earth was going to dare attack it. Mark considered
gloomily that the assumption was probably cor-
rect.
As he and his escort rode nearer to the camp, he
realized that it probably contained not only more
human troops than he had ever seen in one place
before, but a greater variety of them as well, housed
in a wild assortment of tents and other temporary
shelters. The outer pickets of the camp, men and
women patrolling with leashed warbeasts, made no
attempt to challenge Mark and his escort as they
approached. And Mark observed that when the
human sentries were close enough to get a good
look at him, they, like his escort originally, shrank
back perceptibly.
He had to wonder again: Who, or what, did they
see? And who or what would Vilkata see when Mark
entered his presence, if Mark succeeded in pushing
matters that far? It was hard for Mark to imagine
that there could be anyone the Dark King either
feared or loved.
Only now, at last, did Mark clearly consider that
he might be headed for a personal encounter with
the Dark King. He had first approached the patrol
with no more than a vague idea of eavesdropping
on the enemy’s secret councils, just as Draffut said
he had moved unrecognized among the gods. Now
for the first time Mark saw that it might be his duty
to accomplish something more than that. The
thought was vastly intriguing and at the same time
deeply frightening, and he did not try now to think
it through to any definite conclusion.
He rode on, still surrounded by his escort, until
they were somewhere deep inside the vast encamp-
ment. There the patrol halted, and its members
began an animated discussion among themselves,
in some dialect that Mark could not really follow.
Judging that the debate might be on how to sepa-
rate themselves from him as safely and properly as
possible, he took the matter into his own hands by
dismounting, and then dismissing both his steed
and his escort with what he hoped looked like an
arrogantly confident wave of his hand.
Turning his back on the patrol then, Mark stalked
away on foot, heading for a tall flagpole that was
visible above the nearby tents. The pole supported
a long banner of black and gold, hanging limp now
in the windless air. Mark hoped and expected that
this flag marked the location of some central head-
quarters. As he walked toward it he saw the heads
of soldiers and camp-followers turn, their attention
following him as he passed; and he saw too that
some people either speeded up or slowed their own
progress, in order not to cross his path too closely.
Now he had to detour around some warbeasts’
pens, the smell and the mewing of the great catlike
creatures coming out of them in waves. Now he was
in sight of one corner of the vast parade ground.
From the farther reaches of its expanse, somewhere
out of Mark’s sight, there sounded the chant and
drumbeat of some hapless infantry unit condemned
to drilling in the heat. Looking across the nearest
corner of the field, he could now see the tall flagpole
at full length. There was a wooden reviewing stand
beside the flagpole, and behind the stand a magnifi-
cent pavilion. This was a tent larger than most
houses, of black and gold cloth.
Mark stalked directly toward the great pavilion,
considering that it had to be the Dark King’s head-
quarters. His right hand, riding on the hilt of
sheathed Sightblinder, could feel a new hum of
power in the Sword; perhaps there were guardian
spells here that had to be overcome.
The front of the reviewing stand displayed
another copy of Vilkata’s flag, this one stretched
out to reveal the design, a skull of gold upon a
field of black. The eyesockets of the skull stared
forth sightlessly, twin windows into night.
Again Mark had to make a small detour, round
more low cages that he at first thought held more
warbeasts. But the wood-slatted cages looked too
small for that. All but one of them were empty, and
that one held . . . the naked body confined inside
was human.
Abruptly something shimmered in the air above
Mark’s head, broadcasting torment. As Mark
moved instinctively to step aside, this presence
moved with him. Only at this moment did he real-
ize that it was sentient.
And only a moment after that did he realize that
he was being confronted by a demon.
And the demon was addressing him, demanding
something of him, though not in human speech.
Whether its communication was meant for his ears
or to enter his mind directly he could not tell. Nor
could he grasp more than fragments of the mean-
ing. It was basically a challenge: Why was he here?
Why was he here now, when he ought to be some-
where else? Why was he as he was?
He realized with a shock that he was going to
have to answer it, to offer something analogous to a
password before it would allow him to pass this
point, or even release him. What image it saw when
it looked at him evidently did not matter. Here,
approaching the pavilion, everyone must be
stopped. And he doubted there was anything, or
anyone, that this demon feared or loved.
Mark could no more answer the demonic voice
intelligently, in its own terms, than he could have
held converse with a bee. He knew fear, exploding
into terror. He ought to have foreseen that here
there might be such formidable guardians, here at
the heart of Vilkata’s power and control; the Dark
King himself was most likely in that huge tent
ahead. Here, perhaps, they had even been able to
plan defenses against the Sword of Stealth. Here its
powers were not going to be enough-
Only moments had passed since the demon had
first challenged him, but already Mark could sense
the creature’s growing suspicion. Now it sent an
even more urgent interrogation crashing against
Mark’s mind. Now it was probing him, searching
for evidence of the signs and keys of magic that he
did not possess. In a moment it would be certain
that he was some imposter, not a wizard after all.
In his desperation Mark grasped at a certain
memory, four years old but still vivid. It was the
recollection of his only previous close encounter
with a demon, in the depths of the buried treasure-
vaults of the Blue Temple. Now, in desperate imita-
tion of what another had done then, Mark gasped
out a command into the shimmering air:
“In the Emperor’s name, depart and let me
pass!”
There was a momentary howling in the air.
Simultaneously there came a tornado-blast of
wind, lasting only for an instant. Mark caught a last
shred of communication from the thing that chal-
lenged him-it was outraged, it had definitely
identified him as an imposter. But that did not mat-
ter. The demon could do nothing about it, for in the
next instant it was gone, gone instantaneously, as if
yanked away on invisible steel cables that extended
to infinity.
Now the air above Mark was quiet and clear, but
moments passed before his senses, jarred by the
encounter, returned to normal. He realized that he
had stumbled and almost fallen, and that his body
was bent over, hands halfway outstretched in front
of him, as if to avoid searing heat or ward off dread-
ful danger. It had been a very near thing indeed.
Hastily he drew himself erect, looking around
carefully. Wherever the demon had gone, there was
no sign it was coming back. A few people were
standing, idly or in conversation, near the front of
the pavilion, and he supposed that at least some of
them must have noticed something of the challenge
and his response. But all of them, as far as Mark
could tell, were going on about their business as if
nothing at all out of the ordinary had taken place.
Maybe, he thought, that was the necessary attitude
here, in what must be a constant center of intrigue.
Mark walked on. Having now passed the prison
cages and the reviewing stand, he was within a few
paces of the huge pavilion, by all indications the
tent of Vilkata himself. Having come this far, Mark
swore that he was going forward. Two human sen-
tries flanked the central doorway of the huge tent,
but to his relief these only offered him deep bows as
he approached. Without responding he passed
between them, and into a shaded entry.
Cool perfumed lair, doubtless provided by some
means of magic, wafted about him. Mark paused,
letting his eyes adjust to the relative gloom, and he
had a moment in which to wonder: How could any
spell as simple as the one he had just used, recited
by a mundane non-magician like himself, repel