The Steel General, who has dismounted, stands now before Wakim and Vramin like an iron statue at ten o’clock on a summer evening with no moon.
“I have seen your beacon, Angel of the Seventh Station.”
“Alas, but the title perished with the Station, sir.”
“I still recognize the rights of the government in exile,” says the General, and his voice is a thing of such beauty that one could listen to it for years.
“Thank you. But I fear that you have come too late. This one-this Wakim-who is a master of temporal fugue, would, I feel, destroy the Prince and thus remove any basis for our return. Is that not so, Wakim?”
“Of course.”
“… Unless we might find a champion,” says Vramin.
“You need look no further,” says the General. “It is best you yield to me now, Wakim. I say this with no malice.”
“And I reply with no malice: Go to hell. If every bit of you were to be destroyed, then I feel there would no longer be a Steel General-and there would never be again. I think a rebel such as yourself deserves annihilation, and I am here.”
“Many have thought so, and I am still waiting.”
“Then wait no longer,” says Wakim, and he moves forward. “The time is here, and begging to be filled.”
Then Vramin encircles Madrak and himself with green fires, and they look upon the facing of the masters.
At this moment Bronze rears, and six diamonds flash among the colors of Blis.
THE TOWN SCRIER OF LIGLAMENTI
Horus has entered the Middle Worlds, and he comes to the world of mists that is called D’donori by its inhabitants, meaning Place of Contentment. As he disembarks from his chariot that has crossed the cold and airless night he hears the sounds of armed strife about him within the great mists that cover over all of D’donori.
Slaying with his hands the three knights who fall upon him, he comes at length to the high walls of the city of Liglamenti, whose rulers have in the past had some reason to consider him a god kindly disposed toward their welfare.
D’donori is a world which, though it lies within the tides of the Power, has never been subject to the plagues, the wars, the famines that limit the populations of the other Midworlds. This is because the inhabitants of D’donori take care of their own problems. D’donori is made up of numerous small city-states and duchies which are constantly at war with one another, uniting only for purposes of destroying anyone who attempts to unite them on a permanent basis.
Horus approaches the great gates of Liglamenti and bangs upon them with his fist. The booming sound carries throughout the city and the gates creak upon their hinges.
A guard hurls down a torch through the gloom and follows it with an arrow which, of course, misses its mark-for Horus is able to know the thoughts of his attacker and mark the line of the arrow’s flight. He steps to the side as the arrow whizzes past him and he stands in the light of the torch.
“Open your gates or I'll unhinge them!” he calls out.
“Who are you that walks about weaponless, wearing only a loincloth, and would give me orders?”
“I am Horus.”
“I do not believe you.”
“You have less than a minute to live,” says Horus, “unless you open these gates to me. Your death will be the proof that Horus does not lie. I will then unhinge these gates and enter here, walking upon you as I pass in search of your Lord.”
“Wait! If truly thou beest he, understand that I am only doing my duty and following orders of my Lord. Do not think me blasphemous if I should refuse admittance to any who may call himself Horus. How do I know but that thou art an enemy who would say this to deceive me?”
“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.