“Thank you, Dad. Can you get these people out of here? They might be more inclined to listen to you.”
He nods. Wakim covers the body. Megra turns to him once more, as the one-eyed man bids the crowd depart and it moves to obey his words and his staff.
“How can you treat death so lightly?” she asks.
“Because it happens,” he replies. “It is inevitable. I do not mourn the falling of a leaf or the breaking of a wave. I do not sorrow for a shooting star as it burns itself up in the atmosphere. Why should I?”
“Those things are not alive.”
“Neither are men when they enter into the House of the Dead, and all things go there.”
“That was long ago. None from Blis have gone to that place for many ages. It is a tragic thing when a life comes to an end.”
“Life and death are not all that much different.”
“You are a deviant from the social norm!” she announces, striking him again.
“Is that an insult or a diagnosis?” he asks.
There come then more screams from another part of the fairground.
“We must attend at once,” she says, moving to depart
“No!” He seizes her wrist
“Let go of me!”
“I’m afraid I won’t do that. You would serve no purpose by standing beside all the corpses which will occur here. You will further expose yourself, however, by doing this. I do not wish to lose a laymate such as yourself this quickly. I will take you back to the garden, where we will wait out the running of this thing. There is food there, and drink. We will put on the Do Not Disturb sign…”
“… And dally while the world dies? You are heart-less!”
“Do you not wish to insure more lives, to replace some of those lost?”
She strikes him with her free hand, causing him to fall to one knee and raise his arm before him.
“Release me!” she cries.
“Let the lady go as she would.” There are two other persons present in the pavilion. The one who has spoken is the warrior-priest Madrak, who remained after the crowd departed. At his side stands now the green magician known to men as Vramin.
Wakim stands and faces the two.
“Who are you?” he asks. “Who are you to give me orders?”
“I am known as Madrak, and called by some the Mighty.”
“This means nothing to me. The order is not yours to give. Go away.”
He catches Megra's other wrist, struggles with her briefly, raises her in his arms.
“I warn you. Release the lady.” Madrak holds his staff before him as he speaks.
“Get out of my way, Madrak.”
“I had best warn you before you continue that I am an immortal and that my strength has been heralded throughout the Middle Worlds. It was I who destroyed the centaur Dargoth, sending him down to ruin and the House of the Dead. Songs are still sung of that battle, which lasted a day and a night and a day.”
Wakim lowers Megra to her feet and releases her.
“This does indeed make things different, immortal. I will attend to the girl in a moment. Tell me now, do you oppose the powers of the House of Life and the House of the Dead?”
Madrak gnaws for a moment upon the edge of his beard.
“Yes,” he replies then. “What is that to you?”
“I am about to destroy you, and your friend beside you, if he is to be numbered among the two hundred eighty-three immortals.”
The magician smiles and bows.
Megra departs the pavilion.
“'The lady has escaped you,” Vramin observes.
“It would seem, but I shall make it as if it had never occurred.”
Then Wakim raises his left hand and advances upon Madrak.
Madrak's staff spins in his grip until it is nearly invisible, then strikes forward.
Wakim dodges the first blow, but the second one is laid upon his shoulder. He attempts to catch the staff, fails. A second blow falls upon him. He attempts to rush Madrak, but is caught by an horizontal moulinet across the chest. Then he falls back, crouches out of range, begins a shuffling circle about his opponent.
“How is it that you still stand?” asks Vramin, who stands aside, smoking.
“I cannot fall,” Wakim replies.
He lunges then, but is beaten back once more.
Madrak moves to attack several times then, but on each occasion Wakim avoids the blow and attempts to seize the staff.
Finally, Wakim stops and retreats several paces.
“Enough of this foolishness! Time goes against my recovering the girl. You are good with that stick, fat Madrak, but it shall not help you now!”
Then, bowing his head slightly, Wakim vanishes from where he stands and Madrak lies upon the ground, his staff broken before him.
Wakim stands now at his side, his hand upraised as if recovering from a blow delivered.
The poet drops his cigarette and his cane leaps within his hands, tracing a circle of green fires about him. Wakim turns to face him.
“Fugue!” says Vramin. “A genuine fugue master! And forward-going! Who are you?”
“I am called Wakim.”
“How is it that you know the exact number of the immortals, that being two hundred eighty-three?”
“I know what I know, and those flames will not save you.”
“Perhaps, and perhaps not, Wakim. But I do not oppose the powers of the House of Life and the House of the Dead.”
“You are an immortal. Your very existence is sufficient to give the lie to your words.”
“I am too indifferent to oppose anything on principle. My life, however, is another matter,” and his eyes flash green.
“Before you attempt to turn your power against me, Wakim, know that it is already too late…”
He raises his cane.
“Either the dog or the bird has sent you, and it does not matter which…”
Green fires spray in fountains upward, engulfing the pavilion.
“More than a mere plague-bearer, I know you to be. You are too well-endowed to be any less than an emissary…”
The pavilion vanishes about them, and they stand in an open area in the midst of the Fair.
“Know that before you there have been others, and all of them have failed…”
A green light leaps upward from his cane and arcs like a rocket flare through the sky.
“Two of them fell before the one who now approaches…”
The light overhead persists, pulsates.
“Behold the one who comes upon scenes of chaos, and whose cold metal hand supports the weak and the oppressed.”
He comes, riding down the sky on the back of a great beast of burnished metal. It has eight legs and its hooves are diamonds. It slows with each stride that it takes, covering less and less distance.
“He is called the Steel General, and he, too, is a fugue-master, Wakim. He hearkens to my beacon.”
Wakim turns his eyes upward and beholds the one who had once been a man. Whether it is by Vramin's magic or some premonition of his own, he knows that this will be his first real contest in the thousand years of his memory.
The green fires fall upon Madrak now, and he stirs himself and rises with a moan.
Eight diamonds touch upon the ground, and Wakim hears the sound of a distant banjo.
The Red Witch calls for her Chariot of Ten, and orders her cloak of gold. This day she’ll off across the sky to the Ring where the Midworlds go.
This day shell off across the sky on her own wild ways to show…
There, in the worlds of the Life and the Death, the worlds that she used to know.
Now, some say her name is Mercy and others say it’s Lust. Her secret name is Isis. Her secret soul is dust.
… An eunuch priest of the highest caste sets tapers before a pair of old shoes.
… The dog worries the dirty glove which hath seen many better centuries.
… The blind Norns strike a tiny silver anvil with fingers that are mallets. Upon the metal lies a length of blue light.