary slave could be compelled to
walk. But Doon's men had to master their new mounts and
nurse them along. And there was the difficult hillside, that had
to be negotiated before they even got down to the road. By
the time they had managed that, the caravan was long out of
sight; but Dart brought back word to Golok that it was still on
the road, proceeding no faster than before.
	Still, dusk was falling before the mounted men caught sight
of it again. If Doon had been seeking an opportunity to attack
it in isolation on the road, that chance had now slipped away.
The caravan was traversing a busy crossroads now. And,
only a couple of hundred meters farther on, the gates of a
large Red Temple complex were standing open to receive it.
	Doon gestured, slowing his troop's progress, that they
might have a chance to look over the Temple complex as they
approached it. It was, as the first
glimpse of it had suggested, of considerable size. The walls
surrounding it were not much more than head high, but armed
with jagged projections along the top that would make a
climbing entry difficult. Within the walls were several large
but low-built buildings. Buildings and walls alike appeared to
be constructed mainly of earthen bricks. The colors of red and
black were prominently displayed.
	The main gate remained standing open after the caravan
had entered it. The entry was flanked by torches, that at dusk
were just now being lighted. A brief period of observation
was enough to show that the flow of traffic in and out the
gate was fairly high, as might be expected of a Red Temple
near the intersection of two well-traveled roads.
	"A lot of customers," Golok commented. He had evidently
got over his outrage now. "There must be a busy town or two
nearby. Maybe a large castle, too:"
	"Aye." Hubert chuckled. "Red Temple always does good
business."
	"I think," said Doon, "we're going to be able to ride right
on in without being challenged."
	"And if we are challenged?" asked Indosuaros. He had
contrived a black-and-red cap for himself, suggesting a minor
wizard working in Red Temple pay.
	"We'll see," said Doon. "Be ready to take your cue from me-
get that, everyone? Let's go."
	The guard post at the main gate was manned by a single
sentry. He was sitting with his head slumped, half asleep or
perhaps entranced by drugs. He paid little or no attention to
the passage of what might well have been a mercenary patrol.
	The compound seen from inside was as large and

busy as its appearance at a distance had suggested. This
main portion of it, generally open to the public, was well lit by
torches. Spaces and hitching racks were provided to
accommodate customers' vehicles and animals. On three sides
of this broad open courtyard were the several houses of
pleasure that made up the usual Red Temple layout. To the
right, as Doon and his men rode in, were the Houses of
Dancing and of Joy. Gaming was on the left, and Drink and
Food were straight ahead-music, like the smell of drugs,
seemed to be everywhere once the main gate had been
passed.
	Passages led between buildings, to what would be the non-
public parts of the compound. Mark was able to catch just a
glimpse of one of the caravan's litters, disappearing down one
of these alleyways, before a closing gate cut off the sight.
The gangs of slaves who had been driven in on foot were
probably-already back there, in some kind of pens.
	Doon drew his Sword briefly, and found that it guided him
to the right. A couple of passing customers looked at him
curiously before he put the blade away again.
	He turned right, then signed to his men to halt their animals
and dismount. They tied their riding beasts at one of the
hitching racks nearest the entrance of the House of Dancing.
So far, no one else in the compound appeared to be paying
them much attention.
	"Golok," the Baron ordered quietly, "stay here and keep
the animals quiet. Be ready for a quick start when we come
back." Golok nodded; the hooded monk bird was resting
behind his saddle now.
	Doon left his Sword sheathed, but unbuckled the
whole apparatus from his waist, and carried it in his
hand, pausing now and then to feel his way forward
with it, almost like a blind man with a cane. It still
looked odd behavior, thought Mark, but it was not
going to draw as much attention as the Baron would
have by waving a meter of bare blade.
	The entrance to the House of Dance was watched
inside by fee-collectors, who, as Mark had expected,
let the red uniforms pass in free. Red Temple merce-
naries were probably not paid very much in coin, but
there appeared to be certain compensations. Inside
the House of Dance, drum music throbbed in thick,
warm air. Most of the interior was a single vast, low
room. Scantily clad girls and young women, with a
few boys and young men mixed among them, sat
round the edges of the room. These were slaves of the
Temple, waiting for the personal attentions of some
customer. Some couples were dancing, and in the
center of the large floor a professional group performed,
dancers and musicians mingling.
	Doon moved at first as if to cross the floor directly,
then evidently thought better of interfering with the
dance, and led his men around the edge. Now, in
the distant corners of the hall, Mark could recognize
the traditional four Red Temple statues: Aphrodite,
Bacchus, Dionysus, Eros. Here at one side was a
broad stairway, going up, probably communicating on
an upper level with the House of Joy next door. A
painted young man was just ascending, giggling,
supported on either side by two customers, man and
woman. Meanwhile on the far side of the dance floor,
four men were just emerging from some back room.
They were all uniformed in blue and gold, and though

they paid attention to the dancers as they strolled,
Mark thought that probably they were here on busi-
ness rather than on pleasure only. It was no secret that
connections existed between the Blue Temple and the
Red, particularly on the upper levels of organization.
	In the corner of the dancehall farthest from the
entrance, broad open steps led down. As Doon led
them down the steps, following the discreet guidance
of the Sword, Mark began to realize that some large
part of the whole Red Temple complex was probably
underground. Different musicians were playing down
here, from somewhere out of view; and the sound
they made was different, having a disconnected anguish
in it. The air was thicker too, with more torch-smoke
in it, as well as heavier fumes of incense and of
drugs.
	For a few moments Doon and his followers tramped
an empty corridor in silence. Suddenly Mark thought
that he knew where the Sword was taking them. It
was a part of the usual, Red Temple installation that
he'd heard about, but had never seen on the few
occasions when he'd visited other branches of the
Temple as a customer.
	The corridor branched. And still the Sword of Wis-
dom led the way unhesitatingly.
	"Are we going to the worm-pit?" Hubert grumbled
quietly. "What's in there, or who, that we could need?"
	No one had an answer for him. Soon the Sword
would tell.
	Still the path chosen by Wayfinder led through the
public precincts of the Temple, and they were not
challenged. It guided them at last through a heavily
curtained doorway, into another large, low room, this
one much darker and worse-smelling than the dance-
hall above.
	Here only a few candles were burning, to illuminate
what looked at first glance like some barracks or
dormitory. Or perhaps a ward in some hospital-dungeon,
if such a combination could be imagined. The place
was almost too long to be called a room, too wide for a
corridor. It was lined on both sides with bunks and
couches, about half of which were occupied. A few
bent figures, those of male and female attendants,
were moving about in the gloom. As one of these
passed before a candle, Mark could see that she was
carrying a small saucer-shaped tray of earth, and tools
that looked like a pair of tweezers and a large, fine-
toothed comb.
	The light was a little better near the curtained
doorway where Doon and his men had entered. Here
some of the customers were conversing from couch to
couch, and sipping at winecups. Men and women
alike could be seen to be for the most part naked under
their beds' sheets. One or two were currently in the
phase of ecstasy that the pleasure-worms induced.
These sobbed or groaned on their cots, executing jerky
motions, kicking aside coverings, scratching at their
skin with combs, now slowly and now in rapid frenzy.
	As Doon, still trying to hold his sheathed Sword
unobtrusively, led the way slowly forward between
rows of beds, Mark saw the attendant with the tray of
earth stop at the side of a recumbent customer. From
the saucer of earth the attendant lifted, in the tweezers,
a tiny pale gray worm-weight for weight, Mark knew,
worth more than gold. The creature was inconspicuous,
and would have been unnoticeable except for the atten-

tion that was focused on it. The client, a stoutish
woman with an obviously well cared for body, turned
beneath her sheet, exposing her wide back in the
candle's light. The attendant applied the tweezers near
the customer's shoulder with one hand, and quickly
brought a candle closer with the other. The small
worm, released by the tweezers, promptly disappeared.
Mark knew, though he had not seen, that it was gone
into the skin, driven by its burrowing instincts and the
painful light. Worm-pits were always underground,
because the creatures had to be cultivated away from
daylight.
	An attendant approached Doon as he led the way
forward, but the Baron shook his head in silence and
pressed on, his men following him closely. The atten-
dant appeared momentarily puzzled, Mark thought,
but then went on about his tasks. Like the others
working here he looked thin and vaguely unhealthy.
	Here was another client, a man, recently infected
with one worm, or several, and now crying out with
the full sensation. His trembling hands went scratching
back and forth, all ten fingernails working on the skin
over his left ribs. The worms followed the paths of
nerve-tissue in their hosts, inducing pleasure in ex-
change for food and shelter inside a mammalian body.
Sometimes the pleasure shaded into unendurable
tickling, hence the work for fingernails and combs.
Mark had even heard once that the worms were used
in Red Temple dungeons as tools of torture, with the
victims simply infected and kept from scratching.
	On succeeding couches, people tossed and scratched
and moaned. Attendants were at work on some of
them with combs. As he got farther toward the rear of
the room, Mark decided that it was probably arranged
by classes of addicts, with beginners or occasional
users near the front, those more enslaved by the habit
near the middle. In the dimmer reaches of the rear,
where Mark and his companions now walked among
them, were people who by appearances never left their
cots at all. The bodies back here tended to look starved
and wasted, marked with old scars and not-so-old dried
blood. Here attendants gave less attention. Sometimes
-inevitably, Mark had heard-the worms turned in-
ward from the skin toward the spinal column and the
brain.
	In the room's farthest recess was an inconspicu-
ous door. It would be the way out, thought Mark,
for customers who could either not continue paying
or not walk. The Sword led Doon directly to this door.
It was not locked, and swung open at a touch, revealing
a dim passage. In a side room off this passage, an-
other attendant moving amid trays and racks of earth
looked up in dim candlelight as six armed men came
tramping through. But he made no protest or even
comment.
	The service corridor soon branched. Wayfinder chose
the left-hand way, which quickly ran into a strong
grill-work door, tightly closed and probably locked.
Beyond the door, a red-helmeted soldier was on guard,
and beyond the guard Mark could see what looked like
the doors of individual cells lining the corridor.
	"Open up," commanded Doon, rattling briskly at
the grill.
	But the soldier was not in a mood to be intimidated.
"No passage through here without a written order.
What do you want in here, anyway? You field troops

think you can come in here and have fun any time,
without any-"
	Wayfinder, still sheathed and belted, hit the floor
stones with a muffled thud. It had been replaced in
Doon's right hand with a dagger, handier tool for such
close work. Meanwhile Doon's thin left arm had snaked
through the grill to seize the guard by the front of his
garments and snatch him sharply forward. Instantly
the Baron's right hand shoved the dagger home, up
beneath the breastbone. The soldier's eyes bulged,
then glazed. If he made a sound at all, it was too faint
to be heard over the now-distant music.
	"Keys," said Doon laconically, supporting his vic-
tim against the grill. The man was wearing a ring of
them on his belt.
	Mark reached in through the bars, detached the
keys, and brought them out. One part of his mind was
protesting that this had been cold murder, while an-
other part exulted in the triumph, the demonstration
of Doon's proficiency. War required capable leaders,
and this was war, a part of Sir Andrew's fight against
the Dark King and the cruel Silver Queen. This rob-
bery was meant as a stroke of war against the allies of
Sir Andrew's foes, the Temples Red and Blue.
	The grill-door was opened, and the dead man
propped sitting in a corner, his presence made as
inconspicuous as possible in the restricted space.
Apparently none of the other Temple people had noticed
anything wrong as yet. The music went on as before,
behind doors in the distance. Somewhere nearby, around
a corner, the clashing of pots and the slosh of water
told of a kitchen of some kind functioning.
	Bundled Wayfinder in hand again, the Baron led
his small troop of armed men down the corridor lined with
cells. All of the doors were closed.
The Sword paused. "This one, here. Try the keys."
	The ring held six of them. Mark fumbled past one key that
did not look meant to fit this crude lock, tried another that
looked as if it might but didn't. The third try was lucky, and
the brass-bound oaken door swung back. The space behind it
was very dark, as one might expect the interior of a cell to be.
	Quick reflexes ducked Mark safely under an onrushing
metal blur. He recognized the missile as a brass chamber pot,
as it clanged and spattered on the opposite wall of the narrow
corridor.
	"Keep away from me!" The voice coming out of the dark
cell was certainly a woman's, but forceful enough to have
served an infantry sergeant. "You putrid collection of
loadbeast droppings, do you know who I am? Do you know
what'll happen to you if you touch me?"
	Doon, who had started in at the open door, recoiled now,
swearing by several demons, as another missile of some kind
flew past his head. The cell's sole occupant was now visible in
the light from the open door. She was a tall young woman,
sturdily built, her pale skin streaked with dirt and her red hair
matted. Her clothing was rich, or had been once, long ago
before it approached its present state of wear and dirtiness.
Her height overtopped Doon, who now moved into the cell
again, by a good measure, and indeed came within a few
centimeters of matching Mark's, who was tallest of the men
present.
	Doon, murmuring something no doubt meant either to
frighten or reassure, took her by the arm and tried to tug her
from the cell. She would have none of it, but

cursed at him again. Her white hands and arms, emerging from
torn sleeves, grabbed at him and fought him off.
	The little man, unwilling to use deadly force, struggled
ineffectually in the grip of the big young womanthe big girl,
really, Mark realized, for she was very young. The Baron's
momentary predicament would perhaps have been comic, at
some other time. It was not, now.
	"I am Ariane!" the girl was shouting at them all, as Mark
moved forward to try to help his leader. Her cries had
awakened an echoing clamor from some of the other cells, so
that the corridor reverberated with unintelligible noise. The
girl was yelling: "I am the.. . "
	Her voice faltered, at the first instant when she looked
Mark full in the face. And when it came back, it was vastly
changed, a dreamer's whisper to match the sudden wonder in
her eyes. "My brother," she breathed. And in the next instant
Mark saw her eyes roll up. He stepped forward just in time to
help Doon catch her slumping body. She apparently had
fainted.
	Doon was supporting her, but turning his head, looking for
his wizard. "Indosuaros, what-?"
	"Not my doing," said the magician, incongruous figure of
power against the shabby background.
	Doon was not going to puzzle over it now. Leaving the girl
to Mark to hold, he had his Sword in hand again. "It points us
back the way we came . . . bring her, and let's get out."
	Mark, impeded by the longbow still on his back, had to
struggle in the narrow corridor to carry the heavy girl along.
Ben stopped him and wordlessly relieved him of the burden.
Without effort Ben hoisted
her body over one shoulder and strode on. Long red
hair, even matted as it was, still fell nearly to the floor,
and strong white forearms dangled.
	As they tramped past the dead guard, his fixed eyes
seemed to gaze at Mark.

CHAPTER 8
	The Blue Temple furnished itself elegantly here on the
upper levels of the central office, especially in the
chambers where the members of the Inner Council met
to talk business, among themselves and with other folk of
comparable importance in the world. The clerks and
administrators who worked on the lower floors might
have to make do with worn furniture and blank paneled
walls, but up here there was no stinting on slaves and
fountains, marble and gold, tapestries and entertainment.
	Not that Radulescu had been provided with any
entertainers to keep him company as he cooled his heels
in the High Priest's outer office, actually an anteroom of
one of a suite of offices. But he could hear string music
in the distance somewhere. He could distract himself, if
he liked, by getting up from the
luxuriously padded couch from time to time to pace the
floor, and gaze out of the curtained window. That
window overlooked walls, and parapets, and some lesser
towers belonging to folk of somewhat less importance,
affording a clear view above rooftops all the way to the
inner side of the city walls themselves. Those walls were
even higher -designedly so. They were famed for their
height and strength, and this city for its impregnability-
indeed, many people believed that the central hoard of
the Blue Temple was concealed in some subterranean
vault beneath this very building.
	Radulescu of course knew better. But only he, the
High Priest, and two or three members of the Inner
Council- Radulescu was not sure which ones-were the
only people on the surface of the earth who knew with
certainty where Benambra's Gold was kept, and how to
reach it.
	It was generally understood, among those who knew
anything of the world, that the present High Priest was
the de facto ruler of this city and of much other territory
besides, to which he laid no formal claim. But cities, no
matter how strongly defended, always drew the attention
of money-hungry kings and other potentates; and no, the
Blue Temple was not going to put its treasure, the main
reason for its existence, in any such obvious place as
that.
	The whole organization appeared so straightforward
to the uninitiated, and it was really so devious.
Radulescu's thoughts were on that fact, as it related to
his own career, when there was a stir at a curtained
doorway, and a bald-headed, gold-garbed secretary
appeared.
	"The Chairman will see you now."

	And Radulescu, as he hurried to follow the aide
through one elaborate office after another, allowed
himself a small sigh of relief. When the chief
functionary of the Blue Temple chose to use that title,
the business at hand was more likely to be business than
some ecclesiastical ritual-as, for example, the unfrocking
of some priest-officer who had been found derelict in his
duty.
	The final door opened by the secretary disclosed a
large room. Among its other luxurious appointments was
a conference table large enough for twenty potentates to
have gathered at it. There was, however, only one other
person in the room, a rather small man with a rubicund
face and a head as bald as that of the secretary who
served him. This man was seated at the far end of the
table, with a bundle of papers spread out before him on
the polished wood.
	The High Priest-or Chairman-raised his round, red
face at Radulescu's entrance. The chief executive
looked quite jovial-but then, he always did, at least in
Radulescu's limited experience.
	"Colonel Radulescu, come in, be seated." The
Chairman motioned to a place near his own. "How are
you getting along on detached duty? Have you been
finding enough work to keep you busy?"
	Radulescu, in the months since the ill-fated delivery of
treasure, had been reassigned under several formal
classifications while his case was being considered and
reconsidered by the Inner Council and the High Priest.
In the last ten days or so Radulescu had begun to sense
a moderation in the official attitude toward him, and had
seized on this as a favorable sign.
	"I have worked diligently on the problem of finding
ways to contribute to the Temple, Chairman, and I hope
that I have .had some success." Fortunately he had
anticipated some such question, and he counted the
composition of a good answer for it as part of the work
that he had found.
	"Fine, fine," said the Chairman vaguely, looking down
at his spread papers once again. They looked to Radulescu
like reports having to do with his own case. The windows
behind the Chairman were windows such as few eyes ever
saw, with real and almost perfect glass in them, and round
the edges semiprecious stones set to transmit the light like
bits of glass. The thought crossed Radulescu's mind that
the Chairman was really only a man, and that he had a
name, Hyrcanus; but rarely would anyone speak or even
think of such an exalted personage by a mere human
name. Only a few scurrilous and regrettably popular songs
did that.
	"Fine . . . good. Now, I see here that more than two
months have already passed since you had
thatmisadventure. Would you say that is a good term to
describe what happened?" And the Chairman looked up
with sudden sharpness at Radulescu, treating him to eyes
of jovial blue ice.
	Radulescu had no trouble managing to look properly
solemn as he considered the question. "My own
understanding of that event has not really improved in
two months, Chairman, I confess." He almost sighed. "I
will be very pleased if you will enlighten me with yours."
Be weary, be puzzled, be not too repentant, he cautioned
himself; Radulescu had never admitted any culpability in
the events of that strange night, beyond

the minimum that the officer in charge and on the scene
could not escape.
	The icy eyes considered him; the red face nodded
lightly, and bent again to a consideration of the many
papers. "The man is really still unaccounted for," the
Chairman mused. There was no need for him to specify
which man he meant. "The dragon has now been replaced
. . . very expensive, that, in itself. We had the dragon that
was involved in the incident killed soon after, so the
stomach contents could be examined. The results, I regret
to say, were inconclusive. A few shreds of cloth found in
the stomach were identifiable as having come from the
rascal's cloakor at any rate from one of our general issue
infantry cloaks. As you may remember, his cloak was
found between the cave entrance and the cliffs, looking
somewhat chewed."
	"I remember, sir. I of course released the spells binding
the dragon as soon as I fully recovered my wits inside the
cave, and realized what must have happened."
	"Yes . . . yes." Papers shuffled. "So you stated here in
your deposition. And at the, ah, debriefing sessions."
	"Yes sir." Those interrogations had been hardly less
frightening than that first shock of realization in the dark
cave, where the physical pain of the enforced tumble
down the stairs had soon been swallowed up in the fear
of what was going to happen next.
	The five drivers, knowing only that they were all
blocked in, had set up a despairing noise. Responding as
usual to this signal, the Whitehands had started to come
up into the upper cave on their usual post
delivery mission, and Radulescu had had to use his
sword by flickering candlelight to fight them off.
Fortunately he hadn't forgotten to release the spells that
bound the dragon. After giving it a little time in which to
destroy the villain outside, he had called it with another
spell to tilt the great rock open from outside.
	Briefly Radulescu had been tempted to try to keep
the whole fiasco a secret from his superiors. But when
he got outside again and saw no trace of the missing
man except a cloak, he knew he'd be on shaky ground in
trying to do that.
	The animals, terrified by the great dragon raging near
them, had broken their tethers and run off. Radulescu
pledged his surviving drivers to silence on the journey
back to the Temple, by the most terrifying oaths, and
then marched them back, sword in hand, to where the
cavalry was still waiting, getting restless. No use
disposing of the five drivers now, he knew. They'd
certainly be wanted for questioning.
	The Chairman was moving on, at least for the time
being, to another aspect of the situation. " . . .
underwater search along that portion of the coastline has
turned up one battered helmet, the type of standard issue
for our garrisons . . . regrettably, it is not certain whether
this is the helmet issued to the missing man."
	Radulescu raised his eyebrows. "I would presume,
sir, that a magical investigation of the helmet has been
attempted?"
	"Oh yes. Certainly."
	"And-even after that-we still don't know if it belonged
to this Ben or not?"

	Once again the Chairman gave him his full attention.
"Regrettably not. Certain pernicious influences have
been at work."
	"Sir?" All of a sudden Radulescu found himself
totally lost -a feeling that, in the circumstances, would
lead almost at once to desperation.
	The Chairman looked at him, and appeared to
undergo a moment of uncertainty himself. Then he came
to a decision. He rose from his chair at the head of the
table and went to one of the long walls of the
conference room, whereon a large map was displayed.
The site of the treasure trove had of course not been
marked on this or any other map, but Radulescu's eyes
automatically went to that coastline spot anyway.
	The Chairman raised a pointer, not to that vital point,
but to another place very near it. "Here, this headland,
across the fjord-do you see the ownership indicated for
this small piece of land right on the promontory?"
	It was only a tiny dot of color, that meant nothing to
Radulescu until he had consulted the key at the bottom
of the map. "Imperial lands," he said then, softly, He
hesitated, then added: "Yes sir, I think I begin to
understand."
	Even that much was a daring claim, and the
Chairman kept on looking at him. Radulescu was
evidently expected to say more. He began to flounder.
"The Emperor is-is then-an opposing force?"
	The Chairman carefully laid down his pointer, and
posed in front of the map with hands clasped behind his
back. "I doubt you truly do begin to understand. Not
your fault, really, you couldn't be expected to . . .
you ought to soon, though. A man in your position,
presumably ready for advancement to the Council itself
at the next vacancy . . . yes, we must have you in soon
for a briefing session with our top magicians, on the
subject of the Emperor. That is, of course, provided your
status is not, downgraded at some point in the near
future, for some reason." Thus Radulescu's spirit, that
had shot up at the mention of promotion, were carefully
cut down again to the proper size. "You do know at least
that the Emperor is not a myth, that he's still a real
factor to be considered?"
	Obviously there was only one answer that could be
returned to that.
	"I'll try to arrange that briefing soon. If nothing
arises to prevent it:" The Chairman returned to his
chair, and his voice to its usual somewhat dusty joviality.
"I think we may say that all the direct evidence we
have at this time, Colonel, points to the conclusion
that this man Ben, Ben of-what was it? Purkinje, it
says here-that this Ben of Purkinje leaped or fell to
his death in the sea, i f indeed he did manage to escape
the dragon. By all reports he was somewhat slow on
his feet, so the probability that he escaped the dragon
is perhaps not very great.
	"What I would like to ask you now is this. Do you,
yourself, see any reason why this office should not
consider the incident closed? Take some routine
precautions of course, such as changing the spells for
the guardian dragon-that's already been done-but then go
on, by and large, as we were?"
	Radulescu cleared his throat carefully. He did not
need to exert much cleverness to sense that the bland
question might well contain some kind of trap. "Have

the drivers been questioned, sir?" he asked. "I would
assume they have:"
	"Oh, indeed. No indications of any plot emerged
during questioning."
	Radulescu tried to think. "I suppose, sir, that an actual
inventory of the treasure has been taken by now?"
	The Chairman nodded. "By myself, personally. It is
secure."
	There was a pause. "Well, sir," Radulescu said at
last. "There are still a couple of things that bother me."
	' Ah. Such as?"
	"A clever man, pursued by a dragon, might well think
of throwing away his cloak to distract the beast. And
from what I've heard about dragons, such a ploy might
well succeed, at least momentarily."
	"This Ben of Purkinje was far from being a clever
man, according to the officers who knew him. You
know that clever men are not commonly selected for
these jobs."
	"That's true, sir, of course. But. . . "
	"But what?"
	"I supervised, as you know, three previous deliveries
to the cave, before this ill-starred one. Out of more than
twenty drivers involved in the four deliveries I
supervised, he was the only one to suspect that anything
was amiss. Amiss from his own point of view, I mean.
At least he was the only one who took any steps to save
his own miserable life."
	The Chairman was silent for a little while, pondering.
He surprised Radulescu somewhat when he spoke at
last. "Wretched life those fellows must lead. I really
don't know why they would object too much to having
it ended for them-ever think of it that way?"
"No sir, I can't say that I have."
	After meditating a moment longer, the Chairman
said: "However that may be-I daresay you were
warned, before you started making deliveries, that
other officers have had to deal with recalcitrant drivers
in the past?"
	"I was told about the possibility of some such
trouble, yes sir. I got the impression that all actual
instances had been in the fairly remote past."
	"And did they tell you that the officer in charge had
always, in the past, managed to deal with it success-
fully? That's why we see to it that you are armed, you
know, and they are not."
	Radulescu could feel- his ears burning. "Yes, Chair-
man, I certainly got that impression too:"
	"What, do you think we ought to do now, Radulescu?
You've had a couple of months to think about it. What
would you order if you were in my position? It may,
but it shouldn't, surprise you to hear that I have
enemies on the Council, people who would love to see
me make a grave mistake and have a chance to bring
me down."
	Radulescu had thought about it indeed, but his
thinking had been of doubtful benefit, as far as he
could tell. "Well, sir, we might patrol the area more or
less regularly for a time. I know that ordinarily we
don't do that because-'
	"-because of the excellent reason that if the area
were patrolled regularly, its importance would soon no
longer be a secret. Of course, if we were sure that your
man had got away, then, yes, we might patrol. At least

until we could arrange to relocate the whole deposi-
tory somewhere else. And how much chance would we
have then of keeping the new location secret? And how
much would the move cost us, just the move alone,
have you any idea? No, of course you haven't. Just
be glad I don't proposeto take it out of your pay."
A pleasantry, by all the gods.
CHAPTER 9
	The little ship looked old, at least to Mark's admittedly non-
expert eyes. But despite this appearance of age, and a thick
bodied shape, she had a certain grace of movement. Whether
this was due to her construction, to sheer magic, or to the fact
that she was steered and driven by a djinn, was more than
Mark could tell.
	The ship had two masts, and two cabins, and it belonged to
Indosuaros, who had summoned it to meet Doon's party at the
coastline, three days' hard ride after their rescue of Ariane
from the Red Temple. Unmanned by any visible power, the
vessel had come sailing into shallow water to meet them,
almost grounding itself. And when its eight human
passengers had climbed aboard with their slight luggage, it
had needed only a word from the wizard to put out to sea
again. And all this without the touch of a human hand on line
or sail
or rudder. The djinn was harmless. to people, or at least to
Indosuaros' friends, so Mitspieler assured them all. It was
visible only desultorily, as a small cloud or vague disturbance
in the air, usually above the masts; and sometimes there was
audible an echoing voice, that seemed to come from some
great distance, exchanging a few words with Indosuaros.
	Right now, in the broad daylight of late morning, the djinn
could not be seen. What could be seen was fog, not far
ahead. There usually was fog close ahead, except when it lay
just behind the ship, or between the ship and the coastline, or
enveloped the little craft entirely. Except for fog, the coastline
had not been out of sight for the three days of the voyage.
	The weather occupied a good deal of the attention of
everyone on board. It had been good, except for the patchy
fog, and Mark suspected that the weather too was at least
partially under the control of Indosuaros. Mark and Ben, both
landlubbers, had been seasick at the start of the voyage, but
Mitspieler had dosed them with some minor potion that
effected an instant cure.
	Mark and Ben were sitting on the foredeck now. Doon and
Indosuaros were closeted in one of the small cabins below,
and Ariane was in the other. Golok and Hubert were looking
over the stern, engaged in their own conversation; and
Mitspieler was coming abovedecks and going below again,
engaged in an endless series of observations and reports on
the weather, the ship's position, and perhaps other factors
that Mark was not magically sensitive enough to appreciate.
Meanwhile the monkbird, Dart, was moving about in the
rigging. It spent most of its time up

there now, having reached a not entirely easy truce with the
djinn who ran the ship.
	Ben, for approximately the tenth time since they had left
the Red Temple, was asking Mark: "Why did she call you
brother, do you suppose?"
	Mark gave virtually the same answer that he had given
nine times before. "I still have no idea. She looks nothing at all
like the sister I do have. Marian's blond, and smaller than this
girl, and older than I am. This one says she's eighteen, but I'll
bet that she's three years younger than that, even if she is
large."
	"And I'll bet that she's a little mad," said Ben. "Probably
more than a little."
	Mark pondered that theory. "She says they gave her
drugs, in the caravan, to keep her quiet. She was still drugged
when we got to her, and that's why she behaved strangely at
the start. Fainted, and so on."
	Ariane had started to regain her senses as soon as they
reached fresh air, before they were out of the Red Temple
compound, and Ben had set her on her feet and let her walk
the last steps to where their mounts were waiting. She'd
regained her wits enough by then to grasp that the men had
not come simply to attack her, and she had cooperated with
them. Golok had promptly and neatly stolen another riding
beast for her to ride. With the men clustered around her,
they'd ridden unchallenged out through the main gate.
	"Fainting and confusion I can understand," said Ben. "But-
the daughter of a queen? And she still

