superior to those howling barbarians, but when the generals got to the
borders of the Melcene Empire, they ran head-on into elephant
cavalry.
It was very messy, I’m told. The generals pulled back and swept down
into Dalasia instead.” He looked at Belmakor.
“I thought you said that the Dals had cities down there.”
“They used to–at least they did the last time I was there.”
“Well, there aren’t any there now–except for Kell, of course. When
the Angaraks moved in, there wasn’t anything there but farming villages
with mud-and-wattle huts.”
“Why would they do that?” Belmakor asked in bafflement.
“They had beautiful cities. Tol Honeth looks like a slum by
comparison.”
“They had reasons,” Aldur assured him.
“The destruction of their cities was likely a subterfuge to keep the
Angaraks from realizing how sophisticated they really are.”
“They didn’t look all that sophisticated to me,” Beldin said.
“They still plow their fields with sticks, and they’ve got almost as
much spirit as sheep.”
“Also a subterfuge, my son.”
“The Angaraks didn’t have any trouble converting them, Master. The
idea of having a God after all these eons–even a God like
Torak-brought them in by the thousands. Was that a pretense, too?”
Aldur nodded.
“The Dals will go to any lengths to conceal their real tasks from the
unlearned.”
“Did the generals ever try to go back into the Melcene Empire?”
Belmakor asked.
“Not after that first time, no,” Beldin replied.
“Once you’ve seen a few battalions trampled by elephants, you start to
get the picture. There’s a bit of trade between the Angaraks and
Melcenes, but that’s about as far as their contacts go.”
“You said you’d met Urvon,” Belkira said.
“Was that in Cthol Mishrak or Mal Yaska?”
“Mal Yaska. I stay clear of Cthol Mishrak because of the Chandim.”
“Who are the Chandim?” I asked him.
“They used to be Grolims. Now they’re dogs–as big as horses. Some
people call them “the Hounds of Torak.” They patrol the area around
Cthol Mishrak, sniffing out intruders. They’d have probably picked me
out rather quickly. I was on the outskirts of Mal Yaska, and I
happened to see a Grolim coming in from the east. I cut his throat,
stole his robe, and slipped into the city. I was snooping around in
the temple when Urvon surprised me. He knew right off that I wasn’t a
Grolim–recognizin’ me unspeakable talent almost immediately, don’t y’
know.” For some unaccountable reason he lapsed into a brogue that was
common among Wacite serfs in northern Arendia. Maybe he did it because
he knew it would irritate me, and Beldin never misses an opportunity to
tweak my nose.
Never mind. It’d take far too long to explain.
“I was a bit startled by the man’s appearance,” my dwarfed brother
continued.
“He’s one of those splotchy people you see now and then.
Angaraks are an olive-skinned race–sort of like Tolnedrans are–but
Urvon’s got big patches of dead-white skin all over him. He looks like
a piebald horse. He blustered at me a bit, threatening to call the
guards, but I could almost smell the fear on him. Our training is much
more extensive than the training Torak gave his disciples, and Urvon
knew that I outweighed him–metaphorically speaking, of course. I
didn’t like him very much, so I overwhelmed him with my charm–and with
the fact that I picked him up bodily and slammed him against the wall a
few times. Then, while he was trying to get his breath, I told him
that if he made a sound or even so much as moved, I’d yank out his guts
with a white-hot hook. Then, to make my point, I showed him the
hook.”
“Where did you get the hook?” Beltira asked.
“Right here.” Beldin held out his gnarled hand, snapped his fingers,
and a glowing hook appeared in his fist.
“Isn’t it lovely?” He shook his fingers and the hook disappeared.
“Urvon evidently believed me–although it’s a bit hard to say for sure,
since he fainted right there on the spot. I gave some thought to
hanging him from the rafters on my hook, but I decided that I was there
to observe, not to desecrate temples, so I left him sprawled on the
floor and went back out into the countryside where the air was cleaner.
Grolim temples have a peculiar stink about them.” He paused and
scratched vigorously at one armpit.
“I think I’d better stay out of Mallorea for a while. Urvon’s got my
description posted on every tree. The size of the reward he’s offering
is flattering, but I guess I’ll let things cool down a bit before I go
back.”
“Good thinking,” Belmakor murmured, and then he collapsed in helpless
laughter.
My life changed rather profoundly a few weeks later. I was bent over
my worktable when my companion swooped in through the window she’d
finally convinced me to leave open for her, perched sedately on her
favorite chair, and shimmered back into her proper wolf-shape.
“I think I will go away for a while,” she announced.
“Oh?” I said cautiously.
She stared at me, her golden eyes unblinking.
“I think I would like to look at the world again.”
“I see.”
“The world has changed much, I think.”
“It is possible.”
“I might come back some day.”
“I would hope so.”
“Good-bye, then,” she said, blurred into the form of an owl again, and
with a single thrust of her great wings she was gone.
Her presence during those long years had been a trial to me sometimes,
but I found that I missed her very much. I often turned to show her
something, only to realize that she was no longer with me. I always
felt strangely empty and sad when that happened. She’d been a part of
my life for so long that it had seemed that she’d always be there.
Then, about a dozen years later, my Master summoned me and instructed
me to go to the Far North to look in on the Morindim. Their practice
of raising demons had always concerned him, and he very definitely
didn’t want them to get too proficient at it.
The Morindim were–still are, I guess–far more primitive than their
cousins, the Karands. They both worship demons, but the Karands have
evolved to the point where they’re able to live in at least a semblance
of a normal life. The Morindim can’t–or won’t. The clans and tribes
of Karanda smooth over their differences for the common good, largely
because the chieftains have more power than the magicians. The reverse
is true among the Morindim, and each magician is a sublime egomaniac
who views the very existence of other magicians as a personal insult.
The Morindim live in nomadic, primitive tribalism, and the magicians
keep their lives circumscribed by rituals and mystic visions. To put
it bluntly, a Morind lives in more or less perpetual terror.
I journeyed through Aloria to the north range of mountains in what is
now Gar og Nadrak. Belsambar had filled us all in on the customs of
those savages after his long-ago survey of the area, so I knew more or
less how to make myself look like a Morind. Since I wanted to discover
what I could about their practice of raising demons, I decided that the
most efficient way to do it was to apprentice myself to one of the
magicians.
I paused long enough at the verge of their vast, marshy plain to
disguise myself, darkening my skin and decorating it with imitation
tattoos.
Then, after I’d garbed myself in furs and ornamented myself with
feathers, I went looking for a magician.
I’d been careful to include quest-markings–the white fur headband and
the red-painted spear with feathers dangling from it–as a part of my
disguise, since the Morindim usually consider it unlucky to interfere
with a quester. On one or two occasions, though, I had to fall back on
my own particular form of magic to persuade the curious–or the
belligerent–to leave me alone.
I happened across a likely teacher after about a week in those barren
wastes. A quester is usually an aspiring magician anyway, and a burly
fellow wearing a skull-surmounted headdress accosted me while I was
crossing one of the innumerable streams that wander through that arctic
waste.
“You wear the marks of a quester,” he said in a challenging sort of way
as the two of us stood hip deep in the middle of an icy stream.
“Yes,” I replied in a resigned sort of way.
“I didn’t ask for it. It just sort of came over me.” Humility and
reluctance are becoming traits in the young, I suppose.
“Tell me of your vision.”
I rather quickly evaluated this big-shouldered, hairy, and somewhat
odorous magician. There wasn’t really all that much to evaluate.
“All in a dream,” I said.
“I saw the king of Hell squatting on the coals of infernity, and he
spoke to me and told me to go forth across the length and breadth of