shouted a Frenchman from above. \ I did hear something squealing in the garden. Perhaps it s his brat that the fellow is looking for. After all, one must be human, you know….\ \ Where is it? Where?\ said Pierre. \ There! There!\ shouted the Frenchman at the window, pointing to the garden at the back of the house. \ Wait a bit–I m coming down.\ And a minute or two later the Frenchman, a black-eyed fellow with a spot on his cheek, in shirt sleeves, really did jump out of a window on the ground floor, and clapping Pierre on the shoulder ran with him into the garden. \ Hurry up, you others!\ he called out to his comrades. \ It s getting hot.\
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When they reached a gravel path behind the house the Frenchman pulled Pierre by the arm and pointed to a round, graveled space where a three-year-old girl in a pink dress was lying under a seat. \ There is your child! Oh, a girl, so much the better!\ said the Frenchman. \ Good-by, Fatty. We must be human, we are all mortal you know!\ and the Frenchman with the spot on his cheek ran back to his comrades. Breathless with joy, Pierre ran to the little girl and was going to take her in his arms. But seeing a stranger the sickly, scrofulous-looking child, unattractively like her mother, began to yell and run away. Pierre, however, seized her and lifted her in his arms. She screamed desperately and angrily and tried with her little hands to
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pull Pierre s hands away and to bite them with her slobbering mouth. Pierre was seized by a sense of horror and repulsion such as he had experienced when touching some nasty little animal. But he made an effort not to throw the child down and ran with her to the large house. It was now, however, impossible to get back the way he had come; the maid, Aniska, was no longer there, and Pierre with a feeling of pity and disgust pressed the wet, painfully sobbing child to himself as tenderly as he could and ran with her through the garden seeking another way out. CHAPTER XXXIV CHAPTER XXXIV Having run through different yards and side streets, Pierre got back with his little burden to the Gruzinski
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818 garden at the corner of the Povarskoy. He did not at first recognize the place from which he had set out to look for the child, so crowded was it now with people and goods that had been dragged out of the houses. Besides Russian families who had taken refuge here from the fire with their belongings, there were several French soldiers in a variety of clothing. Pierre took no notice of them. He hurried to find the family of that civil servant in order to restore the daughter to her mother and go to save someone else. Pierre felt that he had still much to do and to do quickly. Glowing with the heat and from running, he felt at that moment more strongly than ever the sense of youth, animation, and determination that had come on him
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when he ran to save the child. She had now become quiet and, clinging with her little hands to Pierre s coat, sat on his arm gazing about her like some little wild animal. He glanced at her occasionally with a slight smile. He fancied he saw something pathetically innocent in that frightened, sickly little face. He did not find the civil servant or his wife where he had left them. He walked among the crowd with rapid steps, scanning the various faces he met. Involuntarily he noticed a Georgian or Armenian family consisting of a very handsome old man of Oriental type, wearing a new, cloth-covered, sheepskin coat and new boots, an old woman of similar type, and a young woman. That very young woman seemed to Pierre the perfection of Oriental beauty, with her sharply outlined, arched, black
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eyebrows and the extraordinarily soft, bright color of her long, beautiful, expressionless face. Amid the scattered property and the crowd on the open space, she, in her rich satin cloak with a bright lilac shawl on her head, suggested a delicate exotic plant thrown out onto the snow. She was sitting on some bundles a little behind the old woman, and looked from under her long lashes with motionless, large, almond-shaped eyes at the ground before her. Evidently she was aware of her beauty and fearful because of it. Her face struck Pierre and, hurrying along by the fence, he turned several times to look at her. When he had reached the fence, still without finding those he sought, he stopped and looked about him. With the child in his arms his figure was now more conspicuous than before, and
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a group of Russians, both men and women, gathered about him. \ Have you lost anyone, my dear fellow? You re of the gentry yourself, aren t you? Whose child is it?\ they asked him. Pierre replied that the child belonged to a woman in a black coat who had been sitting there with her other children, and he asked whether anyone knew where she had gone. \ Why, that must be the Anferovs,\ said an old deacon, addressing a pockmarked peasant woman. \ Lord have mercy, Lord have mercy!\ he added in his customary bass. \ The Anferovs? No,\ said the woman. \ They left in the morning. That must be either Mary Nikolievna s or the Ivanovs !\ \ He says a
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woman, and Mary Nikolievna is a lady,\ remarked a house serf. \ Do you know her? She s thin, with long teeth,\ said Pierre. \ That s Mary Nikolievna! They went inside the garden when these wolves swooped down,\ said the woman, pointing to the French soldiers. \ O Lord, have mercy!\ added the deacon. CHAPTER XXXIV 819 \ Go over that way, they re there. It s she! She kept on lamenting and crying,\ continued the woman. \ It s she. Here, this way!\ But Pierre was not listening to the woman. He had for some seconds been intently watching what was going on a few steps away. He was
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looking at the Armenian family and at two French soldiers who had gone up to them. One of these, a nimble little man, was wearing a blue coat tied round the waist with a rope. He had a nightcap on his head and his feet were bare. The other, whose appearance particularly struck Pierre, was a long, lank, round-shouldered, fair-haired man, slow in his movements and with an idiotic expression of face. He wore a woman s loose gown of frieze, blue trousers, and large torn Hessian boots. The little barefooted Frenchman in the blue coat went up to the Armenians and, saying something, immediately seized the old man by his legs and the old man at once began pulling off his boots. The other in the frieze gown stopped in front of the beautiful Armenian girl and with his hands in his
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pockets stood staring at her, motionless and silent. \ Here, take the child!\ said Pierre peremptorily and hurriedly to the woman, handing the little girl to her. \ Give her back to them, give her back!\ he almost shouted, putting the child, who began screaming, on the ground, and again looking at the Frenchman and the Armenian family. The old man was already sitting barefoot. The little Frenchman had secured his second boot and was slapping one boot against the other. The old man was saying something in a voice broken by sobs, but Pierre caught but a glimpse of this, his whole attention was directed to the Frenchman in the frieze gown who meanwhile, swaying slowly from side to side, had drawn nearer to the young woman and taking his hands from his pockets had
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seized her by the neck. The beautiful Armenian still sat motionless and in the same attitude, with her long lashes drooping as if she did not see or feel what the soldier was doing to her. While Pierre was running the few steps that separated him from the Frenchman, the tall marauder in the frieze gown was already tearing from her neck the necklace the young Armenian was wearing, and the young woman, clutching at her neck, screamed piercingly. \ Let that woman alone!\ exclaimed Pierre hoarsely in a furious voice, seizing the soldier by his round shoulders and throwing him aside. The soldier fell, got up, and ran away. But his comrade, throwing down the boots and drawing his sword, moved threateningly toward Pierre. \ Voyons, Pas de
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Adjutant!\ he shouted. \ Order them not to crowd together.\ The adjutant, having obeyed this instruction, approached Prince Andrew. From the other side a battalion commander rode up. \ Look out!\ came a frightened cry from a soldier and, like a bird whirring in rapid flight and alighting on the ground, a shell dropped with little noise within two steps of Prince Andrew and close to the battalion commander s horse. The horse first, regardless of whether it was right or wrong to show fear, snorted, reared almost throwing the major, and galloped aside. The horse s terror infected the men. \ Lie down!\ cried the adjutant, throwing himself flat on the ground. Prince Andrew hesitated. The smoking shell spun like a top between him and the prostrate adjutant, near
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a wormwood plant between the field and the meadow. \ Can this be death?\ thought Prince Andrew, looking with a quite new, envious glance at the grass, the wormwood, and the streamlet of smoke that curled up from the rotating black ball. \ I cannot, I do not wish to die. I love life–I love this grass, this earth, this air….\ He thought this, and at the same time remembered that people were looking at him. \ It s shameful, sir!\ he said to the adjutant. \ What…\ He did not finish speaking. At one and the same moment came the sound of an explosion, a whistle of splinters as from a breaking window frame, a suffocating smell of powder, and Prince Andrew started to one side, raising his arm, and
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fell on his chest. Several officers ran up to him. From the right side of his abdomen, blood was welling out making a large stain on the grass. The militiamen with stretchers who were called up stood behind the officers. Prince Andrew lay on his chest with his face in the grass, breathing heavily and noisily. \ What are you waiting for? Come along!\ The peasants went up and took him by his shoulders and legs, but he moaned piteously and, exchanging looks, they set him down again. \ Pick him up, lift him, it s all the same!\ cried someone. They again took him by the shoulders and laid him on the stretcher. \ Ah, God! My God! What is it? The stomach? That means death!
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My God!\ –voices among the officers were heard saying. \ It flew a hair s breadth past my ear,\ said the adjutant. The peasants, adjusting the stretcher to their shoulders, started hurriedly along the path they had trodden CHAPTER XXXVI down, to the dressing station. 716 \ Keep in step! Ah… those peasants!\ shouted an officer, seizing by their shoulders and checking the peasants, who were walking unevenly and jolting the stretcher. \ Get into step, Fedor… I say, Fedor!\ said the foremost peasant. \ Now that s right!\ said the one behind joyfully, when he had got into step. \ Your excellency! Eh, Prince!\ said the trembling
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voice of Timokhin, who had run up and was looking down on the stretcher. Prince Andrew opened his eyes and looked up at the speaker from the stretcher into which his head had sunk deep and again his eyelids drooped. The militiamen carried Prince Andrew to dressing station by the wood, where wagons were stationed. The dressing station consisted of three tents with flaps turned back, pitched at the edge of a birch wood. In the wood, wagons and horses were standing. The horses were eating oats from their movable troughs and sparrows flew down and pecked the grains that fell. Some crows, scenting blood, flew among the birch trees cawing impatiently. Around the tents, over more than five acres, bloodstained men in various garbs stood, sat, or lay. Around the wounded stood crowds of soldier stretcher-bearers
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with dismal and attentive faces, whom the officers keeping order tried in vain to drive from the spot. Disregarding the officers orders, the soldiers stood leaning against their stretchers and gazing intently, as if trying to comprehend the difficult problem of what was taking place before them. From the tents came now loud angry cries and now plaintive groans. Occasionally dressers ran out to fetch water, or to point out those who were to be brought in next. The wounded men awaiting their turn outside the tents groaned, sighed, wept, screamed, swore, or asked for vodka. Some were delirious. Prince Andrew s bearers, stepping over the wounded who had not yet been bandaged, took him, as a regimental commander, close up to one of the tents and there stopped, awaiting instructions. Prince Andrew opened his eyes and for a long time
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could not make out what was going on around him. He remembered the meadow, the wormwood, the field, the whirling black ball, and his sudden rush of passionate love of life. Two steps from him, leaning against a branch and talking loudly and attracting general attention, stood a tall, handsome, black-haired noncommissioned officer with a bandaged head. He had been wounded in the head and leg by bullets. Around him, eagerly listening to his talk, a crowd of wounded and stretcher-bearers was gathered. \ We kicked him out from there so that he chucked everything, we grabbed the King himself!\ cried he, looking around him with eyes that glittered with fever. \ If only reserves had come up just then, lads, there wouldn t have been nothing left of him! I tell you surely…\ Like
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all the others near the speaker, Prince Andrew looked at him with shining eyes and experienced a sense of comfort. \ But isn t it all the same now?\ thought he. \ And what will be there, and what has there been here? Why was I so reluctant to part with life? There was something in this life I did not and do not understand.\ CHAPTER XXXVII CHAPTER XXXVII 717 One of the doctors came out of the tent in a bloodstained apron, holding a cigar between the thumb and little finger of one of his small bloodstained hands, so as not to smear it. He raised his head and looked about him, but above the level of the wounded men. He evidently wanted
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a little respite. After turning his head from right to left for some time, he sighed and looked down. \ All right, immediately,\ he replied to a dresser who pointed Prince Andrew out to him, and he told them to carry him into the tent. Murmurs arose among the wounded who were waiting. \ It seems that even in the next world only the gentry are to have a chance!\ remarked one. Prince Andrew was carried in and laid on a table that had only just been cleared and which a dresser was washing down. Prince Andrew could not make out distinctly what was in that tent. The pitiful groans from all sides and the torturing pain in his thigh, stomach, and back distracted him. All he saw about him merged into
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a general impression of naked, bleeding human bodies that seemed to fill the whole of the low tent, as a few weeks previously, on that hot August day, such bodies had filled the dirty pond beside the Smolensk road. Yes, it was the same flesh, the same chair a canon, the sight of which had even then filled him with horror, as by a presentiment. There were three operating tables in the tent. Two were occupied, and on the third they placed Prince Andrew. For a little while he was left alone and involuntarily witnessed what was taking place on the other two tables. On the nearest one sat a Tartar, probably a Cossack, judging by the uniform thrown down beside him. Four soldiers were holding him, and a spectacled doctor was cutting into his muscular brown back.
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\ Ooh, ooh, ooh!\ grunted the Tartar, and suddenly lifting up his swarthy snub-nosed face with its high cheekbones, and baring his white teeth, he began to wriggle and twitch his body and utter piercing, ringing, and prolonged yells. On the other table, round which many people were crowding, a tall well-fed man lay on his back with his head thrown back. His curly hair, its color, and the shape of his head seemed strangely familiar to Prince Andrew. Several dressers were pressing on his chest to hold him down. One large, white, plump leg twitched rapidly all the time with a feverish tremor. The man was sobbing and choking convulsively. Two doctors–one of whom was pale and trembling–were silently doing something to this man s other, gory leg. When he had finished with the Tartar, whom they covered with an
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overcoat, the spectacled doctor came up to Prince Andrew, wiping his hands. He glanced at Prince Andrew s face and quickly turned away. \ Undress him! What are you waiting for?\ he cried angrily to the dressers. His very first, remotest recollections of childhood came back to Prince Andrew s mind when the dresser with sleeves rolled up began hastily to undo the buttons of his clothes and undressed him. The doctor bent down over the wound, felt it, and sighed deeply. Then he made a sign to someone, and the torturing pain in his abdomen caused Prince Andrew to lose consciousness. When he came to himself the splintered portions of his thighbone had been extracted, the torn flesh cut away, and the wound bandaged. Water was being sprinkled on his face. As soon
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as Prince Andrew opened his eyes, the doctor bent over, kissed him silently on the lips, and hurried away. After the sufferings he had been enduring, Prince Andrew enjoyed a blissful feeling such as he had not experienced for a long time. All the best and happiest moments of his life–especially his earliest childhood, when he used to be undressed and put to bed, and when leaning over him his nurse sang him to sleep and he, CHAPTER XXXVII burying his head in the pillow, felt happy in the mere consciousness of life- returned to his memory, not merely as something past but as something present. 718 The doctors were busily engaged with the wounded man the shape of whose head seemed familiar
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to Prince Andrew: they were lifting him up and trying to quiet him. \ Show it to me…. Oh, ooh… Oh! Oh, ooh!\ his frightened moans could be heard, subdued by suffering and broken by sobs. Hearing those moans Prince Andrew wanted to weep. Whether because he was dying without glory, or because he was sorry to part with life, or because of those memories of a childhood that could not return, or because he was suffering and others were suffering and that man near him was groaning so piteously–he felt like weeping childlike, kindly, and almost happy tears. The wounded man was shown his amputated leg stained with clotted blood and with the boot still on. \ Oh! Oh, ooh!\ he sobbed, like a woman. The doctor
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who had been standing beside him, preventing Prince Andrew from seeing his face, moved away. \ My God! What is this? Why is he here?\ said Prince Andrew to himself. In the miserable, sobbing, enfeebled man whose leg had just been amputated, he recognized Anatole Kuragin. Men were supporting him in their arms and offering him a glass of water, but his trembling, swollen lips could not grasp its rim. Anatole was sobbing painfully. \ Yes, it is he! Yes, that man is somehow closely and painfully connected with me,\ thought Prince Andrew, not yet clearly grasping what he saw before him. \ What is the connection of that man with my childhood and life?\ he asked himself without finding an answer. And suddenly a new unexpected memory from that realm of pure and loving childhood
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presented itself to him. He remembered Natasha as he had seen her for the first time at the ball in 1810, with her slender neck and arms and with a frightened happy face ready for rapture, and love and tenderness for her, stronger and more vivid than ever, awoke in his soul. He now remembered the connection that existed between himself and this man who was dimly gazing at him through tears that filled his swollen eyes. He remembered everything, and ecstatic pity and love for that man overflowed his happy heart. Prince Andrew could no longer restrain himself and wept tender loving tears for his fellow men, for himself, and for his own and their errors. \ Compassion, love of our brothers, for those who love us and for those who hate us, love of our enemies;
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yes, that love which God preached on earth and which Princess Mary taught me and I did not understand–that is what made me sorry to part with life, that is what remained for me had I lived. But now it is too late. I know it!\ CHAPTER XXXVIII CHAPTER XXXVIII 719 The terrible spectacle of the battlefield covered with dead and wounded, together with the heaviness of his head and the news that some twenty generals he knew personally had been killed or wounded, and the consciousness of the impotence of his once mighty arm, produced an unexpected impression on Napoleon who usually liked to look at the killed and wounded, thereby, he considered, testing his strength of mind. This day the
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horrible appearance of the battlefield overcame that strength of mind which he thought constituted his merit and his greatness. He rode hurriedly from the battlefield and returned to the Shevardino knoll, where he sat on his campstool, his sallow face swollen and heavy, his eyes dim, his nose red, and his voice hoarse, involuntarily listening, with downcast eyes, to the sounds of firing. With painful dejection he awaited the end of this action, in which he regarded himself as a participant and which he was unable to arrest. A personal, human feeling for a brief moment got the better of the artificial phantasm of life he had served so long. He felt in his own person the sufferings and death he had witnessed on the battlefield. The heaviness of his head and chest reminded him of the possibility of suffering and death for
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himself. At that moment he did not desire Moscow, or victory, or glory (what need had he for any more glory?). The one thing he wished for was rest, tranquillity, and freedom. But when he had been on the Semenovsk heights the artillery commander had proposed to him to bring several batteries of artillery up to those heights to strengthen the fire on the Russian troops crowded in front of Knyazkovo. Napoleon had assented and had given orders that news should be brought to him of the effect those batteries produced. An adjutant came now to inform him that the fire of two hundred guns had been concentrated on the Russians, as he had ordered, but that they still held their ground. \ Our fire is mowing them down by rows, but still they hold on,\ said
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the adjutant. \ They want more!…\ said Napoleon in a hoarse voice. \ Sire?\ asked the adjutant who had not heard the remark. \ They want more!\ croaked Napoleon frowning. \ Let them have it!\ Even before he gave that order the thing he did not desire, and for which he gave the order only because he thought it was expected of him, was being done. And he fell back into that artificial realm of imaginary greatness, and again–as a horse walking a treadmill thinks it is doing something for itself–he submissively fulfilled the cruel, sad, gloomy, and inhuman role predestined for him. And not for that day and hour alone were the mind and conscience darkened of this man on whom the responsibility for what was
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happening lay more than on all the others who took part in it. Never to the end of his life could he understand goodness, beauty, or truth, or the significance of his actions which were too contrary to goodness and truth, too remote from everything human, for him ever to be able to grasp their meaning. He could not disavow his actions, belauded as they were by half the world, and so he had to repudiate truth, goodness, and all humanity. Not only on that day, as he rode over the battlefield strewn with men killed and maimed (by his will as he believed), did he reckon as he looked at them how many Russians there were for each Frenchman and, deceiving himself, find reason for rejoicing in the calculation that there were five Russians for every Frenchman. Not on
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that day alone did he write in a letter to Paris that \ the battle field was superb,\ because fifty thousand corpses lay there, but even on the island of St. Helena in the peaceful solitude where he said he intended to devote his leisure to an account of the great deeds he had done, he wrote: The Russian war should have been the most popular war of modern times: it was a war of good sense, for real interests, for the tranquillity and security of all; it was purely pacific and conservative. CHAPTER XXXVIII 720 It was a war for a great cause, the end of uncertainties and the beginning of security. A new horizon and new labors were opening out, full of well-being
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and prosperity for all. The European system was already founded; all that remained was to organize it. Satisfied on these great points and with tranquility everywhere, I too should have had my Congress and my Holy Alliance. Those ideas were stolen from me. In that reunion of great sovereigns we should have discussed our interests like one family, and have rendered account to the peoples as clerk to master. Europe would in this way soon have been, in fact, but one people, and anyone who traveled anywhere would have found himself always in the common fatherland. I should have demanded the freedom of all navigable rivers for everybody, that the seas should be common to all, and that the great standing armies should be reduced henceforth to mere guards for the sovereigns. On returning to
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France, to the bosom of the great, strong, magnificent, peaceful, and glorious fatherland, I should have proclaimed her frontiers immutable; all future wars purely defensive, all aggrandizement antinational. I should have associated my son in the Empire; my dictatorship would have been finished, and his constitutional reign would have begun. Paris would have been the capital of the world, and the French the envy of the nations! My leisure then, and my old age, would have been devoted, in company with the Empress and during the royal apprenticeship of my son, to leisurely visiting, with our own horses and like a true country couple, every corner of the Empire, receiving complaints, redressing wrongs, and scattering public buildings and benefactions on all sides and everywhere. Napoleon, predestined by Providence for the gloomy role of executioner of
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the peoples, assured himself that the aim of his actions had been the peoples welfare and that he could control the fate of millions and by the employment of power confer benefactions. \ Of four hundred thousand who crossed the Vistula,\ he wrote further of the Russian war, \ half were Austrians, Prussians, Saxons, Poles, Bavarians, Wurttembergers, Mecklenburgers, Spaniards, Italians, and Neapolitans. The Imperial army, strictly speaking, was one third composed of Dutch, Belgians, men from the borders of the Rhine, Piedmontese, Swiss, Genevese, Tuscans, Romans, inhabitants of the Thirty-second Military Division, of Bremen, of Hamburg, and so on: it included scarcely a hundred and forty thousand who spoke French. The Russian expedition actually cost France less than fifty thousand men; the Russian army in its retreat from Vilna to Moscow lost in the various battles four
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times more men than the French army; the burning of Moscow cost the lives of a hundred thousand Russians who died of cold and want in the woods; finally, in its march from Moscow to the Oder the Russian army also suffered from the severity of the season; so that by the the time it reached Vilna it numbered only fifty thousand, and at Kalisch less than eighteen thousand.\ He imagined that the war with Russia came about by his will, and the horrors that occurred did not stagger his soul. He boldly took the whole responsibility for what happened, and his darkened mind found justification in the belief that among the hundreds of thousands who perished there were fewer Frenchmen than Hessians and Bavarians. CHAPTER XXXIX CHAPTER XXXIX
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721 Several tens of thousands of the slain lay in diverse postures and various uniforms on the fields and meadows belonging to the Davydov family and to the crown serfs–those fields and meadows where for hundreds of years the peasants of Borodino, Gorki, Shevardino, and Semenovsk had reaped their harvests and pastured their cattle. At the dressing stations the grass and earth were soaked with blood for a space of some three acres around. Crowds of men of various arms, wounded and unwounded, with frightened faces, dragged themselves back to Mozhaysk from the one army and back to Valuevo from the other. Other crowds, exhausted and hungry, went forward led by their officers. Others held their ground and continued to fire. Over the whole field, previously so gaily beautiful with the
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glitter of bayonets and cloudlets of smoke in the morning sun, there now spread a mist of damp and smoke and a strange acid smell of saltpeter and blood. Clouds gathered and drops of rain began to fall on the dead and wounded, on the frightened, exhausted, and hesitating men, as if to say: \ Enough, men! Enough! Cease… bethink yourselves! What are you doing?\ To the men of both sides alike, worn out by want of food and rest, it began equally to appear doubtful whether they should continue to slaughter one another; all the faces expressed hesitation, and the question arose in every soul: \ For what, for whom, must I kill and be killed?… You may go and kill whom you please, but I don t want to do so anymore!\ By evening this thought had
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ripened in every soul. At any moment these men might have been seized with horror at what they were doing and might have thrown up everything and run away anywhere. But though toward the end of the battle the men felt all the horror of what they were doing, though they would have been glad to leave off, some incomprehensible, mysterious power continued to control them, and they still brought up the charges, loaded, aimed, and applied the match, though only one artilleryman survived out of every three, and though they stumbled and panted with fatigue, perspiring and stained with blood and powder. The cannon balls flew just as swiftly and cruelly from both sides, crushing human bodies, and that terrible work which was not done by the will of a man but at the will of Him who governs
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men and worlds continued. Anyone looking at the disorganized rear of the Russian army would have said that, if only the French made one more slight effort, it would disappear; and anyone looking at the rear of the French army would have said that the Russians need only make one more slight effort and the French would be destroyed. But neither the French nor the Russians made that effort, and the flame of battle burned slowly out. The Russians did not make that effort because they were not attacking the French. At the beginning of the battle they stood blocking the way to Moscow and they still did so at the end of the battle as at the beginning. But even had the aim of the Russians been to drive the French from their positions, they could not
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have made this last effort, for all the Russian troops had been broken up, there was no part of the Russian army that had not suffered in the battle, and though still holding their positions they had lost ONE HALF of their army. The French, with the memory of all their former victories during fifteen years, with the assurance of Napoleon s invincibility, with the consciousness that they had captured part of the battlefield and had lost only a quarter of their men and still had their Guards intact, twenty thousand strong, might easily have made that effort. The French had attacked the Russian army in order to drive it from its position ought to have made that effort, for as long as the Russians continued to block the road to Moscow as before, the aim of the French had
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not been attained and all their efforts and losses were in vain. But the French did not make that effort. Some historians say that Napoleon need only have used his Old Guards, who were intact, and the battle would have been won. To speak of what would have happened had Napoleon sent his Guards is like talking of what would happen if autumn became spring. It could not be. Napoleon did not give his Guards, not because he did not want to, but because it could not be done. All the generals, officers, and soldiers of the French army knew it could not be done, because the flagging spirit of the troops would not permit it. CHAPTER XXXIX It was not Napoleon alone who had experienced that nightmare feeling of the mighty arm being stricken
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722 powerless, but all the generals and soldiers of his army whether they had taken part in the battle or not, after all their experience of previous battles–when after one tenth of such efforts the enemy had fled–experienced a similar feeling of terror before an enemy who, after losing HALF his men, stood as threateningly at the end as at the beginning of the battle. The moral force of the attacking French army was exhausted. Not that sort of victory which is defined by the capture of pieces of material fastened to sticks, called standards, and of the ground on which the troops had stood and were standing, but a moral victory that convinces the enemy of the moral superiority of his opponent and of his own impotence was gained by the Russians at Borodino. The
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French invaders, like an infuriated animal that has in its onslaught received a mortal wound, felt that they were perishing, but could not stop, any more than the Russian army, weaker by one half, could help swerving. By impetus gained, the French army was still able to roll forward to Moscow, but there, without further effort on the part of the Russians, it had to perish, bleeding from the mortal wound it had received at Borodino. The direct consequence of the battle of Borodino was Napoleon s senseless flight from Moscow, his retreat along the old Smolensk road, the destruction of the invading army of five hundred thousand men, and the downfall of Napoleonic France, on which at Borodino for the first time the hand of an opponent of stronger spirit had been laid. BOOK ELEVEN: 1812
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CHAPTER I CHAPTER I 723 Absolute continuity of motion is not comprehensible to the human mind. Laws of motion of any kind become comprehensible to man only when he examines arbitrarily selected elements of that motion; but at the same time, a large proportion of human error comes from the arbitrary division of continuous motion into discontinuous elements. There is a well known, so-called sophism of the ancients consisting in this, that Achilles could never catch up with a tortoise he was following, in spite of the fact that he traveled ten times as fast as the tortoise. By the time Achilles has covered the distance that separated him from the tortoise, the tortoise has covered one tenth of that distance ahead of him: when Achilles
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has covered that tenth, the tortoise has covered another one hundredth, and so on forever. This problem seemed to the ancients insoluble. The absurd answer (that Achilles could never overtake the tortoise) resulted from this: that motion was arbitrarily divided into discontinuous elements, whereas the motion both of Achilles and of the tortoise was continuous. By adopting smaller and smaller elements of motion we only approach a solution of the problem, but never reach it. Only when we have admitted the conception of the infinitely small, and the resulting geometrical progression with a common ratio of one tenth, and have found the sum of this progression to infinity, do we reach a solution of the problem. A modern branch of mathematics having achieved the art of dealing with the infinitely small can now yield solutions in other
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more complex problems of motion which used to appear insoluble. This modern branch of mathematics, unknown to the ancients, when dealing with problems of motion admits the conception of the infinitely small, and so conforms to the chief condition of motion (absolute continuity) and thereby corrects the inevitable error which the human mind cannot avoid when it deals with separate elements of motion instead of examining continuous motion. In seeking the laws of historical movement just the same thing happens. The movement of humanity, arising as it does from innumerable arbitrary human wills, is continuous. To understand the laws of this continuous movement is the aim of history. But to arrive at these laws, resulting from the sum of all those human wills, man s mind postulates arbitrary and disconnected units. The first method of
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history is to take an arbitrarily selected series of continuous events and examine it apart from others, though there is and can be no beginning to any event, for one event always flows uninterruptedly from another. The second method is to consider the actions of some one man–a king or a commander–as equivalent to the sum of many individual wills; whereas the sum of individual wills is never expressed by the activity of a single historic personage. Historical science in its endeavor to draw nearer to truth continually takes smaller and smaller units for examination. But however small the units it takes, we feel that to take any unit disconnected from others, or to assume a beginning of any phenomenon, or to say that the will of many men is expressed by the actions of any one
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historic personage, is in itself false. It needs no critical exertion to reduce utterly to dust any deductions drawn from history. It is merely necessary to select some larger or smaller unit as the subject of observation–as criticism has every right to do, seeing that whatever unit history observes must always be arbitrarily selected. Only by taking infinitesimally small units for observation (the differential of history, that is, the individual tendencies of men) and attaining to the art of integrating them (that is, finding the sum of these infinitesimals) can we hope to arrive at the laws of history. CHAPTER I 724 The first fifteen years of the nineteenth century in Europe present an extraordinary movement of millions of people. Men leave
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their customary pursuits, hasten from one side of Europe to the other, plunder and slaughter one another, triumph and are plunged in despair, and for some years the whole course of life is altered and presents an intensive movement which first increases and then slackens. What was the cause of this movement, by what laws was it governed? asks the mind of man. The historians, replying to this question, lay before us the sayings and doings of a few dozen men in a building in the city of Paris, calling these sayings and doings \ the Revolution\ ; then they give a detailed biography of Napoleon and of certain people favorable or hostile to him; tell of the influence some of these people had on others, and say: that is why this movement took place and those are its laws.