holds to that." "Well-kings and queens must have daughters
sometimes, I suppose, like other people. And she looks
like-well, there's something special in the way she
looks, apart from being well-shaped, and comely."
	"And red-haired. And big. Aye." Ben did not appear
to be convinced.
	"And being a queen's daughter might not be a bad
claim to make to brigands like us, to try to get good
treatment for herself. You know, sometimes, I get the
feeling that shes laughing at the rest of us."
	"If that's not madness, in her situation, then I don't
know what is."
	Mitspieler had gone below, just a moment ago, with
one of his many reports. And now Doon stepped up on
deck, his Sword in his hands, looking as if he wanted
to try an observation for himself. When the girl had
first told him her story, he had heard it patiently, and
nodded as if he might accept it, mad as it sounded.
Mark thought that princess, beggar-girl, or queen would
be all one to the Baron, provided only that she served
in some way to advance his schemes.
	From the hour when Ariane had first come into
their hands, Doon had grimly warned his men that
she was under his personal protection. One of the
ship's two small cabins was inviolately hers. Doon
himself slept in the passage athwart her door, leaving
the other cabin to the magicians.
	Now, as Doon was sighting carefully along his Sword,
trying to frown his vision through the fog ahead,
Ariane herself came up on deck, and talk ceased mo-
mentarily among the men. She was dressed now in
man's clothing, a clean and sturdy shirt and trousers
from the rich store of resources that Indosuaros had
provided for the expedition, and a large-size pair of
sandals on her feet.
	At once she sprang up into the bow, and poised

there, gripping a line for balance. She looked for a
moment like a model for some extravagant figurehead
as she tried to peer into the fog ahead. Since she had
been away from litters and cells her fair skin. was
growing sunburnt. Her hair, washed in her cabin's
privacy, blew free in a soft red cloud.
	"Cliffs ahead now," she called out gaily. Her voice
was almost that of a child, very unlike that in which
she had called out abuse to the men entering her cell.
And she turned now, ignoring Doon for the moment,
to drop to the deck beside Mark and Ben. She was
smiling at them as if this were all some pleasant
picnic outing. As far as Mark knew, she had never yet
asked where they were going.
	Neither Ben nor the Baron seemed to know quite
what to say. So it was Mark who spoke to her first.
"Who is your mother-really?"
	Ariane sat back cross-legged on the deck, and be-
came abruptly serious. "I suppose it is hard to believe.
But I really am the daughter of the Silver Queen. I
must have been still dazed when I first told you that,
but it's the truth:' She shot a glance at Doon. "If you
have any ideas of getting ransom from her, though,
you may as well forget it. She is my deadly enemy."
	Doon made a gesture of indifference. "Well, girl-
Princess, if you'd rather -I care very little if your story
be true or not. Just out of curiosity, though, who's
your father? Yambu reigns without any regular male
consort, as far as I'm aware. I think she always has."
	Ariane tossed a magnificence of red hair. "I wouldn't
count on getting any ransom from my father, either."
	Doon repeated his gesture. "I tell you that I don't
count on any ransom . . . you'd better bind up that
hair, or braid it, or get it out of the way somehow. It
might be a problem where we're going . . . and why is
your mother so bitterly your enemy? Was it she who
sold you into slavery?"
	"Indeed it was." Ariane seemed to accept the dic-
tum about her hair without argument, for her fingers
began working at it as if testing which mode of treat-
ment would be best. "Certain people in the palace, I
am told, had the idea of disposing of my mother and
putting me on the throne instead. The heads of those
people are now prominently in view above the battle-
ments. Maybe they were even guilty, I don't know.
They never consulted me. And I've seen very little of
my mother in my lifetime. I don't know... "
	"You don't know what?" asked Mark, fascinated.
	"It doesn't matter. Also, I sometimes have powers-'
	"I know you do," Doon cut in. "I count on them, in
fact."
	She looked at him again. "Do you? I wish I could
count on them to help me, but as I say I only some-
times have them, and they are unreliable. I am told,
again, that they depend somewhat on the fact that no
man has ever known me. The Red Temple set great
store on my virginity, when their magicians were satis-
fied that it was intact. They would have sold me for a
fortune, I suppose to someone who had other than
magical concerns about it. And where are we going,
anyway, that I must bind up my hair?"
	But Doon had another question of his own to put.
"And why did not your mother simply have you killed,
instead of selling you?"
	"Perhaps -she thought that going into slavery would
be worse. Perhaps some seer or oracle warned her

against it. Who knows why great queens do the things
they do?" Mark had heard the same tone of bitterness,
exactly, in the voice of the peasant woman whose eyes
had been put out by soldiers.
	The Baron had sheathed his Sword now, and was
standing with arms folded, eyes probing at his captive
-if that was really the right word, Mark thought, for
her status. "You say your mother is your enemy,"
Doon demanded. "Then you are hers?"
	Ariane's blue eyes were suddenly those of an angry
child. "Give me the chance to prove it and I will."
	"I intend to do just that. Now, the Silver Queen has
a deep interest in the Blue Temple, does she not?"
	As if she had been expecting to hear something
else, the girl had to pause for thought. But then she
agreed. "Aye, I am sure she must have. Why?"
	"Because we are going to enter the central store-
house of the Blue Temple, and rob it of its wealth. My
Sword here informs me that you-your powers-are
going to be very useful in the execution of this plan.
Cooperate with me willingly, and I promise you that
when the time comes for sharing out the treasure, you
will not be forgotten. And I promise also that in the
meantime you'll take no harm from any man." And he
cast a meaningful look at the two members of his crew
who were immediately present.
	And she is so beautiful, Mark was thinking, that
there are a lot of men who'd fight to have her. But
there was something almost too impressive in her
beauty, ,so that it served as a warning as well as an
invitation. And Mark could not forget that moment in
which Ariane had hailed him as her brother. When-
ever he had asked her about it later, she had said that
she could not remember, that she had been drugged when she
called him that. He told himself that there was no way he
could actually be her brother. Still . . .
	Doon was speaking to the girl again . 	and how
would you like to find yourself, when we part company,
with a purse full of Blue Temple jewels and gold as
dowry? Or for any other purpose. You need be depen-
dent upon no prince or potentate then, if you don't
want to be."
	Ariane mused. "Her gold and jewels, in my handsI think I
would like that:" She seemed to be accepting without
difficulty the prospect of getting into the Blue Temple vaults
and robbing them. Mark and Ben exchanged a glance, and
Ben nodded slightly; the girl must be at least a little out of
touch with reality.
	Mitspieler had come up on deck again, and was hovering in
the background trying to get Doon's attention. As soon as he
had done so, Doon went below again, to consult with the
magicians.
	The moment the Baron was out of sight, Hubert, with Golok
trailing behind him, carne forward from. the stern. Mark had
noticed before now that Hubert was fascinated by Ariane, and
could not keep from approaching her when he had the
opportunity.
	But something that the soldier saw in the sea or fog ahead
of the ship appeared to distract him, and when he came up to
the others he was frowning. The first thing he said was: "I
hope we'll not go near those Cliffs."
	Ben, still sitting on the deck, leaning back against the rail,
looked up at him curiously. "Why not?"
	"'Why not?' the big man asks. Because of who might be up
there, that's why not. I've heard our

masters talking-all right, if you don't like to call 'em that, our
leaders, then. And I know a thing or two about this part of the
world myself, without asking them."
	"And who is so important, up on the cliffs?" asked Ariane.
Suddenly she appeared to be intensely interested, though she
.usually care nothing for Hubert's talk.
	Hubert chuckled, pleased at having made an impression for
once. "That's the Emperor's land up there, young lady. Those
cliffs ahead of us, beyond the fog."
	Ariane almost gasped to hear this. "No, not really!"
Though Mark was observing her as keenly as he could, he
still could not tell if she was really impressed, frightened, or
subtly mocking Hubert.
	The short man, at least, had no doubt about what kind of
an impression he was making. He seemed to swell a little. "Oh
aye . . . did you think that the Emperor was only a story?
That's what most people think. A few bright ones know better.
I've heard about this place. Down below those cliffs there's a
grotto, and in that grotto the Emperor keeps a horde of his pet
demons. Oh, he owns other lands too, scattered about the
world, but this place is special. I've heard about it from those
who've seen it.
	"Maybe you thought he was only a story, or only a joke?
Ah no, lass, he's real, and no joke. He likes to sit up there on a
rock, wearing a gray cloak, and looking like an ordinary man,
waiting for shipwrecked folk or anyone else to land and come
up to him out of the sea. And when they do, he likes to whistle
up his demons. And the victims are dragged by demons down
into thegrotto, where for the rest of time and eternity they
wish that they could die-why, what's the matter, big man,
seasickness come back on you?-that's the Emperor's idea of a
joke . . . oh, you don't believe me, lass?"
	Mark glanced curiously at Ben, who did indeed appear to
be upset about something. But Ariane certainly did not. Far
from being upset or even impressed by Hubert's tale, she had
burst out laughing.
	It made Hubert angry to be laughed at, and his ears
reddened. "Funny, is it? And if anyone resists, or tries to run
away, all the Emperor has to do is throw open his gray cloak.
Underneath it, his body's so twisted away from human shape
that anyone who sees it will go mad . . . . "
	The girl's laughter did not sound to Mark as if it sprang
from madness,'but from a healthy sense of the ridiculous.
Hubert was glaring at her, and his fingers worked. But Mark
and Ben were one on each side of her, and watching him; and
Doon had spoken his warning. The short man turned and
retreated quickly to the stern. And Golok still hovered nearby,
watching.

	Presently Doon was back on deck, Indosuaros with him.
Shortly afterwards the ship changed course, and was bearing
in toward land, though not toward the cliffs where the
Emperor was said to lie in wait. The wizard was now muttering
almost continuous instructions to the djinn. The other
humans stood out of the way as much as possible, as the
vessel was maneuvered by the invisible power, in through
breakers to a small scrap of sandy beach. The ship was
brought to a stop just before it ran aground, in water so
shallow that it was possible to disembark with no worse effect
than a wetting.

	Ariane, with her hair already tied up neatly, took part as
one of the crew in passing packs and weapons safe to shore.
	In a few moments they all stood on the beach, dripping-all
but Indosuaros, whose robes had refused to absorb any water
even when immersed. The wizard stood conferring cryptically
with his djinn, which was visible only as a small cloud of
troubled air above the ship.
	Meanwhile Doon, gazing up at the towering cliffs, asked
Ben: "This is where you climbed down?"
	Ben had not yet told anyone, even Mark, the details of his
escape after getting away from the dragon and starting down
the cliff. And, with Hubert's lurid story still fresh in his mind,
he felt reluctant to start talking about them now. He looked at
the cliffs uncertainly, and then to right and left. ' A little farther
south, I think it was. It's hard for me to tell; it was night then,
of course. All this cliff looks much the same."
	"Aye." Doon studied the face of it to north and south.
"Then you worked your way south along the shoreline, I
suppose . . . how'd you get across the fjord?"
	"Swam. Where it was narrower."
	Doon nodded his acceptance. And now, like some infantry
commander about to set out on a dangerous patrol, he ordered
all packs opened and the contents spread out. In addition he
checked the water bottles and skins, making sure all were full
and fresh. There was a coil of rope for each member of the
expedition. Food supplies were in order-Ben had heard the tale
of the feast magically provided by Indosuaros at his
headquarters, but there had been no indication of any
such service being available on the road. There were
weapons, climbing and stonecutting tools. Hubert
appropriated a crossbow from Indosuaros' armory. Ariane
was given a pack as a matter of course, and, when she spoke
to Doon, a knife and a sling to wear at her belt. The magician
and his aide had their own inventory to take, and Indosuaros
certified that they were ready.
	The ship, relieved of its passengers and their modest
cargo, bobbed in the water a few score meters offshore,
remaining in one spot just as if it had been anchored.
	Dobn waded out a few steps, to question his magician,
who was standing in calf-deep water, gesturing. "What about
the djinn?"
	"It must stay with the ship, to protect it, move it about as
needed, and bring it back to us here when we call."
	At another gesture from Indosuaros, the sails emptied,
flapped, then bellied as they refilled themselves. The vessel
turned away from shore and toward the open sea.
	"Wait!" called Doon sharply. When the ship's progress
had been stayed by another gesture from the wizard, the
Baron added: "I want to know something first, magician.
Suppose that when we return to this shore, loaded with
treasure, neither you nor your worthy assistant happen to be
with us. How do we get the boat to come to us then? And
where will it be in the meantime? We may well be gone for
days."
	"It will be at sea," said Indosuaros, looking down with
dignity at the smaller man. "But close enough to be brought
back here quickly. And the djinn will maintain enough fog in
the area to keep the ship from being very easily observed:"

	"That's fine. And how do we get it back? There is some
small chance, you know, that you will not be here. The place
we are going to visit is not without its dangers."
	Tension held in the air for a long moment. Then
Indosuaros said, mildly enough: "I will give you some words
to use for a summoning. And your men should hear them too,
just in case you are not here, when they come back:"
	If Doon had any objection, he bit it back. The wizard
devised a four-word command, and let them, all repeat it aloud
to be sure they had it memorized. After a trial, in which Ariane
successfully summoned the vessel back toward shore, it was
dispatched at last, and disappeared into a looming patch of
fog.
	Doon drew Wayfinder. To no ones surprise, it pointed the
way for them straight up the cliff.
	The climb began. Doon led the way, as usual, with the
monkbird fluttering on ahead and coming back frequently to
Golok to report.
	Once Doon turned to Ben, who was climbing just behind
him. "This cliffside is more irregular than I thought, looking up
at it from below. There might be a dozen cave-mouths
concealed around here. Do you suppose there could be one, a
side entrance to the cave we seek? That would save us from
having to face the dragon on the top."
	"There might indeed be a dozen such openings, for all I
know. It was night when I came down. Your Sword should
point out such an entrance if there is one."
	"I don't know . . ..sometimes I think that there are two
ways, and it picks the way of higher risk deliberately."
And they climbed on.
	At the brink they paused, peering cautiously over,
while once more the monkbird was sent ahead to
scout. Wayfinder now pointed directly inland.
	Across the rocky headland, a hundred stony hill-
ocks rose, looking like choppy waves frozen in a sea of
lava. The thorny vegetation looked even sparser now
to Ben than it had on the night of his great escape,
when it had seemed to him that he stepped on thorns
with almost every stride. Indeed the whole scene,
before his eyes now for the first time in daylight,
looked unfamiliar. His confidence declined in his abil-
ity to find the cave again without the aid of magic.
	The monkbird came back to report the way was
clear, and was promptly sent out again. The humans
climbed over the brink and moved cautiously inland,
Doon in the lead.
	The black flutterer returned almost at once. Perching
on Golok's shoulder, it gave him what sounded like a
report of a landwalker inland, almost exactly in the
same direction that they were heading.
	"How far?"
	It jabbered something to its master, something unin-
telligible to the others.
	Golok explained. "Almost a kilometer, I think. Hori-
zontal distances are hard for it to estimate. Dart seems
to be telling me that the dragon's eating something."
	The Sword was pointing in the same direction still.
	Doon chewed at his mustache, a sign of nervousness
that Ben had not observed in him before. "You tell me,
big man, that it should not be nearly a kilometer from
here to the cave."
	"Nothing like that far, no: '

	"Then likely we'll be able to get in, before . . . we'll
chance it." Again Doon led the way inland, advancing
quickly.
	Golok relaunched his airborne scout, and Dart flew
inland at low altitude. And returned in a few moments,
this time chattering urgently.
	"The dragon's moving toward us," Golok translated.
"Coming straight this way." Then the youth ran ahead
of Doon, who had paused to listen to the warning.
"Let me get out in front of you," Golok urged, "and try
to manage it. It's accustomed to being managed, from
what you tell me."
	"Manage a dragon?" But Doon let Golok get out
ahead, then led the others in a quick advance.
	Ben, even as he trotted forward, drew Dragonslicer
from its sheath. Beside him he saw Mark pulling his
longbow off his back and reaching for an arrow. Hubert
paused for a moment, to throw his weight on the
crossbow, cock it, and set the trigger.
	You had to hit a big landwalker right in the open
mouth, Ben was thinking, or in the tiny target of its
eye,, to do yourself any good even with a crossbow
bolt . . . and now already he could hear the first chim-
ing of the dragon. It was out of sight behind hillocks,
but no longer very far ahead. It had to be coming on to
meet them.
	Ben scrambled up the nearest hillock to get a better
look. Golok had climbed another mound, some twenty-
five or thirty meters ahead, and from its top he was
already talking and crooning and gesturing to the
monster.
	Not the same dragon I saw that night, thought Ben,
this one's a little smaller. Some twenty meters beyond
Golok it had paused, leaning with one of its forearms on a
mound three meters high, so that for a moment it made a
parody of some irate proprietor behind a counter. It was angry
at Golok for being where he was; it was probably angered by
his mere existence. Ben could hear the anger in the near-
musical chiming of its voice. So far it did not appear to have
noticed Ben, or any of the others. It bowed its head once
toward Golok, as if in some kind of formal acknowledgement of
his existence, and then without further warning it came after
him in a clumsy-looking charge. Fire sighed and whistled in its
nostrils.
	People near Ben were scrambling wildly to and from among
the rocks. Golok abandoned the useless position of his mound
in a surprisingly graceful leap. A few long strides and he had
scrambled up atop another, farther from the people and the
dragon and a little closer to the cliffs. He was still gesturing
and singing, and something in his method took effect. The
dragon's movements slowed abruptly, the charge declining
into a mere advance. The monkbird was flying like a sparrow
round the dragon's head, as if trying to distract it, but Dart
received no attention.
	Doon, near Ben's elbow, whispered fiercely: "Indosuaros?"
	The wizard's whispered answer was just as taut. "We must
use no magic here, if we can possibly avoid it. There will be
traces of our passage, if we do."
	Ben could sense Doon's indecision. The Baron wanted to
get his party into the cave as quickly as possible, and if
possible without an open combat against the dragon. Yet at
the same time he did not want to lose Golok, or even to
separate from him.

	Golok made yet another sideways withdrawal, leading the
dragon still farther out of their indicated path. And again it
lurched and lunged toward him, this time punctuating its
advance with the sideways sweep of a clawed forelimb
against a mound. Rocks scattered, flying as if cast by some
giant's sling.
	That movement was enough for Mark. His longbow
twanged at a range of no more than twenty meters. The
straight shaft, driven, Ben knew, by a thirty-kilo pull, struck
within a handsbreadth of the moving dragon's right eye. The
arrowhead broke on one of the small scales there, the shaft
rebounded like a twig. The dragon paid it not the least
attention.
	Doon was whispering again. "I don't want to lose my beast-
master before we even get below. We'll need him there. We've
got to save him, kill the dragon if we must:"
	And if we can, thought Ben. Still the creature was
advancing, in fits and starts, toward Golok. The youth with
his best efforts was managing to blunt the edge of its wrath
for seconds at a time, but not to turn it away. He dodged,
retreated, tried to stand his ground, and was forced back
again.
	Golok was gradually being driven back toward the edge of
the cliffs, now only a few meters behind him. Seven other
people, working from one rock shelter to the next, were
following as closely as they dared.
	"Go over the edge," Ben called to him, trying to make his
voice no louder than was necessary for the youth to hear,
fearing to startle the beast into another forward rush. "Over
the brink, and hang on. It won't see you then. Maybe it-."
	Again, abruptly, the dragon charged at Golok, this
time with a thundering full roar. The subtle nets of
control, woven of beast-master's lore, had given way
totally at last.
	Both Mark and Hubert, meanwhile, had maneuvered
away from Ben, so that the dragon was charging more
or less in their direction and they had a good shot at
the roof of the open mouth. Ben, scrambling forward
as fast as he could toward the dragon's flank with
Dragonslicer gripped in both hands, thought that even
so the chance was small that the bowmen could hit
the brain, and that even if you hit the brain your
problems with a landwalker were not over necessarily .
. . . Already Dragonslicer's powers had awakened, and
Ben could feel the Sword, hear it, shrilling as he ran.
	Golok had fallen, scrambling, near the brink. Long-
bow shaft and crossbow bolt, simultaneously, entered
the open mouth that loomed above him. There was an
explosion of fire that gutted the dragon's left cheek
outwards; the jolt of liquid hell that was to have been
projected at Golok went spewing and sizzling away
instead, some of it over the cliff's edge, some to spill
upon the nearby rocks. One of the missiles had burst a
firegland in the cheek.
	Ariane was yelling bravely, and slinging stones
at the dragon, whether accurately or not made no
difference in the least. The two wizards were sensibly
lying low.
	Drooling flame, and certainly now aware of pain,
the monster turned toward the other people who beset
it. Doon, scrambling desperately over and around rocks,
behind the enemy now, struck with Wayfinder at one
of its hind legs, aiming for a spot where there should
be a tendon beneath the scales. The heavy, razor-edged

blade rebounded like a toy sword from an anvil. The
dragon did not see or feel him.
	It saw Ben though, and it heard him. The Sword of
Heroes was in his hands, making its shrill sound, and
now he felt the more-than-human power of the weapon
flow into his arms.
	As always, the great damned beasts were unpre-
dictable. At the last moment the dragon turned again
away from Ben, and bent to pick up the screaming
Golok in its left forelimb. Ben could see the youth's
legs, still living, kicking wildly. Ben yielded himself to
Dragonslicer, letting the force of it in his hands pull
him forward to the attack. The blow struck by the
Sword was almost too swift for his own thought to
follow it, and it took off cleanly the dragon's right paw
as it swiped at him. The severed forelimb thudded like
an armored body falling to the ground, the iridescent
blood gushing out.
	The Sword of Heroes shrieked.
	Ben got one more close look at Golok's living face.
	Dragonslicer thrust home for the heart, parting hand-
thick scales as if they had been tender leaves. The
landwalker stumbled backward, leaving the Sword
still keening in Ben's hand's. The treetrunk legs kicked
out in reflex, hurling stones and dust. With a last roar
that ended in eruptive bubbling, the beast went back-
ward over the cliff, Golok still clutched to its scaly
breast.
	Ben had time to scramble forward to the brink
and watch the ending of the fall. The two bodies did
not separate until they hit the water and the rocks.
CHAPTER 10

	The monkbird screamed, on and on. To Ben it seemed
to have been screaming for days. With the Sword of
Heroes still dripping dragon's blood in his right hand,
he clung to the cliff-edge rocks, looking down a hun-
dred meters at the sullen surge and smash of waves
below. It was a fine day, and the sea wore delicate
shadings of blue and green over most of its vast surface.
The fall on rocks had pulped the huge beast's body like
a dropped fruit, but the waves were already sorting
and sifting and dispersing the organic wreckage, on
the way to accomplishing a tidy disposal of it. And
Golok's body had already disappeared completely.
	Mark had come to Ben's side, had taken him by the
left arm, was pulling him back from the brink.
	Doon was frothing angry. "The bird, the demon-
damned bird!" He looked up at Dart's small, frantic
shape flying not far above his head, as if he were
about to strike at it with his Sword. Dart's voiceless
keening mingled with the racket of a cloud of seabirds
that had been startled up from the shoreline rocks.
"How are we going to be able to use it now?" ,
	As if intentionally answering his question, it came
down suddenly, down in an abrupt swoop to Ariane
standing nearby. Her left arm was extended in the
traditional gesture of beast masters to their flying
pets. Now, with its fur dark brown against the coils of
her red hair, the monkbird huddled on her shoulder,
mourning almost silently for its dead master, clinging
there with feet and wings like some half-human orphan.
Ariane whispered to it and stroked it. When Mitspieler
came to her to see if he could help, she sent him away
with a gentle headshake, and continued to soothe the
creature.
	Doon observed this with visible relief. "Good job,
Princess. We may not have lost much here after all."
He took a quick glance at the sky. "They may think
they've lost their dragon over the cliff by accident,
chasing a rabbit or some such. Anyway we'll have
come and gone, if we do the job right, before the
dragon's missed. Let's move."
	And he moved ahead himself, Wayfinder drawn.
Ben, having cleaned Dragonslicer as well as he could
on prickly leaves, followed closely. Mark was near
Ben, and the others only a few steps behind.
	Ben could still recognize no details of his sur-
roundings, though it looked in general like the same
landscape from which he had fled by night. Now, in
broad day, it held no sign anywhere of humanity or of
human works, apart from the adventurers themselves.

The wasteland stretched away to north, west, and
south, kilometer after kilometer, empty arid grimly
beautiful.
	"Where s your local Blue Temple?" asked Mark,
sticking his head up over a hillock beside Ben's, to
scan the way ahead.
	"Somewhere inland, over there. Kilometers away. It
took us half a day and half a night to get here from
there, even riding part of the way."
	And on impulse Ben turned his head to look back
across the water. On the other side of the fjord rose the
opposite headland, emerging belatedly from the last of
the morning's mists to warm itself in early summer's
sun. The meadow and the forest on its top were indis-
tinguishable at this distance and in this light. The
cliffs, with this side of them just coming into sunshine
now, were vaguely blue.
	Did I really swim all that way, and climb those
cliffs? Ben asked himself. Swimming through the tides
at night, with no idea of where I was really going?
Someday, he thought, I'll tell my grandchildren all
about it. My grandchildren and Barbara's, in our fine
house. I saw the Emperor sitting there in his gray
cloak, and he looked just like a man .... Ben had been
on the way to forgetting the incident completely until
Hubert had startled him with his tale. But no use
worrying now about the real truth of it-there had
been no demons in evidence, anyway.
	He looked inland again, and moved on, following
the others who were getting ahead of him.
	Doon, with his Sword in his hands, led them stead-
ily on across the trackless waste. Ben several times
murmured to the others that now the proper hillock
could not be much farther. In trying to pick it out, he
became aware for the first time of how much alike
were all these stony knobs. It even seemed that each
hillock had on one side an enormous stone, and that
each such stone was of a size and shape to possibly
form the balance-door protecting the hidden cave. This
fact was not immediately obvious, for no two of the
huge stones were exactly alike in appearance, nor were
they on the same sides of their respective hills. But
any of at least a hundred, as far as Ben could tell,
might possibly be the one they sought. He wondered
silently if this might have been arranged by magic;
it seemed impossible that chance alone would be re-
sponsible.
	Wayfinder was immune to these as to all other
distracting elements. Following Doon, who held to an
almost straight course, Ben tried to recall in which
direction the cave opening had faced. Indelibly he
remembered that moment in which he'd turned, from
the entrance, and, with Radulescu's yell still hanging
in the air, had grabbed and pulled the great stone
down to bang the doorway shut. Then, himself on the
edge of panic, running off into the night, almost blind
in darkness, banging his legs on rocks . . . he had run,
that night, with the ocean on his left . . .
	"Here," said Doon abruptly. He had come to a halt
standing in front of a hillock that looked to Ben no
more familiar than any of the others standing round it.
Facing the side of the mound, Doon stretched forth his
arm until the tip of the Sword in his hand touched
rock. Now Ben could plainly see the strong vibration
in the blade.
	"Here?" Ben echoed, questioning; the hillock was

still unrecognizable to him among its fellows. There
was one way to make sure, and he slipped off his
backpack. "All right. Lend a hand at this end of the
rock and help me lift it." And he bent to grip the base
of the enormous stone himself. Suddenly, with the feel
of it, he was sure that this was the right spot.
	But Indosuaros touched his shoulder. "Wait:" The
magician raised both hands, and rested ten fingertips
upon the rock. He stood there for a moment, his eyes
closed, then stepped back, glancing at his assistant. "I
sense no guardian magic. Lift away."
	With Ben exerting himself, Mark and Hubert gave
enough help to tilt the great stone back. Ben's remaining
doubts vanished; there was the dark triangular, opening,
just the same.
	Doon, his weapon ready, glared into the doorway
for a moment, then stepped back, nodding with satis-
faction. "Lights," he pronounced.
	These, seven Old World devices, were taken out of
one of the packs and passed around. They were some-
what different in shape and style from the torch that
Ben had seen Radulescu using, but functionally the
same. And these had modern, handmade leather straps
attached.
	Doon demonstrated quickly how the straps could
be used to put the light on like a helmet, leaving the
wearer's hands free. "For these, again, we have our
wizard to thank. We'll see to it, Indosuaros, that your
years of preparation were not wasted." He took the
helmet off to demonstrate- its function. "Press here,
and it gives light. Press again and it goes dark. Turn
this to make it brighter or dimmer. Twist and push like
this, and you can focus the light into a beam. Twist
and draw back again, and the glow spreads out to light a
room."
	"How long will they keep burning?" asked Hubert, who
was obviously fascinated. He had probably, Ben thought,
never seen the like before.
	Doon shrugged. "They're already nearly as old as the
world itself. I suppose they may keep burning until its end, so
don't fear to use them."
	The actual entry into the cave seemed to Ben almost an
anticlimax. With the new light shining from his forehead, he
noted the old wax candle drippings still on the floor. There was
no visible trace of the six men he had shut in here with his-
own hands. But now the memory of that night came back-more
sharply than ever, for the cave looked no different now than it
had looked then in the beam of the Old World light carried by
Radulescu.
	Indosuaros, standing by the large opening in the floor,
again reported that he could detect no guardian magic. "Not
here . . . but far down, yes. There's magic moiling in the earth,
well below us. Magic, and. . . "
	"And what?" Doon asked him sharply.
	The magician sighed. "I think . . . there is something down
there of the Old World, also. Something large."
	"Is that all you can tell us?"
	"Old World technology." Indosuaros curled his lip. "Who
can tell about technology?"
	"The magic that you sense, then-are you going to be able
to deal with it, when we reach it?"
	The wizard appeared for a moment to be taking some kind
of inward inventory. He stared hard at his assistant. Then he
answered, firmly enough: "I can."

