“Sure. What’ll it be, Jacoby? Well-done, medium, rare, still ruminating …?”
Jacoby was staring back down the hall. “Hm? Oh, rare will be fine.”
Gene handed him a plate with a slab of meat on it. Jacoby looked at it, then resumed gazing down the corridor.
Gene served Linda, then Snowclaw, who’d commented that the stuff looked edible enough to sample. Gene cut a medium-rare slice for himself and sat down. He was about to dig in when he noticed Jacoby still looking off moodily.
“What’s wrong?”
“I don’t trust that chap.”
“He seems like a nice man,” Linda said. “A little strange. I mean, he asked me for that tool, and I gave it to him, but I don’t have the slightest idea what he wanted it for.”
Gene cocked an eyebrow. “What tool?”
“Didn’t you — Oh, you guys were climbing the rock. He wanted a little … what would you call it? A hammer with a sort of chisel on one end of it. A pickax. Like a thing a mountain climber uses. He described it to me, and I whipped one up for him.”
Gene looked at Jacoby.
“You don’t think —” Gene began, but just then a ringing came from the hall of the jewel, as from a strange and ominous bell, growing louder and louder ….
I’m thrice damned, Kwip thought as he climbed.
He’d have to make this quick. He neared the top, stopped and searched for a suitable spike, one small enough to hide in the backpack.
One of the smaller shafts caught his eye. He reached, and could just barely grasp its tip. No good. He stepped up higher and reached again. The jewel was cold to the touch.
Damn me, Kwip thought, I’d steal from the Dark One himself. But I must, I must have at least a part of it!
He got out the pickax, reached up and grasped the shaft. It felt like ice, but its warm amber light filled his eyes, and the shifting fire drew him into its warmth. He struck with the pick end of the tool. With a sharp, high-pitched pinging sound the end of the shaft broke off easily in his hand. He inspected the fragment briefly, noting that it still glowed. He looked about, listening. Droning like a crystal bell, the entire jewel began to resonate with the sound of the breaking.
He dropped the crystal into the backpack and hurried down. By the time he reached bottom, the ringing had grown into an ear-splitting alarm, its painfully high note reverberating in the stone bowl of the amphitheater, growing ever louder. As echoes multiplied, the noise swelled to an overwhelming crescendo, and soon the air was rent by an unbearably loud, horrendous keening that shook the ancient walls.
The floor quaked. Kwip stumbled and fell. He got to his knees and covered his ears. His scream of pain went unheard as the air shattered around him.
Library
Osmirik laid the heavy folio aside and rubbed his eyes. He had read enough, and the truth lay on him like the rubble of a landslide. His worst fears had been justified. The ancient chroniclers were quite clear on the matter.
Despite the sick, hollow feeling in his stomach, he was scholar enough to still be in awe of the books and scrolls that lay piled before him. Priceless specimens such as these were not to be found even in Hunra, nor anywhere else, he suspected. He felt a distant pang of regret that they would most likely be blown to dust and scattered to the winds when the castle vanished. Or perhaps they, too, were mere conjurings.
It did not matter. All that mattered was thwarting Melydia. But how?
Mad Melydia. She would stop at nothing in her quest for vengeance. For years she nursed the wound that Incarnadine had inflicted; for years she plotted and schemed. She learned her Arts well, then cast about for suitable puppets to employ in her little dumb show. To the east lived a prince with a domineering empress mother. He needed lands to conquer, and a bride on whom his mother would look with favor. A spell, a puff of smoke from a brazier, and he did Melydia’s bidding, while the empress looked on with an approving smile.
Osmirik laughed mirthlessly. What a tawdry little world it was, that armies were moved by the machinations of a scheming witch, that by her wiles castles fell, and worlds ended.…
He knew only he could stop her — physically, if that be the only way. He would sniff her out, her and her plots and philters, regain her confidence, make as if to assist her, and then —
What? He would know only if and when that time came.
Doubts gnawed. Was it inevitable? And what of the prophecies? He reached for another book and opened it, paged through it and found the passage. He read.
And there shall come a time when men shall quake and tremble, and great tribulation shall befall the world, as in the days of antiquity, so shall it be on that fearful day, and he shall be unleashed who is hight the Great Beast, the Evil One, the Destroyer, and he shall darken the sun and spread his great wings against the wind, and it shall be visited upon the sons of men as it was visited upon their fathers, that they will flee and hide their heads and curse the day their mothers bore them.…
Osmirik shook his head. And shall he, a mere scribe, stand alone against the ineluctable Word? His heart sank, and he knew he could not. But he must try. His eyes again fell to the page.
But it shall not be dark always, and the hearts of men are not tacking in hope …
Clumsy literalism, he noted. Better,The night will end, and hope shall live forever in the human breast, but no matter. He read on:
… and there shall be one in those days, a true son of his father, Ervoldt, by whose might the beast may again be chained, but his troubles shall be great, and his heart will be heavy; neither will his house stand against the storm. His name shall be as blood.
Ervoldt, the ancient Haplodite chieftain of legend, who tamed the demons of the earth and made them do his bidding. Osmirik reached for another volume, paged through till he came to the passage he had marked earlier:
… and Ervoldt did all these things, and in the manner in which I have told them. And also did he magick the greatest of the beasts, Ramthonodox, and it was in this wise: he did [text missing] his freehold and his fortress, arid [its] windows were numbered one hundred and forty-four thousand, and of [its] rooms there were no end.
He unspooled The Book of Demons again, and found a variant of the same passage, with the text restored:
… and he did so in this wise: he did bespell the great beast, which was a demon, and tamed its wiles, and chained this beast to a great Stone, and wrought he a change such that it no longer took the aspect of a beast, but became a great house, which Ervoldt did make his freehold and his fortress …
A third variant in yet another decaying book read much the same way. He dug the volume out and opened it — then closed the cover slowly. No, he would not go over it again. There was no mistake. He leaned back in the creaking wooden chair again.
…And his name shall be as blood.
Better, His name shall be as the color of blood is called.
His name shall be Incarnadine.
Suddenly, the floor began to vibrate. A faint high-pitched note sounded, accompanied by a deep rumbling. The nearby bookshelves rocked, and one small volume dislodged itself and fell.
Slowly the sounds dissipated. Finally, it was quiet.
Osmirik wondered. Melydia already at work? Incarnadine, perhaps. Or something else entirely. Likely the castle itself undergoing one of its sundry transformations.
He rose and moved to the stairwell, descended, then crossed through the open stacks. Stepping through the anteroom, he opened the door, peered up and down the corridor, went out and closed the door behind him. He had to get his bearings. He now sought the Spell Stone, as did Melydia, but she had her ways and he had his. He sniffed the air. Books, still books — but many other things besides. What would the Stone “smell” like?