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But the mind of man not only refuses to believe this explanation, but plainly says that this method of explanation is fallacious, because in it a weaker phenomenon is taken as the cause of a stronger. The sum of human wills produced the Revolution and Napoleon, and only the sum of those wills first tolerated and then destroyed them. \ But every time there have been conquests there have been conquerors; every time there has been a revolution in any state there have been great men,\ says history. And, indeed, human reason replies: every time conquerors appear there have been wars, but this does not prove that the conquerors caused the wars and that it is possible to find the laws of a war in the personal activity of a single man. Whenever I look at my watch
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and its hands point to ten, I hear the bells of the neighboring church; but because the bells begin to ring when the hands of the clock reach ten, I have no right to assume that the movement of the bells is caused by the position of the hands of the watch. Whenever I see the movement of a locomotive I hear the whistle and see the valves opening and wheels turning; but I have no right to conclude that the whistling and the turning of wheels are the cause of the movement of the engine. The peasants say that a cold wind blows in late spring because the oaks are budding, and really every spring cold winds do blow when the oak is budding. But though I do not know what causes the cold winds to blow
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when the oak buds unfold, I cannot agree with the peasants that the unfolding of the oak buds is the cause of the cold wind, for the force of the wind is beyond the influence of the buds. I see only a coincidence of occurrences such as happens with all the phenomena of life, and I see that however much and however carefully I observe the hands of the watch, and the valves and wheels of the engine, and the oak, I shall not discover the cause of the bells ringing, the engine moving, or of the winds of spring. To that I must entirely change my point of view and study the laws of the movement of steam, of the bells, and of the wind. History must do the same. And attempts in this direction have already been made.
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To study the laws of history we must completely change the subject of our observation, must leave aside kings, ministers, and generals, and the common, infinitesimally small elements by which the masses are moved. No one can say in how far it is possible for man to advance in this way toward an understanding of the laws of history; but it is evident that only along that path does the possibility of discovering the laws of history lie, and that as yet not a millionth part as much mental effort has been applied in this direction by historians as has been devoted to describing the actions of various kings, commanders, and ministers and propounding the historians own reflections concerning these actions. CHAPTER II CHAPTER II 725
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The forces of a dozen European nations burst into Russia. The Russian army and people avoided a collision till Smolensk was reached, and again from Smolensk to Borodino. The French army pushed on to Moscow, its goal, its impetus ever increasing as it neared its aim, just as the velocity of a falling body increases as it approaches the earth. Behind it were seven hundred miles of hunger-stricken, hostile country; ahead were a few dozen miles separating it from its goal. Every soldier in Napoleon s army felt this and the invasion moved on by its own momentum. The more the Russian army retreated the more fiercely a spirit of hatred of the enemy flared up, and while it retreated the army increased and consolidated. At Borodino a collision took place. Neither army was broken up, but
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the Russian army retreated immediately after the collision as inevitably as a ball recoils after colliding with another having a greater momentum, and with equal inevitability the ball of invasion that had advanced with such momentum rolled on for some distance, though the collision had deprived it of all its force. The Russians retreated eighty miles–to beyond Moscow–and the French reached Moscow and there came to a standstill. For five weeks after that there was not a single battle. The French did not move. As a bleeding, mortally wounded animal licks its wounds, they remained inert in Moscow for five weeks, and then suddenly, with no fresh reason, fled back: they made a dash for the Kaluga road, and (after a victory–for at Malo-Yaroslavets the field of conflict again remained theirs) without undertaking a single serious battle, they fled still
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more rapidly back to Smolensk, beyond Smolensk, beyond the Berezina, beyond Vilna, and farther still. On the evening of the twenty-sixth of August, Kutuzov and the whole Russian army were convinced that the battle of Borodino was a victory. Kutuzov reported so to the Emperor. He gave orders to prepare for a fresh conflict to finish the enemy and did this not to deceive anyone, but because he knew that the enemy was beaten, as everyone who had taken part in the battle knew it. But all that evening and next day reports came in one after another of unheard-of losses, of the loss of half the army, and a fresh battle proved physically impossible. It was impossible to give battle before information had been collected, the wounded gathered in, the supplies of ammunition replenished,
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the slain reckoned up, new officers appointed to replace those who had been killed, and before the men had had food and sleep. And meanwhile, the very next morning after the battle, the French army advanced of itself upon the Russians, carried forward by the force of its own momentum now seemingly increased in inverse proportion to the square of the distance from its aim. Kutuzov s wish was to attack next day, and the whole army desired to do so. But to make an attack the wish to do so is not sufficient, there must also be a possibility of doing it, and that possibility did not exist. It was impossible not to retreat a day s march, and then in the same way it was impossible not to retreat another and a third day s march, and at last, on the
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first of September when the army drew near Moscow–despite the strength of the feeling that had arisen in all ranks–the force of circumstances compelled it to retire beyond Moscow. And the troops retired one more, last, day s march, and abandoned Moscow to the enemy. For people accustomed to think that plans of campaign and battles are made by generals–as any one of us sitting over a map in his study may imagine how he would have arranged things in this or that battle–the questions present themselves: Why did Kutuzov during the retreat not do this or that? Why did he not take up a position before reaching Fili? Why did he not retire at once by the Kaluga road, abandoning Moscow? and so on. People accustomed to think in that way forget, or do not know, the inevitable conditions which
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always limit the activities of any commander in chief. The activity of a commander in chief does not all resemble the activity we imagine to ourselves when we sit at case in our studies examining some campaign on the map, with a certain number of troops on this and that side in a certain known locality, and begin our plans from some given moment. A commander in chief is never dealing with the beginning of any event- the position CHAPTER II 726 from which we always contemplate it. The commander in chief is always in the midst of a series of shifting events and so he never can at any moment consider the whole import of an event that is occurring. Moment by moment the event is
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imperceptibly shaping itself, and at every moment of this continuous, uninterrupted shaping of events the commander in chief is in the midst of a most complex play of intrigues, worries, contingencies, authorities, projects, counsels, threats, and deceptions and is continually obliged to reply to innumerable questions addressed to him, which constantly conflict with one another. Learned military authorities quite seriously tell us that Kutuzov should have moved his army to the Kaluga road long before reaching Fili, and that somebody actually submitted such a proposal to him. But a commander in chief, especially at a difficult moment, has always before him not one proposal but dozens simultaneously. And all these proposals, based on strategics and tactics, contradict each other. A commander in chief s business, it would seem, is simply to choose one of these projects. But even
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that he cannot do. Events and time do not wait. For instance, on the twenty-eighth it is suggested to him to cross to the Kaluga road, but just then an adjutant gallops up from Miloradovich asking whether he is to engage the French or retire. An order must be given him at once, that instant. And the order to retreat carries us past the turn to the Kaluga road. And after the adjutant comes the commissary general asking where the stores are to be taken, and the chief of the hospitals asks where the wounded are to go, and a courier from Petersburg brings a letter from the sovereign which does not admit of the possibility of abandoning Moscow, and the commander in chief s rival, the man who is undermining him (and there are always not merely one but several such),
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presents a new project diametrically opposed to that of turning to the Kaluga road, and the commander in chief himself needs sleep and refreshment to maintain his energy and a respectable general who has been overlooked in the distribution of rewards comes to complain, and the inhabitants of the district pray to be defended, and an officer sent to inspect the locality comes in and gives a report quite contrary to what was said by the officer previously sent; and a spy, a prisoner, and a general who has been on reconnaissance, all describe the position of the enemy s army differently. People accustomed to misunderstand or to forget these inevitable conditions of a commander in chief s actions describe to us, for instance, the position of the army at Fili and assume that the commander in chief could, on the first of
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September, quite freely decide whether to abandon Moscow or defend it; whereas, with the Russian army less than four miles from Moscow, no such question existed. When had that question been settled? At Drissa and at Smolensk and most palpably of all on the twenty-fourth of August at Shevardino and on the twenty-sixth at Borodino, and each day and hour and minute of the retreat from Borodino to Fili. CHAPTER III CHAPTER III When Ermolov, having been sent by Kutuzov to inspect the position, told the field marshal that it was impossible to fight there before Moscow and that they must retreat, Kutuzov looked at him in silence. 727 \ Give me your hand,\ said he and, turning it over so
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as to feel the pulse, added: \ You are not well, my dear fellow. Think what you are saying!\ Kutuzov could not yet admit the possibility of retreating beyond Moscow without a battle. On the Poklonny Hill, four miles from the Dorogomilov gate of Moscow, Kutuzov got out of his carriage and sat down on a bench by the roadside. A great crowd of generals gathered round him, and Count Rostopchin, who had come out from Moscow, joined them. This brilliant company separated into several groups who all discussed the advantages and disadvantages of the position, the state of the army, the plans suggested, the situation of Moscow, and military questions generally. Though they had not been summoned for the purpose, and though it was not so called, they all felt that this was really a council
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of war. The conversations all dealt with public questions. If anyone gave or asked for personal news, it was done in a whisper and they immediately reverted to general matters. No jokes, or laughter, or smiles even, were seen among all these men. They evidently all made an effort to hold themselves at the height the situation demanded. And all these groups, while talking among themselves, tried to keep near the commander in chief (whose bench formed the center of the gathering) and to speak so that he might overhear them. The commander in chief listened to what was being said and sometimes asked them to repeat their remarks, but did not himself take part in the conversations or express any opinion. After hearing what was being said by one or other of these groups he generally turned away with an air
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of disappointment, as though they were not speaking of anything he wished to hear. Some discussed the position that had been chosen, criticizing not the position itself so much as the mental capacity of those who had chosen it. Others argued that a mistake had been made earlier and that a battle should have been fought two days before. Others again spoke of the battle of Salamanca, which was described by Crosart, a newly arrived Frenchman in a Spanish uniform. (This Frenchman and one of the German princes serving with the Russian army were discussing the siege of Saragossa and considering the possibility of defending Moscow in a similar manner.) Count Rostopchin was telling a fourth group that he was prepared to die with the city train bands under the walls of the capital, but that he still could not help regretting
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having been left in ignorance of what was happening, and that had he known it sooner things would have been different…. A fifth group, displaying the profundity of their strategic perceptions, discussed the direction the troops would now have to take. A sixth group was talking absolute nonsense. Kutuzov s expression grew more and more preoccupied and gloomy. From all this talk he saw only one thing: that to defend Moscow was a physical impossibility in the full meaning of those words, that is to say, so utterly impossible that if any senseless commander were to give orders to fight, confusion would result but the battle would still not take place. It would not take place because the commanders not merely all recognized the position to be impossible, but in their conversations were only discussing what would happen after its inevitable abandonment.
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How could the commanders lead their troops to a field of battle they considered impossible to hold? The lower-grade officers and even the soldiers (who too reason) also considered the position impossible and therefore could not go to fight, fully convinced as they were of defeat. If Bennigsen insisted on the position being defended and others still discussed it, the question was no longer important in itself but only as a pretext for disputes and intrigue. This Kutuzov knew well. Bennigsen, who had chosen the position, warmly displayed his Russian patriotism (Kutuzov could not listen to this without wincing) by insisting that Moscow must be defended. His aim was as clear as daylight to Kutuzov: if the defense failed, to throw the blame on Kutuzov who had brought the army as far as the Sparrow Hills without giving battle; if
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personality will be of interest. 3 My first recollection of Captain Carter is of the few months he spent at my father s home in Virginia, just prior to the opening of the civil war. I was then a child of but five years, yet I well remember the tall, dark, smooth-faced, athletic man whom I called Uncle Jack. He seemed always to be laughing; and he entered into the sports of the children with the same hearty good fellowship he displayed toward those pastimes in which the men and women of his own age indulged; or he would sit for an hour at a time entertaining my old grandmother with stories of his strange, wild life in all parts of the world. We all loved him, and our slaves fairly worshipped
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the ground he trod. He was a splendid specimen of manhood, standing a good two inches over six feet, broad of shoulder and narrow of hip, with the carriage of the trained fighting man. His features were regular and clear cut, his hair black and closely cropped, while his eyes were of a steel gray, reflecting a strong and loyal character, filled with fire and initiative. His manners were perfect, and his courtliness was that of a typical southern gentleman of the highest type. His horsemanship, especially after hounds, was a marvel and delight even in that country of magnificent horsemen. I have often heard my father caution him against his wild recklessness, but he would only laugh, and say that the tumble that killed him would be from the back of a horse yet unfoaled.
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When the war broke out he left us, nor did I see him again for some fifteen or sixteen years. When he returned it was without warning, and I was much surprised to note that he had not aged apparently a moment, nor had he changed in any other outward way. He was, when others were with him, the same genial, happy fellow we A Princess of Mars had known of old, but when he thought himself alone I have seen him sit for hours gazing off into space, his face set in a look of wistful longing and hopeless misery; and at night he would sit thus looking up into the heavens, at what I did not know until I read his manuscript years afterward. He told us that he had
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been prospecting and mining in Arizona part of the time since the war; and that he had 4 been very successful was evidenced by the unlimited amount of money with which he was supplied. As to the details of his life during these years he was very reticent, in fact he would not talk of them at all. He remained with us for about a year and then went to New York, where he purchased a little place on the Hudson, where I visited him once a year on the occasions of my trips to the New York market–my father and I owning and operating a string of general stores throughout Virginia at that time. Captain Carter had a small but beautiful cottage, situated on a bluff overlooking the river, and during one of my
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last visits, in the winter of 1885, I observed he was much occupied in writing, I presume now, upon this manuscript. He told me at this time that if anything should happen to him he wished me to take charge of his estate, and he gave me a key to a compartment in the safe which stood in his study, telling me I would find his will there and some personal instructions which he had me pledge myself to carry out with absolute fidelity. After I had retired for the night I have seen him from my window standing in the moonlight on the brink of the bluff overlooking the Hudson with his arms stretched out to the heavens as though in appeal. I thought at the time that he was praying, although I never understood that he was
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in the strict sense of the term a religious man. Several months after I had returned home from my last visit, the first of March, 1886, I think, I received a telegram from him asking me to come to him at once. I had always been his favorite among the younger generation of Carters and so I hastened to comply with his demand. I arrived at the little station, about a mile from his grounds, on the morning of March 4, 1886, and when I asked the livery man to drive me out to Captain Carter s he replied that if I was a friend of the Captain s he had some very bad news for me; the Captain had been found dead shortly after daylight that very morning by the watchman attached to an adjoining property.
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For some reason this news did not surprise me, but I hurried out to his place as quickly as possible, so that I could take charge of the body and of his affairs. I found the watchman who had discovered him, together with the local police chief and several townspeople, assembled in his little study. The watchman related the few details connected with the finding of the body, which he said had been still warm when he came upon it. It lay, he said, stretched full length in the snow with the arms outstretched above the head toward the edge of the bluff, and when he showed me the spot it flashed upon me that it was the identical one where I had seen him on those other nights, with his arms raised in supplication to the skies.
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There were no marks of violence on the body, and with the aid of a local physician the coroner s jury quickly reached a decision of death from heart failure. Left alone in the study, I opened the safe and withdrew the contents of the drawer in which he had told me I would find my instructions. They were in part peculiar indeed, but I have followed them to each last detail as faithfully as I was able. He directed that I remove his body to Virginia without embalming, and that he be laid in an open coffin within a tomb which he previously had had constructed and which, as I later learned, was well ventilated. The instructions impressed upon me that I must personally see that this was carried out just as he directed, even in secrecy if
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necessary. CHAPTER I His property was left in such a way that I was to receive the entire income for twenty-five years, when the principal was to become mine. His further instructions related to this manuscript which I was to retain sealed and unread, just as I found it, for eleven years; nor was I to divulge its contents until twenty-one years after his death. A strange feature about the tomb, where his body still lies, is that the massive door is equipped with a single, huge gold-plated spring lock which can be opened only from the inside. Yours very sincerely, Edgar Rice Burroughs. CONTENTS 5 I On the Arizona Hills II The Escape
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of the Dead III My Advent on Mars IV A Prisoner V I Elude My Watch Dog VI A Fight That Won Friends VII Child-Raising on Mars VIII A Fair Captive from the Sky IX I Learn the Language X Champion and Chief XI With Dejah Thoris XII A Prisoner with Power XIII Love-Making on Mars XIV A Duel to the Death XV Sola Tells Me Her Story XVI We Plan Escape XVII A Costly Recapture XVIII Chained in Warhoon XIX Battling in the Arena XX In the Atmosphere Factory XXI An Air Scout for Zodanga XXII I Find Dejah XXIII Lost in the Sky XXIV Tars Tarkas Finds a Friend XXV The Looting of Zodanga XXVI Through Carnage to Joy XXVII From Joy to Death XXVIII At the Arizona Cave CHAPTER I ON THE ARIZONA
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HILLS I am a very old man; how old I do not know. Possibly I am a hundred, possibly more; but I cannot tell because I have never aged as other men, nor do I remember any childhood. So far as I can recollect I have always been a man, a man of about thirty. I appear today as I did forty years and more ago, and yet I feel that I cannot go on living forever; that some day I shall die the real death from which there is no resurrection. I do not know why I should fear death, I who have died twice and am still alive; but yet I have the same horror of it as you who have never died, and it is because of this terror of death, I believe, that I am so convinced of
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my mortality. And because of this conviction I have determined to write down the story of the interesting periods of my life and of my death. I cannot explain the phenomena; I can only set down here in the words of an ordinary soldier of fortune a chronicle of the strange events that befell me during the ten years that my dead body lay undiscovered in an Arizona cave. I have never told this story, nor shall mortal man see this manuscript until after I have passed over for eternity. I know that the average human mind will not believe what it cannot grasp, and so I do not purpose being pilloried by the public, the pulpit, and the press, and held up as a colossal liar when I am but telling the simple truths which some
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day science will substantiate. Possibly the suggestions which I gained upon Mars, and the knowledge which I can set down in this chronicle, will aid in an earlier understanding of the mysteries of our sister planet; mysteries to you, but no longer mysteries to me. My name is John Carter; I am better known as Captain Jack Carter of Virginia. At the close of the Civil War I found myself possessed of several hundred thousand dollars (Confederate) and a captain s commission in the cavalry arm of an army which no longer existed; the servant of a state which had vanished with the hopes of the South. Masterless, penniless, and with my only means of livelihood, fighting, gone, I determined to work my way to the southwest and attempt to retrieve my fallen fortunes in a search for gold.
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CHAPTER I I spent nearly a year prospecting in company with another Confederate officer, Captain James K. Powell of Richmond. We were extremely fortunate, for late in the winter of 1865, after many hardships and privations, we located the most remarkable gold-bearing quartz vein that our wildest dreams had ever pictured. Powell, 6 who was a mining engineer by education, stated that we had uncovered over a million dollars worth of ore in a trifle over three months. As our equipment was crude in the extreme we decided that one of us must return to civilization, purchase the necessary machinery and return with a sufficient force of men properly to work the mine. As Powell was familiar with the country, as well as with
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the mechanical requirements of mining we determined that it would be best for him to make the trip. It was agreed that I was to hold down our claim against the remote possibility of its being jumped by some wandering prospector. On March 3, 1866, Powell and I packed his provisions on two of our burros, and bidding me good-bye he mounted his horse, and started down the mountainside toward the valley, across which led the first stage of his journey. The morning of Powell s departure was, like nearly all Arizona mornings, clear and beautiful; I could see him and his little pack animals picking their way down the mountainside toward the valley, and all during the morning I would catch occasional glimpses of them as they topped a hog back or came out upon a level
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plateau. My last sight of Powell was about three in the afternoon as he entered the shadows of the range on the opposite side of the valley. Some half hour later I happened to glance casually across the valley and was much surprised to note three little dots in about the same place I had last seen my friend and his two pack animals. I am not given to needless worrying, but the more I tried to convince myself that all was well with Powell, and that the dots I had seen on his trail were antelope or wild horses, the less I was able to assure myself. Since we had entered the territory we had not seen a hostile Indian, and we had, therefore, become careless in the extreme, and were wont to ridicule the stories we
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had heard of the great numbers of these vicious marauders that were supposed to haunt the trails, taking their toll in lives and torture of every white party which fell into their merciless clutches. Powell, I knew, was well armed and, further, an experienced Indian fighter; but I too had lived and fought for years among the Sioux in the North, and I knew that his chances were small against a party of cunning trailing Apaches. Finally I could endure the suspense no longer, and, arming myself with my two Colt revolvers and a carbine, I strapped two belts of cartridges about me and catching my saddle horse, started down the trail taken by Powell in the morning. As soon as I reached comparatively level ground I urged my mount into a canter and continued this, where the
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going permitted, until, close upon dusk, I discovered the point where other tracks joined those of Powell. They were the tracks of unshod ponies, three of them, and the ponies had been galloping. I followed rapidly until, darkness shutting down, I was forced to await the rising of the moon, and given an opportunity to speculate on the question of the wisdom of my chase. Possibly I had conjured up impossible dangers, like some nervous old housewife, and when I should catch up with Powell would get a good laugh for my pains. However, I am not prone to sensitiveness, and the following of a sense of duty, wherever it may lead, has always been a kind of fetich with me throughout my life; which may account for the honors bestowed upon me by three republics and the decorations and
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friendships of an old and powerful emperor and several lesser kings, in whose service my sword has been red many a time. About nine o clock the moon was sufficiently bright for me to proceed on my way and I had no difficulty in CHAPTER I following the trail at a fast walk, and in some places at a brisk trot until, about midnight, I reached the water 7 hole where Powell had expected to camp. I came upon the spot unexpectedly, finding it entirely deserted, with no signs of having been recently occupied as a camp. I was interested to note that the tracks of the pursuing horsemen, for such I was now convinced they must be, continued after Powell with only
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a brief stop at the hole for water; and always at the same rate of speed as his. I was positive now that the trailers were Apaches and that they wished to capture Powell alive for the fiendish pleasure of the torture, so I urged my horse onward at a most dangerous pace, hoping against hope that I would catch up with the red rascals before they attacked him. Further speculation was suddenly cut short by the faint report of two shots far ahead of me. I knew that Powell would need me now if ever, and I instantly urged my horse to his topmost speed up the narrow and difficult mountain trail. I had forged ahead for perhaps a mile or more without hearing further sounds, when the trail suddenly debouched onto a small, open
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plateau near the summit of the pass. I had passed through a narrow, overhanging gorge just before entering suddenly upon this table land, and the sight which met my eyes filled me with consternation and dismay. The little stretch of level land was white with Indian tepees, and there were probably half a thousand red warriors clustered around some object near the center of the camp. Their attention was so wholly riveted to this point of interest that they did not notice me, and I easily could have turned back into the dark recesses of the gorge and made my escape with perfect safety. The fact, however, that this thought did not occur to me until the following day removes any possible right to a claim to heroism to which the narration of this episode might possibly otherwise entitle me.