	"Then," said Doon briskly, "the next order of business is
to make sure we can open the outer door here, when we come
back." And he trotted back up the crooked stair to scrutinize
the great rock carefully. Ben had already explained to
everyone how he had used that door to get away.
	Now Doon sighed, dissatisfied. He scowled at the rock as
if it offended him. "Ben, tell me this. The priests must come
here on inspection tours from time to time, to see that their
treasure's safe. Don't they?"
	"I suppose they must," Ben answered, climbing the stairs
too. "But I never heard anything about it."
	"Well, you say it can't be opened from the inside. That
officer would have opened it if he could, and pursued you.
Right?"
	"I don't think," said Ben, "that I could lift it alone, from
inside, if my' life depended on it. And only one person can get
at it from inside, there's room only for one."
	"I doubt that the priests leave this open behind them when
they come. And I doubt they come with half a dozen slaves
each time, to wait outside and lift this for them when they
want to leave." Again Doon sighed. "Once we are well down
and in, of course, we may discover some alternate way out. Or
we may not. Now I have stonecutting tools, but. . . " Just
looking at the rock, Doon shook his head. Then he made a
gesture of giving up. "Indosuaros? I know our plan was not
to leave any magic traces of our passage, so near the surface
anyway. But to seal ourselves into this cave without a known
way out would be even worse."
	The wizard had to agree, gloomily. "I fear that you are
right." Then Indosuaros held a hurried, whispered
conference with Mitspieler, after which the two of them
drew objects from a pack. Soon they were standing just
outside the upper doorway, rubbing at the huge rock
with what looked to Ben like raw slices of some kind of
vegetable.
	All this time Ariane was content to remain in the
lower cave, occupying her time by petting the monkbird
and whispering to it soothingly. She showed little or no
sign of fear.
	When the magicians had finished their treatment of
the rock, Doon summoned Ben to pull it down and close
the door. It felt to Ben as if the mass of the stone were
now greatly diminished; when he tried, he was able to
catch it falling, halfway closed, and push it up again very
easily. One after another, all the members of the party
now tried lifting it open from inside, and all could manage
it.
	With everyone inside the cave at last, and the outer
door closed, Doon gathered his party around the large
slot in the lower floor.
	"This is where we put the treasure down," said Ben.
"And where I saw the Whitehands reach for it."
	The wizard Indosuaros smiled, as if he were now
determined to be reassuring. "They come this close to
the surface only to receive treasure, as they did on the
night when you were here."
	"How do you know?"
	Ben's answer was an arrogant look, that said the
sources of the wizard's knowledge were doubtless
beyond Ben's grasp, and were not really any of his
business anyway.
	"It would be a neat trick," offered Hubert, "if we
could capture one of those to serve us as a guide. They

must know a quick way to the treasure. Trust those who
have to carry it to know the shortest way."
	"If we meet one of them," muttered Doon
abstractedly, "we'll ask him." The Baron had braced his
body directly above the aperture, and was looking
intently down into it with the aid of a beam from his
headlamp. "There are steps carved into the side here,"
he announced. "And it doesn't look far down. I don't
think I'll need a rope-but let me have one, just in case.
Two of you hold it up here:"
	Mark and Ben gripped one of the thin, supple coils,
and paid out an end. Doon sheathed Wayfinder and in a
moment had vanished, sliding down.
	The line went slack in their hands almost at once. "I'm
down," the Baron's voice called up to them softly.
"Come ahead." Ben, looking down through the aperture,
could see the Baron's headlamp moving about just a
short distance below. In the augmented light, the series
of niches for steps and grips, carved in the side of the
short shaft, stood out plainly. One side of the shaft joined
with a wall of the chamber below, and the steps went
down nearly to that lower floor.
	Ben followed his leader, and soon the whole party
was down. The chamber in which they now found
themselves was about the same size and shape as the
one they had just descended from, and again there was
a single lower exit. This time, though, the exit was a
tunnel mouth, cut in the side of the cave approximately
opposite the entrance shaft. The tunnel was narrow, and
just about high enough for a moderately tall man to walk
into it erect. Ben expected that Mark would have to
watch his head.
	Again Doon led the way; the others following
neces
sarily in single file. After first twisting to the right, the
tunnel bent back to the left, while continuously and ever
more steeply descending. As the steepness increased,
carved grips and steps appeared again in sides and
floor.
	They had followed this passage for no more than a
few score meters, when Doon stopped, calling softly
back to the others that the tunnel ahead turned into a
perfectly vertical shaft.
	The Baron refused the. suggestion of a rope, and
simply continued to work his way lower, by means of
the plentiful niches provided in the shaft's sides. Ben
followed cautiously. Above and behind him, Indosuaros
looked down and ahead with eyes half-closed, as if he
were groping his way along by the use of senses
beyond the normal. After Indosuaros was Ariane, the
monkbird riding unhooded on her shoulder, clinging
tightly to her shirt. Hubert was next, then Mark, with
Mitspieler bringing up the rear.
	Again there was an easy egress from the lower end
of the shaft. It ended a little more than a meter above
a circular dais that was two or three meters wide, and
raised perhaps a meter above the floor of the surround-
ing room.
	The lower end of the shaft was finished in what
looked like ancient masonry, with hairline gaps show-
ing between blocks, so that Ben marveled as he let go
of the last grip that it had not all come crashing down
with his weight on it.
	But soon all seven members of the expedition were
safely down out of the shaft, and standing round the
dais. They were in a squat cylinder of a room, perhaps
ten meters across, larger than either of the two rooms

above. Here the stone wall, floor, and ceiling were all
carved quite smoothly into a regular shape. Twelve
dark doorways were more or less regularly spaced
round the circumference of the circular wall. From
near the center of the room it was not possible to
throw a beam of light very far into any of the twelve
apertures, as the passages beyond all curved sharply
after a few meters, turning down or sideways or both.
Each tunnel, at the start at least, was wide enough for
only one person to enter it comfortably at a time.
	"We have reached the third sealing," said Doon. And
he raised his Sword in a salute, as if to a worthy foe.
CHAPTER 11

	Doon was standing near the round wheel-hub of the
dais, turning his body slowly, aiming Wayfinder to
determine which of the dark tunnels they ought to
follow. Mark, watching the Baron's face, saw him for
once frowning at what his guide told him.
	Indosuaros, gazing over Doon's shoulder, prodded.
"There seems no doubt about it, does there? The Sword
says that's the one to take." And the magician pointed
with a long, gnarled forefinger at a tunnel.
	All the more irritated by this advice, Doon moved
the Sword. "But first, a moment ago, it indicated this
other passage, over here. I'm sure of it. And now it
doesn't."
	"It certainly does not," Indosuaros agreed. He
paused, then added: "Your hand may have been shaking,
man. Or perhaps the light was unsteady for a moment:"
	"My hand did not shake! And I really don't need
any light to feel the vibration in the blade."
	Ben chimed in: "There could be a smaller amount
of treasure at the end of the passage where it first
pointed, and a larger at the end of this one. Anyway,
I'd read the augury so."
	"Or," suggested Ariane, "one treasure that's being
moved about, even as you attempt to get a bearing on
it?" There was something like enjoyment in her voice,
that did not fade even when Doon glared at her.
	"I doubt we're very near to any treasure yet," the
Baron growled.
	And the magician again: "Either trust your Sword
or not, is all I can advise you. If you're going to trust it
no longer, then I'll start to try to find our way by other
means:" Why, he's jealous of the Sword, thought Mark.
	The Baron evidently thought the same. ,'You'll start
to try? Why no, I think we'll trust this god-forged
metal yet awhile. And we'll take the way it showed me
first." The two men stared at each other for a moment.
	"Some of us could try one way and some another,"
Hubert offered, though not as if he really thought it
was a good idea.
	Doon gave him a brief glare too. "No, I'll not divide
my forces. Not yet anyway. Well take the way Wayfinder
showed me first."
	Mark, having some experience of using Coinspinner
for guidance, thought that the point called for more
discussion. But that too would have its dangers, and
he kept quiet, and read agreement in Ben's eyes. Mark
met Ariane's gaze too, and thought he saw the begin-
ning there of a realistic concern. And in her eyes as
well were other things less easy to interpret.

	The party entered the tunnel that Doon had chosen.
They were moving in single file as before, and once
more Mark found himself next to last, just in front of
the silent Mitspieler, and behind Hubert. Mark had to
stoop his back or bend his neck almost continuously
to keep his headlamp from scraping on the roof of the
passage as he moved. If this goes on for very long, he
thought, I'll have to take the lamp off and carry it in
my hand. Or depend on others' lights while we're in
here-this passage was at least a little wider than the
last one, though it still lacked room for two to go
comfortably abreast.
	The tunnel curved sharply from left to right and
back again, while constantly descending. But here the
slope of the descent never became as steep as it had in
the previous tunnel, and the rough floor here was
enough to provide secure footing. It occured to Mark
to look at the ceiling for torch-smoke stains as he
scraped his way along beneath it. Surely not all of the
Blue Temple people who had come through this maze
to reach the treasure would have used Old World
lights, and generations of traffic ought to have left
stains along the proper route. Indeed Mark thought
that he could see some blackening, though on the dark
rock it was difficult to be sure.
	"Look at that," said Ben's voice, quietly, from a few
meters ahead. The procession did not stop. A few more
steps and Mark saw what Ben had meant. They were
passing what had once been the mouth of an inter-
secting passage, its opening now completely blocked
by a cave-in, filled with jumbled slabs and fragments
fallen from overhead. From this mass, down near the
floor, there protruded a pair of dead skeletal hands-
Mark found himself taking note that they were of no more
than normal human size. Somehow the mute warning seemed
all the more impressive because it had no look of having been
planned as a deterrent to intruders.
	Mark saw Ariane look down at the bones as she walked
past. The girl showed no sign of shock or fright. What kind of
a growing-up must she have had? Mark wondered to himself.
Could it have been as strange as my own, or even stranger?
Maybe her powers, if she truly has any, knew me as her
brother in that much at least.
	There were no more branching passages. Having no real
choice now of which way to go, Doon was not consulting
Wayfinder. Now they had reached a comparatively straight
stretch of the tunnel, where Mark could see Doon's light
bobbing at the head of the procession, revealing the tunnel
walls
	Which now ended, not far ahead, in a simple circle of
darkness. It was as if the passage here debouched into some
vast cave. As they grew closer with their lights, vague distant
forms as of jagged rock appeared in the opening.
	"What's this, by all the demons?"
	The tunnel widened somewhat at its mouth, and the
intruders crowded together there as best they could to see
what kind of a place they had reached. There was indeed a
large cave in front of them now, and it looked virtually
impassable. The floor of it, if it could be called a floor, was at
some distance below the one on which they stood, and it
bristled with spiny projections of rock, that gleamed here and
there with flecks of brightness but were also heavily stained
and coated

with what looked in the lamps' beams like some kind of
fungus.
	And again, behind a sharp outcropping, Mark saw the
startling white of human bone. Some kind of bones, at least;
these were jumbled and broken, and Mark could not be sure
that they were human.
	This deadly looking chamber was some twenty or thirty
meters deep, and without any other visible entrance or exit.
On right and left it extended for only a few meters before its
side walls closed in to come close to the wall from which the
tunnel emerged; on each side the space between was far too
small to admit a hope that people might be able to squeeze
themselves through it. Mark, looking upward as best he
could out of the tunnel's mouth, could see only the smooth
slight bulge of the rounded wall from which the tunnel
emerged, and above that, a jagged rocky roof some meters out
of reach. Looking down, the prospect was even more
discouraging; upjutting corners of stone waited amid
shadows at an intimidating distance below. In no direction
could he see anything that looked like a practical continuation
of their path.
	At Doon's urging, Ariane now prevailed upon the
monkbird to try a short scouting flight into the cave ahead.
The beams of headlamps lit its way, but still it fluttered about
uncertainly and had to be encouraged. At last it flew out for
some distance, and was near a far unpromising shelf of rock
when there came a sudden popping noise from the fungi near
it, and a cloud of dust burst up around the flying creature.
The monkbird came speeding back to Ariane's shoulder,
where once more it clung tight in fear. It brought with it a
taste of choking dust, and at the same time an acrid, poison
ous odor drifted to the humans' nostrils from the far reaches
of the cave.
	Doon, muttering demon-oaths between sudden fits of
coughing, had his Sword out and was aiming it at various
portions of the cave. But he obtained no response until he
pointed it back into the tunnel, in the direction from which the
expedition had just come. He looked-so black at this that even
Indosuaros thought it wise to make no comment at the
moment.
	Meanwhile Mark was looking back into the cave, and
something he saw there kindled an idea. He pulled off his
headlamp, and, bending down, placed it on the floor, focusing
a tight beam of light upon some rocks in the cave that were
twenty or thirty meters distant.
	"Turn off all the lights but this one," he told the others.
"I'm trying to see something."
	The Baron, on the verge of issuing new orders, hesitated
and then did as he had been told. The other people muttered
questions and protests, mingled with their sneezes and
coughs. But in a moment Mark's was the only lamp alight.
	He straightened up again. "Look. My lamp isn't moving at
all, it's resting on the floor. Watch the light."
	From a few bright facets of the distant rock, spots of
brilliance were being reflected back into the tunnel, glowing
dimly on walls and ceiling and on the faces of the people.
	"Look."
	The spots of light were all in motion. It was a slow
movement, steady and concerted. It appeared that the fixed
rock, the whole cave out there, was turning past the tunnel's
mouth, in a gradual unvarying rotation. Looking closely at the
cave, it was obvious that the

perspective of it had changed in the short time the party had
been standing in front of it.
	People coughed in the fading traces of the poisonspores,
and marveled.
	"That can't be right."
	"But it is moving."
	"I think," said Mark, "that I know what's happening. Let's
get out of this dust, back through the tunnel. I'll tell you
there."
	The others were ready enough to go, -and Doon to lead
the way. In a short time they had climbed back through the
twisting tunnel and re-entered the large cylindrical room.
	There Mark offered his explanation. "It isn't the cave down
there that's moving, it's us. I mean all twelve of these tunnels,
and the room we're standing in. What looks like the hub of a
wheel here"-and he thumped his hand upon the circular dais-
"really is just that. And look up here, around the end of the
shaft where we came down. You see what look like loose
masonry joints. The two parts are free to turn past each other.
Indosuaros, when we were still up there in daylight you said
that you could sense something huge down here, something
of the Old World:'
	"I .did feel that." The wizard tilted back his head and
closed his eyes. "And I feel it now. Technology." And as
before, he curled his lip contemptuously at the word.
	Doon was incredulous. "A whole section of this cliff, with
the twelve tunnels running through it like the spokes of a
wheel? It would have to be big enough to build a village on."
	Hubert chimed in: "A slab of that size, rotating all
the time? Without even making noise, or-nobody could build
such a thing. Nobody could. . . " But he let it die away there.
He knew, like the Baron and everyone else, that the Old
World had made a thousand wonders just as great.
	Mark said to Doon: "But it means that the Sword must
have been right, both times. If we'd been quick enough to
follow the first tunnel that it chose, we'd have come out in the
right place . . . don't you see, the rotating tunnels must match
up with a fixed one, or some exit, cut in the solid rock
somewhere around the wheel. The twelve tunnel mouths
probably turn past it, one after another. At least some of them
must."
	"Actually," put in Ben, "there could be more than twelve
tunnel-mouths, depending on how the tunnels branch inside
the wheel."
	Doon shook his head, as if to clear it. "Let's try what
Wayfinder can tell us now."
	This time the Sword indicated a completely different
tunnel, not the next one in order around the wall.
	"I see," said Ben. "They bend and twist, as we've seen,
and probably some of them cross over and under each other,
within the thickness of the wheel."
	"I wonder, then," asked Hubert. "How do the priests who
come here ever manage to find their way in and out? Have
they some spell to stop the wheel?"
	"Technology won't stop and start on spells. They might
know, from the time of day when they enter from outside,
which tunnel will be properly aligned when they get down
here."
	"We've not proven this mad idea yet," growled the Baron.
"This time we go with Wayfinder in front of us. Come on!"

	"Aye, we'd better use Wayfinder," muttered Mark. "I just
thought-there may be other tunnel exits in the fixed rock
around the wheel, that could lead to something even worse
than that cave we just came from."
	Again the group filed single into a chosen tunnel. This
time Hubert, anxious now to stay close to Doon in this
uncertainty, managed to get right behind him.
	Again the tunnel twisted and went down. Again its
explorers came to one cross passage, but this time the
alternate way was not blocked. The Sword made its choice,
pointing to the right. Again, after they had followed it a little
farther, the tunnel they were in straightened-but this time
something different was visible beyond its ending.
	Its mouth, as Mark had predicted, was nearly aligned with
a matching opening beyond a modest gap. Here, with the
stator and rotor of the great system only a couple of meters
apart at the farthest, the slow-creeping rotation of the central
wheel was much easier to see.
	The tunnel in which they had arrived widened out
considerably just at the end. The aperture opposite closely
matched it in both size and shape; each was eqipped with a
stone step just at the lip, as if to
facilitate the easy leap, no more than a long stride,
acilitate between them. The intervening space was deep
enough to almost swallow up their light beams, but less than
two meters wide. The other opening was also equipped with
handgrips, elementary metal studs, set into masonry sockets
on both sides of it.
	The Sword urged them straight ahead, across the slowly
misaligning gap. Doon leaped out first, and landed lightly on
the step. He at once moved up another step, into the other
tunnel, which appeared to
slope downward sharply from just inside its entrance. With
his hand that did not hold the Sword, he motioned
imperiously for the others to lose no time in following.
	Ben took a step forward, that would have been followed by
a jump, but for the sudden drag of Ariane's hand upon his
sleeve. He halted his movement and turned to meet her eyes,
saw them for a moment looking entranced and almost
sightless.
	In the moment when Ben delayed, Hubert, with the
crossbow jouncing lightly on his back leaped out and landed
	Under Hubert's feet the first step of stone fell free at one
end like a trapdoor, slamming back against the wall. His
hands, grabbing in reflex for the iron studs, for anything to
hold, clutched at flat slippery stone. The metal projections,
moving in concert with the falling stone, had slid back into
their sockets. Hubert's fingers banged helplessly at the
smooth surface and were gone, as he fell with a maddened
scream into the gap between the walls.
	Doon had spun around and tried to grab him, but no
human being could have moved quickly enough. Nor could
any of the people who were still on the inner, slow-turning
wall react in time. Mark, looking down into the narrow chasm,
could see Hubert's Old World headlamp turning and
bouncing, bouncing and turning again, receding with the
body that still wore it. The man's screams had already ceased.
The light flashed and flickered in its spinning fall, at one
instant revealing fantastic rock formations that in the next
instant were again plunged into darkness.
	The light bounced once more and was still. The beam, as
bright as ever, shone steadily now on more

sharp rocks, and also on what looked like a boneyard of the
fallen, a scattering of white distant splinters and what might
have been round skulls.
	The survivors had not a moment to spend in pondering
Hubert's fate, not with the relentless rotation of the inner wall
steadily carrying the tunnel mouths apart. Some internal
mechanism had already brought the trapdoor shelf back up
into its innocent-looking raised position. Doon, on the far side
of the gap, caught one end of a rope thrown him by Ben, and
braced himself well back in the descending tunnel. With Ben
holding the other end of the rope, Mitspieler was the first to
cross with its insurance, gripping a loop as he jumped and
landed on the step, which this time held its load solidly.
Mitspieler scrambled on to where Doon stood, and helped him
to hold the far end of the rope.
	"The Sword didn't warn us!" Ariane complained, as if
surprised at some friend's treachery. Meanwhile she landed
safely in her turn.
	"That is not its function!" the Baron snapped at her, as she
appeared beside him to help him hold the /:e . And in the next
instant Mark was safely over.
Indosuaros was next. And Ben, holding his own
	of the rope, and with the monkbird fluttering dumbly
round his head, was last to cross. The hinged step supported
his bulk solidly, as it had done for everyone but Hubert.
	The six survivors, gathered now on the side of the gap that
they hoped was toward the treasure, looked back to watch the
mouth of the tunnel they had just quitted turn slowly out of
sight behind a flange of rock.
	"We'll not have long to wait for a passage to open when
we come back," said Doon. There was great confidence in his
voice, as if Mark's idea of the turning tunnels had been his all
along; more, as if he, Doon, had proven that it was right,
beyond all possibility of doubt. "There are twelve or more of
those rotating tunnels, we calculated. So if yon great wheel
turns only twice a day, there should never be need to wait
more than an hour for an alignment. We can be sure of that."
	Whether they were all sure of it or not, no one said
anything. At the moment there was only one thing in Ben's
mind: with the vanishing of the last crescent of the other
tunnel, there was no immediate possibility of turning back.
	The Baron added: "When we come back, we might be in a
hurry. So before we go on we'd better figure out just how this
damned trap-step works:" He spoke in a businesslike tone.
And he began cautious experimentation, which soon revealed
that the step remained rock solid as long as no one was
standing on the step just above it-where Doon himself had
been standing when Hubert made his fatal jump. A substantial
weight upon the second step evidently released some kind of
hidden latch that let the first step swing down the instant it
was burdened.
	"I suppose the priests and the Whitehands have that little
game memorized-or they don't forget it more than once, when
they come this way two at a time. Well, we know it now. Let's
move on."
	Although there seemed to be only one possible way to go
from here, Doon used the Sword. It pointed them forward,
through the descending tunnel, and they fol

lowed it. After that short, steep descent they were plunged
into a maze of tunnels, passages interconnecting sometimes
by holes in floor and overhead as well as ordinary doorways.
There were doors, some closed, some standing open. On
doors and walls alike strange symbols had been carved and
painted.
	Wayfinder ignored the symbols and the doors alike, and
chose an open way. Again, as always, Doon led the others
with his Sword in hand. He looked more carefully now at the
stone floor before he trod on it, and those behind him looked
at it again in turn.
	Once or twice in the maze the Baron paused, and ordered
Ariane to send the monkbird on ahead. Each time it came back
soon, and said little. She had trouble interpreting what it said,
and presently they gave up trying to use it altogether.
	Now suddenly there was only one tunnel again. It curved
sharply, first to the right, then back to the left again. From
beyond that final bend a light appeared, that looked to Ben
like cheerful daylight. Moving forward, he could hear running
water, and then the songs of birds.
CHAPTER 12
	In the last meters of its length, the curving tunnel's smooth
interior gave way to rough rock, so that the passage
appeared to be turning into a natural cave. Mark, emerging
behind Doon from the cave's mouth, blinked in what
appeared to be sunlight, filtered through the foliage of
majestic treetops some meters overhead. The air was warm,
and a fresh breeze stirred the high

branches. Birds flitted among them, and along the ran
ace of the red rock cliff from which the cave emerged. The
sound of rushing water, as from a small waterfall or tumbling
stream, came from somewhere near at hand but out of sight.
\ The forest grew up close to the cliff. Its grassy, open floor
was some meters below the rocky shelf on which the six
intruders gathered in front of the cave's mouth. From that
shelf a barely discernible path wound down,
among boulders of the reddish rock, to disappear as soon as
it got in among the trees. The highest portion of the cliff was
masked by branches of the towering trees, which also
effectively concealed most of the sky; but so bright was that
seeming sky that the effect was not gloom, but welcome
shade. Mark raised a hand to turn off his headlamp, and saw
that everyone else was doing likewise.
	"We have reached the sealing of magic," Mitspieler
announced, in a deep solemn voice. He spoke so rarely that
everyone tended to look at him when he did. "Given the
correct password, we could walk through it as easily as the
Blue Temple priests must do. Master, do you think it is
worthwhile for us to try again to divine what that word is?"
	Indosuaros glanced at him, sighed, and shook his head.
"We have tried that often enough, and learned nothing."
	Doon said impatiently: "The Sword will guide us through."
	Indosuaros agreed. "But, as we have seen, it cannot warn
of traps. In this sealing, that task will be up to me. It will not
be easy, and I want to rest before we start. 11
	The Baron considered. "Agreed. We can all use a rest at
this point, if we can find a suitable place."
	The two wizards looked out over the scene and conferred
together in low voices for a few moments. Then Indosuaros
announced: "We can at least go down to the foot of the cliff
safely. I suppose no one needs warning that not everything
you will see here conforms to reality. I can tell you already
that the grass and trees are real, at least for the most part,
though I

suppose they must be magically maintained. We are of course
still inside a cave. This is a very large roomjust how large I
cannot tell as yet-and naturally lightless. What you perceive
as sun and sky and wind are all artifacts of wizardry, and just
what reality they may conceal I cannot yet be certain. But we
can go forward in safety for a little way at least."
	"What about the stream?" Ariane asked shortly. They had
started down the path, moving again in single file, and already
the twisting path had brought them into sight of a small
waterfall, which broke out tumbling from the jagged cliff at no
great distance from the cave's mouth. The small stream
danced down over the lower rocks, then plunged into a flatter
bed that led it away among the trees.
	"The water is real enough," Indosuaros answered her after
a moment. "Whether it will be safe to drink, or even to touch, I
cannot tell until we reach it."
	That was soon enough. As soon as the party had reached
the grass, growing from what looked and felt like rich forest
soil, the two wizards moved forward to the bank of the stream
and knelt beside it. There they busi themselves briefly with
the art, and presently they rose to give assurance that the
water was safe.
	"I'm not surprised," said Doon. "There are living humans-
well, in some sense living-in the garrison,
Cdown below. And the visiting priests must have need of
water, not to mention the Whitehands. So this comes from
some natural spring. We'll rest here, then, wizard, if you can
mark out some safe boundary for us."
	Again the two magicians went to work. They paced back
and forth, mumbling, gesturing, watching things which
common human eyes saw not. They walked
apart and then came back to the others. Indosuaros
warned the group: "Stay within this first loop of the
stream, between it and the foot of the cliffs."
	The territory so defined was comfortably large, giv-
ing six people plenty of area in which to relax. It even
contained enough in the way of trees and rocks and
bushes to offer a minimum of privacy. People slipped
off their packs and laid their weapons down-within
handy reach.
	Mark bent to drink from the stream, conserving his
carried water, and found it clear and cold. Then with a
weary sigh he lay back in the comfortable grass, let-
ting his eyes close. Around him he could hear the
others seeking ease in various ways.
	He meant to get up in a moment, and find Ben and
confer with him on the question that now loomed
large in Mark's own mind: Was it time to give up and
turn back, or try to do so? Already three were dead out
of the small group that Doon had started with. The
thought of Sir Andrew's struggling army drove Mark
on; but going on to certain death was hardly going to
help Sir Andrew or himself.
	The first question was of course whether it was less
dangerous, or even possible, to turn back now. Doon
and the wizard would have to be persuaded, and that
might be hopeless. Or else Doon, at least, would prob-
ably have to be fought-and it was hard for Mark to
imagine any course very much more dangerous than

that... Lying in the grass with his eyes slitted open, Mark
was aware of the dappling deceptive sunlight far above.
If he turned his head slightly he could still see the
place where they had come out of the cliff. The bound-

ary of cliff and sky was still obscured, as if designedly,
by the massed intervening foliage of the trees. He
wondered if it would be summer here all year round.
	When he closed his eyes completely, even his dull
ability to perceive magic could sense the magic all
around him, as steady as the sound of running water
in the stream. It was there, but what it was doing he
did not know.
	It was hard to relax, to rest. He was afraid. He was
almost ready to quit, and he would have quit before
now, if Ben had not been here, or if the imagined
images of Sir Andrew's suffering people did not move
before him, hopelessly fighting the Dark King, clamoring
for the help that another Sword or even two might give
their cause ....
	Someone was moving near Mark, very near, and his
eyes flew open and he started up. Mitspieler was
almost within reach, on hands and knees, with his
right hand extended toward Mark's bow and quiver
that lay nearby in the grass.
	The graying, compact man recoiled sharply at Mark's
sudden movement.
	"What do you want?" Mark demanded.
	"O-only a touch, young sir, I bring you only a little
touch of something from my master! To anoint your
weapons with, that is. See? This!" And Mitspieler
held up what looked like a small bundle of dried
herbs. "So if you should have need to use your weapons
here in the realm of magic, they will not betray you. I
fear that before we are through it we may encounter
some creatures that are bigger than songbirds."
	"All right. Next time say something, don't come
sneaking up on me like that." And Mark sat and
watched Mitspieler minister briefly to his bow and arrows,
then handed over his knife to be given a similar treatment.
Meanwhile Mark observed that Ben and Ariane were now
seated together, a few meters off, with their heads close
together in conversation.
	In a little while he was approaching to join them, wiping
another drink of fresh water from his lips as he approached.
But there was a distraction. Just beyond a nearby bush, Doon
was arguing with Mitspieler that his Sword needed no extra
magical treatment of any kind, and by all the gods it was not
going to be given any.
	The junior wizard's voice argued with this claim, but took
care to do so diplomatically. "Of course that may be so, sir-
may I test it to make sure?"
	Mark delayed, watching and listening to the confrontation
as well as he could.
	"What kind of test are you talking about?" Doon
demanded.
	"If you would just let me hold the Sword for a moment, sir.
You need not worry that it will be damaged -ah, thank you."
Mark saw that in one hand Mitspieler was now holding a
bundle of fresh-cut twigs or withes, tied up with an ornate
cord that Mark remembered seeing among the contents of
Indosuaros' pack.
	Mitspieler went on. "If truly your Sword needs no further
treatment to function well inside this realm of magic, then it
should repel the twigs when I strike it with them-thus-"
	There was a bright flash that startled even Mark, who had
been more or less expecting some spectacular effect.
Mitspieler yelled, and dropped the sheathed

Sword to the grass. He threw away the twig bundle, which on
contact with Wayfinder had burst violently into flame. Then
he went after the twigs, and kicked the bundle angrily, to the
accompaniment of Doon's loud laughter, until it plunged into
the quenching stream.
	Mark did not wait to see if Indosuaros might be angry
about the burning of his fancy cord, but instead went on to
talk to Ariane and Ben. He told them what he had seen and
heard of the incident, and it made them smile. But presently
they went back to looking grim, as they had when Mark first
approached.
	Ariane was still taking care of the monkbird, and it sat
either on her shoulder, or on a low branch nearby, while she
talked.
	"It doesn't like this realm of magic any more than I do,"
Ben observed about the animal.
	The girl said: "I wish that I could let it go -I feel that I'm
holding it a prisoner, and I know what it is like to be one of
those."
	"But it has nowhere else to go," said Ben. Then, with a
glance at Mark, he asked her: "Why did you delay me at the
leap? You put your hand on my arm just as I was about to
jump, and I think you saved my life."
	"If I did that-I really don't remember why. I'm very glad, of
course, if I saved your life, but . . . my powers just work like
that. When they work at all."
	Mark said: "I'm sure that Doon is counting on them, to
help us somehow later on. But I don't know how, or when."
	"I wish I could count on them," the girl answered in a sad
whisper. "I wanted to come here and look for treasure. I
thought it would be . . . I don't know what I
thought. Something easy and swift, I suppose, like breaking
into a beehive and getting away with the honey."
	Mark's face cracked in a smile, as if reluctantly. He asked
her: "Have you done that?"
	Ariane almost smiled in turn. "I was not raised in a palace.
Or even in a house, really. The people who had me in their
charge were rough, in many ways. But . . . maybe someday I'll
tell you the story. I knew I was a queen's daughter, but mine
was not the kind of life that I suppose most queen's
daughters have."
	They rummaged in their packs and began to share some
food. They talked of inconsequential things, until presently
they heard the Baron's voice, warning everyone that it was
time to get ready and move on.

