“Would an enemy dare to be so foolish?”
“Mayhap. For most men are fools.”
Horus shrugs and raises his fist once more. A vibrant musical note stirs then within the air, and the gates of Liglamenti shiver upon their hinges and the guard within his armor.
Horus has increased in stature by now, to near three meters. His breechclout is the color of blood. The torch flickers at his feet. He draws back his fist.
“Wait! I will give thee entrance!”
Horus lowers his fist and the music dies. His height decreases by a third.
The guard causes the portal to be opened and Horus enters Liglamenti.
Coming at length to the fog-shrouded palace of its ruler, the Lord Dilwit, Duke of Ligla, Horus learns that word of his arrival has preceded him from the walls. The somber, black-bearded Duke, whose crown has been grafted upon his scalp, manages as much of a smile as he is able; that is, the showing of a double row of teeth between tight-drawn lips. He nods, slightly.
”Thou art truly Horus?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“It is told that every time the god Horus passes this way there is difficulty in recognizing him.”
“And no wonder,” says Horus. “In all this fog it is rather miraculous that you manage to recognize one another.”
Dilwit snorts his equivalent of a laugh. “True-often we do not, and slay our own men in error. But each time Horus has come, the ruling Lord has provided a test. The last time…”
“… The last time, for Lord Bulwah, I sent a wooden arrow into a two-foot cube of marble so that either end protruded from a side.”
“Thou rememberest!”
“Of course. I am Horus. Do you still have that cube?”
“Yes. Certainly.”
“Then take me to it now.”
They enter the torchlit throne room, where the shaggy pelts of predators offer the eye its only diversion from the glittering war weapons upon the walls. Set atop a small pedestal in a recessed place to the left of the throne is a cube of gray and orange marble which contains an arrow.
“There you see it,” says Dilwit, gesturing.
Horus approaches, regards the display.
“I’ll design my own test this time,” says he. “I’ll fetch you back the arrow.”
“It might be drawn. That is no-“
Horus raises his right fist to shoulder level, swings it forward and down, striking the stone, which shatters. He retrieves the arrow and hands it to Dilwit.
“I am Horus,” he states.
Dilwit regards the arrow, the gravel, the chunks of marble.
“Thou art indeed Horus,” he agrees. “What may I do for thee?”
“D'donori has always been justly famous for its scriers. Those of Liglamenti have oft been exceeding good. Therefore, I would consult with your chief scrier, as I’ve several questions I’d have answered.”
“This would be old Freydag,” says Dilwit, flicking rock dust from his red and green kilt. “He is indeed one of the great ones, but…”
“But what?” asks Horus, already reading Dilwit’s thought, but waiting politely, nevertheless.
“He is, Great Horus, a mighty reader of entrails, and none but those of the human sort will serve him. Now, we seldom keep prisoners, as this can run into some expense-and volunteers are even harder to come by, for things such as this.”
“Could not Freydag be persuaded to make do with the entrails of some animal, for this one occasion?”
Horus reads again and sighs.
“Of course, Great Horus. But he will not guarantee the same level of reception as he would with better components.”
“I wonder why this should be?”
“I cannot answer this, Most Potent Horus, being no scrier myself-though my mother and sister both had the Sight-but of all scriers, I know scatologists to be the queerest sort. Take Freydag, now. He’s quite nearsighted, he says, and this means-“
“Furnish him with the necessary components, and advise me when he is ready to entertain my questions!” says Horus.
“Yes, Puissant Horus. I will organize a raiding party immediately, as I can see thou art anxious.”
“Most anxious.”
“… And I’ve a neighbor could use a lesson in observing boundaries!”
Dilwit springs upon his throne, and reaching upward takes down the long gol-horn which hangs above it. Three times does he place it to his lips and blow until his cheeks bulge and redden and his eyes start forth from beneath the pelt of his brows. Then does he replace the horn, sway, and collapse upon his ducal seat.
“My chieftains will attend me momently,” he gasps.
Momently, there comes the sound of hoofbeats, and three kilted warriors, mounted upon the unicornlike golindi, come riding, riding, riding, into and about the chamber, staying only when Dilwit raises his hand and cries out, “A raid! A raid, my hearties! Upon Uiskeagh the Red. Half a dozen captives I’ll have of him, ere the mist lightens with tomorrow’s dawn!”
“Captives, did you say, Lord?” calls out the one in black and tan.
“You heard me right.”
“Before tomorrow’s dawn!” A spear is raised.
Two more flash high.
“Before tomorrow's dawn!”
“Aye!”
And they circle the chamber and depart the following dawn, Horus is awakened and conducted to the room where six naked men lie, hands and ankles bound together behind their backs, their bodies covered with gashes and welts. This chamber is small, cold, lighted by four torches; its one window opens upon a wall of fog. Many sheets of that monthly journal the Ligla Times are spread upon the floor, covering it fully. Leaning against the window sill, a short, age-tonsured man, pink-faced, hollow-cheeked and squinting, sharpens several brief blades with a whetting bar. He wears a white apron and a half-furnished smile. His pale eyes move upon Horus and he nods several times.
“I understand thou hast some questions,” he says, pausing to gasp between several words.
“You understand correctly. I've three.”
“Only three, Holy Horus? That means one set of entrails will doubtless do for all. Surely, a god as wise as thyself could think of more questions. Since we have the necessary materials it is a shame to waste them. It's been so long…”
“Three, nevertheless, are all the questions I have for the entrail-oracle."
“Very well, then,” sighs Freydag. “In that case, we shall use his,” and he indicates with his blade one gray-bearded man whose dark eyes are fixed upon his own. “Boltag is the name.”
“You know him?”
“He is a distant cousin of mine. Also, he is the Lord Uiskeagh's chief scrier-a charlatan, of course. It is good fortune that has finally delivered him into my hands.”
The one called Boltag spits upon the Times obituary section when this is spoken. “Thou are the fraud, oh mighty misreader of innards!” says he.
“Liar!” cries Freydag, scrambling to his side and seizing him by the beard. “This ends thy infamous career!” and he slits the other’s belly. Reaching in, he draws forth a handful of entrails and spreads them upon the floor. Boltag cries, moans, lies still. Freydag slashes along the bending length of the intestines, spreading their contents with his fingers. He crouches low and leans far forward. “Now, what be thy questions, son of Osiris?” he inquires.
“First,” says Horus, “where may I find the Prince Who Was A Thousand? Second, who is the emissary of Anubis? Third, where is he now?”
Freydag mumbles and prods at the steaming stuff upon the floor. Boltag moans once again and stirs.
Horus attempts to read the thoughts of the scrier, but they tumble about so that finally it is as if he were staring out the room’s one window. Then Freydag speaks:
“In the Citadel of Marachek,” he says, “at Midworlds’ Center, there shalt thou meet with one who can take thee into the presence thou seekest.”
“… Strangely,” mutters Boltag, gesturing with his head, “thou hast read that part aright. But thy failing vision-was clouded-by that bit of mesentery thou hast erroneously mixed-into things…” With a mighty effort Boltag rolls nearer, gasps, “And thou-dost not tell-Great Horus-that he will meet with mighty peril-and, ultimately-failure…”