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I do not believe that I am made of the stuff which constitutes heroes, because, in all of the hundreds of instances that my voluntary acts have placed me face to face with death, I cannot recall a single one where any alternative step to that I took occurred to me until many hours later. My mind is evidently so constituted that I am subconsciously forced into the path of duty without recourse to tiresome mental processes. However that may be, I have never regretted that cowardice is not optional with me. In this instance I was, of course, positive that Powell was the center of attraction, but whether I thought or acted first I do not know, but within an instant from the moment the scene broke upon my view I had whipped out my revolvers and
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was charging down upon the entire army of warriors, shooting rapidly, and whooping at the top of my lungs. Singlehanded, I could not have pursued better tactics, for the red men, convinced by sudden surprise that not less than a regiment of regulars was upon them, turned and fled in every direction for their bows, arrows, and rifles. The view which their hurried routing disclosed filled me with apprehension and with rage. Under the clear rays of the Arizona moon lay Powell, his body fairly bristling with the hostile arrows of the braves. That he was already dead I could not but be convinced, and yet I would have saved his body from mutilation at the hands of the Apaches as quickly as I would have saved the man himself from death. Riding close to him I reached
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down from the saddle, and grasping his cartridge belt drew him up across the withers of my mount. A backward glance convinced me that to return by the way I had come would be more hazardous than to continue across the plateau, so, putting spurs to my poor beast, I made a dash for the opening to the pass which I could distinguish on the far side of the table land. The Indians had by this time discovered that I was alone and I was pursued with imprecations, arrows, and rifle balls. The fact that it is difficult to aim anything but imprecations accurately by moonlight, that they were CHAPTER I 8 upset by the sudden and unexpected manner of my advent, and that I was
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a rather rapidly moving target saved me from the various deadly projectiles of the enemy and permitted me to reach the shadows of the surrounding peaks before an orderly pursuit could be organized. My horse was traveling practically unguided as I knew that I had probably less knowledge of the exact location of the trail to the pass than he, and thus it happened that he entered a defile which led to the summit of the range and not to the pass which I had hoped would carry me to the valley and to safety. It is probable, however, that to this fact I owe my life and the remarkable experiences and adventures which befell me during the following ten years. My first knowledge that I was on the wrong trail came when I heard the yells of
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the pursuing savages suddenly grow fainter and fainter far off to my left. I knew then that they had passed to the left of the jagged rock formation at the edge of the plateau, to the right of which my horse had borne me and the body of Powell. I drew rein on a little level promontory overlooking the trail below and to my left, and saw the party of pursuing savages disappearing around the point of a neighboring peak. I knew the Indians would soon discover that they were on the wrong trail and that the search for me would be renewed in the right direction as soon as they located my tracks. I had gone but a short distance further when what seemed to be an excellent trail opened up around the
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face of a high cliff. The trail was level and quite broad and led upward and in the general direction I wished to go. The cliff arose for several hundred feet on my right, and on my left was an equal and nearly perpendicular drop to the bottom of a rocky ravine. I had followed this trail for perhaps a hundred yards when a sharp turn to the right brought me to the mouth of a large cave. The opening was about four feet in height and three to four feet wide, and at this opening the trail ended. It was now morning, and, with the customary lack of dawn which is a startling characteristic of Arizona, it had become daylight almost without warning. Dismounting, I laid Powell upon the ground, but the most painstaking
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examination failed to reveal the faintest spark of life. I forced water from my canteen between his dead lips, bathed his face and rubbed his hands, working over him continuously for the better part of an hour in the face of the fact that I knew him to be dead. I was very fond of Powell; he was thoroughly a man in every respect; a polished southern gentleman; a staunch and true friend; and it was with a feeling of the deepest grief that I finally gave up my crude endeavors at resuscitation. Leaving Powell s body where it lay on the ledge I crept into the cave to reconnoiter. I found a large chamber, possibly a hundred feet in diameter and thirty or forty feet in height; a smooth and well-worn floor, and many other evidences that
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the cave had, at some remote period, been inhabited. The back of the cave was so lost in dense shadow that I could not distinguish whether there were openings into other apartments or not. As I was continuing my examination I commenced to feel a pleasant drowsiness creeping over me which I attributed to the fatigue of my long and strenuous ride, and the reaction from the excitement of the fight and the pursuit. I felt comparatively safe in my present location as I knew that one man could defend the trail to the cave against an army. CHAPTER II 9 I soon became so drowsy that I could scarcely resist the strong desire to throw myself on the floor of the cave for a
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few moments rest, but I knew that this would never do, as it would mean certain death at the hands of my red friends, who might be upon me at any moment. With an effort I started toward the opening of the cave only to reel drunkenly against a side wall, and from there slip prone upon the floor. CHAPTER II THE ESCAPE OF THE DEAD A sense of delicious dreaminess overcame me, my muscles relaxed, and I was on the point of giving way to my desire to sleep when the sound of approaching horses reached my ears. I attempted to spring to my feet but was horrified to discover that my muscles refused to respond to my will. I was now thoroughly awake, but as unable to move a muscle as
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though turned to stone. It was then, for the first time, that I noticed a slight vapor filling the cave. It was extremely tenuous and only noticeable against the opening which led to daylight. There also came to my nostrils a faintly pungent odor, and I could only assume that I had been overcome by some poisonous gas, but why I should retain my mental faculties and yet be unable to move I could not fathom. I lay facing the opening of the cave and where I could see the short stretch of trail which lay between the cave and the turn of the cliff around which the trail led. The noise of the approaching horses had ceased, and I judged the Indians were creeping stealthily upon me along the little ledge which led to my living tomb. I remember that
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I hoped they would make short work of me as I did not particularly relish the thought of the innumerable things they might do to me if the spirit prompted them. I had not long to wait before a stealthy sound apprised me of their nearness, and then a war-bonneted, paint-streaked face was thrust cautiously around the shoulder of the cliff, and savage eyes looked into mine. That he could see me in the dim light of the cave I was sure for the early morning sun was falling full upon me through the opening. The fellow, instead of approaching, merely stood and stared; his eyes bulging and his jaw dropped. And then another savage face appeared, and a third and fourth and fifth, craning their necks over the shoulders of their fellows whom they could not pass
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upon the narrow ledge. Each face was the picture of awe and fear, but for what reason I did not know, nor did I learn until ten years later. That there were still other braves behind those who regarded me was apparent from the fact that the leaders passed back whispered word to those behind them. Suddenly a low but distinct moaning sound issued from the recesses of the cave behind me, and, as it reached the ears of the Indians, they turned and fled in terror, panic-stricken. So frantic were their efforts to escape from the unseen thing behind me that one of the braves was hurled headlong from the cliff to the rocks below. Their wild cries echoed in the canyon for a short time, and then all was still once more. The sound which had
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frightened them was not repeated, but it had been sufficient as it was to start me speculating on the possible horror which lurked in the shadows at my back. Fear is a relative term and so I can only measure my feelings at that time by what I had experienced in previous positions of danger and by those that I have passed through since; but I can say without shame that if the sensations I endured during the next few minutes were fear, then may God help the coward, for cowardice is of a surety its own punishment. To be held paralyzed, with one s back toward some horrible and unknown danger from the very sound of which the ferocious Apache warriors turn in wild stampede, as a flock of sheep would madly flee from a pack of wolves, seems to
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me the last word in fearsome predicaments for a man who had ever been used to fighting for his life with all the energy of a powerful physique. CHAPTER II Several times I thought I heard faint sounds behind me as of somebody moving cautiously, but eventually 10 even these ceased, and I was left to the contemplation of my position without interruption. I could but vaguely conjecture the cause of my paralysis, and my only hope lay in that it might pass off as suddenly as it had fallen upon me. Late in the afternoon my horse, which had been standing with dragging rein before the cave, started slowly down the trail, evidently in search of food and water, and I was left alone
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with my mysterious unknown companion and the dead body of my friend, which lay just within my range of vision upon the ledge where I had placed it in the early morning. From then until possibly midnight all was silence, the silence of the dead; then, suddenly, the awful moan of the morning broke upon my startled ears, and there came again from the black shadows the sound of a moving thing, and a faint rustling as of dead leaves. The shock to my already overstrained nervous system was terrible in the extreme, and with a superhuman effort I strove to break my awful bonds. It was an effort of the mind, of the will, of the nerves; not muscular, for I could not move even so much as my little finger, but none the less mighty for all that.
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And then something gave, there was a momentary feeling of nausea, a sharp click as of the snapping of a steel wire, and I stood with my back against the wall of the cave facing my unknown foe. And then the moonlight flooded the cave, and there before me lay my own body as it had been lying all these hours, with the eyes staring toward the open ledge and the hands resting limply upon the ground. I looked first at my lifeless clay there upon the floor of the cave and then down at myself in utter bewilderment; for there I lay clothed, and yet here I stood but naked as at the minute of my birth. The transition had been so sudden and so unexpected that it left me for a moment forgetful of aught else than
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my strange metamorphosis. My first thought was, is this then death! Have I indeed passed over forever into that other life! But I could not well believe this, as I could feel my heart pounding against my ribs from the exertion of my efforts to release myself from the anaesthesis which had held me. My breath was coming in quick, short gasps, cold sweat stood out from every pore of my body, and the ancient experiment of pinching revealed the fact that I was anything other than a wraith. Again was I suddenly recalled to my immediate surroundings by a repetition of the weird moan from the depths of the cave. Naked and unarmed as I was, I had no desire to face the unseen thing which menaced me. My revolvers were strapped to my lifeless body which, for
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cylinder, although it has been convenient to describe them first, on account of the extraordinary glittering mechanism I saw busy in the excavation, and on account of the strange creatures that were crawling slowly and painfully across the heaped mould near it. The mechanism it certainly was that held my attention first. It was one of those complicated fabrics that have since been called handling- machines, and the study of which has already given such an enormous impetus to terrestrial invention. As it dawned upon me first, it presented a sort of metallic spider with five jointed, agile legs, and with an extraordinary number of jointed levers, bars, and reaching and clutching tentacles about its body. Most of its arms were retracted, but with three long tentacles it was fishing out a number of rods, plates, and bars which lined
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the covering and apparently strengthened the walls of the cylinder. These, as it extracted them, were lifted out and deposited upon a level surface of earth behind it. Its motion was so swift, complex, and perfect that at first I did not see it as a machine, in spite of its metallic glitter. The fighting-machines were coordinated and animated to an extraordinary pitch, but nothing to compare with this. People who have never seen these structures, and have only the ill-imagined efforts of artists or the imperfect descriptions of such eye-witnesses as myself to go upon, scarcely realise that living quality. CHAPTER TWO 75 I recall particularly the illustration of one of the first pamphlets to give a consecutive account of the war. The
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artist had evidently made a hasty study of one of the fighting-machines, and there his knowledge ended. He presented them as tilted, stiff tripods, without either flexibility or subtlety, and with an altogether misleading monotony of effect. The pamphlet containing these renderings had a considerable vogue, and I mention them here simply to warn the reader against the impression they may have created. They were no more like the Martians I saw in action than a Dutch doll is like a human being. To my mind, the pamphlet would have been much better without them. At first, I say, the handling-machine did not impress me as a machine, but as a crablike creature with a glittering integument, the controlling Martian whose delicate tentacles actuated its movements seeming to be simply the equivalent of the crab s cerebral portion. But then
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I perceived the resemblance of its grey-brown, shiny, leathery integument to that of the other sprawling bodies beyond, and the true nature of this dexterous workman dawned upon me. With that realisation my interest shifted to those other creatures, the real Martians. Already I had had a transient impression of these, and the first nausea no longer obscured my observation. Moreover, I was concealed and motionless, and under no urgency of action. They were, I now saw, the most unearthly creatures it is possible to conceive. They were huge round bodies–or, rather, heads–about four feet in diameter, each body having in front of it a face. This face had no nostrils–indeed, the Martians do not seem to have had any sense of smell, but it had a pair of very large dark-coloured eyes, and just beneath this a kind of
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fleshy beak. In the back of this head or body–I scarcely know how to speak of it–was the single tight tympanic surface, since known to be anatomically an ear, though it must have been almost useless in our dense air. In a group round the mouth were sixteen slender, almost whiplike tentacles, arranged in two bunches of eight each. These bunches have since been named rather aptly, by that distinguished anatomist, Professor Howes, the HANDS. Even as I saw these Martians for the first time they seemed to be endeavouring to raise themselves on these hands, but of course, with the increased weight of terrestrial conditions, this was impossible. There is reason to suppose that on Mars they may have progressed upon them with some facility. The internal anatomy, I may remark here, as dissection has since shown, was almost
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equally simple. The greater part of the structure was the brain, sending enormous nerves to the eyes, ear, and tactile tentacles. Besides this were the bulky lungs, into which the mouth opened, and the heart and its vessels. The pulmonary distress caused by the denser atmosphere and greater gravitational attraction was only too evident in the convulsive movements of the outer skin. And this was the sum of the Martian organs. Strange as it may seem to a human being, all the complex apparatus of digestion, which makes up the bulk of our bodies, did not exist in the Martians. They were heads–merely heads. Entrails they had none. They did not eat, much less digest. Instead, they took the fresh, living blood of other creatures, and INJECTED it into their own veins. I have myself seen this being done, as
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I shall mention in its place. But, squeamish as I may seem, I cannot bring myself to describe what I could not endure even to continue watching. Let it suffice to say, blood obtained from a still living animal, in most cases from a human being, was run directly by means of a little pipette into the recipient canal. . . . The bare idea of this is no doubt horribly repulsive to us, but at the same time I think that we should remember how repulsive our carnivorous habits would seem to an intelligent rabbit. The physiological advantages of the practice of injection are undeniable, if one thinks of the tremendous waste of human time and energy occasioned by eating and the digestive process. Our bodies are half made up of glands and tubes and organs, occupied
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in turning heterogeneous food into blood. The digestive processes and their reaction upon the nervous system sap our strength and colour our minds. Men go happy or miserable as they have healthy or unhealthy livers, or sound gastric glands. But the Martians were lifted above all these organic fluctuations of mood and emotion. CHAPTER TWO Their undeniable preference for men as their source of nourishment is partly explained by the nature of the remains of the victims they had brought with them as provisions from Mars. These creatures, to judge from 76 the shrivelled remains that have fallen into human hands, were bipeds with flimsy, silicious skeletons (almost like those of the silicious sponges) and feeble musculature, standing about six feet high and having round, erect
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heads, and large eyes in flinty sockets. Two or three of these seem to have been brought in each cylinder, and all were killed before earth was reached. It was just as well for them, for the mere attempt to stand upright upon our planet would have broken every bone in their bodies. And while I am engaged in this description, I may add in this place certain further details which, although they were not all evident to us at the time, will enable the reader who is unacquainted with them to form a clearer picture of these offensive creatures. In three other points their physiology differed strangely from ours. Their organisms did not sleep, any more than the heart of man sleeps. Since they had no extensive muscular mechanism to recuperate, that periodical extinction was unknown to
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them. They had little or no sense of fatigue, it would seem. On earth they could never have moved without effort, yet even to the last they kept in action. In twenty- four hours they did twenty-four hours of work, as even on earth is perhaps the case with the ants. In the next place, wonderful as it seems in a sexual world, the Martians were absolutely without sex, and therefore without any of the tumultuous emotions that arise from that difference among men. A young Martian, there can now be no dispute, was really born upon earth during the war, and it was found attached to its parent, partially BUDDED off, just as young lilybulbs bud off, or like the young animals in the fresh-water polyp. In man, in all the higher terrestrial animals, such a method
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of increase has disappeared; but even on this earth it was certainly the primitive method. Among the lower animals, up even to those first cousins of the vertebrated animals, the Tunicates, the two processes occur side by side, but finally the sexual method superseded its competitor altogether. On Mars, however, just the reverse has apparently been the case. It is worthy of remark that a certain speculative writer of quasi- scientific repute, writing long before the Martian invasion, did forecast for man a final structure not unlike the actual Martian condition. His prophecy, I remember, appeared in November or December, 1893, in a long-defunct publication, the PALL MALL BUDGET, and I recall a caricature of it in a pre-Martian periodical called PUNCH. He pointed out–writing in a foolish, facetious tone–that the perfection of mechanical appliances must ultimately supersede limbs; the
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perfection of chemical devices, digestion; that such organs as hair, external nose, teeth, ears, and chin were no longer essential parts of the human being, and that the tendency of natural selection would lie in the direction of their steady diminution through the coming ages. The brain alone remained a cardinal necessity. Only one other part of the body had a strong case for survival, and that was the hand, \ teacher and agent of the brain.\ While the rest of the body dwindled, the hands would grow larger. There is many a true word written in jest, and here in the Martians we have beyond dispute the actual accomplishment of such a suppression of the animal side of the organism by the intelligence. To me it is quite credible that the Martians may be descended from beings not
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unlike ourselves, by a gradual development of brain and hands (the latter giving rise to the two bunches of delicate tentacles at last) at the expense of the rest of the body. Without the body the brain would, of course, become a mere selfish intelligence, without any of the emotional substratum of the human being. The last salient point in which the systems of these creatures differed from ours was in what one might have thought a very trivial particular. Micro-organisms, which cause so much disease and pain on earth, have either never appeared upon Mars or Martian sanitary science eliminated them ages ago. A hundred diseases, all the fevers and contagions of human life, consumption, cancers, tumours and such morbidities, never enter the scheme of their life. And speaking of the differences between the life on Mars and terrestrial
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life, I may allude CHAPTER TWO here to the curious suggestions of the red weed. Apparently the vegetable kingdom in Mars, instead of having green for a dominant colour, is of a vivid blood-red tint. At any rate, the seeds which the Martians (intentionally or accidentally) brought with them gave rise in all cases to red-coloured growths. Only that known popularly as the red weed, however, gained any footing in competition with terrestrial forms. The red creeper was quite a transitory growth, and few 77 people have seen it growing. For a time, however, the red weed grew with astonishing vigour and luxuriance. It spread up the sides of the pit by the third or fourth day of our imprisonment, and its cactus-like branches
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formed a carmine fringe to the edges of our triangular window. And afterwards I found it broadcast throughout the country, and especially wherever there was a stream of water. The Martians had what appears to have been an auditory organ, a single round drum at the back of the head-body, and eyes with a visual range not very different from ours except that, according to Philips, blue and violet were as black to them. It is commonly supposed that they communicated by sounds and tentacular gesticulations; this is asserted, for instance, in the able but hastily compiled pamphlet (written evidently by someone not an eye-witness of Martian actions) to which I have already alluded, and which, so far, has been the chief source of information concerning them. Now no surviving human being saw so much of the Martians in action
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as I did. I take no credit to myself for an accident, but the fact is so. And I assert that I watched them closely time after time, and that I have seen four, five, and (once) six of them sluggishly performing the most elaborately complicated operations together without either sound or gesture. Their peculiar hooting invariably preceded feeding; it had no modulation, and was, I believe, in no sense a signal, but merely the expiration of air preparatory to the suctional operation. I have a certain claim to at least an elementary knowledge of psychology, and in this matter I am convinced–as firmly as I am convinced of anything–that the Martians interchanged thoughts without any physical intermediation. And I have been convinced of this in spite of strong preconceptions. Before the Martian invasion, as an occasional reader here or there may remember,
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I had written with some little vehemence against the telepathic theory. The Martians wore no clothing. Their conceptions of ornament and decorum were necessarily different from ours; and not only were they evidently much less sensible of changes of temperature than we are, but changes of pressure do not seem to have affected their health at all seriously. Yet though they wore no clothing, it was in the other artificial additions to their bodily resources that their great superiority over man lay. We men, with our bicycles and road-skates, our Lilienthal soaring-machines, our guns and sticks and so forth, are just in the beginning of the evolution that the Martians have worked out. They have become practically mere brains, wearing different bodies according to their needs just as men wear suits of clothes and take a bicycle in a
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hurry or an umbrella in the wet. And of their appliances, perhaps nothing is more wonderful to a man than the curious fact that what is the dominant feature of almost all human devices in mechanism is absent–the WHEEL is absent; among all the things they brought to earth there is no trace or suggestion of their use of wheels. One would have at least expected it in locomotion. And in this connection it is curious to remark that even on this earth Nature has never hit upon the wheel, or has preferred other expedients to its development. And not only did the Martians either not know of (which is incredible), or abstain from, the wheel, but in their apparatus singularly little use is made of the fixed pivot or relatively fixed pivot, with circular motions thereabout confined to one plane. Almost all
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the joints of the machinery present a complicated system of sliding parts moving over small but beautifully curved friction bearings. And while upon this matter of detail, it is remarkable that the long leverages of their machines are in most cases actuated by a sort of sham musculature of the disks in an elastic sheath; these disks become polarised and drawn closely and powerfully together when traversed by a current of electricity. In this way the curious parallelism to animal motions, which was so striking and disturbing to the human beholder, was attained. Such quasi-muscles abounded in the crablike handling-machine which, on my first peeping out of the slit, I watched unpacking the cylinder. It seemed infinitely more alive than the actual Martians lying beyond it in the sunset light, panting, stirring ineffectual tentacles, and moving feebly after their vast journey across
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space. While I was still watching their sluggish motions in the sunlight, and noting each strange detail of their form, CHAPTER TWO 78 the curate reminded me of his presence by pulling violently at my arm. I turned to a scowling face, and silent, eloquent lips. He wanted the slit, which permitted only one of us to peep through; and so I had to forego watching them for a time while he enjoyed that privilege. When I looked again, the busy handling-machine had already put together several of the pieces of apparatus it had taken out of the cylinder into a shape having an unmistakable likeness to its own; and down on the left a busy little digging mechanism had come into view,
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emitting jets of green vapour and working its way round the pit, excavating and embanking in a methodical and discriminating manner. This it was which had caused the regular beating noise, and the rhythmic shocks that had kept our ruinous refuge quivering. It piped and whistled as it worked. So far as I could see, the thing was without a directing Martian at all. CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER THREE THE DAYS OF IMPRISONMENT 79 The arrival of a second fighting-machine drove us from our peephole into the scullery, for we feared that from his elevation the Martian might see down upon us behind our barrier. At a later date we began to feel less in danger of their eyes, for to an eye
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in the dazzle of the sunlight outside our refuge must have been blank blackness, but at first the slightest suggestion of approach drove us into the scullery in heart-throbbing retreat. Yet terrible as was the danger we incurred, the attraction of peeping was for both of us irresistible. And I recall now with a sort of wonder that, in spite of the infinite danger in which we were between starvation and a still more terrible death, we could yet struggle bitterly for that horrible privilege of sight. We would race across the kitchen in a grotesque way between eagerness and the dread of making a noise, and strike each other, and thrust add kick, within a few inches of exposure. The fact is that we had absolutely incompatible dispositions and habits of thought and action, and our danger and isolation
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only accentuated the incompatibility. At Halliford I had already come to hate the curate s trick of helpless exclamation, his stupid rigidity of mind. His endless muttering monologue vitiated every effort I made to think out a line of action, and drove me at times, thus pent up and intensified, almost to the verge of craziness. He was as lacking in restraint as a silly woman. He would weep for hours together, and I verily believe that to the very end this spoiled child of life thought his weak tears in some way efficacious. And I would sit in the darkness unable to keep my mind off him by reason of his importunities. He ate more than I did, and it was in vain I pointed out that our only chance of life was to stop in the house until the Martians had
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done with their pit, that in that long patience a time might presently come when we should need food. He ate and drank impulsively in heavy meals at long intervals. He slept little. As the days wore on, his utter carelessness of any consideration so intensified our distress and danger that I had, much as I loathed doing it, to resort to threats, and at last to blows. That brought him to reason for a time. But he was one of those weak creatures, void of pride, timorous, anaemic, hateful souls, full of shifty cunning, who face neither God nor man, who face not even themselves. It is disagreeable for me to recall and write these things, but I set them down that my story may lack nothing. Those who have escaped the dark and terrible aspects of life
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will find my brutality, my flash of rage in our final tragedy, easy enough to blame; for they know what is wrong as well as any, but not what is possible to tortured men. But those who have been under the shadow, who have gone down at last to elemental things, will have a wider charity. And while within we fought out our dark, dim contest of whispers, snatched food and drink, and gripping hands and blows, without, in the pitiless sunlight of that terrible June, was the strange wonder, the unfamiliar routine of the Martians in the pit. Let me return to those first new experiences of mine. After a long time I ventured back to the peephole, to find that the new-comers had been reinforced by the occupants of no fewer than three of the fighting-machines. These last
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had brought with them certain fresh appliances that stood in an orderly manner about the cylinder. The second handling-machine was now completed, and was busied in serving one of the novel contrivances the big machine had brought. This was a body resembling a milk can in its general form, above which oscillated a pear-shaped receptacle, and from which a stream of white powder flowed into a circular basin below. The oscillatory motion was imparted to this by one tentacle of the handling-machine. With two spatulate hands the handling-machine was digging out and flinging masses of clay into the pear-shaped receptacle above, while with another arm it periodically opened a door and removed rusty and blackened clinkers from the middle part of the machine. Another steely tentacle directed the powder from the basin along a ribbed channel towards some receiver
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that was hidden from me by the mound of bluish dust. From this unseen receiver a little thread of green smoke rose vertically into the quiet air. As I looked, the handling-machine, CHAPTER THREE with a faint and musical clinking, extended, telescopic fashion, a tentacle that had been a moment before a 80 mere blunt projection, until its end was hidden behind the mound of clay. In another second it had lifted a bar of white aluminium into sight, untarnished as yet, and shining dazzlingly, and deposited it in a growing stack of bars that stood at the side of the pit. Between sunset and starlight this dexterous machine must have made more than a hundred such bars out of the crude clay, and the mound of bluish
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dust rose steadily until it topped the side of the pit. The contrast between the swift and complex movements of these contrivances and the inert panting clumsiness of their masters was acute, and for days I had to tell myself repeatedly that these latter were indeed the living of the two things. The curate had possession of the slit when the first men were brought to the pit. I was sitting below, huddled up, listening with all my ears. He made a sudden movement backward, and I, fearful that we were observed, crouched in a spasm of terror. He came sliding down the rubbish and crept beside me in the darkness, inarticulate, gesticulating, and for a moment I shared his panic. His gesture suggested a resignation of the slit, and after a little while my curiosity gave
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me courage, and I rose up, stepped across him, and clambered up to it. At first I could see no reason for his frantic behaviour. The twilight had now come, the stars were little and faint, but the pit was illuminated by the flickering green fire that came from the aluminium-making. The whole picture was a flickering scheme of green gleams and shifting rusty black shadows, strangely trying to the eyes. Over and through it all went the bats, heeding it not at all. The sprawling Martians were no longer to be seen, the mound of blue-green powder had risen to cover them from sight, and a fighting-machine, with its legs contracted, crumpled, and abbreviated, stood across the corner of the pit. And then, amid the clangour of the machinery, came a drifting suspicion of human voices, that I entertained at first only
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to dismiss. I crouched, watching this fighting-machine closely, satisfying myself now for the first time that the hood did indeed contain a Martian. As the green flames lifted I could see the oily gleam of his integument and the brightness of his eyes. And suddenly I heard a yell, and saw a long tentacle reaching over the shoulder of the machine to the little cage that hunched upon its back. Then something–something struggling violently–was lifted high against the sky, a black, vague enigma against the starlight; and as this black object came down again, I saw by the green brightness that it was a man. For an instant he was clearly visible. He was a stout, ruddy, middle-aged man, well dressed; three days before, he must have been walking the world, a man of considerable consequence. I could see his
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staring eyes and gleams of light on his studs and watch chain. He vanished behind the mound, and for a moment there was silence. And then began a shrieking and a sustained and cheerful hooting from the Martians. I slid down the rubbish, struggled to my feet, clapped my hands over my ears, and bolted into the scullery. The curate, who had been crouching silently with his arms over his head, looked up as I passed, cried out quite loudly at my desertion of him, and came running after me. That night, as we lurked in the scullery, balanced between our horror and the terrible fascination this peeping had, although I felt an urgent need of action I tried in vain to conceive some plan of escape; but afterwards, during the second day, I was able to consider
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our position with great clearness. The curate, I found, was quite incapable of discussion; this new and culminating atrocity had robbed him of all vestiges of reason or forethought. Practically he had already sunk to the level of an animal. But as the saying goes, I gripped myself with both hands. It grew upon my mind, once I could face the facts, that terrible as our position was, there was as yet no justification for absolute despair. Our chief chance lay in the possibility of the Martians making the pit nothing more than a temporary encampment. Or even if they kept it permanently, they might not consider it necessary to guard it, and a chance of escape might be afforded us. I also weighed very carefully the possibility of our digging a way out in a direction away from the pit, but the
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chances of our emerging within sight of some sentinel fighting-machine seemed at first too great. And I should have had to do all the digging myself. The curate would certainly have failed me. CHAPTER THREE It was on the third day, if my memory serves me right, that I saw the lad killed. It was the only occasion on 81 which I actually saw the Martians feed. After that experience I avoided the hole in the wall for the better part of a day. I went into the scullery, removed the door, and spent some hours digging with my hatchet as silently as possible; but when I had made a hole about a couple of feet deep the loose earth collapsed noisily, and I did not dare
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continue. I lost heart, and lay down on the scullery floor for a long time, having no spirit even to move. And after that I abandoned altogether the idea of escaping by excavation. It says much for the impression the Martians had made upon me that at first I entertained little or no hope of our escape being brought about by their overthrow through any human effort. But on the fourth or fifth night I heard a sound like heavy guns. It was very late in the night, and the moon was shining brightly. The Martians had taken away the excavating-machine, and, save for a fighting-machine that stood in the remoter bank of the pit and a handling-machine that was buried out of my sight in a corner of the pit immediately beneath my peephole, the place was