	Doon, in good spirits again, took Sword in hand and
determined which direction to go next. Wayfinder directed
them promptly into the forest, at an angle to their right, away
from the uneven line of the cliffs. There was no path at all to
be seen along their route, and Mark routinely began to store
up minor landmarks in his memory, to provide a means of
finding his way back, as he would have done on entering any
unknown wood. They walked through grass and wildflowers,
past widely scattered bushes and an occasional upstanding
red-rock boulder. The land sloped downward, very gradually,
in the same direction they were walking. The stream had
sought its own slope, curving away behind them, and was
now out of sight. Now there was only the forest, the look of it
somehow already monotonous; and now they had put enough
of the forest behind them to cover up the last sight of the
cliffs.

	Presently a sunlit glade appeared, some fifty or sixty meters
ahead and directly in their path. Mark looked forward in a
minor way to reaching it and being able to take at least a
squinting look more or less directly at the sun of the realm of
magic. But in approaching the place minor detours were
necessary, first around a large stump and its fallen log, then
around some trees, and then around a solitary bush. And
when they reached the place where he had seen the open
glade, there was only the same thick topped forest around
them as before, lit only by small dancing spots of sunlight too
small to show you anything but shattered brilliance when you
sighted back upward along the ray. Now Mark could see other
sunny glades, all of them somewhat in the distance. The
Sword led on indifferently.
	He was vaguely alarmed by this minor experience, and
looked back when they had walked on a few strides past the
place. The last landmark he had noted was a large stump with
its broken, fallen tree, and already that was nowhere to be
seen. Abruptly Mark lost his automatic outdoorsman's
confidence in being able to retrace his steps.
	Presently they came to the stream again. Of course it might
have been another stream of about the same size, but it looked
and sounded like the first one, and it came winding its way
back across their path from the same general direction in
which the first stream had flowed away. The Sword pointed
them straight across it, an easy wading.

	Ben, walking now behind Ariane, found his attention
continually being distracted by the rhythm of her
moving body. He had to warn himself repeatedly to
concentrate on being alert for possible danger. Though if he
thought about it he was not sure there was any point in doing
so, because whatever he saw or heard here was likely to be
some magical deception ....
	Somewhere above the trees and the seeming sky there was,
he knew, the maze, containing among its other parts the huge
turning mass of the Old World wheel and all its nested
tunnels. If Mark was right about that, and it seemed he was . .
. abruptly, frighteningly, there came into Ben's imagination a
picture of Hubert's battered body, bouncing and falling out of
this magic sky. There'd be a riffle through the treetops and
then instantly a heavy thud-might they be going to come
upon it here at any moment, the shattered head still wearing a
glowing lamp?
	Or would a mangled corpse, here in the realm of magic,
look like something else entirely-?
	Whatever a man looked at here, or whatever he tried to
think about, it seemed that it had to be done in fear.
	Doon kept them moving, maintaining a good pace over the
almost-level ground. The forest flowed past them, and flowed
past them some more. Ben wondered if he should have started
counting steps. The sameness of it, he thought, was already
starting to make it seem endless.
	Once more they approached and crossed the stream. It
looked and sounded the same as ever. The ground, Ben
thought, was now rising very slightly beneath their feet as
they walked on. The sun, as nearly as he could tell from
sighting distant clearings, was somewhere near the zenith,
making it hard to tell

directions that way. But he could have sworn that they were
traveling in a straight line, or very nearly so, ignoring the
small necessary detours around minor obstacles.
	They passed another sunlit glade, off to their right: Birds
sang in it, apparently enjoying the vertical sunshine.
	Mark called forward to the leaders: "How big is this cave
that we're in, anyway? Are we even still absolutely sure that
we're in a cave?"
	Indosuaros, next to the head of the line, turned his head
with an indulgent smile. "Of course we are. But you are not
moving through it as fast as you think:"
	"I'm having doubts that I'm moving through it at all. Can
you see the far end yet?"
	The magician turned his eyes forward again, and seemed to
be gazing off into the distance as he walked. "Even for me,"
he began confidently, "it is . . . "
	His voice trailed off there. In a moment he had stopped
abruptly, and in another moment the whole procession had
stumbled to a halt. The two wizards went through a session of
whispering together, after which both of them continued to
stare off in the same direction.
	Looking in that same direction himself, Ben could see-or
might it be only his imagination-a faint cloud above the trees,
or at least a dimming of the sunshine there. The darkening,
whatever might be its cause, deepened swiftly and
mysteriously. It was passing like a slow wave, from the left of
the observers to their right.
	All six of the humans could see it now. The monkbird
appeared indifferent, but now the people all gave evi-
dence of being able to feel it, too. It was as if the temperature
in the forest had dropped, though where they stood the sun
appeared to shine through leaves as brightly as before. But
leaves hung quiet in motionless air; whatever was passing
was not wind. Ben had not the least doubt now that he was
underground; the tricks of light and sky seemed poor and
obvious shams.
	Over there, something . . . some power . . . was passing.
Passing, yes, thank all the gods! And it was gone.
	The first to break the silence was Doon, and his voice was
now constrained to a whisper: "What was that?"
	Indosuaros turned to him slowly. The wizard's face looked
disturbingly pale, and sweat was beaded on his brow. "I had
not expected this. That was a god."
	A murmur went up, as if involuntarily. Most people,
including Ben, had never seen a god or goddess in their lives,
and had no real expectation of ever doing so. In human
society the presence of a deity was somewhat rarer even than
that of a king or queen. "Which god?" several voices asked.
	The magician answered thoughtfully. "I believe that it was
Hades-or Pluto, as most people call him. No one sees him at
close range, or face to face, and lives."
	"But what is he doing here?"
	The magicians could come up with no real answer for that.
"Gods go where they will. And Hades' domain after all
comprises everything that is under the earth. But he is not
worshipped by the Blue Temple, so we can hope that he is
here somehow as their antagonist-that he will favor our
enterprise, if he takes notice of it at all."

	Ben was worried. "Then we should make sacrifice to him
right away, shouldn't we?"
	He had realized for a long time that magicians in general
held a low opinion of the efficacy of routine sacrifice and
prayer offered to any god; and these two magicians now
proved to be no exception. Indosuaros only gave him a look
and turned away. Mitspieler did the same, but then turned
back to say: "Do something of the kind quietly, for yourself, if
it will make you feel any better. I will not. If it had any effect at
all, it would only be to .draw to myself the attention of a being
whose attention I do not want."
	Doon was consulting his Sword, which pointed him in the
same direction as before, very close to flee area in which they
had seen the shadow passing. For the first time he hesitated
visibly to follow Wayfinder's guidance. Instead he turned to
Ariane. "Girl, is that creature ready and willing to fly? If so,
send it out ahead."
	Ariane whispered to Dart, and in a moment the monkbird
was in flight. Its flight path curved slightly to the left, and in a
moment it had disappeared among the trees in the very area
where the shade of the presence of the god had seemed to
linger longest. A few moments later a small cry, faint and
mournful, drifted back. It seemed to Ben more a cry of
exhaustion than one of pain or shock.
	The six people waited, but they heard no more, nor did the
monkbird reappear.
	"Come, we'll move on," said Doon at last. He looked at
Ariane. "It can catch up with us on the way, if nothing's
happened to it."
	She protested. "But shouldn't we look for it?"
	"It has not proved as useful as I had hoped," sail
Doon. And the tall wizard shook his head. "Not there,
not now. If it can come to us it will."
	Ariane looked off into the woods on the left for a
moment more, but made no further protest. They
tramped on, for what seemed to Ben a long time,
without further conversation. It was hopeless to try to
measure the day by the featureless light that filtered
down through the high branches. Ben now had no
idea in which part of the sky the sun was, if there was
really something like a sun up there at all. It was still
full daylight, as it had been ever since they had entered
the realm of magic. And it seemed to Ben that they
had been moving all that time in a straight line.
	At last Doon called another halt for rest. This time
he did not sheathe his Sword at all, but sat in the
grass holding it and looking at it, and his doubt was
plain to read upon his face.
	Meanwhile the two wizards had gone a little apart,
for what appeared to be one of their regular periodic
conferences. But when Indosuaros returned it was to
say that he had sent Mitspieler on ahead to scout.
	Doon exploded at the news. He scrambled past the
other man, looking wildly off in the direction in which
the assistant magician had evidently vanished. Then
he rounded on Indosuaros. "What's the idea? 1 am in
command here. How dare you do such a thing without
telling me?"
	Indosuaros, instead of lashing back, suddenly looked
somewhat ill. He leaned his back against a tree, and
then slowly slid down it, until he was sitting in the
grass.
	"What's wrong with you?"

	The graybeard looked up. "It will pass. I advise you
to wait for Mitspieler to come back, before you take
any action."
	"If he comes back, you mean. Gods and demons,
man! What possessed you to send him off like that
without asking me?"
	This time Doon received no answer. Indosuaros'
eyes were closed, and Ben saw with alarm that the
wizard-now the only wizard that the party had
available-was slumping down even more, looking as
if he were in pain.
	Doon gazed round at the other people, as if he were
minded to order them to do something, but could not
think of what. In a moment he went back to staring
after the vanished Mitspieler.
	Ariane had sat down too, and her eyes were closed.
But she appeared to be only resting or thinking,
and not sick. Presently she said softly: "I think
it is the magic all around us that makes the old man
sick."
	"What can we do about it?" Mark asked her the
question as if he really thought she might have a
useful answer.

	"We should get him out of here. But then we can't
travel here without guidance."
	Doon was looking at his Sword again. Now he
swore, and jammed it violently into the ground, in-
stead of putting it back into its scabbard.
	Mark and Ben conferred together, but were unable
to decide upon a course of action. As they talked, they
became gradually aware that the forest around them
was growing darker. This was a different kind of phe-
nomenon from the previous darkening. Now the whole
sky was slowly dimming, very much as it would at dusk
outdoors on a cloudy day.
	Indosuaros roused himself a little, enough to assure the
others that this was indeed analogous to the natural fall of
night outside, and harmless in itself. Then he lay back, putting
his head on his pack and muffling himself in his robes as if
preparing to go to sleep. Doon approached him as if intending
another confrontation, but shrugged and seemed to give the
matter up for the time being when he had taken a close look at
the wizard's face.
	The four people who were still active drank from the
nearby stream, and again ate sparingly from their supplies. As
darkness thickened under the trees they turned their
headlamps on again. In the soft-focused beams the forest
around them looked almost reassuringly normal.
	Mark wondered aloud if their lights were going to be
noticed.
	Doon sniffed. "No need to worry about that, I'd say.
Anything that's here already knows that we're here too."
	They examined Indosuaros again, and as far as any of them
could tell, the wizard was sleeping almost normally, though he
looked ill. By general agreement it was decided to let him sleep
until morning-no one voiced any doubt that morning was
going to come.
	Night in the forest deepened further, to an utter blackness
that would have been unnatural in the world above. The
headlamps were adjusted to throw a diffuse illumination and
set on the ground spaced around the party, so that they
provided light on the surrounding woods while leaving their
owners in partial shadow.

The circle included Indosuaros, as well as the four wakeful
people who took turns talking and dozing through the night.
	It was a long night, and for a long time in the middle of it
Ben found himself awake, with Ariane's hand closed tightly in
his. The two of them were lying chastely side by side, and her
eyes would watch his for a while and then close in rest or
slumber. Doon and Mark both dozed, on either side of them,
and Indosuaros nearby faintly snored. Ben's right hand kept
the girl's right hand enfolded. Her hand was large and strong,
and he could feel the calluses here and there on it that
testified she had not been brought up in a palace. Most of the
time he was not thinking consciously of anything, but was
only conscious of her hand, and all the strange miracle of life
that flowed inside it. He was glad that she could sleep, and
after a long time he slept himself.
	When he woke, the air felt a little cooler, and Mark was
crawling here and there and turning off the lights. Dawn, or
some analogue of it, was once more brightening the sky above
the trees.
	Presently Doon was sitting up too, and Ariane. In the
morning light, swiftly brightening now, they all looked
haggard, the men's beards growing untrimmed and unkempt.
Indosuaros looked catastrophic. The others took turns trying
to rouse him, first gently and then vigorously, but he could
not be made to open his eyes or utter anything but moans. ,
	Doon shook him brutally, and slapped his face. "What's
the trouble with you, man? What can we do?"
	There was only an incoherent mumble in reply.
	Doon, more to himself than to the others, mut-
tered: "I don't know whether to leave him here or not."
Ariane protested. "You can't do that."
"We may have to. Do you think we can carry him?"
"And what about Mitspieler?"
	"If he's not back by now, I don't think he's coming
back."
	"The next question," said Mark, "is which way arc we
going when we do move? Are we still trying to find the
treasure, or are we going to turn around and try
	Doon cut him off. "We are going to find the treasure.
We are going to help ourselves to it, and then we are
going to find the way out again. I say so, and the Sword
is mine, and in my hands. Anyone who says otherwise is
going to have to fight me." He glared at them each in
turn, and Wayfinder had come into his hands, so quickly
and naturally that it seemed to have been there all along.
	Ben asked: "And will you fight all of us at once?"
	The Baron looked at them, one after another, a long
moment for each. "I will fight none of you unless I have
to," he said then, in a reasoning voice. "Look here, lads,
and you, girl, it's madness for us to talk of fighting each
other now. But I think it would be equal madness to split
up, or to try to turn back now that we've come this far.
For all we know, there may be some easier exit up
ahead."
	He paused for a few moments, taking counsel with the
Sword again, and with himself. Then he said: "The three
of you wait here a little longer, with Indosuaros. I'll go
alone and scout ahead a little -I have a hunch we may be
almost at the end of this damned woods."
	"You just said that we should not split up."
	"The separation will be very brief. I'll not go more

than a hundred paces before I turn back-see, the
Sword now directs me right along the bed of the
stream, it hasn't done that before. So, wait for
meunless you prefer to leave the wizard where he lies,
and come along."
	The others looked at one another. "We'll wait, then,"
said Mark.
	Ben added: "At least for a reasonable time."
	"Wait. I'll not go far, and I'll be back." And Doon
splashed away downstream, the Sword evidently guiding
him, as he had claimed, right along the current's curving
course. When he had gone about forty meters the density
of the intervening forest hid him from their eyes, and the
endless murmur of the stream drowned the sound made
by his splashing feet.
	The others gathered once more around Indosuaros.
"We've got to wake him," Ariane declared. "Or else we
really will be forced to leave him here."
	The magician's frame inside his robes now looked
incredibly wasted, but when they tried to move him he
felt abnormally heavy. His breathing was now barely
perceptible; his face was wizened and shrunken, and his
eyelids as well as his lips had the look of being pinched
together by invisible clamps.
	Ben turned round suddenly, crouching, motioning the
others to be silent. "Someone's coming . . . or
something," he whispered. "From upstream. Look out."
	They grasped their weapons and waited motionless,
concealed in such cover as was immediately available. In
another moment, Doon's unmistakable figure had come
into view, Sword held out before him like a challenge to
the world, splashing toward them from upstream.
	The Baron was if anything more surprised than they were.
"What is this? What made you come here?"
	"We've not moved a centimeter, Doon. Look-the wizard is
resting under the same tree as before."
	At first, Doon could not believe it. "But-I've kept going
downstream ever since I left you." And for a moment Ben
thought that the little man might fling his Sword away.
	Before any further debate could begin, another
approaching figure was sighted. Everyone seemed to discover
it at almost the same time. When first seen, in the distance, it
appeared to flit and jump among the trees, as if it were part of
a mirage. As it drew closer, it could be seen first to be human,
and then to be a man; and next to bear in one hand some kind
of sword, with which it groped about as if for guidance. And
lastly, as it came near, it could be recognized as Mitspieler,
walking simply and normally.
	Before any one else could say anything, Indosuaros had
roused himself, and propped himself up on one elbow. With a
faint, glad cry he turned toward the approaching man.
"Master!"
	Mitspieler's wiry, graying form was unchanged, except
that now he wore something that Ben had never seen before,
an ornate belted scabbard. At close range it was easy to see
that the weapon in Mitspieler's hand was one of the Twelve
Swords, but with his grip upon the hilt there was no way to
tell which one it was.
	As he approached he ignored the first burst of questions
directed at him, and at once bent down over Indosuaros, who
had fallen back again and was flat on the ground.
	A long moment later Mitspieler straightened up

again. "I fear there is nothing I can do for you now," he told
the supine man, who did not react and might not have heard.
	"What Sword is that you carry?" demanded Doon. His
voice was suddenly suspicious. An instant later the Baron's
hand grabbed for the weapon at his own side; but that
vanished even as he grasped the hilt, turned to nothingness
right before Ben's watching eyes.
	For a moment Doon stared blankly at the empty claw of his
right hand. Then he would have sprung to the attack, with his
dagger or barehanded, but for the fact that the Sword, in
Mitspieler's suddenly capablelooking fist, was pointing
straight at him.
	"Do not lunge upon the point, Baron. I may not be able to
heal you if you do. Hear me!" And the voice of the graying
man boomed out with a sudden authority. "Yes, I have the
Sword of Wisdom here. I hope that it will be back in your
hand before we leave this sealing, so you can use it when we
reach the next-but before I give it back, I require that you hear
me."
	Doon mastered himself. "Then speak on, and quickly."
	"I borrowed Wayfinder a short time ago, under the pretext
of testing it. To replace it in your scabbard I left a phantom
sword of my own creation-of course the phantom could not
really guide you anywhere. But I needed the real Sword to go
ahead on my own reconnaissance, and I foresaw that you
would not lend it to me willingly."
	Doon nodded grim agreement. "In that you read the future
well . . . what is your real name?"
	"Mitspieler will still do. And his name"-the speaker threw a
moment's glance to one side and down-"is really Indosuaros .
. . now listen to me, all of you. The
god whose presence brushed us yesterday was really
Hades. I have just been trying to look for him, to see
where he has gone,, but I was unsuccessful. I think
that he has left the caves completely now. In any case,
the way ahead now seems clear for us to go on . . .
I take it you are all still ready to go on?"
	"We are ready," the Baron told him. "Give me the
Sword."
	"There is one thing more."
	"I thought there might be. Well, speak."
	"The treasure 1 seek," Mitspieler said, "is not gold
or jewels, and it is not with the gold in the vaults
'below the demon-sealing, but only on the next level
down from this one. I want you to swear, Baron, on
your honor and on your hope of wealth, that you will
help me get it. I, in my turn, swear now most solemnly
and on my oaths of magic, that if you help me I will
then go with you and help you however I can, to reach
the last level and to prosper there." He swung his gaze
away from Doon, to let it rest on Mark and Ben and
Ariane in turn. "I swear the same to each of you, if you
will help me first."
	Doon was shaking his head in doubt. He squinted
at Mitspieler as if the man were hard to see. The
Baron said: "You and I are now to trust each other's
pledges? Now, after you've stolen my Sword? After
you've lied to us all along, about-" and he gestured
sharply toward the fallen form of Indosuaros.
	"I borrowed your Sword, no more than that. Be-
cause I had to have it, nothing less would serve. And
yes, I'll trust your pledge, if you will swear it as I've
said. You are a man of honor, Baron Doon. Swear now,
and your blade comes back to you at once. I'll even

swear over to you now my share of whatever treasure
there may be on the bottom level."
	Doon appeared to be impressed in spite of himself
by this last offer. "No need to talk of sharing that
treasure, man. There's so much-
	"Don't say that until you've seen it . . . as I have,
though only in tranced visions. There are certain mor-
sels choicer than the rest .... Well?"
	Doon made up his mind-perhaps, thought Ben, a
shade too quickly. "Very well, you have my word to
help you on the level below this one, as long as it does
not prevent my reaching my own goal."
	"Have I your solemn oath, just as I said it should be
given?"
	There was a pause. "You have."
	And Wayfinder, tossed hilt upward, came leaping
toward Doon, so that his right hand had no trouble to
pluck it safely from the air.
	"Master. . . " The cry was an almost vanishingly
faint moan, and it came from the fallen husk of
Indosuaros. Ariane was squatting beside him again;
she was holding a much shriveled hand, from whose
fingers some of the ornate rings had already fallen
off.
	"There's nothing to be done for him now, girl."
Mitspieler, looking down, appeared saddened, but not
greatly; he might perhaps have been watching the
death of his second favorite pet animal. "Could he
have finished this journey, it would have served as
his-what is the word that other guilds and profes-
sions sometimes use?-his masterpiece. His passport
to the upper ranks of magic . . . but he will never be a
master now. He simply was not strong enough."
	"But what's wrong with him? What is he . . . dying
of?"
	"You who are not magicians can pass through
this sealing freely-provided you can find the way
to pass through it at all. But we of the profession,
from the moment that we enter, are engaged by the
local powers in a continuous struggle. We undergo a
ceaseless assault upon our specially developed senses.
I am strong enough to bear it. Regrettably, my faithful
helper here was not-not without me at his side to aid
him:"
	Doon demanded: "Why did you let him play the
leader until now?"
	"Oh yes, that. As you must know, Baron, being a
leader has its problems as well as its advantages. It
elevates one, but often as a target. I could not be sure
at first about you and your men, whether or not
you were really just the simple adventurers that you
appeared to be. There was a whiff of something subtle
and dangerous about you -I think now that it was the
Sword, no more .... Well, Baron, you have it in your
hand again. Are we going on, or not? I am ready to
follow, if you will lead the way."
	Doon, looking half entranced himself, inspected the
weapon in his hand. He felt of it, and tried it once or
twice in and out of the scabbard. Then like a sleep-
walker he raised it ahead of him, moved it to right and
left and back again.
	"But what about-" Ben, looking down upon the
crumpled robes of Indosuaros, began a protest. Then
he realized that those garments were no longer tenanted
by any human form.
	Ariane, reluctant to believe that, lifted the robes

and shook them. A giant spider leaped out and went
running away into the grass.

	The Sword-the real Sword, for the first time here
in the sealing of magic-directed Doon at an angle
away from the curving stream. With haggard confidence
he followed its guidance again. Mitspieler, having picked
up Indosuaros' rings, and taken what he wanted from
the contents of his pack, marched second in the
shortened line. Ariane was in the middle, with Mark
just behind her and Ben to guard the rear.
	The real Sword neither followed the stream nor kept
to what looked like a straight line among the trees.
Instead it subjected its users to sudden and apparently
purposeless shifts of course. They walked fifty meters
in a straight line, then turned a sharp corner and
walked straight in a new direction for forty meters
more. This was followed by another turn, after which
it seemed to Mark that they moved in the arc of a great
lefthanded circle; and yet another change, after which
they walked a circle curving to the right. Mark was
just beginning to wonder if even the genuine Sword
were now malfunctioning, when through the treetops
ahead he caught sight of what looked like a familiar
line of cliffs.
	The rock formation was no more than about fifty
meters away when it first became visible; they had
hiked no more than a hundred and fifty meters or so
from the place where they had seen the last of Indo-
suaros. Now the Sword guided them rapidly toward
the rocks, though their course was still not quite
a straight line. Once more the inescapable stream
appeared, curving toward the explorers, flowing in the
direction of the cliffs. In a few moments they were
close enough for Mark to see where the current tum-
bled precipitously into a cave that opened just at the
cliffs' base.
	Looking higher on the rocky wall, he tried to locate
the entrance through which they had come into this
realm of magic, at what now seemed like some time in
the remote past. The cliffs looked very much the same,
but if the entrance cave was actually here he could not
see it.
	Doon now led them wading into the shallow water.
They followed the course of the stream bed almost to
the cave, before stepping out onto a dry path, that
switchbacked its way down into the earth beside the
stream. The water disappeared now into a jumble of
rocks, though the tumbling roar of it stayed with them.
	The stream reappeared near the bottom of the dark
cliff, its channel now become a complex of artificial
basins and waterfall's, followed by a paved ditch at the
bottom.
	As the false sunlight faded out completely behind
the expedition, another kind of light came into view,
ahead of them. It took them some time to get down
near its source.

