There was a sneer in Zalasta’s voice. ‘He’ll tell you how the
Elder God Azash squealed when Anakha destroyed him.’ Zalasta
suddenly broke off. ‘He comes!’ he choked. ‘Closer than we’d
ever thought possible!’
‘What are you talking about?’ Ekatas demanded.
‘Anakha is here!’ Zalasta exclaimed. ‘Go to your generals, Santheocles.
Tell them to call out their troops and order them to
scour the streets of Cyrga, for Anakha is within your walls!
Hurry, man! Anakha is here, and our deaths stalk the streets
with him! Come with me, Ekatas! Cyrgon must be warned, and
eternal Klael the night of decision is uPon us!’
%A~ndd ihf u, oh Blue, Blt CBres Bud 8riefs shBll bnnl n i t our hearts to heights unknown to moria man
Elron ticked off the count on his fingers and swore. No matter
how he slurred or compressed the words of that last line, it
still had one beat too many. He hurled his quill-pen across the
room and sank his face into his hands in an artful pose of
poetic despair. Elron did that frequently when composing
verse.
Then he hopefully raised his face as a thought came to him
He was nearing the final stanzas of his masterpiece, after all,
and an Alexandrine would add emphasis. What would the critics
say?
Elron agonized over the decision. He cursed the day when he
had chosen to cast the most important work of his career in
heroic couplets. He hated iambics. They were so mercilessly regular
and unforgiving, and pentameter was like a chain around
his neck, jerking him up short at the end of every line. ‘Ode to
Blue’ hung in the balance while her creator struggled with the
sullen intransigencies of form and meter.
Elron could not be sure how long the screaming had been
going on or exactly when it had started. His mind, caught up
in a creative frenzy, had blotted out everything external to that
one maddeningly recalcitrant line. The poet rose irritably to his
feet and went to the window to look out at the torch-lit streets
of Natayos. What were they screaming about?
Scarpa’s soldiers, ignorant, unwashed serfs for the most part,
were running, bawling in terror like so many bleating sheep.
What had set them off this time?
Elron leaned slightly out to look back up the street. There
seemed to be a different kind of light coming from the part of
the ruined city that was still buried in tangled brush and creeping
vines. Elron frowned. It was most definitely not torchlight.
It seemed to be a pale white glow instead, steady, unwavering,
and coming from dozens of places at the same time.
Then Elron heard Scarpa’s voice rising over the screams. The
crazy charlatan was shouting orders of some kind in his most
imperial voice. The rabble in the streets, however, were ignoring
him. The army was streaming along the cobbled streets of ruined
Natayos toward the main gate, pushing, howling, jamming
together and struggling to get through that hopelessly clogged
gateway. Beyond the gate, Elron saw winking torches streaming
off into the surrounding jungle. What in God’s name was going on here?
Then his blood suddenly froze. He gaped in horror at the
glowing figures emerging from the side-streets of the ruin to
stalk implacably along the broad avenue that led to the gate.
The Shining Ones who had depopulated Panem-Doa, Norenja
and Synaqua had finally descended on Natayos!
The poet stood frozen for only a moment, and then his mind
moved more quickly than he’d have thought possible. Flight
was clearly out of the question. The gate was so completely
jammed that even those who had already reached it had little
chance of forcing their way through. Elron dashed to his writing-table
and swatted his candle with the flat of his hand, plunging
the room into darkness. If there were no lights in the windows
of this upper floor, the horrors that stalked the streets would
have no reason to search. Frantically, stumbling in the darkness,
he ran from room to room, desperately searching for any other
burning candles that might betray his location.
Then, certain that he was safe for the moment at least, the
one known throughout Astel as Sabre crept back to his room to
fearfully peer around the edge of the window-frame at the street
below.
Scarpa stood atop a partially-collapsed wall issuing contradictory
commands to regiments that evidently only he could see.
His threadbare velvet cloak was draped over his shoulders and
his makeshift crown was slightly askew.
Not far from where he stood, Cyzada was saying something
in his hollow voice – an incantation of some kind, Elron guessed
and his fingers were weaving intricate designs in the air.