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deserted by them. Except for the pale glow from the handling-machine and the bars and patches of white moonlight the pit was in darkness, and, except for the clinking of the handling-machine, quite still. That night was a beautiful serenity; save for one planet, the moon seemed to have the sky to herself. I heard a dog howling, and that familiar sound it was that made me listen. Then I heard quite distinctly a booming exactly like the sound of great guns. Six distinct reports I counted, and after a long interval six again. And that was all. CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FOUR THE DEATH OF THE CURATE 82 It was on the sixth day of our imprisonment that I peeped for the
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last time, and presently found myself alone. Instead of keeping close to me and trying to oust me from the slit, the curate had gone back into the scullery. I was struck by a sudden thought. I went back quickly and quietly into the scullery. In the darkness I heard the curate drinking. I snatched in the darkness, and my fingers caught a bottle of burgundy. For a few minutes there was a tussle. The bottle struck the floor and broke, and I desisted and rose. We stood panting and threatening each other. In the end I planted myself between him and the food, and told him of my determination to begin a discipline. I divided the food in the pantry, into rations to last us ten days. I would not let him eat any more that day. In the afternoon
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he made a feeble effort to get at the food. I had been dozing, but in an instant I was awake. All day and all night we sat face to face, I weary but resolute, and he weeping and complaining of his immediate hunger. It was, I know, a night and a day, but to me it seemed–it seems now–an inter- minable length of time. And so our widened incompatibility ended at last in open conflict. For two vast days we struggled in undertones and wrestling contests. There were times when I beat and kicked him madly, times when I cajoled and persuaded him, and once I tried to bribe him with the last bottle of burgundy, for there was a rain-water pump from which I could get water. But neither force nor kindness availed; he was indeed beyond reason. He
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would neither desist from his attacks on the food nor from his noisy babbling to himself. The rudimentary precautions to keep our imprisonment endurable he would not observe. Slowly I began to realise the complete overthrow of his intelligence, to perceive that my sole companion in this close and sickly darkness was a man insane. From certain vague memories I am inclined to think my own mind wandered at times. I had strange and hideous dreams whenever I slept. It sounds paradoxical, but I am inclined to think that the weakness and insanity of the curate warned me, braced me, and kept me a sane man. On the eighth day he began to talk aloud instead of whispering, and nothing I could do would moderate his speech. \ It is just, O God!\
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he would say, over and over again. \ It is just. On me and mine be the punishment laid. We have sinned, we have fallen short. There was poverty, sorrow; the poor were trodden in the dust, and I held my peace. I preached acceptable folly–my God, what folly!–when I should have stood up, though I died for it, and called upon them to repent-repent! . . . Oppressors of the poor and needy . . . ! The wine press of God!\ Then he would suddenly revert to the matter of the food I withheld from him, praying, begging, weeping, at last threatening. He began to raise his voice–I prayed him not to. He perceived a hold on me–he threatened he would shout and bring the Martians upon us. For a time that scared me; but any concession would have
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shortened our chance of escape beyond estimating. I defied him, although I felt no assurance that he might not do this thing. But that day, at any rate, he did not. He talked with his voice rising slowly, through the greater part of the eighth and ninth days–threats, entreaties, mingled with a torrent of half-sane and always frothy repentance for his vacant sham of God s service, such as made me pity him. Then he slept awhile, and began again with renewed strength, so loudly that I must needs make him desist. \ Be still!\ I implored. He rose to his knees, for he had been sitting in the darkness near the copper. CHAPTER FOUR \ I have been still too long,\ he said, in a tone that
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must have reached the pit, \ and now I must bear my 83 witness. Woe unto this unfaithful city! Woe! Woe! Woe! Woe! Woe! To the inhabitants of the earth by reason of the other voices of the trumpet—-\ \ Shut up!\ I said, rising to my feet, and in a terror lest the Martians should hear us. \ For God s sake—-\ \ Nay,\ shouted the curate, at the top of his voice, standing likewise and extending his arms. \ Speak! The word of the Lord is upon me!\ In three strides he was at the door leading into the kitchen. \ I must bear my witness! I go! It has already been too long delayed.\ I put
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The incoming energy-identity requires a Soul Body in this realm, and may now be referred to as the Soul Essence, or Hamingja. This is the Higher Self. The three elements making up the Soul Body are as follows: HU-4 is called the Mental plane, because this is where the three elements of our Mental Body were obtained. They consist of the following: HU-3 is called the Causal Plane, because this is where the three elements of our Causal Body (subconscious) were obtained. They consist of the following: HU-2 is called the Astral Plane, because this is where the three elements of our Astral Body were obtained. They consist of the following; 1. 6th dimensional psychic consciousness 2. 5th dimensional Light 3. 4th dimensional passion and ego awareness HU-1 is called HU-1 is called the Physical Plane, because the Physical Body is of such a low
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frequency, as to make comprehension of higher vibratory frequencies most difficult Here, our consciousness, ego awareness and mental faculties are enmeshed in the things of the Physical Body (sense perceptions), which is and are of the 3rd dimension. 1. 3rd dimensional Physical Body (including the brain) 2. 2nd dimensional dense awareness (we don’t have this) 3. 1st dimensional solid awareness (we don’t have this) For those who relate to the fourfold model of the mind as understood in Yoga psychology, allow me to relate it to the more detailed explanation above. Together, the four aspects of mind constitute Antahkarana, the inner instrument, which is made up of “manas,” the lower mind (D-10 & D-11); “buddhi,” the intellect or faculty of discrimination (D-12); “ahankara,” the ego (D-7); and “chita,” the and “chita,” the mind stuff (D-8 & D-9). This all takes in HU-3, and HU-4, constituting the
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ego-self. Without going into detail regarding the exact nature of the various types of matter throughout the dimensional realms, I’ll provide a basic description: D-1 is solid matter, D-2 is dense, and D-3 is rigid. All these are atomic in their elemental nature. D-4 is dark matter, D-5 is misty, and D-6 is Light matter. All these are electric in their elemental nature. D-7 is woeful/ matter, D-8 is easy, and D-9 is cheerful. All these are neutral in their elemental nature. D-10 is irrational, D-11 is rational, and D-12 is intellectual. All these are magnetic in their elemental nature. D-13 is intemperate, D-14 is temperate, and D-15 is remote. The first two are positronic, and the third is neutrionic in their elemental nature. As we look nature. As we look around, perceiving the wonders of creation, we can’t help but know that there is a
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God. It is equally clear, however, that this creation could not possibly be the work of a humanoid god with man’s propensity for jealousy and anger – the failings of the human intellect. The “All” is in everything and beyond everything. The Runes are a gestalt entity, functioning throughout all the universes, as an extension of the “All”. The “All” is like a large sun, with five universes revolving around it, the same way the planets in our solar system revolve around our sun. This is going on at three different vibratory levels, meaning that there are fifteen universes. Hail the “All”! EPILOGUE I don’t recommend that anyone jump up and quit his or her religion, because I am fully aware of the aware of the implications involving family and social ties. There is no need to create riffs where none are needed, but at the
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same time, we must bear in mind, certain facts. Just place these facts on a shelf in your mind, and don’t worry about whether or not they are true. Contemplate them on occasion, analyze the situations you encounter in life relative to them, and even engage in your own research. When the time is right, you will know whether or not you can accept some of these things as your truth. Some people will know right away, that what I have written constitutes their truth, while the majority will never question that which they have already been taught. They have never inquired as to who writes the history, who writes the prevailing theology, or who decides what is or is not politically correct. They haven’t a clue about who clue about who authorizes the publication of that which they are taught in the educational stems, because
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they have been taught what to think, rather than how to think. It’s much easier to go with the flow and accept what the majority accepts, than it is to question political, educational, or religious authority. Although this was Lucifer’s world in ancient times, the same as it is now, it was not until the advent of Judaism and its offshoots, Islam and Christianity that humanity began to suffer constant sorrow through oppression, war and slaughter. Forget about what you’ve been taught in school, or seen in movies, because the early Church being successful in its “inquisition”, wrote the history its way, and painted a picture of its enemies (particularly the Scandinavians) as being barbaric pagans who expressed their nature by raping, burning, pillaging and plundering the “meek” and “passive” Christians. The untold story, The untold story, however, has the inquisitors of the Christian faith raping,
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burning, pillaging and plundering the farmers and merchants of not only Norway, Sweden and Denmark, but wherever they went, in behalf of the god of this world, and doing it in the name of Jesus. “Viking” is an Old Norse term for a “raid”. After about seven hundred years of having their culture and its spiritual tradition decimated at the point of a Christian sword, these farmers and merchants went a Viking in defense of their homelands; but it was already too late. Lucifer and his religious heroes with occult powers backing them won the day. It is his world after all, and look at what a prize we have now. Every time I hear someone Praying: “Thy will be done”, I cringe at the thought of what that might bring. When I hear Christians in the patriot movement the patriot movement speak of giving this
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nation (America) back to god, I realize that the struggle for freedom is already lost. Life has taught me over the years, that those who claim to be led either by god, Jesus or the Spirit, tend to use what they call god’s will, to engage in all forms of treachery and deceit. Being led in such a way, all too often serves as a mask for their indulgence of the lower emotional passions, and an opportunity to fleece those they consider to be their sheep. It’s my hope that I have been successful in explaining that which I had to present adequately enough, that most of your questions have been answered somewhere in this book. I realize that such an expectation is unreasonable, however, so we have a place on the website for questions and answers, where further questions have been anticipated. have been anticipated.
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In addition, we will make both monthly discourses and workshops available to those who contact the Mani-Om-Sah Institute at maniomsah.com. Thank you for checking out our website. Sincerely, Jon Stauffer GLOSSARY Ǽsir – Mythologically, these were the race of gods and goddesses associated with Odin, in the realm of Asgard. Historically, they were a tribe of ancient Europeans possessing either red or blond hair. Akasha – Known throughout both India and the New Age Movement as a library of records for all karmic responsibility, both personal and group. Alchemical – A reference to the energetic process of inner transformation which takes place as spiritual purification occurs. “All” – The original source of all creation. Andromies – An extraterrestrial race associated with Dominion that possesses an insectoid-beetle type genetic structure. Anunnaki – An extraterrestrial race associated extraterrestrial race associated with Dominion that possesses a reptilian type genetic
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structure. Astral – A type of spirit world for disembodied spirits awaiting rebirth. Astral Center – Centers in the third dimensional astral realm, where individuals are taken by agents of Dominion, for the purpose of receiving allotted karma, and prepared for their next life. Auric Capsule – See auric field Auric Field – The aura, which is made up of the Etheric Body (DNA Template), the Astral Body (Sparkling or Emotional Body), The Casual Body (Subconscious Mind), the Mental Body (Pure Mind Essence), and the Upper Etheric Energy Matrix. Bardo – An after-death state experienced by many, in which they float through the worlds of their unconscious. Bhagavad-Gita – A book of Hindu scripture. Bi Polar – A mental disorder with alternating periods of elation and depression. Causal Body – That portion of the portion of the Auric Field which serves as the subconscious mind. Detachment
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- Not to be confused with indifference, detachment is a state of consciousness which allows the individual to experience life without the rollercoaster ride associated with emotional extremes. DNA Template – The “Etheric Double” which consists of a Sound Matrix, and serves as a template for the manifestation of the physical form and its DNA. Dominion – The god of this world, also known as Lucifer. Dracos – An extraterrestrial race, possessing the Dragon-Moth type genetic structure. This is an albino race, also known as the Draconians. Ego-Self – The physical consciousness which is separate from the Higher Self, that says “I did such and such yesterday, I’m doing this now, and I have such and such plans for tomorrow”. Einherjar – Literally, “Odin’s Chosen”. Mythologically, these were the battle-slain, who were escorted to Valhalla. escorted to Valhalla. Today, they are available to assist those of
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us who can call upon them. Elder Futhark – The oldest known runic system of Northern Europe. Esoteric – Spiritual knowledge that has traditionally been reserved for those who become ready, and who are entering the priesthood. Evolution – A process of upward development, not to be confused with notions of humanity having evolved from apes. Exoteric – Religious teachings given to the masses that are designed to promote good behavior. Goyim – A Jewish term for all non-Jews, meaning “animals” or “cattle”. Great Abyss – The demarcation between the Spiritual Planes of the 13th, 14th, and 15th dimensional realms, and the material worlds of dualism. Hamingja – The Old Norse term for the Higher Self. Hamr – The Old Norse term for the DNATemplate. Harmonic Universe – A sub-universe, consisting of three consisting of three dimensional realms and their astral planes. Higher Self – The
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higher aspect of the self, which is indigenous to the spiritual planes above the Great Abyss, and which is capable of guiding and directing us. This has been known variously, as the Soul, Spirit, the Holy Spirit, and the God within. Higher Will – Consists of Natural Law, the activities of the Silent Ones, and the “All”. Hugr – The Old Norse term for the Auric Field. Inner Sanctum – A place established within the Astral Body, where we can access our inner wisdom, peace, and the Higher Self. Karma – The result of a past deed, or an emotional reaction to environmental stimuli. This can also be seen as the result of the law of compensation. Macrocosm – The whole of a complex structure. Maya – Illusion. Mental Body – That Body – That portion of the Auric Field which serves as the mind, where
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memory is stored (beyond the brain), and where mental habits are also stored. Merkaba Field – This is an energy field which encompasses the Auric Field. It is constructed of two equally sized, interlocked tetrahedral of light, with one right side up, and the other upside down. This construction forms what is called a Star Tetrahedron. It is also known as the Divine Light Vehicle. Microcosm – A miniature representation. Multiple Integrals – As related to the time loop, these consist of the tonal frequencies necessary for the formation of the entire loop. Narcissist – One who possesses excessive interest in him or her self. Nefilim – An extraterrestrial race associated with Dominion, which is similar in appearance to the Northern Europeans. Norse – Relating to the ancient Northern Europeans of Scandinavia. Odin – of Scandinavia. Odin – The mythological god of European heritage. Also, An
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extension of the “All”, manifested from Sound Quanta, and possessing actual existence. Old Norse – A reference to the ancient language of the Vikings. Omin – The “Light” counterpart to Odin who, when they took physical embodiment, became known as Frigga to the Norsemen. Önd – Universal, creative energy which is electromagnetic in nature, consisting of Light and Sound at the quantum level. Ørlög – The Old Norse term for Karma. Pagan – Literally, “Country Folk”. Angry Christians turned this into a derogatory term because they couldn’t adequately monitor the Pagans who continued to practice their Folk Heritage. Particum – A term for Sound Quanta. Partika – A term for Light Quanta. Partiki – A term for Light and Sound combined. Perceptual Awareness – See my explanation on page explanation on page 90, to understand that this is not a redundant phrase. Prieure de Sion -
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Also, “Priory of Sion”. Descendants of the Merovingian line of kings, who form the seat of the Illuminati, or Zionism. Psychic – Of, or related to the Astral plane, or the Astral Body. Psychic Time Loop – A personalized time loop attached to the Astral Body. Quanta – The plural form of quantum. Quantum – A discrete quantity of radiant energy. Reincarnation – The cyclic process of life, growth, death, and renewal/rebirth. Remote Viewing – A term used by government agents for the process of viewing places and occurrences without the use of standard technologies; Like astral projection. Runes – Stave forms which represent universal forces. Runic Forces – The actual universal forces themselves. Samskaras – Units of energy stored in the unconscious, or the unconscious, or the Akasha, which serve as the seeds of karma. Silent Ones – Ascended beings that have advanced to the
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point of being able to govern the universes as emissaries of the “All”. Spiritual Realms – The 5th Harmonic Universe, above the Great Abyss. Vapor Light – This marks the dividing line between things. This is where energetic exchanges occur, whether between objects, or between water, air and fire – fire, earth and air. This is the balance point between all things in creation. Vitkar – The plural form of Vitki. These were the Spiritual Adepts of Northern Europe, who carried the esoteric precepts for our Northern European ancestors. Wyrd – The ancient European term for samskaras, or the seeds of karma. Zeta Grays – An extraterrestrial race associated with Dominion, which is characterized by gray skin, a lack of hair, and oval faces and eyes. faces and eyes. These are not to be trusted under any circumstances. ABOUT THE AUTHOR Jon was born in the
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State of California in 1950, and grew up surfing, hitchhiking around the country, and studying the martial arts. He earned a black belt by the age of 24, and then served in the army for a time. He attended three universities studying Sociology, Psychology, and Clinical Nutrition. Presently, he works in a family-owned business as an herbalist and clinical nutritionist. Jon walked the path of six spiritual traditions for a period of ten years before learning of the ancient tradition practiced by the Indo-Europeans. Having been in communication with his Higher Self since 1989, he was told to apply what he had learned esoterically, to reestablishing the esoteric principles in the Old Norse tradition that were lost. The “Vitkar” carried the mysteries for that tradition, but when they but when they were killed during the Inquisition, everything was destroyed, save a few fragments. Jon spent another
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ten years studying the works of other researchers, and was eventually able to fulfill the wishes of his Higher Self. Since 2007, he has engaged himself in pursuing knowledge regarding Dominion, whom he came across during his shamanic battles on other planes, and in other dimensions. He is a man who believes in pursuing his own knowledge, rather than accepting what is handed to him. Douglas Stauffer Chapter 1: The Murderer and Me Where to Begin? What began me on this journey? What broke me out of the quiet depression I had held so long and the generally negative view of the world I had clung to had clung to all my life? In some respects…a photo of a man. Till then, I had lived my life on autopilot; simply rising each day as I had always risen, never conscious of who I was, how I
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was, or why; never truly understanding the self inside this body, or the body inside this world which had always felt so alien to me. I had accumulated a lifetime of hurt, and seen a lifetime of opportunity pass, and I wasn’t enjoying it. In fact, I was hating it. My shyness and general dissatisfaction with how I was led me to dislike most everyone, but I was completely unwilling to change a thing about myself or try. Nor was I willing even to admit that to admit that perhaps I did not know everything; that I in fact knew nothing – of what was wrong, of who I was, or of life in general. And it hurt. It always hurt. Being who I was hurt. It was painful even; always gnawing at me, forever on my mind, incessantly in my thoughts. “I suck.” “I’m not
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cool.” “I’m not good enough.” And so I struggled. There were days I’d break down. There were nights I’d cry. There were weeks I’d go without managing a single smile. There were times I was so down, so lost, so unbelievably afraid of everything, that I couldn’t even manage to leave the house…to get to class, to go class, to go buy groceries, to even hangout with the few friends I did have. And that’s how I lived. That’s how I existed everyday for twenty-something years. 3 | In fear. In anger. In disappointment. 4 In that time, I saw periods of happiness – or what I perceived to be happiness – but mostly I was just down; not very excited to be out there doing the things I was “supposed” to be doing at my age, yet secretly, inwardly desperate to be able to do
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them. In college I found what I had never found before: a found before: a few friends who liked my most awkward me, and a girlfriend who “loved” me, for a time. But things change, and sometimes, as in my case, all at once, and from that change – from what I had known of my friends, my relationship, my family, my life – I found myself broken of heart and mind; completely unable to control my emotions, feelings, and thoughts, as the weight of what had befallen me pulled me towards depths of sadness I had never experienced before. And all the while this single question haunted me, at my darkest moments, when even I – who had in some respects resigned myself to my depression, to the idea that I would always be this way – was generally pissed and fed up with
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how I felt how I felt and how I was: “Why?” Why me? Why couldn’t I get a hold of myself? Why was I seemingly in control of nothing – not the memories I recalled, nor the thoughts in my mind, nor the feelings in my heart? Why couldn’t I stop hurting? Why couldn’t I just be as I wanted to be? I woke up every day just wishing it wouldn’t be there; that the memories would be gone and the pain would be replaced, that I could just do a regular thing without feeling as if I could cry, as if nothing felt right. It was a constant ache that’s not easily describable, as if I was in danger at all times, as if always standing if always standing on the edge of a cliff; forever worried and paranoid, always scared and
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afraid. 4 | 5 And everything reminded me of it. There was nowhere I was safe from it. It was as if the entire world conspired to remind me that life was hard; that what had happened did happen, and that what may come may come. Every day. All day. Despite my best efforts, I couldn’t seem to just be calm. I couldn’t close my eyes and simply feel fine. I couldn’t forget. And I was tired of it. So very fucking tired of it. Because I did try. I tried all I tried all the usual stuff we are told. I kept busy. I hung out with others. I found time for hobbies. I talked it over with friends. I sought new friends. I wrote out my feelings. But it didn’t work, and the advice I received was of little help either: “Just forget it.”
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“It’s okay.” “You’ll get over it.” “You just need time.” But nothing worked. Nothing helped. No idea made me any better and no advice seemed to make any sense. Because I couldn’t just forget it. I couldn’t get over it. It wasn’t okay. And time wasn’t helping at all. Because every day I woke up I woke up the same. Nothing had changed. I wasn’t any different. And so despite all the crappy advice I found, and all the desperate things I tried, I was never any better than before. I only ever got worse – more sad, more angry, more pathetic. Everything somehow led me back to where I was; to the place inside myself I was so desperate to escape. The pain. The fear. The depression. And I just wished it would stop, then and there; that I could just turn it off and
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feel sane, that I could at last be rid of it forever and finally feel whole and at ease – just feel normal – though I didn’t even know what that meant or felt meant or felt like. And always I wondered when I lied awake at night, unable to sleep, and dreading the day to come…what could save me? 5 | I Found My Answer in a Photo 6 And one day, during my usual browsing of the internet at work, I came upon a news article. Someone had been murdered. A horrific scene had been left. And the eyes of the killer stared me in the face. It was his mugshot. He looked so normal, though. So regular. So entirely unlike what I assumed a I assumed a killer to look like, though I’m sure he was no different than
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the hundreds of others I had seen already in my life in papers or the news. But for whatever reason, in that face I found the question which forced me to look within, at my life, at my situation, at my self: “What separated me from him?” What difference lies between the killer and the lawful? Where do we cease to be common? Why does he solve his problems one way, and I another? What I knew of myself was that I was somehow different than those I looked up to and envied. I knew that there existed people who did not view the world as I viewed the world, who the world, who did not feel as I felt and hate as I hated. I knew that there existed people who did not suffer from depression, though they lived in the same crappy, difficult world
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as I. How? How were they fine while I felt so terrible? And why was I as I was while this murderer was so much worse? I sat there at work, depressed and worthless, convinced life was never going to get better, that I’d never stop crying, never feel whole again, never feel loved again. He sat with blood on his hands, alone in a rotting, infested cell – far better than he deserved for the crimes he committed and the lives he took. I thought and thought thought and thought and thought, as I guess I never had before. 6 | 7 There was a time when this man and I were more same than different; when we would have never guessed we’d find ourselves where we found each other then, at the very lowest point of our lives. Why then, was I depressed and
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helpless where others were happy and strong? Why was he a murderer while others can’t fathom hurting even a fly without cringing at the very thought? What separated us? What separated him from me and me from you? 7 | 7 | 8 Chapter 2: The Origin of His (and Our) Actions Life Problems That certain things happened to me to cause my state, my sadness, could NOT have been what separated us? I wanted it to. Badly. I told myself that it did for so long, as I woke each day woke each day convinced I was a victim, as all who are depressed surely do. “I am this way – sad and helpless – because this changed, because that never happened, because she left.” But that couldn’t have been true, no matter how much I wanted it to be, because
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those things happen to us all, and – in many cases – far worse than ever happened to me. I knew it. I knew it had to be true. I knew there were surely people whose families were murdered, who found more hope in tomorrow than I. There were surely people who had lost everything they had, but felt more rich. There were people who had every reason to hate everyone, yet felt more love. There existed love. There existed people who had experienced all I had and far, far worse, yet had reacted so completely differently than me that they seemed to me almost undefeatable, indestructible, superhuman; people who, despite having experienced all manner of misfortune, bad luck, and downright evil, had never lost their positive view of the world, of people, or of themselves. These were people to look up to; people who, by
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proof of their example, were far less deserving of what had happened to them than I. I was willing to admit that. In fact, I HAD to. That my life had experienced some recent difficulty was not reason enough for the feelings I felt and depression I held. It was not excuse enough when excuse enough when others endure so much more and do remain fine. 8 | 9 Despite my initial reluctance to do so, I had to look elsewhere. My problems were not the cause of my problem, nor what separated me from him, the murderer, and us, the depressed, from others, the emotionally strong. So what, then, was the difference? What made this murderer do what he did? Genetics Is it genetic? Was his violence given to him? Is there a gene or protein in his body that made him a murderer? Is
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he as much to blame for what he is, as I am as I am for being human, and the dog for being a dog? It’s obvious that in many ways we are our parents’ children; that the talents, skills, and even mental capacities of our mother’s and father’s are in some sense passed down. We are the unique combination of two genetic pools, and we owe much of ourselves to this combination. From our looks, to our mannerisms, to many aspects of our personalities, our bodies are just the simple result of a complex genetic code; a code inherited in us from a mother, a father, and the randomness of life. We are a plan executed; the end result of an intelligent process put in motion when sperm met egg; a process entirely out of our control and outside our desires. In this
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we In this we are bound. I cannot grow blonde hair no matter how badly I may want it (and I don’t), like you cannot be me no matter how badly you may want it (and you should!). Our genes do not allow it. Our genetic plans are different. Perhaps this man, then, had a certain predisposition towards violence; some unexplainable tendency towards hurting, as others have a natural tendency towards sports or learning. Perhaps his genes made him violent, as his genes made him a certain height, with a certain hair color, and a certain intelligence. Perhaps. The study of genetics is complex, and – even at this time – still largely outside the reach of our complete understanding. our complete understanding. I could concede that he was potentially innately more 9 | 10 violent than others; that excluding all other factors he
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would still be more aggressive than most. But be that as it may, it still didn’t explain the action of what he did. It didn’t explain the act. Because despite our genetics, no gene in my body has ever forced me to do anything. Those people were not killed because suddenly and randomly his genes decided to take control. They are not dead because protein strands designed in the chromosomes of his cells executed some devious plan. If such were true, I think we’d all fear the unknown ills that may ills that may lie within the structure of our DNA. I think we’d all fear that sometime, at any time, our genes would suddenly become the acting agent in us, and perform deeds we would otherwise never perform simply because we were “designed” to. But I don’t believe that to be possible. We are not
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simply computer programs on “execute.” We are not machines at the whim of the programming inside us. We have more than “no choice”. We have the ability to do as we please. His genetics in many ways made him, but it didn’t make him do it. I had to look elsewhere. Disease To many, the explanation for the murderer’s actions is obvious. is obvious. The man was depressive. He was ill. He was sick. After all, depression is a disease, is it not; something to be medicated and controlled if a sufferer is to prevent the harming of themselves or others? I reject this, however. In fact, I hate it. When doctors examine a patient and find him or her to be suffering from depression; from fear and negativity and an inability to cope with the pain that is their life, they rightly see that something
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is not right; that despite whatever may happen in their lives, they are not meant to be and live as such. We are not meant to be depressed. 10 | 11 But in 11 But in diagnosing them with “depression,” as if it were a true disease, I believe they confuse cause and effect. Their conclusion flows from the premise that humans are otherwise perfect, and that any outward problem exhibited must then be the result of some external addition to, or internal subtraction from, the otherwise perfect self. The patient must have too much of this or too little of that. They are doctors, after all. Scientists. And when a doctor discovers a problem physically (loss of weight, appetite, hair, abnormal fear and anxiety), it is their inclination to believe there is a source physically. But this ignores the fact that we as humans are
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entirely capable of ruining what perfection we were given on our given on our own – of ruining our lives – without the aid of some illness or sickness. Depression is not a disease. It’s a symptom. It is not the source of a problem, but the result of one. It’s not the egg. It’s the chicken. This man was not born with depression, as the handicapped are born with disfigurement. He did not “catch” depression, as the child catches a cold. He could not be vaccinated from it, as the explorer who travels abroad. There was nothing physically wrong with him, nor virally wrong with him. Doctors rightly observe that those suffering from depression have something of a chemical imbalance compared to those who do not. But this But this overlooks the reality that the body follows the mind and vice
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versa; that in our minds we have the ability to actually and physically change the chemical balance of our bodies, and our bodies have the ability to change our thoughts. This isn’t some holistic argument, however. Close your eyes and quietly pretend that you are experiencing your greatest fear. Imagine you are in the hospital awaiting news on a loved one just shot horrifically. Imagine sitting there for what seems an eternity, waiting…waiting…glued to that chair with the horrid thoughts in your mind of what may happen, and the memories of what did happen, and always the annoyingly festive music playing from the waiting room speakers, gnawing slowly at your sanity. Sit and rock in and rock in nervousness, as you would if it 11 | 12 were true. Imagine the doctor walks in, with a grim look on his face. Imagine he’s looking down, shaking
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his head as he tries to say that your loved one did not make it. Imagine that feeling, that moment, that instant when all your fears come to life; when your nightmare becomes your reality. They didn’t make it. They didn’t survive. You’ll never see them again. Imagine it. See it. Feel it. Do you feel it? Do you feel your heartbeat change? Do you feel it race, or stop? Do you feel the sweat in your hands, the your hands, the shake in your legs, the tears welling in your eyes? If you cannot imagine it, then ask yourself instead what happens to you when you watch a scary movie. What happens to your nerves, and your emotions, and your body, when you watch that film, which you KNOW is nothing more than images on a screen? Do you see what you’ve done to your
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body and what your body has done to you? Do you see how you have used your imagination to change your physiology; how you were able to trick your entire self into believing what is only fiction; how you were able to actually release the chemicals that would be necessary in that very real scenario, as if this scenario were real, simply through the imagination of the imagination of your mind and the posture and movement of your body? This is depression in 5 minutes. This is how it affects the physiology of others over time – days, years, a lifetime. This is how the depressed end up with a chemical imbalance, a loss in weight and appetite, a drop in energy and increased sicknesses. This is how it causes some to lose hair, or piss blood; to grey or become paler and appear older; to
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literally age in front of our eyes. Not because of a disease. Not because of an illness. This man’s depression could not be medicated, because his depression was not a bacteria in his body or a virus in his blood. He may have improved for awhile. improved for awhile. He may have seemed to others to be “better” for a time, but inside he would tell you he was not. The drugs would have, in some ways, muted him, and lessened his more obvious sadness because of that numbness. But they would not have not healed him. They would not have rid him of the incessant feeling of incompleteness, or of the loneliness, and the instability. 12 | 13 That’s why so many hate these drugs. That’s why all inevitably go off them. What of their depression then? Are they any more capable of living their
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the sergeant in charge of the Alsene troops turned to look at him, but Grandier ignored their unspoken questions. He said to Thomas, \\ I want to show you something.\\ Grandier led the way down a lesser-used series of rooms, lit only by the lamps the soldiers carried, and to a staircase leading down to the lower levels. At the third turn of the stairs Grandier led stairs Grandier led them into an old stone-walled corridor, and Thomas realized they were going toward the same cellar where the keystone had been concealed. He looked at Grandier walking beside him, but the older man s features betrayed nothing. As they moved through the cold rooms the flickering light revealed the sheen of sweat on a soldier s face, a white-knuckled grip on a swordhilt or musket that told volumes about the troops relationship with the fay invaders.
