pitched him forwards against the door panel. It was unlocked. The Cirdonian
lunged out into the street as the shattered dome followed its pinnacle into a
cavern that gaped with a sound like the lowest note of an organ played by gods.
Samlor sprawled in the muddy street. All around him men were shouting and
pointing. The Cirdonian rolled onto his back and looked at the collapsing
temple.
Above the ruins rose a pall of shining dust. More than imagination shaped the
cloud into the head of a toad.
THE FRUIT OF ENLIBAR
by Lynn Abbey
The hillside groves of orange trees were all that remained of the legendary
glory of Enlibar. Humbled descendants of the rulers of an empire dwarfing Ilsig
or Ranke eked out their livings among the gnarled, ancient trees. They wrapped
each unripe fruit in leaves for the long caravan journey and wrapped each
harvest in a fresh retelling of their legends. By shrewd storytelling these once
proud families survived, second only to the S’danzo in their ability to create
mystery, but like the S’danzo crones they flavoured their legends with truth and
kept the sceptics at bay.
The oranges of Enlibar made their way to Sanctuary once a year. When the fist
sized fruits were nearly ripe Haakon, the sweetmeat vendor of the bazaar, would
fill his cart and hawk oranges in the town as well as in the stalls of the
bazaar. During i those few days he would make enough money to buy expensive |
trinkets for his wife and children, another year’s lodgings for his mistress,
and have enough gold left to take to Gonfred, the only honest goldsmith in town.