Walker slowed, uncertain as to what might lurk around the dark-
ened comers. The greenish light could be found only in small
patches here, and the corridor was thick with shadows. He
dropped into a crouch, certain that something waited to attack
him, feeling its presence grow nearer with every step he took.
He considered momentarily using his magic to light the pas-
sageway so that he might better see what hid from him, but he
quickly discarded the idea. If he invoked the magic, he would
alert whatever might be there that he possessed special powers.
Better to keep the magic secret, he thought. It was a weapon
that would serve him best if its use was unexpected.
Yet nothing appeared. He shrugged his uneasiness aside and
pressed on until the passageway straightened and began to widen
out again.
Then the sound began.
He knew it was coming, that it would strike all at once, and
still he was not prepared when it came. It lashed out at him,
wrapping about with the strength of iron chains, dragging him
ahead. It was the scream of winds through a canyon, the howl
and rip of storms across a plain, the pounding of seas against
shoreline cliffs. And beneath, just under the skin of it, was the
horrifying shriek of souls in unimaginable pain, scraping their
bones against the rock of the cavern walls.
Frantically, Walker Boh brought his defenses to bear. He was
in the Corridor of Winds, and the Banshees were upon him. He
blocked everything away in an instant, closing off the terrifying
sound with a strength of will that rocked him, focusing his
thoughts on a single picture within his mind-an image of him-
self. He constructed the image with lines and shadings, coloring
in the gaps, giving himself life and strength and determination.
He began to walk forward. He muffled the sound of the Ban-
shees until they were no more than a strange buzzing that
whipped and tore about him, trying to break through. He
watched the Corridor of Winds pass away about him, a bleak
and empty cavern in which everything was invisible but the wail-
ing, a whiri of color that flashed like maddened lightning through
the black.
Nothing Walker did would lessen it. The shrieks and howls
hammered into him, buffeting his body as if they were living
things. He could feel his strength ebbing as it had before the
onslaught of the Sphinxes, his defenses giving way. The fury of
the attack was frightening. He fought back against it, a hint of
desperation creeping through him as he watched the image he
had drawn of himself begin to shimmer and disappear. He was
losing control. In another minute, maybe two, his protection
would crumble completely.
And then, once again, he broke clear just when it seemed he
must give way. He stumbled from the Corridor of Winds into a
small cave that lay beyond. The screams of the Banshees van-
ished. Walker collapsed against the closest wall, sliding down
the smooth rock into a sitting position, his entire body shaking.
He breathed in and out slowly, steadily, coming back to himself
in bits and pieces. Time slowed, and for a moment he allowed
his eyes to close.
When he opened them again, he was looking at a pair of
massive stone doors fastened to the rock by iron hinges. Runes
were carved into the doors, the ancient markings as red as fire.
He had reached the Assembly, the Tomb where the Kings of
the Four Lands were interred.
He climbed to his feet, hitched up the rucksack, and walked
to the doors. He studied the markings a moment, then placed
one hand carefully upon them and shoved. The door swung open
and Walker Boh stepped through.
He stood in a giant, circular cavern streaked by greenish light
and shadow. Sealed vaults lined the walls, the dead within closed
away by mortar and stone. Statues stood guarding their en-
tombed rulers, solemn and ageless. Before each was piled the
wealth of the master in casks and trunks-jewels, furs, weap-
ons, treasures of all sorts. They were so covered with dust that
they were barely recognizable. The walls of the chamber loomed