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They reached a plain wooden stair leading down, and were now roughly backtracking the route they had taken away from the cellar the night of the attack, but heading toward the lower passageways they had been unable to reach because of the collapsed corridor. The strain of the fight had exacerbated the pain in Thomas s bad leg and it leg and it was protesting this treatment, but he managed not to limp too obviously. The stairs led to an unblocked passage below the storerooms, and the stale air carried the fetid smell of death. Thomas thoughts kept turning back to Grandier s shape-shifting ability. Not that way. I don t want to die that way. He had given up everything else–his honor, his right to say he had never killed a helpless opponent, his claim on his ancestral lands. Voluntarily or pushed to it by
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circumstance, bit by bit everything had gone to win a few years or a few months or a few days of political stability in a world where so few others seemed to care, and most of them were dead now. He was willing to die for duty s sake but the thought of giving up his identity turned his his identity turned his heart to ice. There was light up ahead, from a place where there should be stygian darkness. Abruptly raucous noise, growling, and a high-pitched keening echoed off the stone walls. A few more uneasy troopers drew their swords. Chapter Fifteen 181 The corridor turned, and the first thing Thomas saw was that a large chunk of the stone wall had been knocked out, allowing a view down into the cellar. Grandier moved to the edge, and after a moment Thomas followed him. The
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Unseelie Court had found a home here. Fay with long emaciated bodies and huge leathery wings flew in lazy circles over the foul revelry below. There were hundreds of them, bogles, spriggans, formless creatures like the boneless like the boneless that had attacked them in the street. The mockery and distortion of human and animal forms was endless and infinitely varied. Thomas could see them much more clearly this time, perhaps because they were not troubling to conceal themselves anymore. The light came from a mist that crept up the walls and wreathed around the giant columns supporting the ceiling. This opening had been made at about the second level of the cellar, and the wide pillars met the ceiling another two levels above them. Below were the remains of two flights of stairs and the narrow well that had enclosed them, now a mound of
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broken stone and shattered wood. Corpse-lights flitted around the stairs and the tops of the columns. The unnatural light was bright enough to let Thomas see the dark openings in the openings in the ceiling for the air shafts and the doors through which the larger siege engines had been lowered. Chains and frayed ropes hung down from some of those doors, the old system of block and tackle. Thomas said, \\ They fly up those shafts.\\ \\ Yes.\\ Grandier s gaze was on the unholy revelry below. \\ It protects them from daylight, but gives them access to the surface.\\ He turned back to the others and said, \\ Dontane, they seem disturbed. Go down and ask them what s wrong.\\ Dontane moved forward, threw an unreadable look at Grandier, then started the awkward climb to the bottom of the cellar. \\ So he is
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a sorcerer,\\ Thomas said. Grandier glanced at him. \\ He s learning. He had been refused had been refused admittance to Lodun, and in anger he came across the border to Bisra, and to me for teaching before my arrest. I refused him, because I felt he lacked moral character.\\ He smiled, amused, apparently, by this earlier self who had had the leisure to make such judgments. \\ Trust was a very important issue, among those of us who practiced sorcery in Bisra. The merest suspicion of necromancy, or anything else the Church could interpret as traffic with demons, was death. But after I escaped from the Inquisition, I sought him out. I had discovered I needed a man who lacked moral character. He was at Lodun with me after I was Galen Dubell, but one of the masters learned he had been across the border,
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and became suspicious of him. The rumors that I had come to Ile-Rien had already Ile-Rien had already started, you see. So I sent him on to contact the Duke of Alsene for me, which he did through our unfortunate and foolish Lord Lestrac.\\ Dr. Braun had visited Lodun frequently, Thomas remembered. \\ You killed Braun because he recognized Dontane.\\ \\ I would have had to eventually, anyway.\\ Thomas watched Dontane pick his way down the remains of the steps and said, \\ Are you sure he s not the one who turned you in to the Inquisition?\\ \\ Oh, good try.\\ Grandier smiled. \\ No, that man is dead.\\ Dontane had climbed halfway to the bottom, and now one of the winged sidhe flew to meet him, cupping its wings to hold itself in midair, gesturing and shouting at him in
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at him in a high-pitched shriek. Dontane turned and Chapter Fifteen waved at Grandier, his posture betraying irritation. Grandier said, \\ It appears this needs my attention.\\ He nodded to the Alsene sergeant, then looked back at Thomas. \\ I ll see you shortly, Captain.\\ 182 Without Grandier s presence, the troopers muttered nervously as they made their way back, but Thomas was too preoccupied to notice. Why did he want me to see that? What did it accomplish? A will-o -the-wisp followed them part of the way, playing in the unlit wall lanterns and taunting them silently. Thomas felt each step of the various stairways as a short stabbing pain. By the time they reached the upper floors of the Old Palace he Old Palace he was limping badly. They entered one of the smaller halls that had been set up as temporary barracks, now
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occupied by a few sullen troopers gathered around the hearth fire, and they passed through it into an attached suite. The last room had been stripped of furniture and wall coverings, and it was dark except for what light flickered uncertainly in from the lamps in the anteroom. Thomas watched tiredly as one of them pounded an iron spike with a set of manacles attached to it into the wall. With respect for his unpredictability, one held a pistol to his head when they untied him to put the manacles on. The chains were short but he was able to sit down against the wall. The troopers withdrew into the anteroom to huddle in a nervous knot near the knot near the hearth. He tested the set of the spike in the wall to see if it could be worked loose, but it held firm. Well
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and truly caught this time. He rested his pounding head back against the cold wood, and tried not to think. \\ I didn t believe they would let you live.\\ It was Aviler s voice. Between the dim light and the distraction of various injuries, Thomas hadn t seen the other man chained to the opposite wall. The High Minister s dark-colored doublet was torn and bloodied, and from the livid bruises on his temple it seemed he had not been taken easily. Thomas closed his eyes a moment, damning the fate that had consigned him to be imprisoned with Aviler. Then he said, \\ Grandier wanted me alive, and if alive, and if you imply I m in league with him, I ll kill you.\\ At the moment it was a supremely empty threat, but Aviler answered, \\ Don t take me for a fool,
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Captain.\\ \\ I don t know what else to take you for.\\ Thomas sat up and gingerly felt the back of his head. His hair was matted with blood, and there was a sizable lump composed of pure pain. \\ You can take me for a man who did not acquire my power in a Queen s bed.\\ \\ Yes,\\ Thomas agreed. \\ In her bed, on the daybed in the anteroom, on a couch in the west solar of the Summer Palace, and other locations too numerous to mention, and if you had the slightest understanding of Ravenna at understanding of Ravenna at all, you would know it never made one damn bit of difference as to whether she took my advice or not. And no, your father handed you your power wrapped in ribbon on his deathbed.\\ The High Minister looked away. After a
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long moment of silence, he said, \\ I expect it doesn t matter now.\\ Already feeling the bite of the manacles on his wrists, Thomas expected it didn t matter either. Aviler rubbed his eyes, making his own chains jingle slightly. \\ Galen Dubell really is the sorcerer Grandier, then. Denzil told me something of it when he brought the Queen to me, but under the circumstances I don t place much confidence in his word.\\ \\ Dubell really is Grandier. He got a shape-changing magic from the magic from the fay, and he killedDubell and took his Chapter Fifteen place.\\ The stab wound in Thomas s left arm was still bleeding sluggishly, though the pain of it hardly 183 competed with that in his head. The thinner sleeve leather of his buff coat had absorbed some of the force but the blade had still penetrated
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a couple of inches at least. He tore a strip of material from the tail of his shirt to use as a crude bandage. \\ Why are you alive?\\ \\ I don t know. No one s bothered to say. What s your opinion on the subject?\\ \\ He wants to keep his options open. He can t stay Dubell forever.\\ As Aviler considered As Aviler considered the unpleasant implication, Thomas tightened the rag around his arm, taking malicious satisfaction in letting the other man in on his private terror. He knew he had more to worry about on that score than the High Minister did. Grandier hardly knew Aviler. With Lucas dead–he hesitated in tying off the makeshift bandage, wondering who had done it, Dontane or some nameless hireling trooper–there was no one but Ravenna who knew him well enough to realize the deception immediately.
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He didn t think anyone could find a way through the complexities of his relationship with Ravenna, but that would only mean Grandier would have to kill her, the way he had coldly eliminated anyone who might have noticed that Galen Dubell had changed more than time could account for. Then there was Kade. Kade had done Kade had done well enough leading her own erratic and dangerous life before Thomas had dragged her into this, talked her into staying with them past the point at which she could have left safely. And made her vulnerable. The little idiot trusts me. Lucas had been right. And he remembered that the last conversation he had had with his friend had been an argument; stupid thing to do in a war, and he would regret it the rest of his no doubt short life. Kade was her own
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woman, and he was too old to bother lying to himself anymore and too young not to want her. But any chance of anything between them was wasted, as pointlessly wasted as Lucas, Vivan, and ail the other lives lost and destroyed by Denzil and Grandier. There was a There was a stirring among the men in the anteroom, and after a moment Urbain Grandier appeared in the doorway, carrying a candlelamp and a short stool. He set the lamp down on the scuffed floorboards, and glanced once, thoughtfully, at Aviler. Then he looked back to Thomas and said, \\ I felt I owed you more of an explanation.\\ Thomas had a sudden impulse to delay whatever the sorcerer had come to say. He said, \\ You have Dontane fooled. He thinks you re mad.\\ Grandier shook his head, put the stool he had brought just
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inside the doorway, and sat down. \\ I give him what he expects.\\ He sighed, and looked like a tired old man. \\ He imagines himself to be subtle and dangerous, and I suppose he is, but there are but there are things he fails to understand. Denzil, on the other hand, is rather like an incompetent copyist s version of you.\\ As the clear gray eyes met his Thomas felt a stab of pure fear. Worry about it later, he thought. Grandier had probably noticed but there was no help for that. He said, \\ Do they know what you re planning? And there is a plan, isn t there?\\ \\ Yes. I first conceived it in my cell in the Temple Prison at Bistrita. I had to think about something besides the torturers, and the death by fire that waited for me.\\ He looked
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down at his hand and stretched the fingers, contemplating the unbroken skin as if he did not quite recognize it as his own. Chapter Fifteen And perhaps Chapter Fifteen And perhaps he doesn t, Thomas thought. He remembered the catalog of tortures the court documents had 184 listed. Grandier was driven, dangerous, and intelligent, but not insane. It was almost as if he had passed into another phase of being that was not madness or sanity but some lawless ground in between. Across the room, Aviler shifted a little, breaking the silence with a faint clink of chain, and Grandier said, \\ Then an emissary of the Unseelie Court appeared with their offer, which you know about already. Part of a scheme on their part to suborn a human sorcerer, to make the Host more powerful in our world. It s a contest they have with
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the Seelie Court, their opposites in Fayre. Having a sorcerer at their beck and call beck and call would be a coup of sorts.\\ He shrugged. \\ They thought me a likely candidate.\\ Thomas realized he was trying to control the conversation out of panic, and that Grandier was allowing him to do it. Try to be a little less transparent, he told himself. You ve helped the man enough already. Grandier seemed to expect a comment, so he said only, \\ The more fools they.\\ \\ I thought so.\\ Grandier smiled a little. \\ It s not entirely their fault, the trusting creatures. They are accustomed to Fayre, which bends to their will. The mortal world has sharp edges, bends to no man s will, and events occur with fatal finality. Mistakes are not suffered. Evadne was pressing me to give up this game and
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go on to something more entertaining. something more entertaining. He was one of their self-proclaimed leaders, a very annoying character. He s dead now, of course. I rather thought someone might kill him eventually. And I meant to tell you, Kade escaped through the ring and is presumably in Fayre, at the moment.\\ That s one mercy. Thomas fought not to show relief and asked, \\ Why are you helping Denzil?\\ \\ The Duke has offered me what I want. A war with Bisra.\\ \\ We ve had a war with Bisra. It didn t turn out that well for anyone.\\ But things began to fall into place. Ravenna would never have agreed to another war. They had been the victors of the last long conflict with their mortal enemies to the south only by a bare margin. Even if Roland had
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if Roland had supported such a suicidal course, Aviler and the other High Lords and advisors would have prevented it at any cost. \\ There was a war,\\ Grandier conceded. \\ But I was not involved. And I have the Host.\\ Thomas thought of the monstrous turmoil in the undercellars. He said, \\ If you want to turn them loose on Bisra, be my guest, but why do you have to destroy us in the process?\\ \\ I have no intention of destroying Ile-Rien. But I will have to alter it somewhat. Denzil needs the war to cement his position as usurper. When word leaks out that Vienne is under a virtual state of siege by creatures of Fayre, Bisra will move to take advantage. They need Ile-Rien s wealth to maintain a balance of power with Parscia, of power with Parscia, on their southern border,
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and their Church fears any sorcery not under its control. Justifiably so. \\ When the landed lords of Ile-Rien realize Bisra is marshalling its forces to attack, they will support any central authority that has a chance of marshalling a resistance. The Duke of Alsene will be that authority. Oh, that won t be all. There is to be some document of formal abdication, signed by Roland. Under what circumstances, I don t know.\\ He looked over at Aviler, who had been listening in a kind of horrified fascination. \\ That explains your presence. Your position allows you to deputize the King s seal on state documents during an emergency when the King has been removed for his own safety. I doubt the originator of that particular tenet of courtlaw intended documents of abdication documents of abdication to be included in that category, and it would
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be laughed off if Roland s supporters took power again, but Denzil intends to keep all his options open.\\ Aviler looked away, his face grim. \\ I will not sign anything for Denzil, for you, or for the Prince of Hell himself.\\ Chapter Fifteen 185 \\ I know.\\ Grandier nodded seriously. He turned back to Thomas. \\ Once the Bisran army crosses the border, and are no longer protected by their priests defenses, the Host will help to harry them and they will be driven back. At that time, outrage against the Bisrans will be so high it will not be difficult to turn an army of defense into an army of an army of offense.\\ Thomas shook his head in disbelief. \\ The Host participates in this out of the goodness of its collective heart? What did you offer them, the destruction of Lodun? What
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arethey going to do when you don t keep up your end of the bargain?\\ Grandier looked up, surprised and pleased. \\ Oh, very good. Go on.\\ \\ Denzil s motive is plain: he has to own everyone and everything around him. The Host wants the death of as many human sorcerers as possible. And you want Bisra. And I d wager anything that you mean for no one to get what he wants except you.\\ \\ And how will I accomplish this?\\ Grandier asked softly, eyes alight. \\ I don t know. But I know. But I don t think you ll let them destroy Lodun.\\ \\ No, I would not let them do that.\\ For a moment his expression turned abstract. \\ Evadne was the one demanding I destroy Lodun. He is not a factor anymore.\\ Grandier hesitated, his face craggy and harsh in
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the candlelight. \\ I don t like Denzil; he is cunning and I will need help to manage him. But he will give me what I want, and so I must use him. Bisra will be struck by the might of your armies. Once their priests can no longer defend them from the fay, I can further the collapse. In time, there will be nothing left but to sow salt into the empty fields…and Bisra will cease to be. It will probably take many years, I know, but I know, but I have the time.\\ He looked thoughtful, then shook his head. \\ I regret the necessity of a long war that will have ill effect on this land, but I really can t see any other way to start the process of collapse. You will agree that an all-out conflict can be particularly devastating.\\ Thomas
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just looked at him. There was nothing to be said. Grandier was setting forces in motion he couldn t possibly control. The old sorcerer might never see his goal accomplished, but he would see years of destruction. Quietly, desperately, Aviler said, \\ What you are planning–dreaming–will never come to pass.\\ Grandier got slowly to his feet, as if the cold hurt his back. \\ I have ridden the tide of events for many years. I am quite capable am quite capable of guiding it now.\\ Thomas looked up at him, and knew any argument was useless, but he said, \\ You are mad. You re handing the kingdom to Denzil, and he doesn t give a penny damn for you or your plans.\\ \\ That remains to be seen.\\ In a tone of quiet rage, Aviler said, \\ I hope you burn in Hell with your
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damned fay allies.\\ Grandier chuckled. \\ I have already burned in Hell. You see the result. Heaven help us all if it happens again.\\ Thomas said, \\ Has Denzil noticed that anyone who gets in your way dies?\\ \\ I don t think so. Not yet, at any rate. But then, you re not dead, and you were certainly in were certainly in my way.\\ Chapter Fifteen Not nearly enough, Thomas thought. \\ That s only a matter of time, isn t it?\\ \\ It s what I m told.\\ Grandier regarded him silently, then said seriously, \\ There is one more thing. The Queen… The Dowager Queen Ravenna is dead.\\ Thomas felt the silence stretch, felt Aviler staring at him. Calmly he said, \\ You re lying.\\ 186 \\ Not about this. She was trying to protect Roland. She succeeded and destroyed several important members
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of the Host in the process.\\ \\ You re lying.\\ Thomas tried to stand and the chains jerked him back to his knees. He didn t notice. Grandier closed his notice. Grandier closed his eyes a moment. \\ No. There are some things I regret, but this isn t one of them. She was too dangerous.\\ And then he knew it was true. \\ You fucking bastard!\\ he shouted at him. Grandier turned to go and Thomas said, \\ You are a coward. You didn t have to do this.\\ His back to Thomas, Grandier paused in the doorway, but then continued out. Thomas sank back against the wall. Aviler said, \\ It is a lie, surely.\\ \\ No. No, it s not.\\ It was the last thing he said for several hours. Chapter Sixteen Chapter Sixteen 187 KADE LANDED AWKWARDLY KADE
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LANDED AWKWARDLY in the high velvet grass of the Knockma ring and rolled to her feet. She pressed her hands to her temples and tried to concentrate, feeling the lines of force radiating out from the ring around her. She reached out along them to open a ring in the maze court below the Old Palace. She opened her eyes and saw the green sward of Knockma, the menhirs standing around her in silent contemplation, and in the distance, the mist-shrouded column of the castle and its reflection. She snarled, shrugged out of her coat, and tried again. After four failures she knew it was no good; she couldn t form a ring inside the palace. What did Grandier do? He would have had to ward the palace against her, that would take… But traveling the rings from the rings from the palace to Knockma, to
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Aviler s house and back here, had distorted her sense of time s passage. By the sky, they had lost nearly an hour on coming to Knockma and returning to the city. Moving from the less powerful ring she had made at the High Minister s house and coming back, she could have lost more than that. Grandier could have begun the spells against her when he was alerted to her and Thomas s presence in the palace. It would not have taken long if he used the wards already in place. No time at all if he had used another keystone prepared earlier when he had first known she was coming to court. Kade knotted her hands in her hair until the pain stopped the rise of bile in her throat. She opened her She opened her eyes. Boliver was standing at the edge of
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the ring, watching her and scratching his bearded chin. He said, \\ What happened?\\ \\ They have him,\\ she said simply. His eyes widened a little. After a moment he shuffled his feet, then said, \\ What are we going to do, then?\\ \\ Wait here.\\ She scrambled to her feet, touched the power in the ring, and took that step that carried her away. The cold embraced her first. Kade had left her coat in the forever-spring of Knockma. She was outside the palace wall, near the Postern Gate where she and Thomas had got in earlier that day. The square with its broken fountain was still empty of life in the gathering dusk, the buildings staring down at staring down at her with gaping dark windows. Kade stepped out of the newly formed ring in the snow and moved to the gate, and the
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hair on the back of her neck rose. Cursing, she dug in a pocket for the last of the gascoign powder she had with her and rubbed it into the corners of her eyes. The wards rose up from the ground in front of her in a corona of light, stretching up and curving over the wall. He has put the wards back. High above, a razor-winged shadow dove out of the clouds, passed unharmed through the corona it could not see, and disappeared among the palace towers. That was a member of the Host. And it went through the wards. Kade raised a hand toward the light and saw the gooseflesh saw the gooseflesh spring up on her arm. And I can t. He turned the wards against me, to let the Host in and keep me out. Kade stepped back, and felt the awareness
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of the wards hostile presence recede. There was one other way in. She could go through the ring that already existed in the shattered remains of the Grand Gallery. Yes, that way, the trap. Chapter Sixteen Kade went back to the snow ring and took the turn that brought her into the Grand Gallery. The cold was no less bitter for the shelter of the walls. The huge hall was dark and silent and a wind flung snow through the broken terrace windows. 188 A winged fay with winged fay with blue skin and an angelic human face was sitting in the middle of the floor, picking its toes. It glanced up, saw her, and screamed. As it fled the room, Kade lifted a hand to touch the edge of the ring. Just above the surface, she felt the heat of hostile force. The old ward
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around the ring was tied to the same etheric structure as the wards around the palace. She could not step outside it. The floor was piled with chunky broken stone from the foundation, shattered wooden flooring, and dirt. She began to trace the outer edge of the circle, stepping up onto one of the larger pieces of foundation, leaping to the next. It took concentration. A recently formed ring would have hardly any mark on it at all. The Knockma Ring was ancient Ring was ancient and well used, but it was a still pool of power. This ring was a whirlpool of conflicting forces, stirred up like a hornet s nest by the Host s recent passage. It had originally been her mother Moire s work and had rested atop the polished wooden floor of the gallery. Dr. Surete had sealed it off with spells
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long ago, and the pressure of the wards had eventually pushed it down to this level, even with the foundation. After some moments Kade heard footsteps. She looked up to see Dontane and Grandier standing in one of the archways. Dontane was leveling a pistol at her. She smiled grimly. He fired, the blast reverberating through the room, echoing off the high sculpted ceiling. Kade didn t see the ball until it entered the ring s sphere of influence, sphere of influence, where it veered abruptly from its straight course and began to travel the ring s outer circle, orbiting around her like the philosophers claimed the sun orbited the earth. Grandier said, \\ Don t waste your shot.\\ He crossed the room to stand within a few yards of the ring s outer edge, and after a moment Dontane joined him. Kade had already resumed
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her halting progress around the outer rim. The pistol ball whizzed past her again, starting a breeze that stirred her hair. To Grandier, Dontane snapped, \\ What are you waiting for? Kill her.\\ \\ She isn t here,\\ Grandier said. \\ She is a breath away from a thousand other places, aren t you?\\ Without interrupting her progress, Kade glanced up at Dontane. \\ Come and \\ Come and get me.\\ He took an impulsive step forward, then hesitated, looking at Grandier. Ignoring him, Grandier said seriously, \\ I don t have to ask what you want here, Kade.\\ She had found the ring s pattern now and hoped her slight hesitation at the cardinal point would be put down to reaction to his remark. She said, \\ I want you dead.\\ \\ He s alive.\\ This time the hesitation was unplanned. She had not allowed
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herself to think Thomas might be dead, but from the sudden suffocating constriction in her chest, some part of her mind had recognized it as a very real possibility. She forced herself to step to the next rock. I shouldn t have come. This was what Grandier wanted, this was why this was why he had not sealed this ring against her. Now he could ask her for anything he wanted, and she would have to give it to him. She thought about fleeing now, but it was too late. She took a deep breath, and Chapter Sixteen 189 continued her progress around the ring. Her head was buzzing, and she was going to have to leave soon to find somewhere private to be sick. Dontane was watching his master carefully. Grandier said, \\ I want you to stay out of this, Kade.\\ She took another
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deep breath, but did not look up at him. \\ I know it won t be easy–\\ All the fear and the fear and panic inside her crystallized into an icy knot of pure rage. Without betraying her intentions by the flicker of an eyelash, she tapped the fayre power in the ring and released the orbiting pistol ball. Grandier staggered against Dontane, and the ball struck the far wall with a loud crack and a shower of plaster and dust. Grandier reached up and touched his right ear, smiling ruefully when his fingers came away lightly spotted with blood. Dontane had drawn his second pistol. \\ She missed you by a hair s breadth,\\ he hissed. \\ On the contrary, she hit exactly what she aimed at,\\ Grandier answered dryly, straightening up with an effort. \\ And I ll thank you not to toss her
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any more shot.\\ Kade was waiting for him to for him to look at her. When he did, their eyes locked for a long moment. Then Grandier said, \\ Very well put. I will not patronize you again.\\ Dontane swore. \\ Are you going to let this mad creature get away with that?\\ \\ Your appraisal wounds me to the heart,\\ Kade said softly, before Grandier could answer. \\ Believe me, I shall fall down in agony at some more convenient time.\\ \\ She knows my death will not affect the wards that keep her out, or the presence of the Host, or any of the other plans I have set in motion.\\ Grandier was speaking to Dontane, but his eyes went to Kade. \\ She has no choice but to cooperate.\\ There was a keening howl from outside the from outside
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the gallery, and a sudden eddy lifted a scatter of ice crystals from the floor. \\ The Host is coming,\\ Grandier said. \\ Perhaps you had better go. They will follow you.\\ \\ Will they?\\ Kade smiled. No choice, her thought echoed. But appearances are everything. The Host streamed in through the doorways, the bogles, the grinning mock-human fay, the distorted animals, the hideous inhuman shapes, flying, crawling or running, bringing the stink of death. Dontane wheeled to face them, involuntarily moving closer to Grandier. Kade waited until the first were almost to the edge of the ring, then stepped back into Knockma. * * * Thomas awoke leaning back against the wall, stiff and freezing. The candlelamp on the floor had burned low, a pool of a pool of tallow collecting in its base. An iron brazier had been placed in the center of the
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room and was Chapter Sixteen 190 putting out just enough heat to keep them from freezing to death. He was surprised that he was alive at all. He had remembered that lapsing into sleep with a head injury was often fatal. \\ Are you all right?\\ Aviler asked, watching him closely. His head hurt so badly he didn t think he could move it, but he said, \\ Whatever gave you the idea I wasn t?\\ Aviler was not fooled by this sally at all. He said, \\ Do you know where you are? Forgive my persistence, but we ve had this conversation had this conversation before.\\ \\ Oh.\\ Thomas watched the flicker of light over the sculpted ceiling for a moment. He remembered who was dead. \\ Yes, I know where I am. Unfortunately. How long was I out?\\ Aviler tried to shift his own
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position and grimaced in discomfort. \\ Several hours. I believe it may be near morning, but it s difficult to say.\\ Near morning of the third day since the attack. Not much time for travelers or refugees to carry word of the disaster. And if Ravenna was dead, what had happened to the rest of the court? Thomas tried not to care, and was surprised to find it impossible. There were Falaise and Gideon, Berham, Phaistus, his other men. If Denzil realized Falaise had betrayed what little she knew of his plans of his plans to Thomas, even if she had done it too late to be of any help… He saw that Aviler was trying to loosen the heavy iron spike that held his chains to the wall with an air that spoke of several hours familiarity with the process. Thomas shifted over enough to