CHAPTER 13

	The reddish light ahead emanated from fierce torch-
like flames, flames that sprang from many vents high
on the sides of another great cave. These torch-flames
appeared to consume invisible fuel, as if they fed on
jets of gas flowing somehow from inside the earth. So
large was this cave that only parts of it were effectively
illuminated by this strange light; its size was therefore
hard to estimate, but certainly it was enormous.
	Here again the stream vanished. This time its disap-
pearance had an air of permanence, as it dove into a
broad pipe or conduit of what looked like ancient
masonry, with its intake covered by a heavy, rusted
grill; and from this point on even the sound of the
stream faded, until soon it was altogether gone.
	And here the path completed its descent into this
new cave, across a fan of fallen ,rubble. Mark could
make out sections of high wall still standing on either
side of the path. It appeared that some defensive
works had once stood here, had been breached by
some powerful attack, and then had never been repaired.
And indeed the dark hillside that the party was now
descending looked in the headlamps' beams like some
dream of an old battlefield, with fragments of old
bones and rusted weapons mingled with the earth and
the fallen stones of the wall.
	Now, from somewhere ahead, a new sound was
suddenly audible. It was dull and thick, heavy and
rhythmic, loud as a great slow drum, ominous as a
troubled heart.
	"Our presence has been noted, I'm afraid," Mitspieler
commented on hearing it. "I will do what I can, but I
advise you to be ready to fight."
	At a distance of twenty meters or so ahead, the
cave's illumination was somewhat brighter. There
the walls narrowed in, bringing the towering gas-
flames a little closer on either hand. At about the
same place, the slope of the rubbled hillside gentled,
until there ceased to be a slope at all. The drum, if
such it was, continued sounding somewhere in the
distance. It was accompanied now by other dull,
booming sounds, that made Mark think of the stone
lids of sarcophagi falling back. He wished that image
had not come to him, for now in the middle distance,
beyond the narrowing of the cave, he could see long
rows of what might be couches, or, in the poor light,
elevated coffins. He saw, or imagined that he saw,
draped human forms recumbent upon some of these,
or perhaps in them. And he thought or imagined
that some of these forms were stirring into action

as the great war drum quickened its beat slightly . . .
	. . . but there were two drums, Mark realized now,
and probably no sarcophagi-lids at all. He thought of
focusing his lamp's beam into the distance to make
sure, but decided not to risk disturbing whoever might
be there with a bright light.
	Doon and his four followers continued their advance.
But now, directly in their path, just at the place where
the cave narrowed and the flames were brighter, a
limping human form appeared to bar their way. This
figure, armed with shield and spear and helmet, was
quickly joined by another and another. More appeared,
until there were ten in all, all in motley clothing and
irregularly armed and armored. Unmatching uniforms,
faded or shredded, hung upon unhealthy-looking bodies,
some scrawny and some bloated. The thin men were so
thin that for a moment Mark feared that he and his com-
panions were about to encounter skeletons animated
by some new power of magic; but this impression
passed as they drew closer.
	The force assembled to oppose them acted more
effectively than their first appearance had suggested.
When their leader barked a short command it was
vigorously executed. Their weapons, drawn and pre=
sented now, were in some cases little more than bars
of rust, but they were held in firm readiness.
	He who acted the part of their officer now slouched
a step forward from the center of the patchwork line.
"The password!" he demanded, facing toward Doon's
advancing group. His voice was a dry croak, as if the
throat that formed it might not have been used for a
long time.. "Give me the password!"
	"In a moment" Doon called back, quite calmly. "I
have it here in hand:' He brandished Wayfinder. In the near-
darkness at Mark's right, Ariane's sling had begun whining its
dull song of warning, and the hope passed briefly through his
mind that she might be as good as Barbara with that weapon.
Mark had his bow in hand already, and had dropped his pack.
Now he reached back to draw an arrow from his quiver. He
saw Ben's Sword come out. And from the corner of his eye he
saw Mitspieler start to raise one hand, and disappear.
	The opposing leader snapped out another command, and
his ragged rank of followers charged to the attack. They made
their move with evident good discipline and determination,
though not with overwhelming energy or speed. Mark was
able to get off two shots, scoring hits with both, before he had
to drop his bow and defend himself at close quarters with his
long knife. A moment later the spearman who was menacing
him had his thin legs cut out from under him by Ben's
Dragonslicer.
	Two more of the enemy had already been chopped down
by the Baron, and the two struck by Mark's arrows were out
of action. From the hands of one of these Ariane had seized a
mace, and she was making the air perilous around her with
inexpert swings.
	The first clash was over, and Doon's party had managed to
get through it without injury. Six or eight of the enemy were
still on their feet-they must, thought Mark, have received
some reinforcement that he had not noticed during the
skirmish-and they had retreated now to some little distance,
dragging wounded with them. Even as they were trying to re-
form their rank, some invisible force began to strike at them.
One after

another were felled, as by blows from an unseen hand. As the
third man went down, the rest scattered in fear and confusion.
They cried out alarms as they dispersed back into the
shadowed depths of the enormous cave, among the rows of
couches.
	In the area that they had just quitted, a human form now
seemed to materialize out of the air. It was Mitspieler; the
wizard was holding a bloodied dagger in one hand as he came
strolling back to his companions.
	"I think," he called to them, "that the help they cry for may
be some little time in arriving. But it will come in great numbers
when it does, so we should waste no time. Baron-and the rest
of you as wellI now hold you to your pledge. Loan me the
Sword again, or else bend your own will upon it, to help me
find what I am looking for."
	The Baron, like his followers, was picking up the backpack
he had dropped to fight. He hesitated only briefly before
answering. "And what is that?"
	"I am trying to locate a certain member of the garrison, who
came here as a robber like ourselves, but more than a century
ago. Most likely he is in one of these barracks-beds, but the
rows of them look endless, and it could take a long time to find
him without the Sword."
	"Very well," said Doon resignedly, and gripped Wayfinder
with both hands, as if preparing to deal some mighty blow. He
stared at the Sword. "Let Wayfinder lead us to him, whoever
and wherever he is-and then on to the gold." And he swung
the blade's point in an arc, until the power in it signaled to
him.
	Headlamps probing ahead, the five raced in the indicated
direction, between long rows of coffin-couches,
and into dim regions that were farther from the torch-
flames on the receding walls. Gradually the enormous
size of this cavern was becoming more apparent. The
bed-pedestals, some of which bore the dead or sleep-
ing forms of warriors, when seen close at hand were
not quite like normal beds and not like biers-Mark
was suddenly reminded of the worm-addicts' couches
in the basement of the Red Temple.
	"The garrison is enormous," he commented as they
trotted through it. "Where did they all come from?"
	Mitspieler, panting as he kept pace, answered. "From
parties like our own. Some large, some small, all coming,
like us, to pillage the Blue Temple."
	"So many?"
	"It's been going on for centuries, since before any of
us were born .... They are bound by strong magic in
this portion of the cave, till death releases them. Or
until someone brings a stronger magic to their rescue
-as I mean to do for one of them today."
	"A garrison of enormous numbers," agreed Doon.
"But the ones we fought just now did not seem all that
tough."
	"Some will be tougher." Mitspieler, trotting, panting,
shook his head. "Those were only the first pickets.
There may well be shock troops here somewhere, an
elite cadre... though when folk are kept here for
centuries, their bodies and minds both must at least
begin to deteriorate. That's why I fear what we may
find . . . ah, this row now."
	They were approaching another angle of the cave
wall, where torch flames flared closer and as a result
the light was better. Somewhere in the distance the
long drum-alarm continued, and Mark could faintly

hear the warning cries of the survivors of the first
skirmish.
	"Too bad," said Ariane, "that our wizard can't make
us all invisible." She had discarded her captured mace,
and was easily keeping up with the pace set by the
trotting men.
	"I can do that only for myself," said Mitspieler,
"and not for very long." Mark did not think that the
strain in the wizard's voice and face was only a result
of running. "And it is doubly hard to do when Swords
are out. Today I am squandering the saved capital of a
hundred years of sorcery . . . . Do not expect more of
me in the way of tricks, for I am near the limit of my
powers now."
	Still the somewhat irregular ranks and files of the
couches of the garrison flowed past. The rows seemed
to stretch out into a dream-like infinity of gloom, the
individual units spaced on the average only two or
three meters apart. The pattern of occupation was
even more irregular, with whole ranks of unoccupied
beds followed by areas wherein most were tenanted.
How far could it go on? Mark, tuning his headlamp's
beam to a sharp focus, projected it as far as possible
into the distance. But it was muffled there by what
appeared to be rolling clouds of mist, leaving the far
wall still undiscovered.
	Doon ordered: "Turn off your lamps! There's some
firelight here, we can see well enough without them.
No use showing everyone just where we are."
	Lamps went off. And then, just as it seemed to
Mark that the search might be going to last indefinitely,
prolonged by magic like the trek through the forest
above, Doon came to an abrupt halt.
"Here. This bed. Whoever he is. . . "
	A head of curly hair gleamed darkly in the glow of
Mitspieler's lamp when the magician briefly switched it on
again. The wizard's hand tore back the rough blanket covering
the rest of the recumbent form. The face of the man revealed
was very young-looking, and handsome as a god's. The
youth's uncovered upper body was compact and muscular,
clad in worn clothing that did not appear to be a uniform, and
in a few fragments of armor as well.
	Mitspieler bent oven the young man and took him by the
hand. "Dmitry," the magician murmured, in a changed and
tender voice. In another moment he had dropped the hand,
pulled off his own backpack, and was rummaging in it for
magical equipment.
	The ritual that Mitspieler chanted now was very brief, and
it appeared to have been intensely practiced. The power of it
was obvious, for at the concluding words even Mark's dull
sense of magic could perceive a passing shock. A convulsion
ran through the body of the youth, and in a moment he was
sitting bolt upright and blinking blue eyes in the soft glow of
Mitspieler's dimmed headlamp.
	"Father?" the young man murmured, looking at the wizard.
"What are you doing here? And who are these?"
	"Dmitry, I'm getting you out of here, bringing you back to
the world above. These are my friends, they're helping. The
bonds that held you here have been broken. Get up quickly,
we must leave .... Dmitry, it's been so long. Very long. But you
haven't changed."
	"Leave? Back to the world? But. . . " Half supported by the
older man, Dmitry was already on his feet. In another moment
he had pushed the support away and

stood alone, though swaying a little on his feet. Like his
father he was of low-average height and sturdily built, though
otherwise they looked little enough alike. "Wait, I can't leave.
Not without my friends:"
"What friends? Come on, hurry."
	Dmitry lurched back, pulling his arm free again from
Mitspieler's grasp. From blankness and confusion, the
youth's face had settled into a childish scowl. "They're my
friends, I said! I'm not going anywhere without them."
	The wizard, his own look of tenderness already gone,
glared back at him. "If you mean people from that bandit gang
you came here with, forget it. I'm not going to waste-"
	"Then I'm not leaving. I mean two men in my squad here,
Father, Willem and Daghur. They're both great pals of mine
and I can't go without . . . well, hello there." His eye had at last
fallen upon Ariane.
	Doon had had more than enough. In a fierce muted roar he
ripped out an oath. "Who doesn't get moving in the next
instant, I'll run him through. Now move!"
	Dmitry had by now regained his full balance. He used it to
vault back over the bed that he had just left. His weapons,
sword and dagger, had been stashed on that side of the
couch and he grabbed them up. Smiling happily, he told
Doon: "Just who in all the hells do you think you are? I'll
mode on when I am ready."
	Mitspieler, with more than a century of experience to draw
on, found gesture and speech to quell them both -at least for
the moment. "Put down your weapons, the two of you. Put
them down, I say! It would be madness to fight here among
ourselves. Dmitry, where are these other two? I'll wake them
swiftly if I can."
He turned to Doon and added: "It'll mean two more men with
us. Two more fighters."
"All right then. But be quick, demons blast you!"
	Dmitry indicated to his father the two nearby couches. The
following rituals were if anything quicker than the first had
been, but Mark thought that when Mitspieler straightened up
from the last one he looked notably weaker than before. "No
more," the magician murmured in a drained whisper. "Come,
we must move on."
	Two loutish-looking men, the latest fruit of his endeavors,
had sprung up stumbling to their feet. They recognized
Dmitry grinning at them, and pleaded in loud bawling voices
to be let in on what was going on. He thumped their backs,
and swore at them joyfully. "We're going on to pillage the
treasure after all!"
	Willem was tall and black, his face a whitened mass of
scars as from some old ill-treated wound or wounds. He
roared out now in a jumble of oaths that he was ready to
follow Dmitry anywhere. "Best squad leader in the whole
damned garrison!"
	Daghur concurred with this, expressing himself with an
eloquent grunt. He was short and pale, with good muscles
burdened under a thick layer of unhealthylooking fat. A
horned helmet with one horn broken off sat slightly sideways
on his head. His gross arms were heavily tatooed, and many
of his teeth were broken.
	"But where'd you get the rest of this scum?" he demanded
of paltry, meanwhile glaring at Mark and Ben and Doon.
"What made you think they could keep up?"
	"The best I could find on short notice!" Dmitry shouted,
hugging the two around their necks. "Never mind them, come
on."

	"And who's the old one here?" Willem wanted to know.
	"Never mind, he'll keep up too!"
	"So, it's a revolt, hey, Dimmy? I'm for it, what the hell, let's
go." Then Willem broke off suddenly, staring at Ariane. It was
as if he had deliberately kept her the last to notice. "Wow.
This's yours already, I suppose?"
	Mark had observed some time ago that Doon could control
his temper very neatly whenever its unleashing or display
would not advance his purpose. So it was now. The Baron
spoke very quickly and earnestly to Mitspieler, and the wizard,
his brow now even a little paler than before, spoke solemnly to
his son. Dmitry, with a look and a nod, managed to convey
much information quickly to his otherwise obtuse friends.
Immediately the little army of intruders and escapees began to
move in the direction that Doon wanted them to go, following
the Sword. Mark, close behind the Baron now, could hear him
murmuring to it as to a woman: "Bring us to the treasure now,
my beauty!"
	Doon's band was now eight strong, and it followed him at a
quick pace. But before the group had gone a hundred strides,
muttered warnings were exchanged among its members.
Looking off to the right, Mark could now discern another
band of people, some forty or fifty meters distant, trotting at
comparable speed along a parallel course. The headlamps of
Doon's party were turned off, and they could not make out the
other group very clearly, but undoubtedly it was there.
	Mark trusted strongly in the Sword, and he tended to trust
Doon's leadership as well. Mark ran now, keeping up with the
Baron, who had accelerated his
own strides. But already Daghur and Willem were panting,
starting to lag, swearing away in protests what little wind they
had. Dmitry too was falling behind, declaring in gasps that he
was bound to stay with his two companions-it sounded like a
transparent excuse, meant to hide his own poor condition.
	Even so they had gained a little on the party running to
their right. But now Mark could see yet another force, at
about the same distance to the left and also speeding along a
parallel course, with torchlight glinting on its weapons. The
garrison appeared to be rousing itself piecemeal to meet the
incursion. Now someone in the group to the left called out,
and Mark realized that those were women.
	"Amazons," a voice beside him panted. "Bandits and
warriors just like the rest of the garrison. I'd rather face the
men."
	Doon was not disposed to loiter for the benefit of
stragglers, and Dmitry and his two friends kept falling farther
back. Mark looking over his shoulder saw that there was now
pursuit to the rear as well; whatever they might encounter up
ahead, doubling back did not appear to be an option.
	And now, directly ahead, another armed, torchbearing
contingent was assembling, soldiers moving into position to
block the way:
	Doon halted, his people stopped around him, all gasping
with the effort of the futile run. The enemy array blocking
their path was already solidly in place behind its leveled
spears, and in itself had some advantage in numbers over the
intruders. Certainly the other forces on both flanks and in the
rear would have time to close in before any breakthrough
could be made.

	Now for a little time there was silence in the cave, except
for the less and less distant shuffle of many feet, a sound that
gradually shuffled into silence; and for the faint sizzle and
drip of the torches that a number of the enemy were carrying;
and for the slowly quieting breathing of hard-worked lungs.
	Now, from the very center of the opposing front line, a
grotesquely squat, thick-bodied figure detached itself, and
waddled a few paces forward. This man wore an elongated
helmet, as if in some preposterous effort to achieve impressive
height. His strange, waddling gait made Mark look at his feet,
and these also appeared lengthened, by oddly thick soled
boots. Torches on either side of him cast a flickering red light
upon his bulbous, red-nosed face. In a hoarse voice this
figure bellowed: "Surrender, you scurvy sons of loadbeasts!
We have you surrounded!" The sentences were punctuated
with waves of a short sword.
	Dmitry for once was quiet; Mark from the corner of his eye
observed that the youth appeared sullenly downcast. But
Doon was equal to the occasion, and put on his best
commander's voice and manner: "Who speaks? Where s your
captain?"
	The squat one bellowed back at him: "I'm captain here!
Commander of the bloody garrison of the Blue Temple Main
Depository. Field Marshall d'Albarno--ever hear of me?" He
rolled a few paces farther forward, into somewhat brighter
light, as if he took pride in his bizarre appearance. His face,
now more clearly visible, was bloated and spectacularly ugly.
	"There's elfin blood in him, I'll bet:" The tense whisper
came from Ariane, at Mark's side. He looked at her. Elves were
only superstition, or so he thought
that all well educated people believed.
	Field Marshal d'Albarno-Mark, at least, had never heard of
either the rank or the name before-was raw roaring at them:
"So, are you all going to surrender, you bloody lumps of
demon-dung? Or are we going to have to hack you all to bits
and get our weapons dirty?"
	"Aphrodite's armpits!" Doon's answering blast was
equally, hearteningly loud. He too knew how to swear, and
with some artistry. "Shut your mouth for a moment, wormcast-
brain, and listen to me. What's the most important thing there
is in life, to you, to me, to any soldier?"
	D'Albarno blinked. His almost bestial visage gave
evidence of trying to register surprise. "Oh." The enemy
commander's voice had diminished to something like mere
thunder. "Oh, we're getting to that soon. It's our due
whenever we're called up to active duty here, our pay for
beating back your damned attack:" Again he raised the level
of his voice to an inhuman bawling. "Do you surrender, or-?"
	"Vulcan's vomit, man, of course we're going to surrender!"
No matter how loud the other got, the Baron so far had been
able to measure up. "The only point is this-do we get to keep
our weapons, and join you like good comrades in your frolic
first? Or do we have to mow down half your company to make
you meet our terms? That won't leave you with much strength
to enjoy your carousal, will it? And maybe not much time for it
either." The last sentence was added in a knowing way, as if
to hint at inside knowledge.
	The self-proclaimed Field Marshal-he did seem to

wear a number of decorations on his chest-planted his ham-
sized fists upon his bulbous and unmilitary hips. He turned
his head from right to left and back again, as if calling upon
witnesses.
	"Now," he mumbled, in a voice again reduced almost to
human volume, "there's a man who understands what
soldiering's about. It ought to be a joy to have him in the
garrison. A comrade I can damned well drink with. I might
even be able to endure his stories of his wars and battles. I
might even-ho there, put down your bloody bow!" This last
injunction was directed at a decrepit-looking archer in
d'Albarno's own company who, after much effort with
trembling fingers, had gotten an arrow nocked and was not
disposed to waste the effort but seemed clearly intent upon
shooting into the group with Doon.
	"Put it down, I say!" the Field Marshal repeated. "And you,
you bloody invaders, fall in with us quickly and come along.
I'll send a bloody formal announcement of our victory on to
the civilians-but not just yet. The damned joyless slugs have
gone into hiding, as they do whenever there s an alert, and for
all they know, or need to know, were still locked in bloody
combat. As soon as they realize that you've surrendered,
they'll come out of their holes and start preaching to us all,
and close the party down. We who have faced death to guard
their metal will have our fun restricted, and we'll all be stuffed
back into our shells until the next excitement starts. Are you
with me?"
	Doon pressed him to make sure. "We keep our weapons,
then? Until the victory party's over?"
	'Aye, all right, until the bloody surrender is made
official. But try to use them, and we'll chop you into bloody
hash!"
	Doon signed to his own people to put down their slings
and bows, and sheathe their blades. He put Wayfinder back
into its sheath himself. D'Albarno gave the same orders, and
with a flourish put his own sword away. Ranks melted.
Slowly, suspiciously at first, the confrontation turned into an
awkward, then a less awkward, march.
	What is this? thought Mark. Have we surrendered or not?
He caught Ben's eye, but got no help from the big man's
expression of bewilderment. Doon was marching beside
d'Albarno, the two already conversing as if on terms of old
acquaintance. And Mitspieler seemed to have disappeared
again.
	The hard-faced Amazon warriors rushed to encircle Ariane,
and welcome her as a new recruit. Mark caught a last
frightened look from her as she was swept away.
	At least they were all going in the same direction.
	On to the party!

CHAPTER 14
	The place of revelry was not completely walled off from the
surrounding cave with its gloomy appearance of half barracks
and half cemetery. Instead it was only partially separated by
head-high partitions, constructed of stacked barracks-beds,
and of piled-up barrels, crates, and kegs. These containers,
Mark deduced, held the supplies necessary for proper
celebration. D'Albarno had evidently already sent ahead this
far at least the word of his triumph in the field, for the bar was
almost ready to open when his combined force of troops and
prisoners, now mingled almost indistinguishably, arrived. The
bar itself was a crude three-sided enclosure, built up of
barracks-beds, some upside down, stacked lower than the
walls. Smaller stacks made tables nearby, and single beds
simply uncovered served as benches. The scene was lit by
mounted torches.
The only halfway permanent-looking .structure in sight was a
crude stone fireplace, its sides so low that it was not much
more than an open pit. One--of the garrison, who was either a
minor conjuror or thought he was, was waving his arms to
create a spell in hopes of making the smoke rise straight up
into the unfathomed darkness overhead. There was a pile of
ordinary-looking wood for fuel, brought perhaps from the
magic forest on the level above. Over some newly kindled
flames a large four-legged beast of some kind was being
roasted virtually whole. Turning the spit, and bustling around
on various other lowly tasks, were a few of the scroungier and
weaker-looking members of the garrison.
	Inside the three-sided enclosure of the bar, and setting
about more prestigious work, were three beings of a type that
Mark recognized at once from Ben's description, though he
himself had never seen the like before.
	Ben nudged him. "Whitehands," the big man murmured.
Indeed the main distinguishing feature of the beings leaped to
the eye at once: the huge, pale hands, now at work setting out
kegs probably of ale, bottles of wine, crocks of something
that might be mead, to judge by the sudden sweetish smell in
the air. The strength of those large hands was being
demonstrated, yet they looked soft. The rest of the beings'
physical appearance also varied from that of common
humanity. They had large, staring eyes-the better, Mark
supposed, to see in darkness-set in pallid faces. Large ears as
well, and worried, thin-lipped mouths. Hair was mostly worn
or withered away, and skin was wrinkled. Stature varied,
among the three now present,

but the average of this small sample was on the short side for
humanity. All were in uniform, wearing highnecked blue shirts
and smooth short golden capes. Their clothing was
immaculate, as compared to the scruffy patchwork garb worn
by the military garrison.
	The commander of that garrison, the conductor of its most
recent successful defense, waddled straight up to the bar.
Before he could speak, the tallest of the creatures behind it
pounced upon him verbally, asking whether the fighting had
been extensive. "It sounded bad, from here. Was there much
damage? Costly?"
	The Field Marshal roared back at him: "With me and my
best people on the job? Not bloody likely! Now bring on the
booze, we've earned it. And start the food. And how about
some music?"
	A shout of approval for this speech went up from
d'Albarno's followers, who were already massing just behind
him and along the bar. This noise left audible only the last
words of the next anxious question from the Whitehand
leader: " . . . the prisoners?"
	"Of course I've got the prisoners under control! Who's
commander of the garrison here, anyway? Not
you, you damned white-handed, white-livered blob of money-
fat!"
	The one who stood behind the bar looked perfectly secure
in his own superiority to such behavior, and only distantly
offended. "As soon as First Chairman Benambra shows up,
I'm going to speak to him about this."
	Mark thought that this threat had an effect on d'Albarno.
But the Field Marshal was not going to let it show if he could
help it. "Speak away," he thundered at the other. "But, until
then, you're going to serve us BOOZE!"
	Another explosive expression of support burst up behind
him. Men and Amazons surged forward to the bar. Those
weaker, or perhaps only less desperate for drink, were pushed
aside. The Whitehands who had been speaking to d'Albarno
nodded fatalistically to his fellows, and he and the others
began to pour and serve.
	Ben, appearing more bemused than ever, looked over at
Mark and asked: "What was that about 'Benambra'?"
	Another man answered him before Mark could speak.
"Most of the people we get in here recognize that name:" This
was from one of the garrison, a comparatively healthy-looking
specimen, who had been forced close to the prisoners in the
increasing crush. (And were we really facing this many of
them out there? Mark wondered silently. If so, Doon had
certainly been wise to do what he did.)
	The trooper who had just spoken had by some
legerdemain already gotten a filled mug in his hand. He added
now: "The first High Priest. You know. There used to be an
old song about him, when I was still topside. He's still here,
though I bet the cave's changed a lot since he first started
hiding Temple treasure in it. You better push your way up
there and get a drink while you've still got the chance."
	Mark and Ben exchanged another look. Together they
began to force their way through the crush, working toward
the bar.
	The Amazons had come to the party in a group, and this
segregation still persisted, though it was beginning to fray
out around the edges. Ben kept peering toward their
company, trying to catch sight of Ariane, He could obtain
occasional glimpses of red hair and a

pale face, and from what little he could see of her she
appeared to be all right. If she wasn't all right next time he
looked, he wasn't sure what he could do about it. Starting a
fight would probably be suicidal. So far Doon's strategy,
whatever its ultimate goal, was keeping them all from being
killed, or enslaved, or even disarmed. But . . .
	The talkative garrison man had come along, pushing his
way with Mark and Ben toward the bar. He still had his
drinking mug in hand, almost full, so he probably had
something besides another drink in mind. Standing beside
Ben now, he reached out casually for Dragonslicer's hilt. Ben
knocked the reaching hand away.
	"Neat sword," the man commented, unperturbed. "You
might as well hand it over now, and save trouble later. I'm
claiming it as spoils. No use my trying to get that headlight of
yours, the priests or the Whitehands will latch onto that for
sure."
	"They will?" Ben couldn't think of anything more helpful
to say.
	"Sure. Whatever weapons prisoners are captured with are
forfeit. After you go through your basic training for the
garrison, you can draw new arms from the armory, anything
they have available."
	"A pile of rusty crap," complained another man nearby,
overhearing at least the tail of the conversation.
	The first man shrugged. "Maybe you can get something
better from the next batch that comes in to rob and gets
captured."
	"When'll that be?" Ben had now adopted his stupid look.
He figured that he ought to keep on talking, while he waited
for a chance to do some
thing. He might even be able to learn something useful.
	"Who knows? Who can keep track of time down here?
Hey, what's going on topside these days? Is Blue Temple in a
war? Wish they'd get into a real one, we'd get a lot of recruits
down here, I could get a promotion. A war with the Amazons,
maybe. The bunch we have is getting a little old:" He licked
his lips and looked in that direction.
	Ben, who before today had never heard of Amazons
outside of an old story or two, looked that way again also.
Ariane now appeared to have mastered her fears. She was
telling some kind of a story, accompanying the tale with
sweeping arm-gestures, and had a small audience of warrior-
women around her more or less interested. Not far from the
slowly dissolving group of women sat Willem and Daghur,
who did not in the least look as if they thought of themselves
as prisoners, recaptured deserters. They were fraternizing with
other men who had to be their old buddies from the garrison.
And Dmitry, laughing fit to burst at something, was sitting in
the lap of one of the larger Amazons while she drank from his
mug.
	Doon and d'Albarno, now showing an indefinable' but
strong similarity despite the disparity in build and features,
were sitting with others at a head table, elevated upon some
kind of dais. Mark saw the first platters of food, meat sliced
nearly raw, were being served there now by garrison
youngsters, mostly frightenable-looking Amazon girls.
Musicians had now appeared from somewhere, and were at
work in their own seats a little below the head table. Whether
they played well or badly, or indeed if their instruments'

made any sound at all, it was impossible to tell amid the
general din.
	D'Albarno was now obviously telling Doon a story, and
from the mammary shapes that the Field Marshal's large hands
were sketching in the air, it was easy to guess what kind of a
tale it was. Mugs and flagons were passing in profusion
everywhere now, and with incredible speed. Kegs and barrels
were being appropriated from the Whitehands by main force,
and hoisted onto tables to be broached and tapped, as the
regular troops impatiently took over the duties of tending bar.
Somewhere in the midst of the melee a woman screamed, loud
enough to be heard, but more it seemed in delight than in
terror.
	A man who had been standing on one end of a table fell
off, clutching as he went down for the barrel that he and
others had been trying to open. The container swayed,
wobbled, and fell from the table in its turn, hitting the stone
floor with the sound of doom. Liquid and fumes burst forth
together in an overpowering flood. People fell and scrambled,
and some went down on hands and knees, lapping at the
floor. The crush shifted, and the man who had reached for
Dragonslicer was borne away in the press of bodies.
	Ben had not seen Mitspieler since their capture, and had
started to take vague hope from this fact. Now he did see him,
seated at the head table, but so inconspicuously slumped
among garrison officers that Ben realized his searching eye
might well have passed him by before.
	Ben fought his way around to the head table, Mark getting
slightly separated from him in the process, and approached
Mitspieler to try to learn what was going
on. At Beds approach the wizard raised his head, looking
exhausted. The small, half-finished drink that sat before him
appeared to have knocked him out already.
	There was no need to worry about being overheard.
Mitspieler had to shout to make himself audible to Ben's ears
a matter of centimeters away.
	"I went around, invisible . . . tried to wake up everybody . . .
thought if we got the whole garrison . . . escape in the
confusion." He glared at Ben as if he thought Ben were to
blame for the scheme's failure. "Then I lost invisibility."
	"You tried your best."
	Part of the wizard's reply was lost in the ambient noise. " . .
. tried m'best. Tried hard, for a hundred years and more. And
there he is. There he stands. So why bother? Never become a
father, lad. Never become a parent. It's a great : . . a great
sorcery, that's what. Turns your whole life inside out:'
	Mark, who had managed to get near the leaders at the
other end of the head table, now came working his way along
to Ben, coming close enough to communicate through the
uproar. "We're not yet disarmed. Doon says to bide our time,
wait for his signal:"
	"To do what?"
	"That's all he had a chance to say. I'm going back, and
stay near him for a little, if I can:"
	"And I'm going to Ariane." Ben pushed himself away from
the dais, into the press.
	The Amazons by now were widely dispersed among the
general population. They were heavily outnumbered, but even
so there was not really . that much direct competition for
their favor. In truth most of the male

garrison seemed more interested in drinking, falling down, and
bellowing about their prowess sexual and otherwise, than
they did in actually coming to grips with the women. Great
bragging songs were going up toward the invisible ceiling,
but some of the singers were already flat on their backs.
	Between the dais and the place where Ben had last
glimpsed Ariane, the floor was even thicker than before with
bodies. Mitspieler's tactic might be working, or at least it
might help when Doon moved to implement his own plan,
whatever that might prove to be. Of course Doon himself
might have a hard time getting away from the head table
without rousing suspicion. In that regard, one urgency was
always possible to plead when a drinking bout was on-there, a
few meters past the partitions, away from the center of revelry,
floor stones had been taken up to improvise a cesspit,
soldiers standing round it in a ring and others waiting for their
turn.
	A drink was thrust into Ben's hand, and to be a good
fellow he sampled it before moving on. The taste was horrible,
whatever it was supposed to be, but the potency was
certainly above reproach.
	Ariane was not really hard to locate. It seemed she had a
persistent suitor, a garrison man who was not to be
discouraged by smiling appeal, either from her or from Ben,
and who went for his dagger when Ben put a hand on his arm
a second time. Ben twisted the arm enough to hold the fellow
still, then clubbed him on the temple with a fist. Distastefully
he lowered the limp body into a sticky mess below a bench;
Ben disliked fighting all the more when it had a personal basis.
	"I've lost my pack," Ariane told him distractedly,
shouting so that he could hear.
	"That's all right. Never mind. We're going to try to get
out soon. Doon will give us a signal." And somehow she
was sheltering in the curve of his arm, though normally
she was a centimeter or two taller than he was.
	Now she was shouting something else at him. "I'll
knife the next one, if he won't listen."
	"Not yet. Hold back. Start no blood-fights in here, if
you can help it. I'll stay with you. Better yet, you come
with me."
	With Ariane still muffled part of the time in Ben's
protective grip, they struggled back to a place close to the
head table. The floor just below the dais was newly
awash with booze; maybe, quite likely in fact, at least one
more barrel had been dropped and broken. One at least
must have been mead. And it was like walking in glue. If
they ever did succeed in getting away, thought Ben, it
would be impossible for anyone to lose their trail. If there
was anyone in shape to try to follow it ....
	The leaders were sitting pretty much as before. Doon
looked up haggardly, but his glance at Ben conveyed
nothing of import. At the Baron's side, d'Albarno was at
the moment boasting loudly about his capacity for drink,
and how he was today going to demonstrate it as never
before. In mid-sentence he lost first his train of thought
and then his consciousness; few around him paid much
attention as he released his grip upon his destiny, and slid
already snoring to join a cadre of old comrades who
were already nested beneath the table.
Ben, Mark, and Ariane quickly gathered around

