I grabbed handfuls of the red powder and blew — somehow we were able to keep great swirling clouds of rust swirling and churning throughout the compartment. The dust of rust is a symbol of time, sacred to several gods at once: Brad of the past, Kronk of the future, and Po who causes the decay of all things.
When we had run out of the dust of rust, Shoogar continued with a fine white powder. It looked like the grindings of bone. “Aim for those wind pockets,” said Shoogar, pointing at a square, screened-over opening.
Eyes streaming, coughing vigorously, I did so. Once Shoogar hurled a fireball at the screen. Some of the grindings gathered around the water droplets.
Presently the whirring became uneven, threatened to stop.
“Cover your nose and mouth, Lant. I do not want you to breathe any of this.” He pulled out a fat leather pouch. I put a cloth across the lower half of my face and watched as he produced a thick double handful of powdered magician’s hair.
With a care borne of great sacrifice he aimed cautiously and blew a great sneeze of it toward the wind pockets. Within a moment, it was gone.
The whirring sound labored, the wind seemed to be dying. And suddenly, both stopped.
“Good, Lant! Now get the pots.” Shoogar was beaming with triumph. I pulled my kit from its place by the wall and produced a collection of six pottery containers, each with a close-fitting lid.
“Good,” said Shoogar again. He began placing them carefully around the interior of Purple’s nest. Into each he put a sputtering ball of fire, then closed the lid on it.
There were tiny holes in the lid of each pot, to allow the fire-god to breathe, but too tiny to allow entrance of the water. The liquid jets arced out, but unable to reach the flames directly, they continued playing over the pots and over everything else.
Shoogar watched to see where the water was draining, began pouring defiled water and other viscous syrups into the drain holes. Once he paused to add a generous handful of the white dust bone-grindings. As it swirled down into the drain, the mixture began to thicken ominously.
Shortly, it seemed as if the drains were not working as efficiently. Pools were gathering on the floor. The odious smell of defiled water was strong in the hot, steamy smoky air. I thought I would retch. But no matter, the defiled water would certainly anger Filfo-mar, the river god.
By now, Filfo-mar and N’veen, the god of the tides, would be engaged in their ancient tug of war. Only this time they would be tugging not at the waters of the world, but at opposite sides of the black nest. The more water that poured into the cabin, the stronger grew their powers — and the more vicious their battle.
By the time the water jets stopped hissing, we were several inches deep in water and Shoogar and I were both dripping wet. But not chilly. The nest was steaming hot and growing hotter. Shoogar shucked off his robe and I followed suit.
My eyes were watering, and I was still coughing up the dust from my lungs. When I pointed this out to Shoogar he only said, “Stop complaining. Nobody ever said a curse was easy. There’s more to come yet.”
Indeed, we had only begun.
Now Shoogar turned his attention to the various panels and plates that lined the interior. There were a great many knobs and bumps. Many of these came in sets of eight, each labeled with a different symbol. One we recognized: a triangle, the symbol of Eccar the Man.
Could it be that some of Purple’s spells were based on the symbol of Eccar? If that were so, could Shoogar use that fact as a wedge, his lever with which to unbalance the rest of the spells of Purple’s nest?
Shoogar pursed his lips thoughtfully, scratched at his stubbly chin. “Push the bumps, Lant. Wherever you see the symbol of the triangle, push the bumps — we will activate all of Purple’s Eccar spells and dissipate their power.”
We moved through that compartment, looking high and low for the knobs and bumps. The knobs could all be twisted so that the triangle would appear at the top, and the bumps could all be depressed. There were blank knobs also; with a little experimentation Shoogar found that these could be turned in such a way that tiny slivers of metal behind layers of glass would move and point to triangles etched there.
Strange things happened, but Shoogar cautioned me to ignore them. Once, one of the flat mirror-like plates glowed with an unearthly light and images appeared on it — images of the village, images of people we knew, Hinc and Ang and Pilg. I stared in fascinated horror — and then abruptly, Shoogar nullified the spell by painting over it with a thick gray potion that obscured the plate entirely.
“I told you not to look,” he reproved me.
We continued. Eventually we had turned every device in that nest to the symbol of the triangle, the symbol of three.
We began the next phase of the curse.
The fire pots had begun to cool, so Shoogar replenished them. Already the metal where they sat was too hot to touch, and portions of other devices had begun to crack.
Now Shoogar began painting his thick gray paint over everything. First he nullified the image windows. Then he painted all the dials over, and all of the bumps too. Only the gods would know what symbols had been activated. In almost no time the interior of that nest was entirely gray. Klarther, the god of the skies and seas, would be furious. Fol, the god of distortion, would be chortling. Thus had Shoogar brought them to battle with each other, with the black nest between.
Shoogar began to sketch new runes into the painted surfaces, oblivious of their relation to the runes beneath. Where the upper and under surfaces conflicted, the gods would engage in random battle. Always when he could, Shoogar worked the name of Elcin, the thunder god, into the runes.
Into a crevice between two of the surfaces of knobs and bumps Shoogar pushed the narrow point of a sword-wand and called on Pull’nissin, the god of duels. Calling on Hitch, the god of birds, he broke eggs into three apertures. They sizzled angrily where they slid down; for Shoogar was using the egg-shaped image of the nest against itself. He continued chanting, calling on Musk-Watz and Blok, the god of violence; and at one point he even cast a rune defiling Tis’turzhin, the god of love, for love turned to hate can be the mightiest force of all.
Shoogar consulted his checklist again, and produced a container of dormant sting things, and another of fungusoids. and leeches. He brought forth things with barbs and things with claws, and began scattering them about. Torpid though they were, some tried to attack us; but we were careful to place them where they were not immediately dangerous. And we had had the forethought to wear our thickest boots and gloves; the fanged creatures could not cut through.
As he called on Sp’nee, ruler of slime, Shoogar spread great viscous gobs of goo into cracks and crannies between the boards of knobs and bumps. The air was already unbreathable with heat and wet, but the boards were far hotter. In some places Shoogar’s gray ointment had blackened and cracked, and the surface beneath glowed red with such heat and strench that one could not bear to approach too near. Eggs sizzled and smoked in places we could not see.
And always Shoogar continued to call upon Elcin. The God of Thunder. The God of Fear.
“Elcin, oh, Elcin! Come down, Oh Great and Tiny God of Lightning and Loud Noises! Come down from your mountain, oh Elcin! Come down from your mountain and strike down this infidel who dares to profane the sacred name of your magic!”
Shoogar stood atop the demon couch and stretched his arms toward the sky. Triumph was spread across his face as he chanted the final canteles of the spell. The next was hung with webs of pain and painted with runes of despair.
The swimming heated compartment crawled with fuzz balls and stingers, crabs and krakens and leeches. Somewhere something was burning, and oily smoke seeped up the walls. I choked on the rotting air and blinked the tears from my eyes.