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reach the peg holding him and started to work on it, for all that it felt absolutely immovable. Another Bisran War. All the heroes of the last terrible years of war were gone. All the famous names that had passed into folklegend and ballads were the names of the dead. Aviler the Elder had succumbed to illness or possibly poison; the Warrior-Bishop of Portier had been thrown from a horse; Thomas s old captain was killed at duty; Desero, who had been Renier s predecessor as s predecessor as Preceptor of the Albon Knights, retired and passed quietly away in the country; and all the others had been killed in later battles or by the weight of years. For the last year or so there had only been Ravenna, Lucas, and himself, and they had come into the legend only at its triumphant conclusion. Now there
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big man unfolded a square of paper. \\ This is a translation I had a priest do.\\ Thomas took do.\\ Thomas took the paper. \\ What language was it in?\\ \\ Old Church Script.\\ 23 Thomas read the first scribbled sentence aloud, \\ O Best Beloved ?\\ He looked up, puzzled. \\ To whom was it sent?\\ \\ Roland. But the priest said that s the proper way to begin an old riddle-song, which is what this is.\\ Where the music is not heard, There was a light not seen, There are barren hills home to multitudes, And dry lakes where fish are caught above a city s towers. Catch the incantation, solve the song. \\ The answer is a simple one: the Fay,\\ Renier Fay,\\ Renier said. There was only one person acquainted with Roland whose feelings would naturally express themselves
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in poetic forms of the past. \\ You know who this is from,\\ Thomas said, looking up at him. \\ The country folk are calling her Kade Carrion now.\\ Renier shrugged, uneasy. \\ I suppose we re lucky; she could have sent something that exploded or told the secrets of whomever picked it up.\\ Roland s older sister, the bastard princess who had never forgiven anything. Thomas tapped the rolled paper against his palm. \\ An odd coincidence, with Galen Dubell here. Ravenna decides to pardon the man who first told the bane of our lives that she was a witch, and the witch herself starts meddling again.\\ She had chosen her moment well. We have more We have more than enough to deal with from Grandier, and Kade is too dangerous to ignore. \\ She s been quiet for almost six months. Why now?\\ Across
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the room, a musician had taken a seat at the spinet and now played the opening verse of a popular new ballad, about a man who fell in love with a fayre queen and was taken away by her. He couldn t have chosen an air more inappropriate to the moment, Thomas thought. He said, \\ One hundred and ninety-seven days. I keep count. She might be in league with Grandier.\\ Though Grandier had killed to protect himself, and Kade was rather like a cat–if the mouse was dead it was no good playing with it anymore. But people change. Renier shook his head. \\ There s not There s not much else we can do. The sentry positions have already been doubled and tripled for Grandier s sake.\\ His eyes flicked up to meet Thomas s. \\ Dubell is going to tend the wards.\\ \\
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Yes, he is, isn t he?\\ Chapter Two \\ We ve nothing to go on.\\ Thomas handed him back the letter. \\ Watch him anyway.\\ 24 Chapter Three Chapter Three 25 AT THE FIRST creak of the door, Thomas was up on one elbow and drawing the main gauche from the belt hung over the bedpost. Then he recognized the man entering the room and shoved the long dagger back into its dagger back into its sheath. \\ Damn you, Phaistus.\\ The young servant shrugged and knelt beside the hearth to scrape the ashes out, muttering to the unresponsive andirons, \\ Well, he s in a mood.\\ Thomas struggled out of bed. Despite the high ceiling and the natural tendency for drafts, the room was almost too warm; daylight shining through the high windows was reflected dazzlingly off the whitewashed plaster of the walls. His scabbarded
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rapier leaned against a red brocaded chair and his other three civilian dueling swords hung on the wall, along with the heavier, broad-bladed weapons used for cavalry combat. He ran a distracted hand through his hair, working the tangles out, and said, \\ What s the hour?\\ \\ Nearly midday, Sir. Ephraim s outside. He said you wanted him. And Master him. And Master Lucas brought that Gambin fellow in.\\ \\ Good.\\ Thomas stretched and grimaced. A few hours of sleep had done little besides give his bruised muscles time to stiffen. While Phaistus banged things on the hearth, he found his trousers and top boots on the floor underneath the bed s rumbled white counterpoint and started to dress. \\ Clean that pistol.\\ The servant stood, wiping his hands on his shirt tail and glancing over the draw table where Thomas had left his wheellock
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and reloading gear. \\ Where s the other one?\\ Thomas grabbed up a pewter jug and threw it at Phaistus, who ducked, grinned, and went on with what he was doing. Phaistus had come to the Guard House as a kitchen boy, silent and terrified, but had grown out of grown out of it before his voice changed. \\ I obviously don t beat you enough.\\ Thomas went to the table and pushed back his sleeves to splash water on his face from the bowl there. Undisturbed, the boy asked, \\ Going to kill Gambin, Sir?\\ \\ It s a thought.\\ Deciding he could wait to trim his beard. Thomas picked up the scabbarded rapier and went into the small anteroom. Ephraim was waiting for him. He was a little old man, the pockets of his faded brown doublet and breeches stuffed with sheaves of paper,
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the ballads he sold on the street. His stockings were mud-stained and one of his shoes had a large hole in the toe. He grinned and pulled his battered hat off. \\ You wanted to see me, Captain?\\ \\ Someone Captain?\\ \\ Someone sent a packet of letters to the Dowager Queen through Gambin. I want you and your people to find out who hired him.\\ Ephraim rubbed his grizzled chin. The best of the civilian spies Thomas employed, Ephraim was discreet enough for the occasional official mission as well as for Thomas s own needs. \\ That could be difficult, Sir. That Gambin lad hires out to so many there s no telling whose business he s on today, and he mightn t have a reason to go back to the fellow, you know.\\ \\ Gambin s here now. I ll make sure he does.\\
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\\ Ahh. That s a different matter. The usual wages?\\ \\ A bonus if you find out by tomorrow.\\ Chapter Chapter Three \\ Oh, I can t make any promises.\\ Ephraim looked flattered. \\ But we ll do our poor best.\\ 26 Thomas left him and went down the staircase toward the clash of steel and loud talk from the large hall on the lower floor. The old, rambling house stood just inside the Prince s Gate, where it was dwarfed by the bulk of the King s Bastion and the Albon Tower. For seventy years the house had been the headquarters of the Queen s Guard and the property of whomever held the commission of Captain. The carved knobs topping the stairway s balusters were gashed and chipped from practice bouts up and down the steps, and the walls still bore the faint
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scars of faint scars of powder burns from more serious skirmishes. The Queen s Guard were all scions of province nobility or second sons of landed families, with few expectations of large inheritances. The requirement for membership was a term of service with a crown troop, preferably cavalry, and an appointment from the Queen. In general the Queen s Own were unruly and hard drinking, and carried on jealous and obsessive rivalries with both the Cisternans and the Albon Order. They were also the most effective elite force in a country where until a few years ago private armies had abounded; commanding them had been Thomas s only ambition for a long time. As he reached the second-floor landing, Dr. Lambe was just coming out of the archway that led into the other wing. Dressed in a stained smock, the apothecary was followed apothecary
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was followed by a young boy weighed down with various satchels and bags of medical paraphernalia. Thomas asked Lambe, \\ Did you see Gaspard?\\ \\ I did, Captain, and I m not sure I believe it.\\ Lambe adjusted the cap on his balding head. Apothecaries prepared the herbal remedies used by sorcerer-healers, and many, like Lambe, also made good physicians, even without any sorcerous skill. Healers learned in magic were in short supply everywhere but in Lodun, where the university drew them by the dozens. \\ What do you mean?\\ \\ The burns are scarred over already.\\ He shrugged. \\ I knew Galen Dubell had a reputation for healing-sorcery, but what did the man do?\\ \\ Whatever it was, he did it quickly. He used some things Braun had.\\ \\ Braun had.\\ \\ Dr. Braun s not so bad.\\ Lambe caught Thomas s expression and added,
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\\ He s not a steady sort, I ll give you that, Sir, but he has the makings of a fine practitioner in him. But this work of Dr. Dubell s… It would be an honor to hand the man bandages.\\ Thomas watched Lambe go, thoughtfully, then turned into the small second-floor council room where Lucas waited for him. The dingy walls were hung with old maps and a few tattered remnants of flags, some of which were trophies from the last war, while others were more recent acquisitions from the Cisternan Guard, who would undoubtedly give a great deal to learn where they were. In the glass-fronted bookpress were classical treatises on warfare, manuals of drilling, musketry, fencing, drilling, musketry, fencing, and tactics, The Compleat Body of the Art Military and Directions For Musters. Lucas, the First Lieutenant of the Queen s Guard, was leaning
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back in a chair, nursing a tankard, his boots propped up on the heavy plank table beside a wine bottle and another tankard. Gambin was standing in the corner in an attitude that suggested he wanted to be as far away from Lucas as possible, and his long face was sullen. Gambin was a spy as well, but without Ephraim s sense of professional integrity. He worked most often for the lesser lords of the court, and this was the first time Thomas had considered him anything more than a minor irritant. He was dressed in a red and gold slashed doublet, the peacock finery of a court hanger-on that was particularly hateful to the eyes after the eyes after a hard night and little sleep. Gambin said, \\ I ve business elsewhere, Captain, if you don t mind.\\ The bravado in his voice was Chapter
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Three unconvincing. Lucas raised an eyebrow. Thomas glanced at the lieutenant as he set his rapier down. Ignoring Gambin, he poured wine into the other tankard, tasted it, and winced in disgust. He said to Lucas, \\ Adijan 22? Are you mad?\\ Lucas shrugged. \\ It wakes me up.\\ 27 \\ It wakes the dead.\\ Thomas dropped into a chair and looked at the spy. He waited until Gambin s pale eyes shifted away from his, then said, \\ Someone gave you a package.\\ \\ They do. \\ They do. I m handy for that,\\ Gambin muttered. \\ This was for the Dowager Queen.\\ The spy licked his lips. \\ Was it?\\ \\ Was it?\\ Lucas echoed. \\ It was,\\ Thomas said. He drew the rapier from the fine black leather of the scabbard and out of the corner of his eye saw Gambin shift nervously.
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The hilt was unadorned beyond the inherent elegance in the shapes of the half-shell guard and the blunt points of the quillions, and the metal was worn smooth from use. Thomas ran a finger down the flat of the narrow blade, apparently giving all his attention to the shallow dents and scratches it had collected. \\ Who gave it to you?\\ \\ I m not saying I not saying I had any package.\\ Lucas pulled the packet of letters out of his rumpled doublet and dropped it on the table. Last night, after discovering that it was Gambin who had delivered the packet to one of Ravenna s gentlewomen, Thomas had given it to Lucas along with instructions to bring in the spy. Thomas held the rapier up and sighted along the blade. Despite last night s misadventures, it was still unbent. \\ Where d this
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package come from, then?\\ Gambin laughed nervously. \\ There s no proof I had anything to do with that.\\ Thomas looked up at him. \\ A Queen s word is not good enough?\\ he asked softly. \\ That s dangerously close to treason.\\ \\ I… That s…\\ \\ Who gave \\ Who gave it to you?\\ Gambin made the mistake of changing defensive tactics. \\ I can t tell you that.\\ \\ Can t ? Surely not can t, \\ Lucas pointed out. \\ Perhaps you mean shouldn t ? There is a distinct difference.\\ \\ I meant I don t know who it was; he had his man give it to me,\\ Gambin protested. \\ That s a pity.\\ Thomas laid the rapier gently back on the table and stood up. \\ You re no use to us, then, are you?\\ Chapter Three \\ So
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I ll be on my way, then.\\ \\ Yes, do that.\\ The spy hesitated, The spy hesitated, started to speak, then made a sudden dash for the door. Thomas caught him as Gambin 28 faltered in the doorway at the sight of a group of guards dicing in the next room. He slung the spy around and slammed him face first onto the table. Lucas deftly rescued the wine bottle and moved it out of the way. Gambin yelped, the cry escalating into a scream as Thomas twisted the spy s arm upward at an unnatural angle. He said, \\ Keep yelling. There s no one to hear you who gives a damn. Now I suggest you consider an answer.\\ \\ Look here, I… I ll find out who it is for you. I swear, he… I ve got friends that can find
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that can find him.\\ The spy s voice rose in desperation. \\ I think you re lying. Doesn t it seem like he s lying?\\ Thomas asked Lucas. Lucas shrugged. \\ Well, he is handy that way.\\ \\ No, no, it s the truth,\\ Gambin panted. \\ I ll find him.\\ \\ Are you sure?\\ Thomas put a little more of his weight on the man s abused arm bone. Gambin shrieked. \\ Yes, yes! I swear it!\\ Thomas let him go and stepped back. Gambin fell to the floor, gasping. He staggered to his feet, clutching his arm, and stumbled for the door. Thomas stood his chair upright and recovered his tankard from the floor. He gestured at the wine bottle Lucas was holding Lucas was holding protectively. \\ Are you keeping that all for yourself?\\ Lucas passed it to him as he took
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his own seat. \\ I thought it woke the dead.\\ \\ It does. That s what bad years are for.\\ He poured the tankard full and took a long drink. He resented wasting the time on Gambin, and wanted to get back to the problem of Grandier. The three prisoners they had taken last night had known nothing. The man who had hired them had worn a hood and a mask, which was a common practice for nobles and the wealthy slumming in low taverns, and they had not been able to decide if he was a Bisran. Which might mean Grandier spoke without an accent, that the man who had done the hiring had not been the sorcerer been the sorcerer but another confederate, or that the hirelings were too witless to have known him for Bisran if he had been wearing a Bisran cornet
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officer s tabard. We know nothing about Grandier, Thomas thought in disgust, except rumor and common knowledge. \\ I suppose Gideon relieved you at dawn.\\ \\ Yes, and he was disgustingly cheery about it.\\ Lucas sighed. \\ I can t recall being that energetic as a youth. Who s following Gambin?\\ \\ Ephraim, the one that pretends to be a ballad-seller.\\ \\ Oh, hiring out, are we?\\ \\ Had to. All the regulars from the King s Watch are still looking for Grandier.\\ \\ Grandier s a bad business.\\ Lucas picked up the packet of letters and glanced through it. \\ through it. \\ So you re having an Chapter Three affair with the Countess of Mayence?\\ \\ A long, torrid affair. I get very effusive about it in the one dated last month.\\ Thomas didn t mind his 29 lieutenant s raillery. Lucas was perhaps
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the first man Thomas had learned to trust entirely, when with the rest of the Queen s Guard they had been employed as couriers and intelligence-gatherers during the last Bisran War. Since they were both dark enough to pass for Aderassi, the two of them had once spent six days disguised as mercenaries from that small country in a Bisran cavalry encampment on the wrong side of a wide and rising river. The Bisran commander had staged executions of captured officers of captured officers of the Ile-Rien army as after-dinner entertainment, and the bounty he had offered for Queen s Guardsmen was enough to support a well-to-do merchant family for a year. \\ Yes, I particularly enjoyed that one.\\ The older lieutenant spread the letter out on the table to examine the signature. \\ It s a good forgery. I d think there were some truth
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to it if I didn t know you were too proper a gentleman to stand in line with the good countess s grooms and lackeys. I expect it s a lucky thing the Dowager thinks so too.\\ \\ It s hardly luck. If Ravenna had asked me if I d actually slept with the countess, I would ve had to tell her I honestly couldn t remember. Most of the court ladies are starting ladies are starting to look alike to me.\\ Thomas and Ravenna had not been lovers for more than a year, since her health had first begun to fail, and she knew that he had had other women since then. It hadn t changed anything between them; their relationship had passed that point long ago. The only woman she would have objected to was Falaise. Not too many years ago palace coups had
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ignited as quickly as fires in a dry summer; Ravenna could not afford to have the man who commanded her guard become attached to a daughter-queen who in many ways was still an unknown quantity, and who one day might like to rid herself of a dominating mother-in-law. But even though the letters had failed in their purpose, they were an annoyance at a time when Ravenna needed him free needed him free to help her, and not constantly guarding his own back. Thomas tapped the packet. \\ This was done by someone who doesn t know Ravenna.\\ Lucas nodded. \\ Someone who doesn t realize how little she appreciates people who trouble with her personal…\\ He paused and his mouth quirked. \\ Matters.\\ Thomas strongly suspected his friend had been about to say \\ affairs.\\ He let it pass and said, \\ It s more
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the sort of thing that would work with Roland. I wonder if our anonymous schemer plans to try it.\\ If some disgruntled courtier also tried to drive a wedge between Roland and his cousin Denzil in this manner, Thomas wished him luck, but it was far more likely this asinine trick was the brainchild of one of the Duke of Alsene Duke of Alsene s cronies. Inspired by a few casually dropped hints by Denzil himself, of course. Lucas looked thoughtful. \\ I wonder if it s been tried already.\\ \\ I d think the screams would have been audible even over on this end of the court. But there s no way to be certain.\\ \\ Surely Renier, the ideal of perfect knighthood, would know.\\ Thomas snorted. As the ideal of perfect knighthood, Renier was not without flaws. He was a skilled swordsman but tended
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to depend too much on his weight and size, using his greater strength to bowl over smaller opponents. This technique had some merit: there were many men who unwisely dueled with the Preceptor of the Albon Knights only to end with his footprints down their backs. Renier had backs. Renier had knocked Thomas down once in a friendly duel, and when the Preceptor had stepped in close to follow up, Thomas had retaliated by slamming him in the groin with the hilt of his main gauche. Renier didn t seem to hold it against Thomas, and his good humor never seemed to suffer. But Renier had a misguided perception of loyalty, and while he Chapter Three was not a bad influence on the young King, he was not a good one either. He often went out of his way to 30 repeat to Roland what everyone
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else in his hearing said, without regard for Roland s sensibilities or the safety of those whose careless words were later used against them. Thomas said, \\ The ideal of perfect knighthood thinks it perfect knighthood thinks it s his duty to tell Roland every word I say to him, and God knows what His Majesty would make of the question.\\ \\ Well, whatever you think.\\ Lucas got to his feet slowly. He was only a few years older than his captain, but he moved like a much older man when he was tired. The reflexes go, Thomas thought, looking at the rapier lying on the table. And that s that. Lucas said, \\ I m off to a well-deserved rest. Oh, there s that entertainment at court tonight. Will you need me?\\ \\ No, Gideon and I will take it. I ve doubled the duty
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list for it, what with all our other little troubles.\\ The acting troupes brought to court by the Master of Revels didn of Revels didn t ordinarily present much of a problem. Before they reached the palace they were examined for foreign spies or suspected anarchists, and the actors seldom turned mad and attacked anyone. \\ What sort of play is it?\\ \\ An Aderassi Commedia.\\ Thomas winced. \\ Well, it could ve been a pastoral.\\ He drained the tankard. \\ Oh, there s this. I d forgotten.\\ Lucas picked up a leather dispatch case from a pile along the wall and tossed it onto the table. It was stuffed with papers. Thomas looked at it without enthusiasm. \\ What s that?\\ \\ The King s Watch sent it over. It s some writings and copies of documents from Grandier s heresy trial in Bisra.\\
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\\ You re \\ You re joking,\\ Sitting up, Thomas pulled out the papers and thumbed through the pages of faded script. \\ How did they get it?\\ \\ A Viscondin monk who was traveling in Bisra attended the trial. He asked one of the officiating priests if he could copy the documents, and they allowed it. None of it was considered secret, or important, apparently. The King s Watch said it wouldn t be of any use, but they know how you are about these things so they sent it along.\\ As Lucas left, Thomas spread out the papers. The Viscondin Order was one of the few brotherhoods that could still cross the border to Bisra freely. The Church of Ile-Rien and the Church of Bisra had declared ecclesiastical war on each other when the bishops of Ile-Rien decided of Ile-Rien decided
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against purging the countryside of the pagan Old Faith. The Bisran Inquisition had started its persecution of sorcerers at about the same time, and the Church of Ile-Rien s objections to it had caused Bisra to outlaw most of the independent religious orders. The Viscondin monk had copied the court documents in the original Bisran. Thomas could read Low Bisran, but not the elaborate High Script used for their official documents. He doubted the monk had been able to either, and the King s Watch had probably not bothered. He sorted the unreadable documents aside to send to the palace clerks for translation. It was clear even from the monk s crabbed notes on the evidence that Grandier had been a victim. The nuns testimony had been confused and contradictory, and the details of how Grandier had how Grandier had enchanted them were vague at best;
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if they had brought such charges in Ile-Rien a magistrate would have had them all hauled off to Chapter Three 31 gaol for false witness and wasting the time of a law court. According to the monk, one nun had even tried to recant her testimony but the judges had refused to hear her. Grandier had been tortured with fire, the choking-pear, and the other devices the Inquisition used to obtain confessions of heresy. Despite this the sorcerer had refused to confess, and had been sentenced to the question ordinary and extraordinary. He had been subjected to both strappado, having been hoisted by his bound arms and dropped to a stone floor, and squassation, during which the executioner had the executioner had attached heavy weights to the victim s feet, then hoisted and dropped him to within a few inches of the floor until limbs had
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been dislocated. The scars would be visible on his face, his hands. Even if he s healed himself, he can t conceal that kind of injury. It would be a miracle if he could straighten his back or walk without limping, Thomas thought. Grandier disappeared from his cell a few weeks after his torture. A month later the priest who had brought the original complaint died insane. Within another month the bishop who headed the Inquisitorial Committee followed him. The witch-pricker, who had probably falsified the demon marks he had reported finding on Grandier s body during torture, died later in \\ terrible delirium,\\ as the monk described it. The account ended there, before the there, before the plague and the other horrific disasters now attributed to the outlaw sorcerer. If he wasn t working dark magic before the trial, Thomas thought, he is now. *
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* * The afternoon at the Mummer s Mask passed slowly as the tavernkeepers recovered from the night before and the acting troupe prepared for the night to come. Baraselli and his assistants sat at a big round table on the tavern s main floor arguing over which characters they would use tonight, while the actors lounged nearby feigning disinterest. Shafts of sunlight from the cracked windows glittered off the dust in the air and the various paraphernalia of the stage that had been hauled out for inspection. Silvetta, the actress who played one of the heroines, said, \\ What did you say your name was?\\ your name was?\\ There was a moment of hesitation before the woman who had been hired for the Columbine mask answered, \\ It s Kade.\\ She was sitting on top of one of the wine-stained tables, her legs folded beneath
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her skirt in a position that most women of better breeding would have found difficult if not impossible. The playing cards she shuffled were a tattered pack belonging to the tavern. \\ Really? Don t tell Baraselli.\\ Silvetta shuddered, rolling her eyes in a gesture better suited for the stage. \\ Bad luck, ill omens, that s all he talks about. But they don t give children that name here anymore, do they? Except in the country. Are you from the country?\\ \\ Yes.\\ \\ When did you learn Commedia?\\ \\ learn Commedia?\\ \\ I traveled around with one for a while and learned the Columbine mask. That was after I got out of the convent,\\ Kade told her. Silvetta leaned forward. \\ Why were you in a convent?\\ \\ My wicked stepmother sent me there.\\ \\ Oh, you re telling me a tale.\\ Personal questions
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out of the way, she said, \\ Do my fortune again.\\ Kade s brows quirked. \\ I doubt it s changed any in the past hour.\\ Chapter Three \\ You can t tell; it might have.\\ \\ You can tell,\\ Kade said, but began to lay out the cards for the fortune anyway. 32 Corrine, the 32 Corrine, the other heroine, appeared out of one of the back rooms carrying two dresses visible only as tumbled confections of sparkled fabric and lace. \\ What do you think, this blue or that blue?\\ Both women paused to give the matter serious consideration. \\ That one,\\ Silvetta said finally. \\ I think so,\\ Kade agreed. \\ What are you wearing?\\ Corrine asked her. Kade suspected she was anxious to make sure she wasn t going to be outshone by the woman playing her maid. With a shrug of
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one shoulder, Kade indicated the loose red gown she wore over the low-necked smock. \\ This.\\ \\ You can t wear that,\\ Silvetta objected. \\ I m playing a maid.\\ playing a maid.\\ She laughed. \\ What else should I wear?\\ The free fortune-telling had won Silvetta over completely. She said, \\ At least let me curl your hair.\\ Kade ran a hand through fine limp hair that the dusty sunlight was temporarily transforming into spun gold. Ordinarily she considered it the color of wheat suffering from rotting blight. \\ With an iron?\\ \\ Of course, you goose, what else?\\ \\ I hate that.\\ Corrine draped the gowns over a chair and said, \\ The thing to do is to attract attention to yourself. There s plenty of men there, gentlemen, lords, wealthy men, on the lookout for mistresses. Of course, it s not often you
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can get something permanent, you understand, but it s worth a go.\\ \\ a go.\\ \\ Really?\\ Kade asked, her tone a shade too ingenuous, but not so much so that the other two women suspected subtle mockery. \\ Much better than an actor,\\ Silvetta said, and jerked her head in the direction of the tavern entrance. The actor who played the Arlequin stood there talking to one of the tavern-keeps, having just come in from the street. He was darkly handsome, clean-shaven after the current fashion in Adera, and didn t look at all like the other actors who played clowns. After a moment, Kade said, \\ How well do you know him?\\ Silvetta answered, \\ He s new. Baraselli hired him last month when the other Arlequin died.\\ Kade glanced at her. \\ Was he an old man?\\ \\ Oh,
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man?\\ \\ Oh, no, all our clowns are young. He died of a fever. It was very bad luck.\\ The Arlequin had looked in their direction, and seemed to be staring at Kade. Corrine, who apparently had only one thought in her head, grinned and said, \\ He likes you.\\ Chapter Three 33 But Kade, who could read wolfish contempt in those dark eyes, snorted. \\ Hardly,\\ she said, and by sleight of hand managed to insinuate the card for future wealth into Silvetta s fortune. * * * Thomas had spent the afternoon checking on the progress of the inquiries he had set in motion last night, but the King s Watch had made little headway made little headway so far. He had wanted to sound out Galen Dubell on the subject of his one time student Kade Carrion, but last night hadn t seemed
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the right moment after the sorcerer s rescue from three harrowing days as Urbain Grandier s prisoner. Galen Dubell had moved into the late Dr. Surete s old rooms, and Thomas found him there when the afternoon sun was glowing through the windows and filling the high-ceilinged room with light. The old Court Sorcerer had needed this room when his eyes had started to fail; the multipaned windows in the west wall took full advantage of the daylight. Gold-trimmed bookshelves covered the other walls and a globe still shielded by its protective leather cover stood in the corner. The rest of the furniture was buried under piles of more books and a fine layer a fine layer of dust. When the servant led Thomas into the room, Dubell looked up from his writing desk and smiled. \\ Captain.\\ He was wearing a battered pair of gold-rimmed
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reading spectacles and open books were spread out on one side of the partners desk Dr. Surete had once shared with his assistant Milan. Thomas said, \\ I wanted to thank you for what you did for my man last night. He would have died if you hadn t healed him.\\ Dubell smiled. \\ You are welcome, but I don t think that is the only thing you came to speak about. Please be direct.\\ Well, well. Thomas leaned on a bookshelf and tipped his plumed hat back, finding himself more amused than discomfited. Directness was not something one encountered often one encountered often at court. \\ We ve had a message from an old acquaintance of yours. His Majesty Roland s half sister Kade.\\ \\ So that is it.\\ Dubell took off his spectacles and tapped them thoughtfully against the carved arm of his chair.