Doon, who passed the word succinctly: "Leave here, but
separately. We'll meet two hundred strides away, in this
direction." And inside the cupped fingers of one hand,
held close against the table's edge, the Baron pointed
with one finger of the other, indicating a direction that
Ben assumed he had somehow managed to determine
with the Sword.
	The small group split up immediately. Doon himself
worked his way along the table to speak to Mitspieler.
The others pushed themselves away in various directions
through the crush. Ben parted from Ariane with a fierce
hand-squeeze, and from Mark with an expressive look.
	Ben worked his way through a gradually thinning
crowd out to the cesspit. From thence he moved on a
curve that took him gradually farther from the
celebration. Stumbling as if with drink, he lurched along
from one barracks-bed to another. A few of these were
tenanted by collapsed celebrants, the others empty.
	He paused now and then to try to see if anyone was
watching him. As far as he could tell, nobody was. He
continued moving in his erratic curve, aiming to reach the
rendezvous point from a direction at right angles to the
party. After a while he dropped to all fours. He was far
from being the only one in that condition, and he hoped
to progress even less conspicuously in that mode.
	Now all the couches that he passed were empty, and
still more garrison troops came streaming and straggling
in from the outer reaches of the cave toward the uproar
near the center. Of course the noise alone, he thought,
ought to be enough to wake anyone within a kilometer,
be they asleep, dead, or enchanted. No one paid Ben any
attention, and he crawled on.
	He was beginning to wonder if he might have
misjudged the distance, or the direction of Doon's
pointing finger, when he came upon Mark and Ariane,
sitting huddled under an empty barracks-bed. From
underneath the next bed the bearded head of Doon
protruded fiercely, and the Baron motioned Ben to take
shelter also and lie low.
	He did so and waited. Presently Mitspieler came into
view, not crawling but stumbling along in a way that gave
an even more convincing portrait of defeat. Approaching
together, some meters behind Mitspieler, were Dmitry,
Willem, and Daghur. The wizard of course had not been
able to leave without telling his son. The son and his two
friends were proceeding with exaggerated gestures of
caution, preserving a silence that now and then erupted
with half-smothered drunken giggles.
	Doon's face, as he emerged from his hiding place to
survey them, was a study. But, Ben realized, there was not
much that the Baron could do. He was still determined
on going on-he would not have come this far without a
truly fanatical determination-and he had to have the
wizard, some kind of wizard, with him on the next level
down when it would be necessary to confront at least
one demon. And Ben was ready to go on. Now, when
he was directly faced with the prospect of unending
slavery in the garrison, he himself could not find any
distant and still unseen demon all that terrifying. He was
not only ready, he was eager.
	Almost no words were exchanged. The reunited party
slunk off in the direction indicated by Doon, moving
directly away from the noise and the crowd, and into
regions empty of waking people. Some of the party had
lost their packs during their captivity -Mitspieler,

Ben noted, had somehow retained his-but all were still
armed. And all had their headlamps, though Doon
ordered that they not be used for the present.
	Little by little, as the scene of celebration fell farther
behind them, they stood up straighter in their march, and
became more an advancing group, less a' collection of
individuals sneaking along in the same direction. Still there
was little said among them.
	Presently Doon paused, evidently intending to have
out his difficulties with Mitspieler; but the wizard urged
him on.
	"Not here, not now. I know what you want to say,
and I am sorry for it. But we must reach the next level
before we can pause to talk or argue. And then I must
rest, before we can go on."
	Doon, after a brief silent struggle with himself, had to
agree. The small procession went on quietly. Even
Dmitry and his friends were quiet, for the time being.
Perhaps, thought Ben, they were all sick with drink.
	Now Ben became aware that the cave was narrowing
in around them as they progressed. The change was
gradual at first, then swift. Doon continued to forbid the
use of headlamps, but still it became possible to see that
they were headed straight toward a wall, a wall formed
not far ahead by the ceiling of the cave coming down in a
great curve. Now the side walls closed in even more
drastically, and at the same time the floor of the cave
tilted into a downward slope. And suddenly they were no
longer in the vast and seemingly unbounded room of the
garrison-sealing, but had been funneled into a passage
only three or four meters wide.
Wall-flames in the cave behind the travelers still
cast enough light here to let them see their way. Now
the ceiling was only a few meters overhead, curving
sharply down over the high rock shelves that topped
the walls on either side.
	Doon led them quickly on. The light from behind
them was fading rapidly with distance, and soon they
would need their headlamps.
	"We've done it," Ben said aloud. And just as if the
words had been a signal, rock weighted nets of rope
and cord, cast by concealed hands, sprang out simul-
taneously from the high shelves on both sides of the
passage. One of the falling rocks struck Ben on the
shoulder with almost numbing force. He had just time
enough to reach for Dragonslicer before his arms were
tangled completely in the net, but not time enough to
draw clear of the scabbard. More cordage tripped him,
and he fell.
	Someone else's headlamp shot forth a beam, per-
haps in an attempt to dazzle the attackers. It might
have been a good idea before the net was thrown, but
now it was too late. As Ben thrashed and rolled on the
rock floor, struggling to get free, he had a good look at
Ariane, and a look at Mark. They were both floundering
in the grip of some of the attacking Whitehands, a
number of whom now came leaping down like clumsy
monkeys from the high shelves where they had set
their ambush. Clumsy, perhaps, but also strong; and
not nearly as clumsy now as were their victims, tan-
gled in the clever weaving of the cords.
	Four more Whitehands, large for their kind, now
came trotting up out of the passageway ahead. They
wore, strapped to their heads, little golden glow-lamps
of a kind that Ben had never seen before, and they

bore a litter on their shoulders. It was more like a
stretcher, really, a mean, penurious-looking equipage.
	Ben didn't wait to see what this arrival meant, but
continued to roll from side to side, in a furious but so
far futile effort to bring his full strength to bear on any
of the strands of the net that wrapped him round and
bound him, down. If he just seized one of the thin
cords and pulled as hard as he could, he'd cut his
hands to the bone and disable himself from further
effort. Maybe he could get hold of one of the thicker
ropes properly-
	The litter was set down, a few meters away, and a
Whitehands, obviously ancient, got himself out of it
with some help, and then came to look at Ben and the
other captives at close range. He wore a uniform all of
gold, the like of which Ben had never seen before.
	"Careful, my Founder! Not too close. This one still
thrashes."
	"You reported that they were already your prisoners,
ha hum?" The voice of the ancient one matched his
ghastly appearance. He was so pale that the others
with him looked almost tanned by comparison.
	"Yes, First Chairman, they are." This was another
subordinate, who glanced jealously at the first.
	"Ha, hum. I think I shall be First High Priest today.
Yes, some function in that capacity may be necessary."
He was bent, smaller than the other Whitehands and
more wizened. Ben was being distracted, despite
himself, from his hopeless efforts to burst free.
	"Yes," the old man repeated. He was obviously
talking more to himself than to his subordinates-
though they were certainly expected not to miss any-
thing. "Yes, that fool Hyrcanus has never run things
properly topside:' And the old man-he was of course
an altered human like the others-with his grotesquely
large and withered white hands hanging all but use-
less at his sides, kicked at one of the fallen prisoners.
Too feebly, Ben was sure, to hurt. "Well, down here,
thank Croesus, the man in charge is still Benambra. "
And one of the impotent huge hands came up with a
gesture to flap at its owner's chest.
	Now the Founder, First Chairman, First High Priest, bent
closely over another captive. "Ah, a fine weapon here, a
treasure in itself:" A slow straightening of the curved old
spine. "And our famous Field Marshal I suppose is drunk as
usual after one of these affairs, making ready his report of a
dazzling victory. I'm going to have to replace him, I think, after
this debacle. Are you sure we've caught them all?
	"And we must send word to Hyrcanus to change the
passwords everywhere again .... I wonder if they have any
conception of duty left at all, up there. Prepare these captives
for induction processing and then basic training. Let me see
the inventory of their possessions when you have it."
	There was more; but Ben heard almost none of it. He heard
Doon shouting something, and then another Whitehands,
capering before Ben with a wizard's gestures, bent down to
blow a dusty powder into his face. With his first sneeze, the
world was gone.

	He was being awakened, for what must be the first watch
of the morning. He was going to have to drag his body out of
this uncomfortable but oh-so-welcome bed ....
	No, it wasn't first watch that he had to get up for.

He had just signed up for Blue Temple service, and he was
still in basic training, and he faced another day of that . . . at
least his shoulder didn't hurt him so much any more, time had
healed it. Ben moaned and grumbled to himself. Today he'd
try to get another letter off to Barbara, if there was a caravan
going that way, and he hoped that this time she might answer
. . . .
	"Still sleeping, hah?" Thud. The sergeant had come back.
	Kicked off his wooden barracks-bed, Ben managed to
extend one leg and one arm toward the stone floor, enough to
partially break his fall. Picking himself up, feeling bruised, he
noticed an odd thing: his bed was a different kind from the
one he seemed to remember rolling into the night before. Odd.
And, wasn't the sun up yet at all?
	Then, with a jolt like that of falling into nightmare, much
became clear. Ben realized that he was still in the cave. The
horror and fear of the recapture returned. And he understood
dimly that this was far from being the first time that he'd been
awakened in this way, in this dark place. But whatever had
happened to him after those earlier awakenings had already
been lost again in the mists of dark magic that fogged and
clogged the workings of his memory.
	Get dressed . . . no, he was dressed already. It was his own
clothing, but now all sadly soiled and worn and tattered. Too
much damage; he thought, to be accounted for even by all
the things that he could remember happening to him since
that unlucky hour when he had followed Doon into the upper
cave ....
	Doon, yes. And Mark, and Ariane. And all the
others. Where were they, what had happened to them? .
The other figures stumbling and cursing around Ben
in the darkness now were all strangers to him. His
fellow trainees, or fellow prisoners, but he remembered
none of them at all. None of them spoke to each other
as they formed a crude queue and groped their way
through the darkness, on their way to . . . all that Ben
could remember, and that dimly, was that to please
the sergeant they were expected to go somewhere and
line up in a formation.
	Dragonslicer was of course no longer at Ben's side.
Sheath and belt were gone too, as were his headlamp,
and his pack, and the simple little dagger that had
been his only other weapon.
	The dead weights of training and of fear were back
now, hanging on him as a compelling burden. Ben
stumbled into the formation with the group of unfamil-
iar men. Somehow he knew which place in which line
was his. In a flash of something like clarity he realized
that all of these could hardly be newly taken prisoners.
Perhaps this was some kind of a punishment company
. . . but it hardly mattered.
	Their drill-ground was quite small, a space lighted
by torches at its four corners and cleared of barracks-
beds and other obstacles. Here in their small forma-
tion they practiced marching, and drilled with clumsy
wooden spears.
	The sergeant wore no badge of rank, but there was
no doubt of who he was. He acted like a sergeant,
striding through the ranks, barking commands, inspir-
ing terror, yelling and kicking at anyone who dis-
pleased him. The drill went on unendingly. It had
always been going on, thought Ben, and it always
would be, and even that last sleep from which he

could remember being awakened was really only one
more illusion born of magic. Nowhere could Ben find
the foothold of hope that he would have to have to be
able to rebel against the sergeant's orders.
	He didn't know where he was, except that he was
still inside the cave. Which way was out? And where
were the other people who had been captured with
him? Were Ariane, Mark, Doon all dead? He tried once
to ask a question of the sergeant, and got a curse and a
kick for answer.
	The drilling and the marching went on and on.
There was a mindlessness about it that precluded
even sadism as a motive. It was, like most basic
training, utterly pointless except that it instilled the
habit of instant obedience to command, and it filled
the time.
	At last there came an end, or at least an interruption.
Ben was allowed to return to his barracks-bed and
rest. But it seemed to him that as soon as he had
closed his eyes, he was aroused again, and made to
stagger back to drill some more, this time for an even
longer period than before. He felt beyond exhaustion,
as if his body and mind alike were struggling through
thick cotton padding. He was caught in some mesh of
magic, so that he hardly knew any longer who he was,
or had been, or whether this existence constituted
suffering or was only the standard of the universe,
with nothing else left in the universe to judge it by.
	March and rest. Drill and rest. Then march again.
The real merged with the unreal. Ben told himself that
he was dreaming this horror, he had to be. Or else all
the rest of his life, before his entrance with Doon into
the cave, had been a wonderful but lying dream.
	Voices, some real and some fantastic (and no way
of telling which was which) taunted him with the
thought that never again would he see Ariane. Never
. . . except, perhaps, just once a century or so, he'd be
able to catch a glimpse of her across the battlefield
during some brawl, and would see how the long dec-
ades as an Amazon had changed her. He would still
know her, by her hair if nothing else. And then after
the battle he might be able to see her across the hall of
celebration, with foulness unspeakable and impass-
able filling all the space between them . . .
	. . . and from time to time he was allowed to tumble
back into his barracks-bed to rest. When his eyes
closed, he feared to dream, and dreaming he feared
even more to wake.
	He knew that somewhere, in the real world, what-
ever that might really be, many days at least were
passing.
	Benambra, the First High Priest, came in a litter
and looked at him once, and said something through
withered lips, and smiled and went away . . . .
	From time to time Ben was allowed, or perhaps
compelled, to sit at a table in a dimly lit space called a
messhall, where stuff was put before him on a plate.
He really couldn't think of it as food. Slop, worse than
anything that the Blue Temple had ever tried to feed
him as a recruit topside, his first hitch. This was the
second time that he !d been taken into Blue Temple
service, and if they ever found out, ever realized who
he was and how that first hitch of his had ended . . .
	But usually Ben was too stupefied to even worry
about that.
	Just as he was allowed or perhaps compelled to eat,

so it was with his dreams. Sometimes the dreams that
were permitted or inflicted were not ordinary night-
mares, but instead strange yearning visions in which
Ben walked again the sweet fair earth above, and
never thought of gold, and saw the face of Ariane. She
was free too, and smiled at him. Once or twice there
appeared a short man with a clown's painted face,
wearing a gray cloak, who laughed and pointed as if it
were all some happy joke. Then the next thing Ben
knew, she was with him, holding his hand and smiling,
asking him where he wanted to go next .
	. . . and next he would wake up to darkness, and
the groans of someone else bound down in magical
punishment nearby.
	Oh yes, he would be allowed to see her again
someday. On the battlefield, as the tormenting voices
told him. And after the battle if he still lived (maybe
after he'd watched her die) he'd be allowed his drink,
allowed to joke and bellow with his comrades, to fall
down drunk, gradually to forget that once he had been
someone else.

	While he was actually drilling or marching, lucid
moments were allowed to him more often. And in
these moments Ben was able to swear solemnly to
himself that he would never fight for the Blue Temple.
But even as he swore he feared the compulsions that
were being put upon him, that would leave him no real
choice when the time came. He might once have sworn
that he would never endure the kind of existence that
he was enduring now. When the time comes, you'll
fight all right. Or die, and you won't want to die. Who
had said that to him, the sergeant? And truthfully life
was precious, even now.
	Then without warning there arrived a day and an
hour when the mists of magical compulsion were
wiped away. Ben was sleeping, then he was awake,
and in a moment it was as if those mists had never
been, even though when he opened his eyes the cave
and the barracks area of the punishment company
were still as hideously real as ever.
	Ben was allowed to stand up from his bed as his
own man again. Two sober Whitehands were standing
nearby, holding torches, so that he had to squint in
unaccustomed light. Also nearby there crouched a
large, gray warbeast, a catlike creature bigger than a
man, who hummed an intelligent warning growl at Ben.
	Another figure, human, stood beside the beast. It
was real also, someone Ben had never seen in dreams.
	Not Ariane who had come for him this time.
	Radulescu.

	"Ben of Purkinje, we meet again. Keep quiet!"
	The command at the end was really unnecessary.
Seeing this, and smiling faintly, the officer made a
gesture. One of the Whitehands moved off obediently
with his torch, showing Ben which way to go. Ben
followed automatically, thinking as he moved that
Radulescu looked good, looked fit and healthy, his
small beard neatly trimmed, his clothes and his body
clean. Before Radulescu fell into step just behind him,
Ben had time to see that there was a sword-the same
sword he had once tried to draw, just outside the
cave?-at the officer's belt. And he was wearing what
looked like the same officer's cloak of gold and blue,
though it was dry now and the hood was lowered.
Despite all greater considerations, Ben instantly felt

the contrast with the way that he himself felt and
smelled and must appear.
	He was quite clearheaded now, in control of his
own body and his own thoughts. But with the warbeast
sniffing at his heels as he walked, he was really no
freer than before. Unless he wanted to decide to end
things quickly now, before Radulescu's interrogation
and revenge could start-but no, it was unlikely that
the beast would kill him quickly, unless it were or-
dered to do so. Warbeasts were intelligent enough to
handle fine gradations of command.
	They had walked for only a hundred meters when,
to Ben's faint surprise, they came upon Mitspieler and
Doon, looking as shabby as Ben felt, also under guard
and apparently waiting for the arrival of Ben and
Radulescu. Here another warbeast and two more
Whitehands were in attendance. There was enough
torchlight now for Ben to see, at some distance ahead,
the great curve of the cave's ceiling coming down to
make a wall. It looked like the same place where they
had been captured-but then, the different sides of
this cave might look much alike.
	Ben came up to where the others were and' obeyed
an order to halt. Now he saw with a shock of mixed
feelings that Mark and Ariane were waiting nearby
also, sitting in what had been the shadow of an empty
bed and was now torchlight. They looked up as if they
were glad to see him, but said nothing. Ben saw
in Mark's familiar eye that there was some news-
something important, but not to be told now. For right
now, only a warning to play dumb.
	And there, sitting in another shadow, were Dmitry,
yes, and Daghur and Willem too. Ben thought that he
understood now. All the members of Doon's party
were being transferred to some special lockup. Their
break-in had been relatively successful, and he, Ben,
was involved in it, and now the priests were going to
conduct an investigation into the whole mess.
	Right now, he couldn't help welcoming as a relief
anything that took him out of basic training.
	What was happening now? Ben looked round, and
realized that Radulescu was in the process of dis-
missing the Whitehands, all four of them evidently.
	"I can manage well enough from here on. I have the
beasts."
	One of the pale attendants looked worried. "But
sir-"
	"You heard my order."
	"Yes sir."
	The warbeasts no longer looked ready to pounce on
Ben immediately. He risked a cautious step, that brought
him close enough to Ariane to whisper to her. "Are you
all right?" .
	"Right enough," she whispered back. He thought
her tone was somewhat sprightlier than it had a right
to be, as if she possessed some encouraging secret. Or,
he supposed, she might still be drugged.
	She added: "How are you?" The way she asked the
question indicated that she cared about the answer.
	Ben thought about how he was. He felt of his
unkempt beard, brushed back his filthy hair. He was a
mess, hungry and weary, but basically he still felt able
to function. "By Ardneh, how long have we been here?"
	"Many days:" Still her voice was lively.
	"How many?"
She picked up the real meaning of his question.

"No, it's been days only, not months or years. It could
have been that. It would have been, except . . . "
	Ariane let it trail away there, but not unhappily.
Smiling faintly, she looked up past Ben. Radulescu, a
torch in one hand, was approaching, while behind
him the four Whitehands and their other torches were
receding into darkness, going back toward the central
cave.
	Radulescu with a gesture made his two warbeasts
lie down and relax. Grinning crookedly at Ariane, he
pointed at Ben and said: "Here he is."
	"Thank you," she answered calmly, and got to her
feet, brushing mechanically at her filthy trousers as if
to dust them off. "Now I am ready to go on."

	For Ben, the last to be set free, there were still some
moments of confusion. He didn't really understand
what was happening until Doon, after a quick talk
with Radulescu, had begun to harangue the others
again in his old fiery way:
	"You all look so astonished! Why? Did you think I
was dim enough to come seeking treasure in a place
like this without being able to expect help along the
way? I'd have had to be as stupid as the rest of you
to take a chance like that. The colonel here's been
planning with me for more than a year now on . how
to rob the treasury. He's able to get in by himself,
of course, but not to get away again with a proper
load."
	As Doon spoke, he squatted down and began to
unwrap a large bundle that Ben only now took notice
of. It had been lying at Radulescu's feet. There were
weapons in it,-Ben observed dully, and backpacks,
and headlamps too. People began to crowd around to help
themselves.
	Ben took a step forward, and Radulescu was standing just
in front of him with a Sword . . . unbelievably, the officer was
handing Dragonslicer back to him.
	Radulescu said: "I'd not part from this so readily, you
understand, if I didn't know there s even better down below.
And you and I are comrades, partners now." It almost
sounded as if Radulescu himself believed the words. "We are
in this enterprise together."
	"Aye." Ben swallowed. "It seems we are. I had no wish to
hurt you, that time, throwing you into the cave and down the
stairs. It was just that I had to get away."
	The officer nodded. "I must concede that, the necessity of
it from your viewpoint, I mean. Well, I hold no grudge:" But it
was still an officer speaking to an enlisted man, thought Ben;
there had been no offer to shake hands.
	Doon, looking large and whole again with Wayfinder back
in his grip, was trying out its powers. He conferred briefly
with Mitspieler-getting, Ben supposed, confirmation that this
was the genuine article that he now held, and not another
phantom.
	Then the Baron approached Radulescu, and with
something of his old testiness wanted to know why
Radulescu hadn't warned him about the step-trap in the maze.
"I lost a man there, and it came near pitching me into the
underworld, in more ways than one. I can understand about
the password for the magicsealing; it would have been.
changed, and you had no chance to give me the new one. But
that step-"
	Radulescu waved an authoritative hand. "I would have
cautioned you on all the traps, of course, could

we have held our final meeting as we planned. But I've spent
most of the last three months in what amounted to house
arrest. I had no hope of getting word out to you. It would
have been suicide to try."
	Doon nodded. "That's what I hoped. I mean, that nothing
worse had happened to you. When the big man here told me
the name of the officer he'd thrown down into the upper cave,
well . . . but even then I couldn't think of giving the attempt
up. Not really."
	"I didn't suppose you would. I wasn't really terribly
surprised to find you where you were just now."
	Suddenly Doon was looking more sharply at Radulescu.
"What're you supposed to be doing down here now?"
	The other chuckled. "Why, I'm thinking up new ways to
protect the treasure, naturally. The Chairman told me to spend
some time down here and study the problem thoroughly. He
has proven to his own satisfaction, after lengthy
investigation, that Ben of Purkinje here and I are not involved
in any robbery plot together -ergo, I am not involved in any
robbery plot at all, and am therefore the most freshly proven
innocent of all his trusted lieutenants. Ergo again, I am the one
to be trusted with this job. Hyrcanus wants results; he has
virtually put me on probation until I can think up some real
improvements for the security system. Maybe I'll leave a list
for him when we depart." Now it was Radulescu's turn to ask a
sudden pointed question. "Do you have some means of
hauling away the treasure? Did you bring a ship?" ,
	"There's a vessel, magically concealed, standing by for us -
I hope." Doon glanced toward Mitspieler. "Nay, I'm sure it
will be there. But if we have to haul the gold
on our backs all the way up from the lowest level, back through
the six sealings, I don't know how much . . . "
	Radulescu smiled mysteriously. "As to that, we may be able
to find some better way, when we get down below."
	Ben, wondering what that might mean, exchanged a look
with Mark. But they could hear no more of the dialogue. The co-
leaders had turned away, to conduct the next part in muffled
privacy.
	Ben sighed. He noted how Dmitry and his father were glaring
at each other. And how Willem and Daghur, giggling together
about something, sat waiting to be told what to do next so they
could try to make a joke of it.

CHAPTER 15

	Armed again, with headlamps glowing and the two warbeasts
loping peacefully alongside, the party pushed on. Mark was sure
now that they were retracing the path that had previously led to
capture. They were moving quickly. Divided into small groups,
they were united at least in the wish to leave this level of the cave
before Benambra or someone else awoke to the fact that they
were again escaping. Radulescu had said that there was a good
place to rest not far past the entrance to the next lower level; they
would reach it soon, and before entering the area where the
demon was usually encountered.
	Mark, in hurried conversation with Ben and Ariane, soon
learned that their experience in captivity had been much like his
own: drug- and sorcery-induced drill and marching. Looking
back on their capture,
they discussed what they might have done to avoid it, but
could come up with no really good ideas.
	"At least we have an experienced guide this time," Mark
murmured to Ben, who walked beside him.
	"Aye. And trustworthy-at least until he gets the use he
wants out of us." Ben paused. "He would rather have left me
where I was, just now." He looked at Ariane, walking on his
other side. "I thank you, for refusing to go on until I was
released. That's what happened, isn't it?"
	"She did. the same for me," said Mark. "And I'll thank her
again now. Ben, neither of us was really wanted on this part
of the trip-uqless Doon s Sword pointed to us again, before
he lost it . . . anyway they must have decided that we'd be
useful to carry treasure, and use weapons when needed. But
they definitely wanted the young lady here, so much so that
they brought us along just to please her. They'll take great
pains to get her to cooperate. And they seemed much
relieved when Mitspieler's magic gave assurance that her
virginity had not been lost."
	Ariane observed, "They still think that I have powers that
are going to help them somehow." She looked to her right
and left. "I may require more in the way of thanks, from both
of you, before we're done."
	"You'll have it:" And Ben took her, briefly by the hand.
	They were passing now under the high shelves, from
which, this time, no ambush sprang. The sides of the passage
narrowed in on them and the floor turned down. Now they
were entering territory that was unfamiliar to all of them save
Radulescu. Doon, as if he had some reservations about
blindly following

the priest's guidance, had now drawn Wayfinder and was
using it to make sure he was on the right path, even though
the chance of going wrong here seemed remote.
	The descent of the passage steepened, and its floor
became a stair. The tunnel was fairly well lighted here, by
small gas flames set at intervals along the neatly finished
stonework of its walls. They might, Mark thought, almost
have been inside some fort or military guardhouse on the
surface. The walls here showed a different workmanship than
that of the maze or the other, upper regions of the cave
complex. Of course there was no reason to assume that the
whole place had been dug out or finished at one time, or under
the direction of a single planner.
	The stair was forty or fifty meters long, with most of its
length in one smooth descending curve. At its bottom the
passage leveled out, and then ran for another forty or fifty
meters before branching into two. Here Radulescu with a small
gesture directed them to the right.
	Doon's Sword must have indicated otherwise, for instead
of turning at once he paused, looking at the other
questioningly.
	"The place of rest," said Radulescu patiently. "Looking at
you, I can well believe that you all need it.
	The right-hand way led through a constricted doorway
into a rough cave chamber, perhaps fifteen meters broad and
twenty deep. Large rocks made an irregular litter around the
sides; there was a clear area of sandy floor in the center, and a
sloping ceiling. Mark could hear water running, and when he
turned the beam of
his headlamp toward the rear of the room he saw the pool. It
was fed by a small stream that leapt from a crevice in the
upper rocks, then gurgled away on the other side of the cave
to provide drainage. Probably it was the same stream, here
somewhat diminished, that they had encountered earlier on
the higher levels of the complex.
	The warbeasts went immediately to the pool, and began
lapping at it thirstily. Most of the human members of the party
hung back a little, watching without comment as Mitspieler
went to the water. First he touched it, then tasted it, and at
last drank some of it himself. Soon the whole party except
Radulescu were drinking, filling water bottles, and making an
effort to wash up. Mark, able at last to rinse what he hoped
was the last taste of messhall garbage from his mouth, began
to feel more like the person he had been when he first
followed Doon into the upper cave.
	After drinking, Mitspieler washed himself minimally. A few
seconds later he was stretched out sound asleep, his head
pillowed on his pack. His face in repose wore a look of total
exhaustion, that brought to it a resemblance to the
countenance of Indosuaros in that wizard's last hours. Mark's
imagination worked briefly on the question of what kind of
basic training a captured wizard might be given in the
garrison; but he got nowhere with it and soon gave up.
	Everywhere people were opening their packs, in search of
real food. Nothing seemed to have been stolen from the
packs, or spoiled. To people who had subsisted on prisoners'
fare for many days, the field rations seemed like a banquet.
Dmitry, who had never had a pack, rifled his father's, taking
deft care not to

disturb its. owner. He shared his loot with Daghur and
Willem, but only on demand, and somewhat petulantly.
	Mark, sitting on a rock and chewing on some dried fruit
from his own supply, found himself gazing into the eyes of
Radulescu. The officer, sitting nearby, was wearing an air of
patience-rather, thought Mark, like a man allowing his herd of
beasts to drink and graze a while before he whipped them on.
	Obeying an impulse, Mark asked the officer suddenly:
"What made you decide to rob what you were guarding, and
join forces with the Baron?"
	Probably Radulescu was surprised by what must have
struck him as impertinence. But he made no objection, and
answered promptly enough. "Have you seen Benambra?"
	"Aye. It was he who led the Whitehands who took us
prisoners."
	"Well, I have seen him too. And it was my first look at him,
about a year ago, that made me decide to rob what I was
guarding, as you put it. Seeing just what I had to look forward
to, if I worked diligently as a good officer, and was clever,
devoted, fanatical, and lucky enough to rise to the very top of
the Blue Temple hierarchy."