Louder and louder he spoke in guttural Styric, summoning God
only knew what horrors to face the silent, glowing figures
advancing on him. His voice rose to a screech, and he pawed
at the air, frantically exaggerating the gestures.
And then one of the incandescent intruders reached him.
Cyzada screamed and flinched back violently, but it was too
late. The glowing hand had already touched him. He reeled back
as if that almost gentle touch had been some massive blow.
Staggering, he turned as if to flee, and Elron saw his face.
The poet retched, clamping his hands over his mouth to hold
in any sound that might give away his presence. Cyzada of
Esos was desolving. His already unrecognizable face was sliding
down the front of his head like melted wax, and a rapidly-spreading
stain was discoloring the front of his white Styric robe.
He staggered a few steps toward the still-raving Scarpa, his arms
reaching hungrily out toward the madman even as the flesh slid
away from those skeletal, outstretched hands. Then the Styric
slowly collapsed to the stones, bubbling, seething, his decaying
body oozing out through the fabric of his robe.
‘Archers to the front!’ ScarPa commanded in his rich, theatrical
voice. ‘Sweep them with arrows!’
Elron fell to the floor and scrambled away from the window
‘Cavalry to the flanks!’ he heard Scarpa command. ‘Sabers at
the ready!’
Elron crawled toward his writing-table, groping in the dark.
‘imperial guardsmen!’ Scarpa bellowed. ‘Quicktime, march!’
Elron found the leg of the table, reached up and frantically
began grabbing at the sheets of paper lying on the table-top.
‘First Regiment – charge!’ Scarpa commanded in a great voice.
Elron knocked over the table, whimpering in his desperate
haste.
‘Second Regiment -‘ Scarpa’s voice broke off suddenly, and
Elron heard him scream.
The poet spread his arms, trying to gather the priceless pages
of ‘Ode to Blue’ out of the darkness.
Scarpa’s voice was shrill now. ‘Mother!’ he shrieked. ‘Pleasepleaseplease!’
the resonant voice had become a kind of liquid
screech. ‘Pleasepleaseplease!’ It sounded almost like a man trying
to cry out from under water. ‘Pleasepleaseplease!’ And then
the voice wheezed off into a dreadful gurgling silence.
Clutching the pages he had found, Sabre abandoned his
search for any others, scurried across the room on his hands
and knees, and hid under the bed.
Bhlokw’s expression was reproachful as he shambled back
across the night-shrouded gravel. ‘Wickedness, U-lat,’ he
accused. ‘We are pack-mates, and you said a thing to me that
was not so.’
‘I would not do that, Bhlokw,’ Ulath protested.
‘You put the thought into my mind-belly that the big things
with iron on their faces were good-to-eat. They are not goodto
-eat.’
‘Were they bad-to-eat, Bhlokw?’ Tynian asked sympathetically.
‘Very bad-to-eat, Tin-in. I have not tasted anything so bad-to-eat
before.’
‘I did not know this, Bhlokw,’ Ulath tried to apologize. ‘It was
my thought that they were big enough that one or two might
fill your belly.’
‘I only ate one,’ Bhlokw replied. ‘It was so bad-to-eat that I
did not want to eat another. Not even Ogres would eat those,
and Ogres will eat anything. It makes me not-glad that you said
the thing that was not so to me, U-lat.’
‘It makes me not-glad as well,’ Ulath confessed. ‘I said a thing
which I did not know. It was wicked of me to do this.’
Queen Betuana drew Tynian aside. ‘How long will it take us
to reach the Hidden City, Tynian-Knight?’ she asked.
‘is your Majesty talking about how long it’s really going to
take or how long it’s going to seem?’
‘Both.’
‘It’s going to seem like weeks, Betuana-Queen, but in actual
time, it’ll be instantaneous. Ulath and I left Matherion just a few
weeks ago in real time, but it seems that we’ve been on the road
for nearly a year. It’s very strange, but you get used to it after
a while.’
‘We must start soon if we are to reach Cyrga by morning.’
‘Ulath and I’ll have to talk with Ghnomb about that. He’s the
one who stops time, but he’s also the God of Eat. He may not
be happy with us. The idea of letting the Trolls kill klael’s soldiers