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For the first time he looked like a young man who had gradually grown old rather than the model of an aged wizard-scholar who had sprung fully formed out of the fertile ground at Lodun University. \\ Indeed, I know Kade.\\ \\ She was your apprentice.\\ \\ Not quite. I was the first to show her the uses for the talent she already had. A mistake I have already paid for. Ten years is a long time to be banished from the city of one s birth.\\ He shook He shook his head, dismissing the thought. \\ But you have had a message from her?\\ \\ Yes. It seems to suggest she s about to pay a visit.\\ \\ In person? That is odd. She usually sends tricks disguised as gifts, doesn t she?\\ \\ If you can call them that.\\ Kade s tricks ranged from
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why did Kudric flee?” “Oric found out I was tricking him. Maybe he tested a bottle. Who knows? He got knows? He got real poison from someone else.” Her voice became heavy with disgust. “When Oric decided to kill everyone, Kudric ran for it, the coward.” “Who planted the bomb? You?” “It wasn’t me!” she insisted. “Find a man named Vorkor, a chemistry student. He made Oric’s poisons and the bomb. We found out what he was doing, after the explosion.” She slumped. “You might as well consider me guilty. I want Alanora dead too. Just turn me in, and be done with it.” “Turning you in won’t me what I want.” “Which is?” “I want to meet the other people in your little conspiracy.” “So you can arrest them too?” “No, so I can make them a proposition.” Alanora worked in a side room of
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the Great Auditorium, one normally Auditorium, one normally used by clerks. It had only one door, and Grehn had two men stationed outside, on guard. She felt like a caged animal. But there were maintenance schedules to organize, and food to be distributed, and… as Grehn had said, she’d never get anything done if people kept trying to kill her. A smooth-running Caerelon had a chance at peace – and if guards were required, she’d live with them. When Beynor arrived, she was between meetings, relaxing with a drink and a pile of documents about food supplies. “I have a tale of conspiracy, irony, and incompetence to tell you,” he said. “I also know more about your father.” She sat back, and called to the guards. “We’ll be in private session. I’ll call if he tries to assassinate me.” Beynor assassinate me.”
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Beynor laughed and closed the door. Sytherek was past Tornaval, nearing the edge of the red mesa country, when he saw another dragon rapidly approaching from ahead. Even in the subdued light of a cloudy afternoon, she was magnificent – bright magenta highlights against polished copper, his eldest daughter, Myradda. “Father!” she exclaimed. 201 “Your mother is always sending people to find me!” Sytherek laughed. “Do I get lost so easily?” “We had a visitor at Crythamar,” Myradda said as she aligned her flight beside his. “I am not surprised. Tell me everything.” “A big blue-black dragon named Garthonnex arrived this morning, asking mother many questions. I don’t questions. I don’t think she likes him, and he wasn’t happy with the answers she gave. So he left.” “Where did he go afterward?” “Mother said you’d ask that question! Garthonnex went to visit someone named KhKhorrak.” Sytherek
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turned south quickly. “Return to your mother, and inform her that I will not be coming home yet. Tyreon is at risk.” “Why?” his daughter asked urgently. “KhKhorrak will tell Garthonnex about his recent conversation with me. Garthonnex will also learn from the turtle that Tohkay Ahtok has been investigating the kehklik. The See’ee’ah is in danger, because he knows too much about what Garthonnex has done.” “How is Tyreon in trouble?” “I told Tyreon to protect Tohkay, in a place where I saw no danger. Your brother is the product of my upbringing. He will upbringing. He will protect Tohkay. Tyreon is too young to fight an elder such as Garthonnex, but he will try.” “Would Garthonnex hurt or kill Tyreon?” “He might,” Sytherek said. “It is time you went home.” “I am coming,” Myradda said defiantly. “You are?” he asked, slightly amused. “Tyreon is
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my brother,” she said. “Mother told me to stay with you until you returned home.” She winked. Sytherek laughed. “Then let’s fly like we’ve never flown before. Today, you will learn something useful.” “What is that, father?” “That we can exceed our limitations. Come!” The Cloudwalker followed the river northwest. Dark, wild broadleaf forest bracketed the green waters; mountains lay to the northeast and east. The flight had been exceptionally 202 smooth; Norgrim 202 smooth; Norgrim was more relaxed than he’d been in weeks, enjoying the view. A flock of large white birds passed in front of the airship. His hat bumped against an overhead control, flipping a toggle. Swearing, he reached up and fixed it, keeping the left-front propeller from shutting down. It was not his normal hat; his favorite purple one was at Drakcaern, left behind in the flurry of events. In Caerelon’s library,
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he’d found a temporary replacement: A very nice brown hat with a tilted brim and a large black feather, perched on the bust of some fellow named Corleus. As a rule, people in Caerelon didn’t wear hats; the one in the library was an anachronism, worn by the first Warden to first Warden to have gone outside the mountain. When Alanora offered it to him, Norgrim was honored and didn’t hesitate. He liked hats. An unusual thud reached his ears from the main cabin. “Is everything all right back there?” he called out. There was no answer. He locked the controls, and strolled toward the back of the gondola. Between the rows of seats, someone lay on the floor. He rushed over, gently rolling the body face up. Tohmalla. Blood trickled from a bruise on her forehead. She was still breathing. Ripping a piece from his
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shirt, he folded it and applied it to the wound, holding it in place. “Vorkor!” he yelled. “Tohmalla’s been hurt. She must have fallen –” He heard footsteps, looked up, and saw the male human standing a dozen yards away, dozen yards away, holding something in one hand, smiling. With an almost casual move, Vorkor threw the object toward Norgrim. Norgrim, stood, pulled off his hat, and used it to snag the bottle from the air. Taking a look, he saw that it was a glass bottle, split into two sections containing different-colored liquids. “I was a flyball champion in my youth, you zekt!” Norgrim growled. Vorkor fumbled with a pouch on his belt, pulling out another bottle. “Oh no you don’t!” Norgrim took the bottle out of his hat and threw it at the man. Vorkor tried to catch it, failed, and burst into flames
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as the bottle shattered against his chest. Flames spread across the cabin floor. “Your army will never take Caerelon!” Vorkor yelled. He started to run around the deck, spreading the flames. “Oh spreading the flames. “Oh for the love of beer!” Norgrim said. He ran to the front of the cabin, pushing a blue button. Nothing. He pushed it again. Still nothing. Cursing himself for not checking the fire extinguishers, he pressed a different button, releasing one of the cabin doors. The airship wobbled slightly; air rushed into the gondola, fanning the flames. Vorkor laughed as he burned. 203 Norgrim charged, ramming his shoulder into the man’s midriff, knocking the chemist toward the open door. Vorkor teetered on the edge for a second, almost falling, yet grabbing the inside of the frame, cackling madly. The dwarf attacked, punctuating each word by driving a fist into Vorkor’s
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body. “There… is… no… “There… is… no… dwarven… army!” With the final word, Norgrim slammed his head against the other man. Vorkor went backward, lost his grip, and fell toward the forested hills below. Norgrim quickly patted out small flames in his beard. “What’s… going on?” Tohmalla’s unsteady voice said. “Vorkor tried to kill us,” said Norgrim. “No time! The control room! If you can!” He ran to the front of the ship. Tohmalla joined him, a bit wobbly. “We’re on fire,” she said dreamily. “No kidding,” Norgrim said. He started flipping switches right and left, turning dials. The Cloudwalker nosed down. “Are we crashing?” she asked. “No, we’re saving our asses.” He took one of her hands, putting it on a large red lever. “Lass, pull this when I say so. I need to manage the flight controls. When flight controls.
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When I say! Not before!” “What does it do?” “It opens all the doors in the main cabin. Hang on.” He pulled a knob, and the exits from the control room slammed shut. “We’re sealed in here now, lass. I apologize in advance if we die.” Norgrim brought the Cloudwalker over the river, and saw a long, wide stretch. The airship skimmed the water. “Now!” he yelled. Tohmalla pulled the red lever; the ship shuddered and bucked as Norgrim dropped the gondola into the river. Water sprayed across the windows, roaring; everything shook, and Norgrim worried that Tohmalla would lose her balance. She didn’t. “Now for the tricky part,” Norgrim said. He pushed the engines to full power; the furnace hummed violently. He turned the fans almost horizontal to the horizontal to the ground. With a dramatic shudder, the Cloudwalker lifted from the river, leaving a
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spray of water in its wake. As soon as the flight was stable, Norgrim opened the control room, and looked into the main cabin. Water sloshed around the room; a cool wind flowed in from the open doors. Black stains marked the walls and floor; the woodwork was damaged, probably beyond simple repair. The fires were out. “I’m too old for this much crazy,” Norgrim said. 204 The six boats moved too slowly for Kaylen’s comfort. Nothing could be done for it, of course; they sailed against the current, and the wind only blew so hard. blew so hard. He knew the logic, the math, and that knowledge did nothing to calm his impatience. An unbidden internal clock told him time was running out, but not for what. “If you keep pacing like that,” Jahsha said. “You’ll wear a hole in the deck. Don’t worry, I’m
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sure she’ll still be there when you get to Caerelon.” He chuckled. “I’m not worried about Alanora. Well, I am, but that’s not what’s making me twitchy. How close are we to the mills?” “Look.” She pointed. The tall shape of the mill and its water wheel was visible in the distance along the west bank. Kaylen was still amazed at how quickly Torin and his people had built facilities. The blacksmith had no love for Danelle’s heavy-handed tactics; Kaylen hoped Torin and his people would come people would come to Caerelon and help rebuild the village. If not, he at least wanted them to know what had transpired in recent days. “That’s odd,” Jahsha said. She was using her spyglass. “I don’t see anyone moving around. Looks quiet as a tomb. I don’t see any smoke from the smithy, either.” “Torin never turns off those
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forges,” said Kaylen. He whistled loudly. Hassakkor arrived from above, matching speed with the boat, hovering beside him. “Can you make a quick fly-over those buildings?” Kaylen asked. “Let me know how many people there are, and where.” The dragon nodded, and flew away. They watched him circle over the buildings a few times, and return. “I see no one in the open,” said Hassakkor. “I smell forty-seven, all in the tall building. Two armed men Two armed men stand at the door.” “Thank you,” said Kaylen, before cursing. “That’s a dozen people too many. How did they catch Torin off guard?” Jahsha shrugged. “I’ll bet they grabbed a kid or two. Easy enough, when no one’s expecting trouble. Once you’ve got a man’s family, you own him. Kaylen nodded. “Torin won’t risk their safety – and neither will we.” “I smelled one man that is
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familiar,” the dragon said. “I do not know his name, but he often accompanies the woman named Danelle.” “Her favorite boot-lick, Nogg,” said Jahsha with disgust. “We’re approaching the docks,” called a sailor. “I see someone coming to meet us.” 205 “Signal the other ships to keep moving,” Kaylen ordered. “We’ll stop and “We’ll stop and see what’s going on. Hassakkor, please, stay with the others.” The white ship slowed, and edged to the end of dock. Kaylen and Jahsha jumped off. Piles of cut lumber and stone sat nearby, under tarps, ready for transport. A figure came toward them from the direction of the mill. It was Omada, Torin’s wife. She walked quickly, casting glances toward the mill. “Hello!” Kaylen called. “It’s… it’s good to see you both,” she said, hesitantly “What’s wrong?” Jahsha asked. “Where is everyone?” “They’re fine. Just fine.” She looked again
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at the mill. “Uh… well, is there any reason you’ve stopped by? They’re… we’re very busy at the moment. I really should be getting back myself, you know.” Kaylen and Jahsha exchanged knowing glances. Omada was one of the most hospitable people most hospitable people they knew, always ready to chat or feed whoever came by. “There’ve been some unusual developments in Tornaval,” said Kaylen “We thought you might want to know what’s going on.” Omada shifted her feet nervously. “Oh! That. We know all about it Kaylen. Danelle has been so good to us… we don’t want to get involved. It would be best if you just moved on. Torin wants to keep things peaceful-like.” Jahsha was about the protest; Kaylen put a hand on her arm, and said, “That’s fine. Omada. We can talk later. Tell Torin I said hello, and that I understand.”
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Omada made her good-byes and hurried away. “They’re holding everyone, adults and children, in one place,” Kaylen said as they returned to the ship. “If we hit them too hard, who too hard, who knows what might happen. It’s too tight to risk using the dragons. Nogg knows that.” He sighed. “Damnit, it’s time we solved our own problems anyway.” Jahsha nodded. “So we get as many armed people as we can –” “No. A frontal assault will get hostages killed.” “Then what? We just leave them?” “No. I have a stupid plan.” A half hour later, Kaylen walked, alone, toward the mill, in the fading light of the day. He moved quickly, without hiding his presence. Sneaking wasn’t his plan. Of course, the plan he did have was somewhat… improvisational. And it relied on pissing someone off. 206 Kaylen entered the circle of
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buildings, calling of buildings, calling for Torin. He knew they didn’t have any crossbows; Jahsha had taken all of those to the dockyard, days before. Still, she might have missed one, or someone might throw a knife, or several people could charge him… “Torin isn’t available at the moment.” The voice was Nogg’s, who now appeared in the doorway of the mill, flanked by two others. “Go away, Kaylen. Your dragons can’t help you here.” “Who needs dragons?” Kaylen said. “I sent them away. It’s just me.” Nogg smiled. “I don’t believe you.” “Let these people go, Nogg. You know this is wrong.” “‘Wrong’ is selling out your race to monsters,” Nogg stated. “I’m here to keep you from taking what’s ours. Go away.” Kaylen brought his white sword to the ready. “You’re threatening unarmed adults and children. Come and children. Come on, Nogg,
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you’re old Navy! Surely there must be some honor left in you. Or has Danelle whipped it all out of you?” Nogg stiffly walked down the steps of the mill toward Kaylen. The other two men followed him. Kaylen just smiled. “Under section seven of the Maritime Acts, I demand that this dispute will be resolved by duel. You win, you’re rid of me. I win, your men agree to leave without hurting anyone.” Nogg shook his head. “Those laws died with Tramora.” “Laws are ideals we put on paper,” Kaylen replied. “What are your ideals? Are you an officer of the Navy, or one of Danelle’s toadies?” He saw the fire rise in Nogg’s eyes. The older man pulled his own sword, a long straight blade. “Let it be, then.” it be, then.” He looked back at the mill. “Sentinels! Should I die, release the
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prisoners unharmed and go back to Tornaval.” He turned his attention to Kaylen. “I always wondered what it would be like to fight the bashful hero of the Blue Isles.” “I’m no hero,” Kaylen said. “I never wanted to be one. I’m just doing what I have to do.” “As am I,” Nogg replied. White metal met grey steel. Night had come, and they fought in the light of two torches mounted on the front of the mill, casting long shadows. After a few moments, Kaylen had to admit that Nogg had greater technical skill – and a propensity for orthodox, text-book moves, perfectly executed, and very predictable. For several minutes, Kaylen played to Nogg’s comfort zone, looking for zone, looking for an opportunity to do something surprising. He misjudged one of Nogg’s feints, turned the wrong way, and received a cut across his left thigh.
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It staggered him for a moment; he managed a parry, and fell back. 207 “You’re getting weak,” Nogg said, wiping sweat from his face with a sleeve. Kaylen wobbled as blood ran down his leg. The tip of his sword dipped, wavering. Nogg charged; Kaylen spun at the last second, ducking under Nogg’s broad swing, spinning to slash his opponent hard, across the lower back. Nogg collapsed against a pile of logs, rolled, dropping his sword. “This wasn’t necessary,” Kaylen said, walking slowly toward the prone man. “Yes it was,” Nogg said as he died. Hearing movement, Kaylen Hearing movement, Kaylen looked to see several of Nogg’s men eyeing him. “He’s dead,” Kaylen said. “You heard him. Leave. Go home.” “I don’t think so,” said the biggest man. “This just means his job is open. Danelle will appreciate whoever brings you down, traitor.” “I’m so sick
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of that word,” Kaylen said. “So am I.” Jahsha stepped into the light, long knives in each hand. She was joined by two dozen others, dwarves and humans. “Unlike Kaylen, I don’t give a rat’s ass about rules,” she said. “If you hurt anyone else, I’ll personally make sure you each die very slowly, chewing on your own severed genitals. I suggest a hasty retreat.” The sentinels looked at each, and hurriedly disappeared up the road toward Tornaval. Kaylen’s leg gave out; he fell, heavily. “That was a “That was a stupid plan,” Jahsha said, rushing to his side. “It worked,” Kaylen groaned. “That’s all that matters.” People emerged from the mill. A huge man and Omada ran to Kaylen. “You didn’t get killed on my account, now did you?” asked Torin, kneeling beside the injured man. “Nope,” Kaylen replied. “I’m afraid I’ll live to do
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more stupid things.” Omada examined the cut on his leg, and bound it with her apron. “We’re going to need to put stitches in that,” she said, kissing him on the forehead. The next morning, Kaylen sat on the mill’s front porch, his injured leg stretched out. Dorna had come from the ships, bringing her collection of ointments and poultices, but they seemed only to convert pain to itching. At the moment, she sat next she sat next to him, along with Omada. “Why does it always have to be so hard?” Torin asked. He stood in the doorway, towering over everyone. “Hell if I know,” Kaylen said. “Maybe it gets easier someday.” Torin sighed. “We worked hard to build this place, damnit. I don’t want to give it up.” 208 “We’ll make sure your next place is permanent.” Several children ran past, chasing colorful insects.
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Their laughter put smiles on everyone’s faces. “What’s that?” Omada asked, pointing upward. “Norgrim?” Dorna asked eagerly. A great grey lozenge rode the sky to the south. “He’s a friend.” Kaylen said to Omada; the three words didn’t feel as tired as they had in the past. He leaned back, closed his back, closed his eyes, and hoped it was all over. Alanora stood, as she had for many minutes, in a cool, dry room, vaguely lit in blue, looking at her father. The cold room had once stored food for construction workers and dwarves as they carved Caerelon from the volcanic core. Now, the body of the city’s fallen Lord lay on top of a simple table, wrapped in an ornate cloth, only his head open to view. She found it comforting that his face had not been damaged by the long fall. She wanted
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the eyes to open, the mouth to speak comforting words, to be the man she’d known as a small child. This was not what she’d hoped for… the tears flowed, unbidden. “Alanora?” came Beynor’s voice. came Beynor’s voice. He’d left her alone for what felt like hours. “They’re here.” Turning away from her father, wiping her face dry, she saw a dozen people in the doorway, almost like ghosts in the off-color, pale light. They were men and women; she recognized some, and not others. “Tears?” one of them, a tall, balding man asked. She recognized him as Sonak, a former officer in the Watch, the man who had arrested and beaten Kaylen. Reports of his death in the riots had obviously been wrong. “He is my father,” Alanora said quietly and firmly. “You killed him.” “He killed himself.” “I love a good debate,” said Beynor.
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“Please, continue.” “What is there to discuss?” Alanora asked. “This isn’t about my father’s death, it’s about what all of you didn’t gain you didn’t gain from it. Kudric would have rewarded you all when he seized power. Only it didn’t happen that way, did it? Kudric died a coward’s death, and now none of you have anything.” Many in her audience looked uncomfortable, casting quick glances at each other. 209 “Kudric would have kept this city safe,” shouted Sonak. “He would have restored our traditions. You bring aliens and freaks into our midst, and break our people apart! You’ve sold our souls to the dragons that slaughtered our ancestors!” “I’m letting our people be more than they have been,” she said. “Dragons are no longer our enemies. We have new friends. Your soul is quite safe, I assure you.” “Lies!” “Believe what you
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you.” “Lies!” “Believe what you will,” Alanora said. “I offer amnesty to all of you, no questions asked. Go back to your lives, in peace. The killing must end, for everyone’s sake.” “How many have you killed?” Sonak asked sharply. “How much blood have you shed for your seat of power?” “I carry every death to my grave,” she shot back. “People have comfortable, pleasant lives because, sometimes, another person is willing to live with the nightmares, and do what is necessary. My nightmares will likely never end, but that’s small price to pay for the people of this city.” The people facing her were quiet. Finally, Sonak stepped forward, a short blade in his hand. “I’m unarmed,” she said, holding her arms wide. “Go ahead, kill me. If one more death brings peace to brings peace to Caerelon, then let’s have it!” Sonak
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charged her. He covered half the distance before his head separated from his shoulders; the body slumped, the head rolling into a corner; blood spattered darkly across the floor and a wall. Beynor wiped his blade on the dead man’s clothes. He smiled at Alanora grimly. “As you said, sometimes we do what’s necessary.” The others stood stunned. “This war is over,” said Beynor. “Come back to civilization, or remain barbarians to be exterminated. Your choice. Just remember: I’ll be the one hunting the barbarians.” He gently picked up Oric’s body from the table. “My lady, let’s put your father to rest.” The rebels parted as Beynor and Alanora walked through the door, watching as the pair disappeared in the murkiness of the tunnel. After some time After some time and conversation, they followed. Sonak’s body lay forgotten. For the first time, Jennur heard the whispered
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words clearly. Who do you serve? 210 “Who said that?” asked Lorka, leaning on his shovel. Sweat soaked his dirty robe and dripped from his forehead. They’d spent the day before moving old masonry and pieces of rubble from where they had spent the current day digging. The soil was sandy and gritty, fortunately dry; it was still grinding physical work, something he found distasteful. More than once, he’d considered quitting. The steely, intense look in the bishop’s eyes kept him digging. The other men looked at each looked at each other. “I dunno,” one of them said. “Kinda whispery, wasn’t it?” “What’s that?” another asked, pointing. The other four men scrambled out of the pit, leaving Lorka alone. He turned around to see what had frightened them. The dirt had slumped to reveal part of a heavy stone slab. Lorka’s damp skin reflected the flickering
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yellow-green glow emanating from runes and designs carved into pale white rock. He backed away, eyes wide. “Our work is almost done,” Jennur declared. “Uncover the stone!” The workers hesitated. “This is our salvation! Damn you, dig!” Who do you serve? Lorka and the other diggers dropped their tools and ran. Cursing their weakness, growling about fools, Jennur climbed into the pit, picked up one of the shovels, and attacked the dirt remaining with a madman’s intensity a madman’s intensity and fixation. Rivulets of sweat dripped into his eyes, stinging; a large splinter in his thumb was a momentary distraction. He pulled it out with his teeth, spit is aside, and continued his feverish excavation. Who do you serve? The whisper was louder this time, clearer. He stepped back, leaning on the shovel, breathing heavily. He’d cleared most of the slab’s face now. Who do you
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serve? “Humanity!” Jennur yelled. “I serve humanity!” A moment of silence. Jennur swayed, dizzy; his ears buzzed; his eyes ached. The sensation passed. The lighter grew brighter, moving quicker. The slab hummed, and then faded away, revealing the entrance to a large room, dark, yet lit with faint pools of brilliant color. Come to me. Jennur tossed the shovel away, and walked inside. His walked inside. His eyes adjusted quickly. The walls were lined with small alcoves, each containing a cluster of glowing crystals. Between the alcoves were glass-doored shelves. He examined one closely, and found it sealed with a 211 rubbery substance. Behind the glass, he saw books, unidentifiable objects, and containers of unknown substances. Come to me. Jennur continued walking the length of the room. The far end was illuminated by a single, pale, pure-green light. Shapes resolved into forms; it wasn’t until he
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was very close that a human figure became recognizable, seated in a large throne-like chair. Jennur stopped. Do not be afraid. Entranced, he stepped forward, examining the figure. Dried, clinging skin, wizened limbs, empty wizened limbs, empty eye sockets – it was a corpse, desiccated by the ages. Its right hand rested beside the chair, atop the dead figure of a large animal, some sort of reptile. Jennur’s attention, however, was captured by what the man-corpse held in its left fist – a tall, simple staff, the shaft smooth metal, the headpiece made from a single, large, glowing green crystal. As he stared at it, the crystal brightened. We have much to discuss, champion of humanity. Danelle sat at her table, eating an uninteresting meal, alone in her house. She couldn’t wish her loneliness away, nor could she banish the unwanted questions that nagged her. Someone
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knocked on the door. It was too late for casual visitors; it was too soon for Captain Nogg to Captain Nogg to have returned from his mission to the mills. For a moment, she considered ignoring whoever it was. They knocked again. “It’s late,” she called. “Come back in the morning.” “I am Bishop Ott,” came the familiar voice. “We must talk.” Sighing, she stood and opened the door. Jennur was dirty, dust and filth on his clothes, smudges on his face, the faint smell of earth around him. He held a tall staff, topped in a dull green crystal. She didn’t recognize it. “As I said, it’s late,” she told him, feeling uneasy. “Can this wait until morning, when you’ve had a chance to clean up?” “No, it cannot,” Jennur said firmly. He walked brusquely around Danelle, into her house. “You can’t –” “I will
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explain,” Jennur said firmly, talking over her. talking over her. “It is very important.” She slammed the door, prepared to vent all of her frustrations on the fanatic. “Something remarkable has happened,” he said, before she could start her diatribe. “I found a legacy from our ancestors.” 212 “That staff?” she said dismissively. “Not very fancy. So you found a pretty bauble for yourself. Congratulations. Is that worth disturbing my evening?” Jennur laughed lightly, yet it sent a chill down her spine. “You understand so little,” he said. “Tell me, magister: How old are you?” “What?” she asked. “I will explain,” Jennur said calmly. “How old are you?” “Forty one, if you must know,” she said, shifting uncomfortably in his gaze. When Captain Nogg returned from the mills, she’d have mills, she’d have Jennur and his acolyte… removed. “Older than optimal, but
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opened her eyes,
opened her eyes, and forced a smile. “I’m sorry to be a bother,” she said. “I don’t know if anything is wrong, but the baby doesn’t feel right.” Jahsha turned to Kaylen. “Can you find those priests and see if they’re useful for anything? You’ll find them just beyond the wreck, unless they’ve wandered off. There must be something they can do besides pray.” “On my way,” Kaylen said as he turned and started trotting down the beach. Just past the bow of the ferry, he found four people in colorful hooded robes, three sitting, facing each other, the other standing in their midst. They were all droning softly, the words indecipherable. Kaylen waited a few moments, and then said loudly, “We need a doctor. Do any of you have experience dealing have experience dealing with pregnancies?” The chanting stopped, and the standing figure turned to
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face Kaylen. In
face Kaylen. In the shade of the hood, a thin face with bright eyes peered at Kaylen, in a manner that was reminiscent of an angry grey-and-purple dragon. “I am Bishop Jennur Ott, Rector of Rhysthyn Academy,” a gravelly voice said from beneath the eyes. The man pulled back the hood, revealing a wrinkled, bearded face, a 27 colorful triangle tattooed on his forehead. “We’re busy praying for guidance. Do not disturb us.” “We have a very pregnant woman who needs aid,” Kaylen stated. He addressed the seated monk in blue. “You’re part of the Kiran Order, right? Have you studied medicine?” The figure turned The figure turned its face up, toward Kaylen, and the hood slipped back, revealing a young woman, her bright blue eyes framed in a freckled face and wavy brown hair. “Yes, I have,” she said, slowly standing. “Zarah, stay!” Jennur snapped.