	The rest stop went on longer than the leaders really
wanted. Doon and Radulescu were soon sighing and
fidgeting, walking about nervously. But Mitspieler continued
in a deep sleep, and Doon when he looked at the wizard's face
decided not to wake him, despite what were evidently the
Colonel's whispered urgings that he do so. The others
meanwhile were ready to take advantage of whatever time for
rest they were allowed.
	When Mitspieler did awaken, it was suddenly. And
perhaps of himself; Mark, who happened to be watching,
thought it was as if some unseen power had whispered into
the wizard's ear. The man sat up, alert from the start. His first
look, a grim one, was aimed at his son. Then he cast a
speculative glance toward Ariane.
	Getting to his feet, Mitspieler asked Radulescu: "Have you
the password that we'll need to get past the demon?"
	"I have, of course. I would not have come down into the
caves without it."
	"And you're sure it's not been changed since you came
down? Hyrcanus on the surface can change it at any time,
can't he?"
	Radulescu frowned at this. "Of course he can. But he
won't, he knows I'm down here. If he had wanted to get rid of
me, he wouldn't have done it that way."
	"I'm not so sure." Mitspieler looked at the officer
meditatively. "The Whitehands don't need a password,
naturally."
	"Naturally not. The demon is magically compelled to
ignore their comings and goings. The only ones who need a
password are normal human visitors." Radulescu smiled.
"Like us."
	Mitspieler sighed, and seemed to discard his misgivings,
whatever they had been. "Well and good then. Let's get on:"
	In a matter of moments everyone had packed up, and the
party was moving on, with headlamps lighted against the
darkness that Radulescu warned was just ahead. Mark felt
uneasy at the thought of his first encounter with a demon,
now soon to come, even

though he was basically confident of Radulescu's magical
protection.
	They had only just left the cave of rest, and were passing
the place there, the tunnel branched, when a faint sound like a
distant yell came drifting down the tunnel that led to the level
above.
	The leaders muttered briefly to each other, then ignored
the sound and moved right on.
	Ben asked Mark: "What was that? An alarm?"
	"If it was, we're past it now. We might as well move on."
	"If they're looking for us up there, we'll run into trouble
coming back."
	Radulescu had heard this, and turned his head long
enough to be reassuring. "There will be ways. I know the
caves, backward and forward and inside out."
	"But maybe someone besides you has discovered that the
dragon's missing. And the entrance stone's been enchanted,
so it can be lifted from the inside."
	The Colonel frowned. He dropped back a little to walk with
them. "Of course, I discovered those things. That's why I felt
sure I'd find you all down here somewhere. But I was alone.
There are no regular patrols on the surface; Hyrcanus is
dozing, as usual, in blissful ignorance. And Benambra, if he's
been given any report at all on my taking you away, thinks I'm
marching you off to interrogation somewhere. He's fairly
bright, but he'll be kept busy for a while yet, disciplining the
Field Marshall and his merry men, or trying to do so. Trust me,
I know the workings of this place."
The party advanced, but more slowly now, the leaders
proceeding with caution. The tunnel they were following soon
opened up on the top and one side, to become a mere ledge
that clung to the face of an underground cliff. The cliff's
smooth face rose vertically here for about ten meters, and
grew higher as the path continued its gradual descent.
	The outer edge of the winding path was protected by a
knee-high stone wall, and beyond this wall a slope went
steeply down into the dismal darkness of a dry ravine. A few
meters beyond the ravine, another cliff went up to meet the
roof. The slopes were littered with fallen rocks. Mark expected
to see more bones among them, but discovered something
else. When he turned his light fully on one strange object he
realized that it was either a grotesque doll, or a human body,
clothes and all shrunken to the size of a withered child. But
once it had been bearded like a man.
	"One of Dactylartha's victims," said Ariane, walking
beside him. Her voice was more dreamy than afraid.
	"Dactylartha?"
	"That is the demon's name:"
	"How do you know?"
	She didn't answer. The two warbeasts were uncom.
fortable. now, prowling first ahead of the human party, then
hanging back. Radulescu had to call them frequently to keep
them close to his side.
The air in here smelled strange, thought Mark. No,
it was not so much a smell as it was a feeling, as if the
temperature were uncomfortably high. Or perhaps
low ....
	"He leaves his victims so?"
	"Some demons do. Others . . . do other things, per

haps even uglier." Her abstracted voice perturbed him.
	"What do you know of demons? Where have you ever met
one?" This was from Ben.
	Again Ariane did not answer. She walked on, moving
steadily and smoothly enough, yet almost as if entranced.
Mark and Ben exchanged a momentarily helpless look behind
her back.
	The . . . wrongness . . . in the air increased. Mark had heard
that demons sometimes advertised their proximity so, but he
had not felt the effect before. Looking at the others, he
thought that now it was bothering them all. Except for
Radulescu, who might be used to it, and perhaps Doon,
whose pride probably refused to let a feeling of illness show.
Even Mitspieler, who presumably could defend himself to
some extent, looked paler than before.
	Now the officer stopped and turned. With a gesture he
stopped the others, who were now all following him at a
distance of a few paces. "Wizard, you come forward with me,
if you will-just in case, as you suggested, there is some
difficulty about the password:"
	"Why should there be?" demanded Doon.
	Radulescu doubtless would have liked to ignore him, but
knew better than to try. "I don't know. But just in case. The
rest of you wait here. Imp, come with me, lad." This last was
addressed to the grayer and larger of the . warbeasts, which
whined at the command but reluctantly obeyed.
	Seven humans and one warbeast waited, while Radulescu,
Mitspieler, and Imp went on, following the ledge around the
next bulge of the cliff. Mark did not know exactly what he
was expecting to happen next, but what did happen
surprised him. It began with a
show of multicolored lights, playing on the far wall of
the cave, thirty meters beyond the ravine.
	For a moment there was little to hear. Then some
words, indistinguishable, cried out in Radulescu's voice.
Then a frightening bass tremor, and screams in ani-
mal and human voices.
	The animal did not reappear, but the two men came
into sight, reeling and staggering back along the path.
Mitspieler turned once, gesturing behind him, as if he
might be hurling invisible weapons from his fingertips.
	Those who had been waiting needed no urgings, no
spoken warning, to turn and run. Ben dragged Ariane,
who was screaming something and seemed for a mo-
ment hesitant, along with him. Mark, taking one final
look over his shoulder as he fled, saw Mitspieler with
gestures erecting a haze of magic on the path, then
turning to run also, with Radulescu. Beyond the two
running men Mark saw the figure of the demon, looking
itself like a tall man clad in dark armor. And the
strangest thing of all about the sight was that the very
rock of the path seemed to be stretching and sagging
beneath the demon's feet.
	Doon, running unabashedly in the lead as ever, had
his Sword out, held in front of him. And Mark was
sure that he was not willing it to find him treasure
now, but refuge.
	"The cave!" someone shouted. Mark saw Doon turn
hard to his left, and leap into the room in which they
had just been resting. The others went pounding after
him, in headlong flight. Mark, running right after Ben
and Ariane, was the last one in before the wizards.
Just before he entered, he was almost knocked off his
feet by the remaining warbeast, which was running

about insanely, across the path and up and down the
slope.
	The two wizards, sobbing for breath, made it some-
how, and threw themselves down just inside the narrow
doorway. They grabbed implements of magic from their
sleeves and pockets, and from Mitspieler's pack. Grip-
ping these, their four hands wove across the opening a
fine net of magic, whose substance seemed to be
drawn into being right out of the air itself. They
completed it none too soon. There sounded heavy
footfalls, right outside the door, and the feeling of
sickness and wrongness that heralded the demon
reached in insidiously to grip them all.
	But the pressure remained bearable. "We are safe,
but only for the moment," Mitspieler gasped.
	"The password," Radulescu panted, "must have
been changed:' And he dug yet one more object from
his pocket, and used it as if in afterthought to strengthen
the defenses of the doorway. What filled the doorway
now had the look of translucent paper, or thin cloth;
but. it was evidently stronger than it looked. Dactylartha
was trying to do something to it from the outside, but
so far it gave no sign of yielding.
	"Of course it has," said Doon coldly. "So Hyrcanus
must be out to kill you after all. That means he's aware
of the whole plot, now."
	Radulescu stared at him. "Even so, we can still get
away, if that ship you promised is truly waiting for
us."
	"And if we can get out of this room without being
devoured. Tell me, you who know the caves forward
and backward, how do we 'do that?"
	The Colonel was saved from having to answer, at
least for the moment. For now the demon's voice boomed
forth from beyond the door, smothering all other sounds.
"Come out, humans, come out. A pair of warbeasts make but a
small meal, and I am starved. My hunger cries for human
minds and bodies:"
	Inside the cave all was silence for a few moments. Then
Ariane in her little girl's voice offered: "I was taught a charm
of old white magic, once, when I was small:" No one bothered
to reply to her. All eyes were on the wizard, and the priest of
the Blue Temple.
	Mitspieler let out a small sigh. "We have done all we can
to seal the door. It will not be enough, for very long." Then
he turned to Doon and spoke deliberately: "I think it is time
now."
	"Time for what?" Mark wanted to know.
	But Doon understood, and he was ready to explain. His
manner, as much as his words, served at first to calm the
others.
	"The failure of the password need not be fatal. Mitspieler 
and I-and Indosuaros-considered the pos-
sibility of something of the kind happening, before we !,
ever came near the cave. We knew we needed some j
other method of getting past the demon, to fall back
on. And Wayfinder found us what we needed." 
	1
	The Baron's eyes turned now toward Ariane. But it j was to
Mitspieler that he spoke. "Wizard, are you ready? Can we do
it?"
	Mitspieler's answer came in a changed voice, tones harder
and more powerful. "Yes, I'm reasonably sure we can. Not
only is she a virgin, but the daughter of a queen as well. I've
now made sure of that. But we must waste no time. Our
defenses are not going to hold this doorway for long."

	As if to underscore this point, a raging though muffled
demonstration by the demon now took place outside. The
light filtering in from the passage changed, and rage and
hatred and choked noise oozed in as well.
	Inside the cave a silent pause stretched on. It was long
enough for a multiple exchange of looks, for calculation, for a
sudden tightening of muscles, and shifting of weapons.
	Then Ariane leaped to her feet with a sudden shriek. "They
mean to kill me!" The terror in her voice now, like the
wistfulness of a moment ago, was that of a young girl. And,
recoiling from the reaching arm of Doon, she scrambled
across the cave, and got herself into a position between Ben
and Mark.
	"What is this?" Ben was on his feet and roaring. And his
Sword, like Doon's, was out already.
	Doon was smiling at him from across a few paces of sandy
floor. Now that blades were drawn in anger, the Baron looked
vastly more cheerful, and even at his ease.
	But he was in no hurry to attack. "I don't want to kill you,
lad," he said to Ben, his voice quite calm and reasonable.
"Look you-and you too, Mark, if you stand with him. We all
of us now have only two choices. First, we can stay here, and
wait for the demon to break in upon us. That'll happen soon,
and well all perish-nay, perish is too good a word. You saw,
out there, what Dactylartha likes to do to those he takes. We'll
face what's worse than dying-unless we kill each other first, or
kill ourselves.
	"But there's a second choice, and that's the one I'm going
to take. So are the rest of us. To sacrifice one
now-" At these words the shouting of the three across the
cave rose up in opposition, but Doon only raised his own
voice and went on, "-the daughter of a queen, a virgin girl.
Her death properly offered will bind any demon for a time-at
least it will bind this one, and for long enough.
	"And then the rest of us can go on freely. On to the gold.
Have you forgotten?"
	Here the Baron paused again, long enough to make sure
that the silence from across the cave still represented
stubborn refusal, and not a sullen wavering toward assent.
"Ben, your own girl on the outside, have you forgotten her?
What will you choose, your little shop somewhere with her,
or withering for a century in Dactylartha's gut?
	"And Mark. Those Swords Sir Andrew needs so badly are
down below, waiting for us. How many lives of his people
can they save? You've already killed to get them. Now one
more small life stands in the way. That of someone you
hardly know . . . hey?"
	Again Doon halted briefly. When he went on, his voice
was still calm. "I'll say one thing more, before we come to kill
you. This demon is the last sealing that we'll have to face . . .
six is the true number, and the old song lies. Am I right,
Radulescu?"
	But the Colonel clumsily chose this moment to attempt to
assert an officer's authority. "You three, lay down your arms,
at once!"
	He was ignored, of course. Mark had an arrow already
nocked; to draw and loose it would take an eyeblink only. I
must get Doon with my first shot, he told himself. Get him, get
him certainly, before he can come within a blade's length of
any of us. We none of

us can match him with a blade, and none of the others over
there are likely to be half so dangerous.
	Mitspieler, standing with hands half-raised in front of him,
made an incoherent sound. He looked almost ready to
collapse. A physical fight within this chamber would only
weaken the barrier at the doorway, and bring the demon
ravening in upon them all; so it seemed he might have
pleaded, if he could have found clear speech.
	Again the demon stirred outside. Mark could hear and feel
it passing the doorway, like a bad wind, like a vicious dog, like
the hunter who is coming back.
	At last Mitspieler managed to find words. "Mark, lay down
your bow. Make your friend see sense!"
	Mark had noticed meanwhile that Dmitry, having no regular
missile weapon, had picked up a small rock, as if he were
getting ready to throw it. Mitspieler's son was looking across
the cave at Mark. He was perhaps clever enough to follow
Mark's thought on the coming fight, and take the plan one
step farther. If the rebellious three were to be pacified without
too much, damage to the stronger side, then Mark must be
prevented from shooting Doon in the first moments of the
brawl. Dmitry, while ready to attack with a small rock, was also
prudently sheltering most of his own body behind one of the
larger ones ....
	And Willem and Daghur had disappeared altogether; but
Mark doubted that they were attempting any kind of a
flanking movement, and doubted even more that the
configuration of this cave would lend itself 'to such a try.
	Afterwards, Mark was never able to say just whose
sudden movement had triggered the outbreak of the
fight. One moment, all were statues, limned in the
different headlamps' light. Next moment all were blur-
ring in violent motion.
	Mark loosed his arrow, aimed at Doon, but missed.
Dmitry's rock, flung with unexpected speed and skill,
missed Mark but at the last instant just grazed the
bow held in Mark's hands. The shaft flew wide, to
break against a rock.
	Some headlamps went off, others flashed on, beams
dancing crazily about the cave, as different people
tried different strategies. It was hopeless now to try to
use the bow, and Mark dropped it along with his
quiver; he had already slipped out of the straps of his
backpack. Switching his own headlamp off, he drew
his long knife and crouched down waiting.
	Darkness was conquering the cave as that strategy
became unanimous. Mark thought he could hear
Ariane's sling, a short distance to his right, whine
softly, one spin, two, and then unload itself at high
velocity. Amid the faint staccato of scrambling sounds
within the cave the result was impossible to distinguish.
	Now the darkness was total, except for the strained
glow from the besieged doorway. Outside, the demon
still mumbled in his wrath and tried to paw his way in
through the spells. Inside the room, rocks continued to
click gently, as furtive feet and crawling knees dis-
turbed them. Some people were repositioning them-
selves, while others waited listening. Those on the
other side would be trying to close in on Ariane. She
had Ben as one defender to her right, Mark to her left.
And she herself, even if her voice did sometimes turn
childish, was no timid, helpless : . .
	Mark started, as Mitspieler's voice cried out, shouting

at full volume into darkness: "Stop it, you fools, all of
you!" There was a momentary pause; then the wizard's
voice came back, a notch lower: "Ben, Mark, isn't it
better for one to die than-"
	He cut off there, abruptly. It was as if he had heard
or sensed something that stopped him. Now to Mark
all was utter silence in the cave, except for the muted
rush of the small stream. Whatever Mitspieler had
sensed had probably been perceptible to him alone.
	Now there were stumbling footsteps in the darkness,
those of one person moving, careless of being heard.
And now Mitspieler had turned his headlamp on again,
deliberately, as if he had decided or divined that the
time for fighting was now over, or else that fighting
had become irrelevant. The back reflection of his light
revealed his own face, aged, untidily bearded as were
the faces of all the men, and slack jawed now with fear
or awe.
	The wizard stood in the middle of the cave. He was
looking at the sealed doorway, the translucent barrier
that he had himself erected. Again he spoke, and yet
again his voice was changed.
	"Wait. This is no ruse. The demon is gone. Gone
somewhere . . . I don't know how far, but... "
	Suddenly Mitspieler slumped to his knees, still star-
ing at the fragile-looking barrier of magic.
	Now Mark could hear a new kind of movement just
outside, different from the demon's. And there was a
change in the faint light, a brightening out in the
tunnel. And now something appeared in the center of
the barrier. It was a hand, not armored, and quite
human-looking, except that it was larger than the
hand of any normal human being. But it had neither
the Whitehands' deformity nor the armor of the giant fist of
the demon. The hand, whomever it belonged to, brushed
Mitspieler's blocking spells out of its way just as a man might
have flicked aside a cobweb.
	Now the owner of the hand entered the cave behind it,
bringing with him his own kind of alteration. A giant human
figure, male, youthful-looking and lightly clad, wearing a
Phrygian cap and carrying in one hand a staff. Mark
understood that for the first time in, his life he was looking at
a god. And in the next moment he recognized the god as
Hermes.
	Most of the cave was now-not lighted so much as
revealed, by Hermes' presence. The beam of Mitspieler's
headlamp had become irrelevant. Mark's own vision was now
able to peer into the far recesses of the cave, and it seemed to
him that he could almost see behind the rocks. Hermes had
come here seeking something, and in the face of that seeking
any kind of human concealment seemed to have become
impossible.
	None of the humans moved or spoke. All of them remained
sitting, crouching, kneeling, just as they had been. Casually
Hermes looked around. Then, with the matter-of-fact
movements of a strong man who had to interrupt some
toddlers' squabble in the course of business of his own,
Hermes approached Ben.
	Ben was down on his backside, the Sword still in his right
hand, quaking as the god approached him. At the last
moment he was unable to keep his eyes open, and had to
raise one hand to hide his face. When Hermes reached out
and took Dragonslicer away from him, Ben's huge frame
quaked in a spasm that might have been meant as resistance-
but it came too late, and in any case would have been
hopeless.

	The god dropped something small into the sand in front of
Ben-Mark caught the flash of gold. Then Hermes turned
away, already seating Dragonslicer in one of the empty
scabbards at his belt. Only now did Mark notice that Hermes
was wearing perhaps a dozen empty sheaths in all, hanging
like a fringe around his waist.
	And now Mark found himself getting to his feet, he was
not sure why. He was standing straight up, even though his
knees were shaking with the fear of it.
	Hermes observed this movement. The god paused in mid-
stride, on his way back across the cave. He turned his head
and looked at Mark. It was a brief look but expressive-even
though Mark was not quite sure what it expressed.
Recognition-what, you here? -seemed to be at the start of it,
with unreadable complexities trailing off from there.
	But the pause and the look were only momentary. Hermes
had come here on his own business, in pursuit of which he
now approached the Baron.
	Doon, finding himself in the path of this advance, made a
great effort and struggled to his feet. With both hands he
raised Wayfinder to guard position.
	Hermes halted in front of him, and spoke for the first time.
His voice was huge, remote, aloof. "Give it me. That Sword
that you are holding."
	"Never. It is mine by right:" The words were barely
understandable, but Doon managed to get them out. He was
shaking almost as badly as Ben had been, as Mark's knees
still were. Shaking with what must have been fear,
compounded by anger and helplessness.
	The deity deigned to speak to him once more. "I suppose
you're going to argue that you've been using it
properly, unlike some of the others. In accordance with the
game. Well, perhaps you have. But that no longer matters."
"I am. I have. It's mine, it's mine."
	The god reached out impatiently. Doon struck at him. The
stroke would have been a killing blow against a human, but
appeared now as no more than some child's petulant protest
against authority. Then the Sword was in the hand of Hermes
Messenger, who with a flick of his staff, more a gesture than
anything else, stretched Doon out on the floor of the cave.
The man lay there in agony, crying with pain and frustrated
rage.
	"Unseemly pride," the god remarked, sliding Wayfinder
into a sheath. "In one as mortal as yourself."
	The only human being standing now was Markand why he
should be standing was something that he hardly knew
himself, though it was costing him a tremendous effort. He
could see that the great wizard Mitspieler was down on his
face in the sand. Doon sprawled, groaning. Ariane was
somewhere out of sight. Ben was sitting up, but with his face
still buried in his hands. And Mark was thinking: This is what
my father had to face, some small part of what he endured,
when Vulcan took him to help create the Swords. Always
until now Mark had felt for his father some faint buried touch
of shame, for the implied weakness, for Jord's letting himself
be used, letting his right arm be taken. But no more. Now
Mark had some idea, some appreciation of what Jord must
have felt.
	Only a moment had passed since Hermes had last spoken.
But something else was happening now, a new. presence
was announcing itself. Just as light had

spread throughout the cave upon Hermes' entrance, so now
it was with shade. The wizard Mitspieler, sensing the new
presence, raised his head, and the beam from his headlamp
was -engulfed and blotted out by the intensity of shadow
gathering inside the unguarded door.
	Mark, still on his feet, could see the dim form of the
newcomer, roughly human, standing within the pall of
blackness. The voice issuing from the shadowed manlike face
was strangely reverberant; it seemed to swell up out of the
rocks, out of the earth itself.
	"The underworld is my domain. What are you doing here,
Hermes Messenger? What is there in my world that you seek
to change?"
	Hermes Messenger did not appear to be disturbed. "I am
collecting Swords-as you ought to realize, Hades. I am going
about the business of the gods."
	"What gods?"
	"Why, all of us. You too. All of us who know what's going
on, at least. I only carry out the gods' collective will."
	"Hah!" The sound was more like a stony impact than a
syllable of speech. "Since when have all of us agreed to that
extent on anything? Say rather that you are determined to
cheat in the game. That's how I interpret your behavior."
	Hermes stood up very tall. It seemed to Mark that the
ceiling of the cave must be bending a little to make room for
his head. "The game has been-suspended. At least for the
time being. There are certain dangers in it that at first were
not fully appreciated:"
	"Oh, has it, indeed? By whose decision?" .
	Now both gods, as if by common agreement, were
starting to move toward the low cave exit, as if their argument
would be better carried out elsewhere. Hades was already
stooping his tall figure to go out.
	But Hermes paused, arrested by the sight of Doon still
moaning at his feet. He prodded the helpless form with the
end of his great staff.
	"Well, man, what treatment shall I give your pride before I
go? Perhaps I'll give you a loadbeast's head to wear from
now on. What say you to that idea? Hey? Answer me!"
	Hades at the doorway was bored by this distraction, and
stood waiting for it to be over.
	"No-no, don't. Spare me , . . please:' Doon's voice was
almost inaudible, and almost unrecognizable, too.
	Hades in his impatience grumbled something, in a bass
voice pitched too low for Mark to understand. Hermes on
hearing it forgot his human toy, and both gods went on out
of the cave. Just as they emerged into the corridor outside,
Mark heard the sound of the demon out there again. Hades
spoke again, and then did something; and Dactylartha fled,
yapping and bounding like a kicked cur.
	And with that the gods were gone. Inside the cave the
humans were stirring, shakily, as if each and all of them were
trying to recover from an illness.
	Even as others were getting to their feet, Mark sat down,
his knees suddenly shakier than before. Why, he realized, I
have just looked upon the face of Pluto himself . . . and here I
am. Mitspieler, or Indosuaros, one of them, told us once that
no man can do that and live. And here I am.... Mechanically
he picked up hi: quiver and slung it on his back. He picked
up his bow What was he going to do with it now?

	When Doon sat up, the first thing he did was to look
around him suspiciously, to see who might have been a
witness to his weakness. Mark noticed this vaguely but his
own thoughts were elsewhere. Dmitry had emerged from
hiding, and was calling out all demons and gods to witness
that Daghur was dead.
	"Look at that, a rock got him, it looks like. Who uses a
sling?" All Mark could see of Daghur was a limp arm as
Dmitry raised it.
	Ben was calling out too, calling for help, from where he
stood bending over Ariane. Mark rushed to them. The girl
was sitting up, but blood from a head injury was streaking
down one side of her, face. Either a stone from the other side
had hit her, or she had fallen during the scrambling in the
dark.
	And now Mitspieler was on his feet. He pointed, with a
shaking arm, to where the doorway of the cave yawned
unprotected. "The demon!" he choked out the words. " . . . is
stunned. Run! Run for it now!"
	Ben scooped up Ariane, disdaining any help from Mark.
With Mark running as a rear guard, the big man hurried out of
the cave. He moved quickly but the others were already gone
ahead of him. Outside, they could see headlamps bobbing on
the downward path. Doon's Sword might have been taken from
him, but his determination was not yet dead. And if he had had
any thought of running back instead toward the upper levels
of the cave, it had probably been squelched by 'the sound of
human yells that now came drifting down from that direction.
The alarms were louder and closer than before.
	The demon had retreated or fallen into the chasm of the
ravine. Mark could see multicolored lights flash up
from those dark depths, and could feel the waves of
hatred, as distinct as spoken curses.
	Doon was running in the lead, gaining with every
stride. After him came Mitspieler, who looked back to
find his son, then increased his pace again as both
Dmitry and Willem rushed past him at top speed.
Radulescu, who supposedly knew better than anyone
else the best place to seek safety, was running in the
same direction. Ben with Ariane in his arms pounded
in the same direction with surprising fleetness, Mark
keeping right behind them.
	They passed the curve of the path where the demon
had first sent them dashing back. Mark had a quick
look at the body of the first warbeast to die. It was
draped limply over the low wall beside the path,
dropped there like a chewed fruit-rind, shrunken, still
steaming or smoking.
	Just as animals that were natural enemies might
flee together from some disaster, so did the humans
overtake and pass each other on the path, taking no
more notice than did strangers in a crowded city.
	Ariane had partially regained consciousness, and
was struggling to get Ben to put her down.
	And now the demon had recovered, from whatever
the gods had done to it in passing. The lights of it
again spun and flickered in the air, the noise and
sickness of it came trampling, hurtling in pursuit.
	Mitspieler, now fallen to last place among the racing
humans, unable to run faster, was now unable to run
any more at all. He turned and struck with desperate
magic against the flying thing. Mark, looking back with
some remnant of a wish to help the man, saw bolts of
fire shoot from the wizard's fingertips, to splash into

the light that roiled in midair and represented Dacty-
lartha. And then Mark saw the stronger fire strike
back, along the pathway of the first, and he saw what
happened to Mitspieler when it engulfed him.
	The demon now flashed throught the air, easily
overtaking and passing Mark and Ben, and Ariane,
who now moved on her own feet supported between
them. It was obviously trying to cut off the leaders of
the human rout, who now fled down the last section of
the path toward a dark doorway. It failed. The last
man of the advanced group vanished into that portal
just before it got there.
	Balked, it turned back. Three living victims yet
remained to it.
	It spewed its sickness at them. Blue immaterial
flames burst around Ben, and he fell, choking and
gasping. Mark felt the pain ....
	Ariane pushed herself erect against the wall of rock
beside the path, and faced the thing directly. Her
girlish voice rang out, in what must have been the
charm learned in her childhood:
	"In the Emperor's name, forsake this game, and let
us pass!"
	There was a burbling and a shrieking in the air.
Dactylartha's substance boiled and spurted. It struck
at the three humans but it could no longer reach them.
A wall as of glass, invulnerable and invisible, was
outlined along the path, imaged in midair by the
demon's fire that splashed against it harmlessly. The
pathway, just to one side, was clear.
	The flames had disappeared from Ben's body, leav-
ing no signs of physical damage. Mark with an effort
got the big man back on his feet and shoved him
forward. Then Mark took Ariane by the arm and pulled
her along; he realized that he was in better shape than
either of the others, but at the same time he knew he
was half-dazed himself.
	Supporting themselves and each other as best they
could, the three of them limped and hobbled forward,
passing shielded just under the storm of the demon's
wrath. It deafened and blinded but could not touch
them. Now the dark doorway was close ahead, and
now they were entering it, and now, with a shock of
sudden silence, the domain of the demon had been left
behind.
	They stood in a quiet place, of stone and friendly
darkness; a little light was coming from somewhere
ahead of them and below.
	"This looks like a drainpipe," Ben muttered dazedly.
"Or a sewer."
	Maybe it did, thought Mark. But it was a passage to
where they wanted to go, and even reasonably clean.
As they moved forward and the descent steepened,
there were steps and grips to use.
	Ben was starting to come out of his confusion.
"What happened back there?" was the next thing he
asked. "I thought it had us for a moment. Did Mitspieler
fight it off?"
	Ariane had nothing to say. She kept moving along,
putting down one foot after another, but she looked
bad, her face stark white behind the bruise and the
dried blood.
	Mark made no answer either. Not now. Later, when
he had had time to think, he would have questions of
his own.

	"Look," said Ben, and stopped momentarily, open-

ing his hand, displaying a gold coin.. ~'
"Yes," said Mark.
	They moved on. The tunnel was bottoming out.
Mark could see that just ahead it widened into a level
space, wide and open, extending farther than he could
see from here. Some Old World lights there appeared
to be turning themselves on in welcome. And the light
that shone up into the tunnel was yellow with the
reflected burden of the gold.
CHAPTER 16

	The ugly dazzle of the demon's influence faded
quickly from Ben's mind as he moved on. But his
mind did not really clear. Instead the more entrancing
glamour of the gold came on to absorb his thoughts.
	Down here long hallways were lined with shelves
displaying gold. Niches and alcoves and entire rooms .
were filled with the yellow hoard. As far as Ben could
see it was all unguarded, open, free to their touch
whenever they wished to reach out and touch it. There
were neat piles of bars and ingots, heavy baskets filled
with ore and nuggets. Wordlessly the three walked
past stack after stack of coin, cases of jewelry, shelves
crammed with artifacts of gold. Some of these were
simple, some were ugly, some were of intricate work-
manship whose origin and purpose Ben could not
identify.
	In the rooms of the treasure cave nearest to the entrance,
many of the stacks of coin were toppled, many of the shelves
were disarranged, as if intruders' hands had already played
and sported with them greedily. Doon and Radulescu, Dmitry
and Willem, must have passed this way only a little earlier.
	The rock ceiling here was relatively low, only a meter or
two above the wooden walls and partitions and stacked
shelves that held the treasure. In the ceiling Old World lights
were mounted somehow; lights in individual rooms and halls
and alcoves came on individually ahead of Mark and Ben and
Ariane as they approached, and lights behind them darkened
again as soon as they had passed. Ben, looking very far
ahead-this cavern like those above it went on for a great
distance-could see that there, too, lights in other rooms were
going on and off. He assumed that Doon and the three others
were probably there, had probably by now ceased marveling
and were busy stuffing their pockets and their packs . . . come
to think of it, he doubted that anyone still had a pack, after
that last chase. Neither he nor Mark nor Ariane had one now,
though Mark had somehow retained his bow and quiver.
	And there continued ever more piles of bullion to marvel
at, more stacks of coin, more shelves of golden ornaments, all
yellowing the light. High shelves of stored gold lined the
passages between rooms, and made up the partitions between
rooms, and covered the walls of the rooms themselves. There
had to be, Ben supposed, some overall plan of organization to
the hoard, but so far he could not tell what it was.
	They walked on and on, saying nothing to each

other, discovering more and more. Their wonder at the
vastness of the treasure grew, until it blurred into a sense of
unreality. This was too much. This must be some
enchantment, or some joke ....
	At an intersection of long aisles, or galleries, Ben looked
down a long vista-a hundred meters? two hundred?-to a rock
wall at the end. About halfway down, he glimpsed an end to
gold, if not to treasure. Another light had just come on there,
where someone else must be moving through the hoard, and it
illumined a kind of borderline where it seemed that yellow
metal might give way to silver. And might that starry detail be
the twinkle of distant diamonds?
	It was all too much. It somehow carried matters beyond the
enjoyment or appreciation even of successful robbers that
there should be this much.
	Then, without warning, turning a corner into a room that
had just lighted itself ahead of them, the three of them
encountered Doon. The little man, who had probably just
entered from the other side, recoiled at first, as startled as they
were. He said nothing. Dirty and disheveled as were they all,
he appeared somehow shrunken without his Sword. There was
a dagger still at his belt, but he made no move to draw it. After
staring wildly at the three of them for a moment, he mumbled
something, but it was evidently addressed only to himself.
	Ben had automatically drawn his own remaining weapon,
which was a simple dagger also. But in spite of their recent
fight, he felt no urge to strike the man in front of him. At the
moment the Baron seemed more. pitiful than dangerous.
	"Where's Radulescu?" Mark demanded sharply of
their former leader. "Where are the Swords-the ones kept here
in the treasury?"
	At mention of the Swords, a gleam of purpose came into
Doon's eyes. He again mumbled indistinguishable words, and
stumbling past the three who confronted him, he ran on,
searching his own search. They could follow his progress for
some little distance, by the lights that went on ahead of him,
and winked off again when he had passed. If the irregularity
of his path indicated anything, he did not .know where he was
going.
	"Hermes has undone him," Ben said.
	Mark asked: "What are the three of us going to do?
Separate and search? I assume that the Swords here are kept
together in one place."
	Ben briefly and silently considered his own plan, the plan
that had brought him here, for enriching himself. In the midst
of all this it somehow now seemed almost inconsequential, a
detail that he could take care of at any time by simply
stretching out his arm. But the Swords . . . yes, they were
indeed important.
	He looked at Ariane, and almost forgot about the Swords.
She looked bad, not right yet by a long way, far from being
out of the fog from that blow she'd taken on the head. She
gave him a weak smile in return for his look, but did not
speak.
	"No," said Ben. "Let's stick together."
	They moved on. Now, just around another corner ahead,
lights were on. And now a crash sounded from that direction,
and then another, like pieces of pottery being smashed, one at
a time. They moved on, Mark with an arrow nocked, Ben with
dagger drawn.
	Rounding the corner, they beheld a room crammed

with small statuary. Dmitry and Willem had located it already.
The two of them were standing there, the pockets of their
ragged clothing bulging, spilling gold coins. Each had a
sword in hand, and they were playing a game of smash among
the statues.
	Willem and Dmitry looked up with animal wariness as the
three appeared, and paused in their game. They smiled
vaguely at the bow and dagger, but said nothing. They
swords they played with were only their own ordinary blades.
	Mark, with a small motion of his head, signaled his two
companions. The three of them moved on, watching with a
wariness of their own.
	Some distance farther, in a room along one of the main
aisles, another light was on. When they peered in cautiously
through the doorway, they discovered Radulescu, quite alone.
This room was filled with statues too. These were all of fine
clear crystal, and the Colonel was holding a small example
carefully in his hands. As the three came in, he looked up at
them almost indifferently, certainly without enmity, and went
on fondling his prize; his mind was clearly somewhere else. It
was as if the effort to sacrifice Ariane had happened twenty
years ago, or in another lifetime.
	He looked down at his little statue again, then held it up for
their inspection. "This was my first theft," he explained.
"Pretty, isn't she?" Then he gazed at his visitors with more
awareness. "You can relax now. We can all take our time, rest
a little. Gather what treasure you want, and then I'll show you
the way out."
	"Show us now," said Mark. "Didn't you hear those yells?"
	"There's time," said Radulescu. "Enough time now
for everything." He gazed again at his little figure. It was of a
woman dancing. " . . . my first theft. I took it out of here once
before, you know. Smuggled it back to my quarters, wrapped
up in my cloak, enfolded against detection in protective spells
that I had devised myself I took it to my quarters guiltily, as if
it had been a real woman, and I some kind of acolyte sworn to
celibacy. Of course she is more real, more vital, than any
woman I have ever seen in flesh. But . . . there was no way for
me to keep it, without discovery. I knew even when I took it
that I couldn't keep it, that I'd have to bring it back before the
next formal inventory."
"Show us the way out now," said Ben.
	Radulescu looked up, startled, as if he had forgotten that
they were there. "We'll take it shortly. Rest a little first:"
	Mark demanded: "Where are the Swords kept?"
	"Ah." Radulescu thought a moment, then pointed. "You'll
find them down that way . . . if you should be planning to kill
me when you have them, remember that I haven't shown you
the way out yet."
	Ben turned away without answering. His two companions
followed him, leaving Radulescu to the contemplation of his
treasure.

	His solitary communion with the crystal dancer did not last
for long. Presently he looked up again, to see the two
surviving deserters from the garrison standing in the doorway
gazing at him. Their eyes were almost blank, and they had
their swords in hand.
	They didn't look at Radulescu for long; the surrounding
roomful of treasure was obviously more to their liking.

	"Come in, gentlemen, come in," said the Colonel, stretching
a point in the interests of harmony. "Come in and help
yourselves. There's plenty here for us all."
	Dmitry's eyes came back to Radulescu, then fell to what
Radulescu was holding in his hands. "Give me that one,"
Dmitry said.
	"No." The officer backed up a step. And noted, with hardly
more than irritation, that the one called Willem was shifting his
position as if to come at him from one side. "And if you're
thinking of attacking me, remember-"
	But before he could get the next word out, Dmitry's drawn
sword was thrusting at his chest.
	Ben and Ariane and Mark were already a good distance
away from the room of crystal statuary when the bubbling
scream reached their ears. They turned their heads at the
sound, but no one thought of stopping, still less of going
back..
	Ariane spoke her first words in some time. "The seventh
sealing . . . we've reached it now."
	The others looked at her.
	"The greed of robbers . . . the old song hints at it." Then
she clenched her eyes shut, and walked leaning on Ben for
guidance and support. "Gods and demons, but my head hurts.
It's bad."
	"I don't wonder." And Ben kissed her softly as they kept
walking, and wished that they could stop to let her rest. But
he knew better.
	They passed more chambers filled with crystal, and long
rooms occupied by one special rack after another, holding
tapestries. When they came to rooms of jewels, Ben detoured
for a moment to grab up a handful and
stuff a pocket with them. Next was a hall lined with
shelves filled with glass jars, containing unknown
powders and liquids, all brilliantly lighted to allow for
easy inspection by someone simply walking past. There
were labels on the jars and on the shelves, but written
in a language or a code that was unreadable to Ben.
	And now there was another lighted room ahead. It
was very near to the wall of living rock that formed
one end of the treasure-cave.
	They peered into the bright room through the parti-
tion that made one of its walls, arid was composed of
racks of glittering weaponry. Inside the room they
gazed upon a mad variety of other weapons still.
These were not made, most of them, merely for use;
gold again here, silver again, gems in profusion. Ben
thought he saw a poinard worked from a single emerald,
and arrowheads of diamond.
	Toward the far side of the room there stood a great
tree-like wooden rack, no thing of art or value in itself,
but good to hold display. It had twelve wooden branches,
and from each branch there hung a woven belt and
sheath, each of the twelve a different color. Nine of the
tree's branches-Ben counted quickly-and nine of
the sheaths were empty.
	And three were weighted down with Swords, heavy
fruit with only the black hilts visible.
	Baron Doon was standing alone in the middle of the
chamber of weapons, and holding one more Sword in
his hands. The hilt was concealed in his two-handed
grip, but there was no mistaking the perfection of that
blade; it could have come from nowhere but Vulcan's
forge.
	The Baron had his head bent low over the weapon,

and seemed to be mumbling something to it. He stood
with feet braced wide apart, legs tensed, as if he wanted
to be ready to strike instantly some prodigious blow.
	Mark's hand had, gripped Ben's arm, enjoining
silence. Ben's eyes flicked up again to the three Swords
that were still hanging on the tree, seeking the white
symbols on the hilts. Mark, he thought, probably
knew what they all were-Dame Yoldi had taught him
years ago-but Ben himself didn't recognize any of
these. One looked like a tiny white wedge, splitting a
white block; a second was just a simple circle, a
rounded line returning upon itself. And the hilt of the
third Sword was turned away, making it impossible
for Ben to see its symbol; like the hilt itself, the sheath
and belt that held that one were black.
	Doon's mumbling voice suddenly rose louder, and
for a moment Ben thought that the three of them
watching through the rack of arms had been discovered.
But if Doon was aware of their presence there he did
not care about it. He went on mumbling-not to himself,
Ben realized. It was some ritual that he was chanting,
the same few words over and over:
	" . . . for thy heart, for thy heart, who hast wronged
me! For thy heart. . . "
	Standing in the middle of the open floor, Doon
bowed toward the one dark doorway of the room, a
gesture apparently directed toward no one and nothing.
Then he turned, and in the same motion crouched,
crouched down and in the same motion continued
turning, so that in an instant he had become a spin-
ning dancer. And now it was as if the Sword in his
hands had somehow been activated, and it was drag-
ging him around. The blade, held out in his extended
arms, turning ever more swiftly, became a blur. Quickly the
whine of its passage through the air acquired an unnatural
timbre. It swelled and hummed, the noise of some great flying
insect.
	Above this whine, the last words of Doon's grim chant
came through: "-thy heart-who hast-wronged me!" And with
that Doon released the Sword-or it, perhaps, let go of him.
	He staggered and fell down in his tracks. The great whine
vanished abruptly from the air, as did the Sword itself. At the
speed with which it had leapt from Doon's hands, it must have
struck one of the partitions or solid walls that formed the
room, or whirred out through the open doorway. But it had
done neither. It was simply gone.
	For a long moment there was only silence in the cave.
Then
	The cry, when it came, even muffled by great distance and
by walls of rock, was truly unlike anything that Ben in his-
whole life had ever heard before. For a moment he could think
only that the earth itself must be in torment. Or that the gods
were fighting again among themselves, and some landquake
was coming to bring the whole headland crumbling down,
carrying all the caves and creatures and treasure inside it into
the sea. The cry went on and on, beyond the capacity of any
human lungs to have sustained it.
	Then silence fell again.
	Then Doon was laughing.
	He sat there in the center of the floor; just as the Sword
had dropped him, with his legs crumpled awkwardly
underneath his body, and he laughed. His mirth was loud,
and hideous, and to Ben it sounded at

least half mad. And yet it was also the most human sound that
he had uttered since he had faced Hermes.
	Mark moved at last. He was into the weapons room, and
past Doon, and standing beside the tree of Swords, before the
Baron took notice of the fact that he was no longer alone.
	Doon did not appear to care much. "Not many men," he
began to say-and then his laughter burst up again, and he had
to pause to conquer it before he could continue. "Not many
men-have ever slain a god. Hey, am I right?" He looked at
Mark, and then at Ben and Ariane, who now stood in the
doorway of the room. "But here was Farslayer-here, waiting
for me. Even the gods must be subject to the tricks of Fate"
	"Farslayer," Mark echoed, in a voice that held wonder, and
concern.
	The Baron got to his feet, his eyes glittering, and turned
toward Mark. "The Sword of Vengeance," said Doon. "You
who know the Swords will know what has just happened."
	It was at that moment that Ariane collapsed, quite softly
and without fuss. Ben, who was standing right at her side,
was only just in time to catch her. He lowered her gently to the
floor, and bent over her in anguish.
	A girl's fainting or dying was of no consequence to Doon.
"One god is dead," he said. "I'll be my own god now, with
these." He took a determined step toward the tree of Swords,
and stopped just as suddenly as he had moved. One of the
three Swords that hung there had come sighing out of its
black sheath into the hands of Mark, and Mark now stood
confronting him.
"All three of these are going to Sir Andrew."
"Oh? Ah?"
	"Yes . . . if you're willing to come with them, he needs good
fighting men, as much or more than he needs any metal."
	The Baron squinted at him. Then asked, almost happily:
"Which one do you have there in your hands, young man? I
took no complete inventory when I came in; not after I had
seen the one I needed."
	"I have the one that I need now," said Mark. And the
Sword in his hands had come to some kind of life, for it was
throbbing faintly. Ben could hear it, though it was almost too
low to hear: the tap tap tapping as of some distant but
determined hammer, working at the hardest metal.
	"So?" Doon raised an eyebrow, considering this. "It seems
that you do. But we'll see. I've never yet given up on a fight-
even against a god-nor lost one, when I had to win."
	And with marvelous sudden speed he feinted a movement
toward the tree; then, when Mark moved to block him from it,
he spun away to reach for another rack of elegant weaponry
upon another wall. From this he snatched down a small battle
axe and a matching shield, both of beautiful workmanship,
embossed with silver and ivory and gold.
	"Ben," called Mark, "stay out there. I'm all right. Stay with
her."
	And in his hands Mark could feel the faint, cold hammering
vibration of the Sword he held. This was not Townsaver with
its impressive scream, but perhaps equally powerful, perhaps
more so . . . in his mind's eye Mark again saw, his father dead,
his brother

too, who had held that other Sword, that had saved nothing
....
	Doon said to him considerately: "You should first drop
your bow and quiver, lad. They'll hinder you. Go ahead, I'll
wait."
	Mark made a little shrugging motion, meaning: it will make
no difference. Doon seeing his shoulders move perhaps
thought that Mark had been distracted, that his grip on the
hilt was poor, that the ruse had worked. For the Baron
brought up his axe and shield, and closed with a .rush.
	Mark expected the axe to come at him from one direction,
and realized too late that it was swinging from another. His
arms unaided could never have parried it with any weapon.
	But the weapon he was holding was no longer subject to
his control. Shieldbreaker only emphasized two notes amid the
almost hypnotic streaming rhythm of its sound. Its movement
on the two beats drew Mark's arms with it unhurriedly,
melding him into its own power and speed. The parry caught
the flashing battle axe in midstroke, ripped it from Doon's
grasp and hurled it like a missile across the room, where it
smashed into a jeweled breastplate and set a whole rack of
fancy armor toppling, a crash that seemed to go on endlessly.
	The backstroke of the Sword of Force came at Doon
himself, but he was able to catch it on his shield. The steel
buckler was ripped almost in half, the strips of its precious
metal inlays torn loose and sent flying. noon was knocked
down, but he scrambled back to his feet almost at once,
ridding his numbed left arm of the useless twisted metal. He
darted to another rack of
weapons, grabbed up a javelin with a jeweled point, and
hurled it with all his strength at Mark. Shieldbreaker flashed to
shatter the weapon in midair, the pieces flying like slung
stones.
	Mark, breathing only a little harder than normal, held the
Sword easily in his two hands-rather, he stood there letting it
hold him. He could not now have let go the hilt if he had
wanted to. "Ben. Move her back a little farther. Out of the
way."
	But, just then, Ben's wordless, helpless cry went up. Mark
understood, without taking his eyes from Doon, that Ariane
was dead.
	Doon had already rearmed himself from the walls of this
mad arsenal. This time with a morningstar. He spun the spiked
head rapidly on its chain, and probably meant to try to tangle
the blade of the Sword of Force and pull it from Mark's grip.
But Shieldbreaker's shining blur this time intercepted the
weight itself. With the clang of a split anvil, the spiked iron
ball, points tipped with bronze and gold, spun free to give up
its momentum in the devastation of another shelf or two, from
which inlaid helmets and gilded gauntlets cascaded in metallic
thunder.
	Doon had a broadsword now; in his hands the silvered
blade of it made a blur that looked as swift and bright as the
arc drawn by the Sword of Force. But when the two met, only
one remained.
	Staggering amid the wreckage of the room, marked with
blood from minor wounds from metal fragments and splintered
wood, the Baron grabbed up a spear. Holding this like a lance
under one arm, and swinging a scimitar with the other, he let
out a scream of defiance and despair, and ran, with all his
force at Mark.

"Stop! I -
	Whatever argument Mark might have made, there was no
time for it. The Baron closed with him-or came as close to him
as will and skill could drive. The Sword hammered briskly,
blurred impersonally. How many teeth of the gleaming millsaw
bit at Doon, Mark could not count. The spear was in three
pieces before it hit the floor, and Doon himself was left in more
than one. One of his arms was gone, and when the Sword of
Force at last came to rest it had transfixed his body.
	Mark watched the life depart from Doon's eyes, which were
fixed on him. And Shieldbreaker's rhythm, perhaps keeping
time with the heart it pierced, went thudding softly down into
silence.
	Still the body stood almost upright, glaring as if the
Baron's will were not yet dead. But in fact the Baron's flesh
was supported by a set of tilted shelves that he had crashed
into, and by the thrusting Sword itself. Mark raised a foot and
pushed. The dead weight slid from the blade, away from the
supporting shelves, and fell amid debris with a last crash.
	The Sword was suddenly a dead weight as well. Mark let it
sag. He turned to the doorway, where Ben still crouched,
oblivious to everything but the dead girl he rocked in his
arms.
	Just then, a strange voice boomed, from somewhere out in
the dark cave: "You four in the weapons room, surrender! We
have taken your two friends already, and you are trapped!"
	Mark forced himself to move methodically. He turned first
to the tree of Swords, and got down the belt that had held
Shieldbreaker, and put the weapon bloody as it was into the
sheath, and strapped it to his waist. He
called: "Ben, come on. You must leave her, for now. Come
here, quickly."
	Ben came lumbering toward him. "Where's Dmitry, Mark?
He threw the rock. He hit her." The big man was obviously in
shock. "I've got to get him. But-she's gone. She's gone, Mark.
She . . . just..."
	"I know. Come on, Ben, come on. I know where Dmitry
went. No, just leave her there. You've got to leave her." He
dragged Ben almost unresisting to the tree of Swords, and
there loaded him with Doomgiver and its belt. Then Mark took
down the last Sword, Stonecutter, for himself, for the moment
carrying it belt and all in one hand. For a moment, touching
Stonecutter and the Sword of Force at the same time, he was
aware of the old feeling that when he was still half a child had
terrified him to the point of faintinga feeling of being taken out
of himself, of what he had imagined death itself to be like.
	Now to find a way out. Or make one.
	He went to the set of huge shelves that stood at the far
end of the room, almost against the rock wall of the cave.
"Ben, help me tip these back."
	The big man followed the order mechanically. The shelves
toppled until they caught leaning against the wall of rock,
more treasure spilling and crashing from them unheeded. Now
they made a high ladder, or crude steps. Mark led the way,
climbing up them.
	Again the distant voice called: "Your last chance to
surrender!"
	Ben had mechanically strapped on the first Sword,
Doomgiver, that Mark had handed him; and now, while they
balanced awkwardly atop the leaning shelves,

Mark gave him Shieldbreaker to hold, saying: "Fight them if
they come."
Ben nodded numbly. "What are you doing?"
	For answer, Mark turned to press Stonecutter against the
wall of stone, feeling the blade come alive in his grip as he did
so. Like Shieldbreaker, this Sword generated a hammering
vibration, but Stonecutter's was heavier and slower than that
of the Sword of Force. When Mark pressed Stonecutter
against the wall, the point sank right in, as if the stone it
touched had turned to so much butter.
	The first piece he cut free, an awkward cone the size of a
man's head, came sliding out. It fell heavily between the two
men's feet, bounced from the angled, tilted surface of the top
shelf, and crashed down to the floor below.
	"You're carving steps? To where?"
	"It'll have to be more than steps."
	The next pieces that Mark cut out were larger. Quickly their
crashing fall became an almost continuous sound. Mark was
cutting them at an upward angle, so that each block when
loosened slid free of its own weight. This meant that the men
had to keep their feet out of the way; it also meant that the
hole now rapidly deepening in the wall was angled upward.
But that was all right, they wanted to go up anyway. Rough-
cut pyramids and lopsided cones continued to fall free at an
encouraging rate.
	Soon Mark had to widen the mouth of his excavation, to
be able to step up into it and continue to reach the receding
workface, while still keeping his feet and Ben's out of the way
of falling blocks.
	Ben was coming out of shock a little, belatedly
getting the idea. "We can cut a tunnel, and get out!"
"So I hope. If we have time. Watch your feet!"
	There were renewed cries for their surrender, com-
ing from somewhere cautiously out of sight. Ben and
Mark were now completely inside their ascending mine,
and the Old World lights somehow registered their
departure, and turned themselves off. One headlamp,
tuned to a dim glow, gave enough light to work with.
	There was a rush of invisible feet below.
	Ben said: "Let me cut for a while. Take your bow
and lob an arrow or two at them."
	Now, for just a moment, it was Ben who had two
Swords in hand at once. Seeing his expression change,
Mark said to him: "It'll be all right. Go on:"
	With Ben's hand driving the heavy Sword, the work
of tunneling went even faster. The tunnel grew, wide
enough to let them keep clear of the sliced-out pieces
as they fell, its surface rough-hewn to give them foot-
ing and handgrips where needed. The blocks, hewn
out as easily as so many puffs of smoke, still came
falling and crashing down like the heavy stone they
were. The constant barrage of their falling had already
broken down the tilted wooden shelves, splintering
them and pounding their load of treasure into twisted
metal and debris, beneath the fast-growing pile of the
rock itself.
	Now the enemy below was lighting torches, trying
to get a better look at what was going on; the presence
of Whitehands evidently did not trigger the Old World
ceiling lights. Mark fired all his remaining arrows but
one at torch-lights, and heard cries of pain. Now he
could hear the Whitehands climbing on the talus of
rock that grew under the strange new opening in the

wall, but more rock continued to fall upon them there,
crushing them and beating them back.
	Ben had begun to bend the tunnel around a corner.
Already the whole opening was some five or six meters
deep, and still growing fast. Presently the bend began
to afford them- the protection that Ben had forseen
they'd need; when the first flung stones began to fly
up from below, they could make themselves safe around
its angle. The Whitehands, like the cave's regular garri-
son of soldiers, were used to fighting in the dark or by
poor light when they fought at all, and bows or slings
were not in common use among them.
	As the work progressed, each loosened piece of rock
slid and fell for a greater distance, building up a
greater speed, before it struck anything or anyone. The
blocks swept the tunnel clean of climbing Whitehands
faster than they could be made to enter it. Before long
the attempt was abandoned, and the yells of the
wounded were heard no more.
	The carving and crashing down of rock, the climbing,
went on for a long time. Rock dust began to choke the
two men's nostrils. The beams of their headlamps
were white now with the fog of it.
	Pausing to try to breathe, Ben asked: "What if we're
below the level of the sea when we come out?"
	"I don't think we can be. Or the cave down there
would be already flooded." As he spoke, Mark hoped
that he was right.
	"How do we know where well come out?"
	"We don't. Keep going up, and we'll come out some-
where. Unless you've got a better idea:"
	Mark took another turn at digging. Again touching
Stonecutter and Shieldbreaker at the same time, he
wondered aloud: "Why didn't Blue Temple ever use
these Swords?"
	"You don't know Blue Temple. If it's valuable it's
treasure, and if it's treasure you bury it in a hole in the
ground so you don't risk losing it. We'll hear Benambra
screaming all the way up to the surface when he sees
what's gone."
	And at last, without warning, the cutting Sword
broke through, broke upward into clear space, and
what had to be daylight, though it was dim and indirect.
The two men muttered and marveled more than they
had for jewels and gold. Some fine dirt trickled down.
	Mark quickly widened the hole, then climbed up
through it. Ben followed. They were standing in a
narrow, cavelike fissure that ran horizontally toward
the light, and in the opposite direction from it. Walking,
climbing toward the light, they soon got a glimpse of
misty sky. Now they 'could smell the ocean, and hear
the steady waves.
	At a couple of places Mark had to use Stonecutter to
carve a secure step, or widen the fissure so they could
squeeze through.
	They emerged at last upon a narrow ledge, in living
sunshine, halfway between the clifftop and the sea.

CHAPTER 17

	Blinking and squinting in the mild sunlight that
contended with clouds of blowing mist, they emerged
from the crevice into full view of the sea. Mark real-
ized that it must be early morning. The air was warm,
and summer had evidently not yet departed. Beyond
the first reach of water, slate gray and shaded blue, the
opposite headland was half in sunshine, half in shadow.
	"What's that?" asked Ben, cocking his head. There
had been some kind of distant clash and cry.
	"It sounded like a fight. But it didn't come from
behind us, in the cave."
	"No. Maybe from on top of the cliff?"
	The sound was not repeated. "Anyway we're going
down. Get to the shore, and then try our charm-words
to bring in Indosuaros' ship."
	They began to work their way down, carefully.
Rounding a bulge of the cliff, they came upon a broader
ledge, and stopped. A marvel lay before them, halfwreathed in
mist.
	The giant figure had fallen sprawled out, in a prone
position. It was crumpled and broken over rock, and as dead
as any corpse that Mark had ever seen. The Phrygian cap had
fallen off, the great head was turned to one side, the sightless
gaze bored at a surface of rock only centimeters from the face.
	"It's Hermes." Ben whispered it.
	There was a long pause before Mark whispered: "Yes.
	"But-he's dead."
	"Yes. "
	The two living men looked at each other as wildly as if it
were a dead friend that they had found, and more fearfully.
	"Doon boasted that he had slain a god."
	"But-if a god is mortal-what does it mean?"
	They looked at each other and could see no answer.
	Small wreaths of smoke, or steam, were rising from the
figure, as if it might be beginning to dissolve into the sea-mist
that had come to lave around it. In the middle of the naked
back there was a raw, fresh wound. It was just of a size,
thought Mark, to have been made by the thrust of a
broadbladed Sword.
	He said aloud: "It was Farslayer that Doon threw, with a
spell from the old Song of Swords. It must have done this.
But where is it now?"
	"And where are the other two Swords, Dragonslicer and
Wayfinder, that Hermes took from us?"
	They counted the empty sheaths that were fringed around
the fallen giant's waist. Whatever the number

had been before, now there were only ten, and all were empty.
	Mark made a violent motion with his hand, rejecting the
whole situation. "Let's leave this. The death of gods is not . . .
let's move on down, there's nothing for us here."
	"Except it seems that Hermes will not be coming after us,
to take away the Swords that we have now."
	They went on down the cliff. It was, as elsewhere on this
face, a difficult climb but not impossible.
	They had just gotten down to where the slope began to
gentle, when a Blue Temple infantry patrol sprang upon them
in ambush, leaping out of shadows and caves and fog. Ben
had just time to cry a moment's warning; he had felt
Shieldbreaker come suddenly to life in his fist. It thudded
loudly, and when the warbeast leaped at him, chopped its life
out with the first stroke.
	The rush of another of the trained animals had knocked
Mark down; Stonecutter in his hands only wounded the
beast, and he almost despaired of his life before
Shieldbreaker's blur passed over him to kill it. He lay there, still
half-stunned, knowing that men in blue and gold were
crowding in. Shieldbreaker raised its voice, in a sound like the
hammering of Vulcans forge, and their shattered ranks went
reeling back.
	Then more help was arriving, in the form of fighting men in
black and orange; the enemy fled scattering, crying out as if
they expected help of their own to be at hand. Mark saw the
helmeted head of one of his rescuers bending over him, and
then the helmet was lifted to reveal a broad, strong, familiar
face. The mustache and beard were of sandy gray. The
strong,
slow voice of Sir Andrew himself was asking Mark how he
did.
	Helped to sit up, Mark recovered enough to deliver a quick
report. He outlined their raid on the Blue Temple treasury, and
described how they had just gotten out of it. He concluded:
"We've got with us all the Swords that were there-except one.
And there 11 be no use in your trying to get back into the
hoard now-unless you've brought your whole army with
you." He paused there, not understanding how Sir Andrew
had come to be here at all.
	"Hmf, hah, yes. Hyrcanus has done that, it seems." Sir
Andrew threw back his head, gazing up the cliff. "Perhaps the
Chairman suspected that his great secret was out. Well, let us
not fall victim to greed. You have there all that we really
hoped to get:" The knight turned to a waiting officer. "Sound
the horn, call in our ships."
	Mark, helped to his feet, was able to move without help,
feeling only minor injuries. Another familiar face, that of Dame
Yoldi, loomed into sight. Her sturdy frame was dressed in
man's clothing, prudently ready for cliff-climbing and combat.
Mark began to blurt out to her the tale of slain Hermes. At the
first words the enchantress hushed him, then drew him and
Ben close to her and Sir Andrew, so that she and the knight
could hear the news privately even as they made their way
down the remainder of the slope.
	As Mark related what had happened to Hermes, he could
see the three longships, orange and black at their mastheads,
appearing out of the mist. The oarsmen were pulling hard in
light surf; and the ships prows had grated in sand before the
shore party reached the water.

	Mark was saying: "I knew that Farslayer and the other
Swords were powerful, of course. But I never expected. . . " He
let it die away.
	"Nor would any of us," said Dame Yoldi. She looked
shaken, and repeated: "Nor would any of us:"
	Sir Andrew asked the two men: "And you saw him before?
He took Dragonslicer, then it was gone again?"
	Ben and Mark both nodded.
	There was no time for much discussion now. They waded
into light waves with the rest of the patrol that had gone
ashore, and reached for gunwales.
	Barbara came jumping from a ship into the water to greet
them, wrapping her arms round Ben. Quickly she explained
how, instead of returning to the carnival, she had taken Mark's
goldpiece on to Sir Andrew, together with the story of the
treasure-hoard. Ben when saying goodbye to her had told her
of its location.
	There was sunlight bright upon the opposite headland as
the longships pulled out to sea. Ben was gazing in that
direction.
	"What do you see?" Barbara asked him.
	"I . . . nothing."
	Mark looked. Someone standing there, perhaps? But the
impression faded. It was much too far off to be sure.
	Ben was pouring jewels from his pocket, joylessly, into
Barbara's outstretched hands, while her eyes questioned him.
	Mark stood watching. For the moment he was quite alone.

THE END