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“I am not
“I am not your pet,” the woman replied, with surprising force. Jennur grabbed Zarah’s arm, pulling her violently toward him. “I’ve forgiven your insolence too many times, child. Defy me again, and I’ll drag you before a tribunal – ” He stopped with a guttural noise. Kaylen’s sword pressed against his throat. “Let her go,” Kaylen said in measured tones. “Your tribunal is dead. And I don’t have time for puhtahks who hurt women.” Slowly, the bishop released Zarah’s arm. She walked quietly and deliberately away, not looking at either man. Kaylen pulled his sword pulled his sword away from the bishop, but held it ready. “You will regret this,” Jennur spit, rubbing his neck. “How dare you threaten me! May Simer the Just have mercy on you.” His sharp eyes tried to burn a hole into the sailor. “He already has,” Kaylen smirked. Without waiting
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for a reply,
for a reply, he followed the retreating blue monk. “You shouldn’t have done that,” the woman said as Kaylen caught up with her. “The bishop is a vindictive man. I do appreciate your gallantry, though.” She extended a hand toward Kaylen. He was surprised at the strength of her grip. “And your name is?” “Kaylen. Thanks for helping, Zarah.” “Show me the woman in distress, and I’ll do what I can.” “One problem solved,” Jahsha said, as she and Kaylen left Seedra’s resting left Seedra’s resting place, leaving Zarah to work quickly and soothingly. The pair neared the ferry; Kaylen saw that it was in worse shape than he’d expected. One side of the hull had collapsed inward, flattened against the sand; the keel was obviously broken in several places, the decks canted and twisted at troublesome angles. Many people were working to remove the cargo,
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which had all
which had all tumbled into a chaotic jumble. In one compartment, a pudgy man defiantly stood by two tangled wagons, arms crossed, chasing away anyone who approached. “Leave!” the man ordered as Kaylen and Jahsha approached him. “These are my goods, and you’ll keep your hands off of them, thank you very much.” 28 Jahsha ignored him, Jahsha ignored him, and walked to one of the damaged wagons, looking under its canvas covering. When the man moved to intercept her, Kaylen stepped between them. “I’ll report this to the highest authorities, you’ll see!” the man cried. “You can’t just poke about in a man’s possessions, you know. Not without consequences.” Jahsha whistled. “Jackpot,” she said. Reaching under the canvas, she pulled forth the stock of a crossbow. “Do you have all the parts for these? And quarrels?” “Put that back!” the man screeched. “Answer the question,”
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said Kaylen. “Mister…?”
said Kaylen. “Mister…?” “Yohan Andus, if you must know,” was the reply. “I don’t care what anyone else thinks. Your friend has no authority here. None.” “Actually, I do have authority,” Jahsha said. “Under the Maritime Acts, a duly registered ship’s captain has the right to declare right to declare martial law for the protection of people and goods.” “That applies to pirates,” Yohan said indignantly. “I obviously am not a pirate.” Jahsha pulled a black metal cross arm from the wagon and fitted it to the stock. Sighting the weapon, she said. “No, you’re probably not a pirate, but I wonder who was going to buy these. I don’t see any tax stamps.” She lowered the weapon, and her smile was not friendly. “How dare you! I am a legitimate business man.” “With a load of weapons in boxes marked ‘kitchen utensils’.” Yohan stammered, “Those
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are… uh… they…
are… uh… they… uh… were second hand crates. I was just saving a bit of cash, you know, maximizing my profits. I saw no need to change the labels.” “Uh-huh,” said Kaylen. “And now you’re going to profit by donating these to donating these to the local defense.” “How will I profit from that?” Yohan asked sourly. “I won’t throw you to the incoming army of carnivorous bugs.” “Ah,” Yohan said. “I see your point.” The journey was not a long one, particularly for a dragon. He’d made this flight many times, more often than anyone other than a dragon could count. For more than a hundred thousand days, he’d come to this place, and he was determined to return every day for eternity. He would never be able to go home, but he would always remember it. On this day, the ravaged mountain side lay
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blanketed in late
blanketed in late spring snow. Trees had grown in the talus, tall pines that looked black against the white and pale white and pale grey. Large black birds fluttered up 29 and away as the dragon slowly circled. He finally perched on a flat piece of granite that angled up from one side of the ruin. “Hello, my love,” Symurall said. He knew there was no life beneath the rocks – his people had searched and dug and pawed through the rubble, in a vain hope of finding his beloved Kahshiki. Even though they could not feel her presence, they had tried, until Symurall himself had finally ended the search. Now only he and Kyazura came here; other dragons avoided the area, unwilling to face a reminder of their potential mortality. “Humans have come again,” Symurall said, in a soft voice a
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soft voice he
soft voice he only used in this one place. “Cast on our shores by a disaster. Helpless.” He paused, and watched the clouds for a moment. “I am going to Sanctagora, to a gathering, to decide the fate of these newcomers. I wish you were here to guide me. The hatred still runs deep, dear one. Very deep.” He stretched out his feelings, his senses, and sought Kahshiki, knowing that he would not find her, just as he hadn’t found her uncounted times before. But he had to try. Giving up was not in his nature. “I know you would tell me to let go of the hate,” he said. “I do not know if I can.” After a while, he curled up, and went to sleep in the graveyard of his hopes and dreams. “Even with the “Even with the weapons that louse was hiding,
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we’re in trouble,”
we’re in trouble,” Jahsha said. “I doubt most of these people have ever held a sword, let alone a crossbow.” “At least crossbows are simple,” Kaylen replied. “We can start training people tomorrow.” “We’ll have a panic as soon as we tell them about the kehklik.” “We can’t build a fort in secret.” They walked to a nearby fire. With the arrival of dusk, people were gathering to cook fish. For a time, Kaylen stopped worrying about pending battles, and enjoyed casual conversation with strangers. As the evening darkened, his disquiet grew with each friendly person he met. These weren’t soldiers or adventurers – they were shopkeepers, farmers, merchants, and even members of a traveling orchestra. a traveling orchestra. So many questions; he wondered where the answers would come from. He felt a pair of eyes regarding him. He’s noticed the eyes before, several times during
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the day, almond-shaped
the day, almond-shaped grey ones, belonging to a tall, slender, dark woman with wild black hair. Normally, he’d have taken her attention as a compliment, but something about her was unsettling. 30 “If you’re going to stare at me, at least say hello,” he finally said to her. The woman continued watching him, a slight movement of her eyes the only sign she’d heard him. “She can’t answer you,” Jahsha said. “She’s mute.” The woman held a hand over her throat, and nodded. “We found her just west of here, late of here, late last night, walking along the beach,” Jahsha continued. “She’s been a godsend, voice or no voice. The water collector over there was her idea; we’d have run out of fresh water without it.” “Thank you,” Kaylen said to the dark woman. She gave Kaylen a hard look before jumping up and disappearing
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into the darkness.
into the darkness. Jahsha left moments later, called away by Fennric to deal with issues aboard her ship. Kaylen leaned back, wishing he could see the stars. Momentarily, he thought he saw a dragon-like form move across the near-black clouds. He wondered which dragon it was. Sunrise warmed Symurall, and he awoke to the squawking of black birds. He’d dreamt of Kahshiki, as he always did. After a stretch, he a stretch, he said good-bye to her, and flew southwest until he reached the wetlands of Dybwood. There he found a herd of large herbivores, several of which became his breakfast. After that, he slowly drifted south, coasting on strong thermals blowing down the great valley. Even at that leisurely pace, he would be early for the gathering, as intended. As the one who had called the meeting, it was his duty to thank the others
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for coming, and
for coming, and set the tone for their discussions. As he flew, blue-green swamp became lake country, which evolved into dry hills around a high, vast plateau. At the northern end of the heights lay the ruin of a city, still called Sanctagora by the dragons who now used it for their own purposes. Symurall had seen humans build the humans build the city; he had watched it grow, becoming a great center of learning, including the arts of magic. Then he’d burned it to the ground, utterly blasting the place into rubble, in an act of self-preservation and revenge. Soon after, the kehklik had come, wiping away the survivors… now the city was an empty memorial to rash actions, the nexus of protocol. In the great town square, surrounded by the rubble of their mistake, the dragons would meet and talk and decide. Symurall landed
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next to a
next to a magnificent – but dry – fountain. Nearby, an old yellow-white dragon rested atop the remains of a broken building. “It is good to see you, Symurall,” said Voranytchi, an honored elder who was twice Symurall’s age. “I hear we have momentous events to discuss.” He chuckled deeply. He chuckled deeply. “Later, 31 maybe I can share my latest poem with you. I believe it rivals your father’s best work. Oh – someone is waiting for you.” “Indeed,” Symurall replied. He’d already sensed the other dragon. “I was on my way home,” Sytherek said as he emerged from behind a building. “One of Kyazura’s brood intercepted me, and told me of the meeting here. I should have anticipated the need for such a gathering. You and I have an opportunity to talk, before the others arrive.” Symurall shook his head. “No. We do not
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make such decisions
make such decisions alone, or even in pairs. We wait for the gathering.” “I disagree, brother,” Sytherek replied. “You and I suffered immeasurable losses suffered immeasurable losses at the hands of those fiends. The others do not understand.” Symurall’s eyes smoldered, his tail slowly swishing behind him like a giant, angry snake. “No, they cannot,” he said. “We will still wait for the others.” “As you wish,” Sytherek replied. The grey-and-purple dragon curled up, appearing to sleep. Symurall and Voranytchi watched, silent. Kaylen walked among dunes, accompanied by laughing birds. The morning had not gone well. After an early breakfast, the survivors had gathered to discuss what needed to be done. At Jahsha’s insistence, he’d told his story to the crowd, leaving out distracting details and focusing on the imminent kehklik threat. It was painfully obvious that many people did not believe the tale;
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others the tale;
others the tale; others were frightened, and a few seemed indifferent, almost bored. In frustration, he’d simply walked away, until he could no longer hear raised voices. Unable to be aimless, he chose to explore the perimeter of the camp, studying the lay of the land. The line of sand hills was backed by open scrubland. Standing atop a fallen tree trunk, he scanned the area with satisfaction. The kehklik wouldn’t be able to move on the camp without being seen. At least he would know the enemy was coming. The world was quiet. Suddenly quiet. The birds were gone. He spun, sword drawn, scanning for trouble. The log beneath him shifted slightly. 32 Sand erupted with a shriek. with a shriek. Kaylen shielded his face while slashing wildly; his blade glanced off a hard object, then connected and dug into something substantial. Pulling
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his blade free,
his blade free, one eye clear, he aimed for what seemed to be its head. The kehklik collapsed and twitched in a pool of smelly orange blood. Catching his breath, Kaylen shook the rest of the sand from his face and examined his attacker. It was certainly a kehklik, with the same insane head as the one that haunted his nightmares – but this creature was different. It was smaller, with more legs, arrayed along the side its body. The overall shape was long and narrow, almost worm-like. Two huge pincers graced its face. Burrowers, he said to himself. Tohkay had mentioned them. He started back toward the encampment, focusing on the focusing on the ground, looking for any movement. An odd noise, like the buzz of a bee, suggested that looking up might be a good idea. He did. Three shapes rapidly flew toward him.
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Pale shapes, difficult
Pale shapes, difficult to see against the sky. They were not birds. Kaylen quickly sought any shelter, and saw none. “Damn you!” he called out, readying his blade. He hoped they would dive to attack him. If they could hit him from the air… he cursed himself for leaving camp without a crossbows. A flier bleated and spun into the ground, a long arrow protruding from its side. A second suffered a similar fate to the first. The remaining one dove at Kaylen, spitting. He jerked his head aside, and his cheek burned. A sweep of his blade severed one of severed one of the creature’s legs, but didn’t slow it down. Climbing, the kehklik turned to make another pass at Kaylen; again it spat, and a black, tarry glob splashed against his leg. The cloth smoldered. Before he could swing, the attacker flew up and
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circled away. “Get
circled away. “Get down!” a female voice called out. Kaylen dropped flat on his stomach as the kehklik came at him again. He heard the twang of a bow, and barely had time to cover his face as the sand in front of him erupted. After a second, he opened his eyes, and saw a kehklik’s head only inches away, an arrow through one of the mirrored eyes. “You can get up now,” the woman said. “They’re dead.” He slowly rose to his feet and saw the “mute” woman kneeling “mute” woman kneeling nearby, examining the body of a kehklik. She’d changed clothes since he’d last seen her, into brown leather and dark cloth, a large quiver on her back, a long, thin black bow in her hand, a short sword and knife hanging from her waist. “You don’t have two or three days,” she said.
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Her pronunciation of
Her pronunciation of Erashi was odd, the vowels too aspirated, the constants clipped sharply. “Tonight. They’ll be here tonight.” She looked at him. “The correct response to having your life saved is ‘thank you’, by the way.” 33 The sand around her feet exploded. The jaws of a burrower clamped around her calf; Kaylen lodged his sword in its skull, pinning it to the ground. Its jaws sprang Its jaws sprang open. The woman pulled away, cursing loudly. “Now we’re even,” Kaylen said, twisting his blade, just to be certain it was dead. “So who are you, and why didn’t Norgrim tell me about you?” “My name is Alanora,” she said. She pulled an arrow from a dead kehklik and returned it to her quiver. “Norgrim is just keeping my secrets.” “Like your ability to speak?” “If I’d have spoken, people would have known I wasn’t
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one of you.”
one of you.” “You’re the one who was watching me at the dragon’s lair.” “Yes.” She searched the horizon. “We’ve just bumped into a probing party.” “Symurall said we had several more days before the kehklik attacked.” “Dragons are arrogant,” she said bitterly. “They just think they know everything.” “Symurall doesn’t know about you, does he?” She gave Kaylen She gave Kaylen a pointed look. “No, he doesn’t. I intend to keep it that way.” Her grim smile returned. “I was thinking about going home, to let my people know you’re here.” “So why help me?” She shrugged. “Habit, I guess. I hate seeing people die to these things.” “What now?” “I could go on my way,” Alanora said. “I know that’s what my father would want me to do.” A dark smile crossed her face. “Be thankful I’m not my father.” Tohkay scampered down the
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tower stairs and
tower stairs and into the library. “A dragon is coming,” he said. “One of Kyazura’s brood.” Norgrim put down his book and pulled on his boots. “Can’t a dwarf get some peace for reading?” He sighed and stood up. “Well, let’s go “Well, let’s go see who it is.” A young blue dragon alighted in the courtyard, and took a long drink from the fountain. It looked at Norgrim with apparent amusement. “I stopped for refreshment,” the dragon said, in deep but lovely female tones. “My name is Arrokka, daughter of Kyazura and Karfegren. Unless I am mistaken, you are Norgrim and Tohkay. I have seen you in our caverns from time to time.” “In the flesh,” Norgrim said. “And to what do we owe the pleasure of your visit?” “I take news to my mother.” She stretched her wings. 34 “What news?” The dragon pondered
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for a moment.
for a moment. “It likely does not affect you. The kehklik army is kehklik army is many miles from here, and appears interested only in the humans at the seashore.” “Kehklik army?” Norgrim and Tohkay asked in unison. “Yes. My mother tasked several of us with watching for unusual activity near the humans. The army…” Norgrim interrupted. “How many? Where?” “You are quite impertinent. Several hundred kehklik, in four columns, ten leagues from the humans. I did not take time for an exact count.” “That makes no sense,” Tohkay stated. “The kehklik shouldn’t be ready to attack yet.” Norgrim started swearing loudly in Dwarven. “The volcanic eruptions! Earthquakes! The kehklik started hatching warriors the moment they felt the first tremors. They’ve got a three day head-start. Kaylen won’t be ready for this.” “I wish you good fortune,” Arrokka said. “I must hurry to my
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mother.” Norgrim growled
mother.” Norgrim growled something mother.” Norgrim growled something long, low, and definitely draconian. Arrokka stood still for a moment, then said, “Your pronunciation is somewhat lacking, but the message is clear. My mother taught you that?” “Yes she did. I’m collecting on a very old personal debt.” “Norgrim, what can you do?” Tohkay exclaimed. “One dwarf isn’t going to make any difference. The kehklik will overwhelm the humans. Perhaps Kaylen will escape…” Norgrim walked over to Arrokka. “I will do what one dwarf can do,” he said, stroking the dragon’s neck. “I don’t need a damned committee to tell me my morals. Tohkay! Bring me my staff. Then, my girl, I need a ride.” Moments later, Tohkay watched the young dragon lift up and away with her dwarven cargo. Kaylen wiped the Kaylen wiped the sweat from his forehead, and looked across the deck
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He chuckled deeply.
He chuckled deeply. “Later, 31 maybe I can share my latest poem with you. I believe it rivals your father’s best work. Oh – someone is waiting for you.” “Indeed,” Symurall replied. He’d already sensed the other dragon. “I was on my way home,” Sytherek said as he emerged from behind a building. “One of Kyazura’s brood intercepted me, and told me of the meeting here. I should have anticipated the need for such a gathering. You and I have an opportunity to talk, before the others arrive.” Symurall shook his head. “No. We do not make such decisions alone, or even in pairs. We wait for the gathering.” “I disagree, brother,” Sytherek replied. “You and I
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suffered immeasurable losses
suffered immeasurable losses at the hands of those fiends. The others do not understand.” Symurall’s eyes smoldered, his tail slowly swishing behind him like a giant, angry snake. “No, they cannot,” he said. “We will still wait for the others.” “As you wish,” Sytherek replied. The grey-and-purple dragon curled up, appearing to sleep. Symurall and Voranytchi watched, silent. Kaylen walked among dunes, accompanied by laughing birds. The morning had not gone well. After an early breakfast, the survivors had gathered to discuss what needed to be done. At Jahsha’s insistence, he’d told his story to the crowd, leaving out distracting details and focusing on the imminent kehklik threat. It was painfully obvious that many people did not believe
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you?N MWho, Mister Estaphan?N MAll
you?N MWho, Mister Estaphan?N MAll of them, Senator. Every one of them.N He removed his glasses. The small, beady black eyes locked onto him. MEveryone but you. YouPre going to be our man in government, arenPt you?N It wasnPt a question to be answered, and the senator knew it. He felt a distinct relief just to hear he was still going to be in the plans. MHertzel?N MEveryone. All in due time.N He replaced the glasses. MMy eyes just canPt tolerate the sun any more.N Adjusted them. MI understand that ship is already destined to die in a storm. The senator thought he heard a chuckle, MMore money to be made in an insurance sinking that as
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a cut up
a cut up tan- gle of steel.N A small smile played the corners of his mouth, MAnd that takes care of two of them as well, doesnPt it.N The senator nodded, didnPt have any words. HePd just been told plans to eliminate a few peo- ple, told as casually as if hePd been offered a chair. Whatever ran through his mind, he knew better than to plea-bargain. He was pretty certain his name wasnPt on the list. When the judge handed down the sentence and you got off, it was every man for himself. — 129 — Luis seemed to enjoy watching the senator compute it all, seemed to like watching people
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sweat. MDonPt
sweat. MDonPt worry about details, Senator. En- rico is due back from Detroit today. HePs very ex- perienced at this sort of thing.N A disarming smile played across the table to the senator. MIPll have him come down and help you sort the matter out. Tell whatPs his name L Markovitz L hePs there to help out, keep an eye on things. Nothing else.N The senator sat across the table, listening, nodding appropriately, his mind racing panic with the unnerving realization of being owned. He wasnPt really certain how it happened, but better owned than dead. MI appreciate your coming to me with the
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state of affairs down
state of affairs down there. When things settle down, wePll dump the company. I wonPt forget your loy- alty, Senator.N Luis managed to move his entire body forward ever so slightly, pulling himself close to the senator. He seemed to wait for HenryPs attention level to get right there L right on the lip of GodPs word. MWhen the time comes, Enrico will take care of this business. As I said, hePs very good at it. I want you to be as distant as possible from all this. It wouldnPt look good on a state legislator, would it?N MNo.N The senator couldnPt agree fast enough. MIt wouldnPt.N MAll right then. ItPs settled.N Luis had his way of bringing meetings to an end. MDonPt
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worry. En- —
worry. En- — 130 — rico will be in touch with you.N The senator took his cue and stood up, feeling it was a minute to midnight and hePd just been pardoned. MWould you send Lorraine back on your way out?N He extended his hand. The senator shook it, weakly. MHave them take you to the airport. In a few months, when this is over, wePll sit down again and outline some political strategy.N The senator backed away as if he was leaving a deity, turning away only when the old man did. He watched Lorraine return to his side almost im- mediately, slipping the mask over his head and turning on the valve.
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He drew
He drew several deep breaths as he stared out across the enormous gar- den. The senator was glad to go. And at about the same time, out on the Pacific coast, Rachel Forster waited at the San Diego ar- rivals gate until long after the crowd started form- ing to greet the next flight. Rachel knew it wasnPt RobertPs style to stand her up. He used to be like that all the time, but in the years since she first tracked her brother down, hePd become nothing but dependable. ShePd called Monday night to confirm his flight with him, to tell him about the place on the beach. He wasnPt home then, either. Now his flight from New Orleans had come and
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on the opposite
on the opposite bank, whence runs a fine piece of the old city wall up the hill to another and larger tower, in better preservation, on the summit. Then we next passed the very extensive works of Messrs. J. and J. Colman, and below them innumerable stacks of choice wood, out of which the boxes to contain the mustard, etc., are made. [Picture: Bishop s Bridge] [Picture: Boom Tower] \ You speak of this as the Wensum,\ said Wynne; \ I thought it was the Yare.\ \ This river is the Wensum, but this smaller stream coming in on the right is the true Yare, and from this point the united river takes the name of the Yare. This spot is called Trowse Hythe, and half a mile up it, where
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there is a
there is a mill, was once a famous spot for smelts, where they were caught by large casting nets, used at night by torch-light, but the town sewage has effectually spoiled the smelting. The pool below the New Mills was also a place where the smelts were caught in large numbers, but it is not so good now.\ [Picture: Thorpe Gardens] Presently we came to Thorpe, where a bend of the river has been cut off by two railway bridges, and a straight new cut made for the navigation. We took the old river, and Wynne was charmed with the view which then unfolded itself. The long curve of the river was lined on the outer bank by picturesque houses, with gardens leading to the water s edge, while behind them rose a well-wooded bank. In the autumn
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of 1879 this
of 1879 this reach was found to be swarming with pike, and it speedily swarmed with anglers, who had generally good sport until, apparently, all the pike were caught. At intervals since, there have been similar immigrations of pike to this reach when tides unusually high or salt drive the fish up from the lower reaches. At the lower end of the reach is a favourite resort on summer evenings, a waterside inn, known as Thorpe Gardens, where we pulled up. Here there are also boat-letting stations, where cruising yachts can be hired. CHAPTER II. Just through the bridge, {29} we joined the main river again, and noticed several yachts moored against the bank, amongst which was ours. Wynne stepped on board, curious to inspect a Norfolk yacht, and he freely
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of captured officers
of captured officers of the Ile-Rien army as after-dinner entertainment, and the bounty he had offered for Queen s Guardsmen was enough to support a well-to-do merchant family for a year. \ Yes, I particularly enjoyed that one.\ The older lieutenant spread the letter out on the table to examine the signature. \ It s a good forgery. I d think there were some truth to it if I didn t know you were too proper a gentleman to stand in line with the good countess s grooms and lackeys. I expect it s a lucky thing the Dowager thinks so too.\ \ It s hardly luck. If Ravenna had asked me if I d actually slept with the countess, I would ve had to tell her I honestly couldn t remember. Most of the court
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ladies are starting
ladies are starting to look alike to me.\ Thomas and Ravenna had not been lovers for more than a year, since her health had first begun to fail, and she knew that he had had other women since then. It hadn t changed anything between them; their relationship had passed that point long ago. The only woman she would have objected to was Falaise. Not too many years ago palace coups had ignited as quickly as fires in a dry summer; Ravenna could not afford to have the man who commanded her guard become attached to a daughter-queen who in many ways was still an unknown quantity, and who one day might like to rid herself of a dominating mother-in-law. But even though the letters had failed in their purpose, they were an annoyance at a time when Ravenna
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needed him free
needed him free to help her, and not constantly guarding his own back. Thomas tapped the packet. \ This was done by someone who doesn t know Ravenna.\ Lucas nodded. \ Someone who doesn t realize how little she appreciates people who trouble with her personal…\ He paused and his mouth quirked. \ Matters.\ Thomas strongly suspected his friend had been about to say \ affairs.\ He let it pass and said, \ It s more the sort of thing that would work with Roland. I wonder if our anonymous schemer plans to try it.\ If some disgruntled courtier also tried to drive a wedge between Roland and his cousin Denzil in this manner, Thomas wished him luck, but it was far more likely this asinine trick was the brainchild of one of the
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Duke of Alsene
Duke of Alsene s cronies. Inspired by a few casually dropped hints by Denzil himself, of course. Lucas looked thoughtful. \ I wonder if it s been tried already.\ \ I d think the screams would have been audible even over on this end of the court. But there s no way to be certain.\ \ Surely Renier, the ideal of perfect knighthood, would know.\ Thomas snorted. As the ideal of perfect knighthood, Renier was not without flaws. He was a skilled swordsman but tended to depend too much on his weight and size, using his greater strength to bowl over smaller opponents. This technique had some merit: there were many men who unwisely dueled with the Preceptor of the Albon Knights only to end with his footprints down their
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said her hostess. \
said her hostess. \ Yes, yes, you naughty woman. Well, they say this handsome fellow is there whenever the husband is out, and a pock-marked red-headed boy (some say their son) is there to watch the pretty wife, and their name is St. Clair.\ Sensation! At this moment a pin is ran into the arm of the breathless narrator. \ Oh, mercy!\ she cried, looking around discovering the boy Noah St. Clair, whom every one had forgotten seated on a footstool behind her, who said vengefully, indicating by a gesture Mrs. St. Clair and himself, \ That s our name; it s us.\ CHAPTER VI. 54 \ Gracious, Mrs. Gower, what have I done? Pardon me, I
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was under the
was under the impression that this lady s name was Cobbe. I don t know how I got things muddled; I thought she was some relative of our Mr. Cobbe.\ \ Never mind, dear; I should have introduced you; don t apologize; there are other St. Clairs in Toronto than my friends.\ \ I don t mind it in the least,\ purred the pretty doll; \ some one is always talking about me. Women are jealous of my complexion and all my admirers; but I think my name is prettier than Cobbe.\ \ Yet tell my name again to me, am always here at beauty s call,\ said Mr. Cobbe, hearing his name on entering with the other gentlemen. \ You, as a Bona Dea, have been
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our toast, Mrs.
our toast, Mrs. Gower,\ said Buckingham, quietly, as he sank into a chair near her own. \ And my inclinations, I hope,\ she said, laughingly, \ with no saving clause as to their being virtuous.\ \ I appeal to your memory of the Antiquary, Mrs. Gower; could any man living toast you as the Rev. Mr. Battergowl did Miss Grisel Monkbarns?\ \ I don t know; perhaps some would desire to make a proviso.\ \ Then they would err; I should give a woman of your stamp any length of line.\ \ Thank you; your confidence would not be misplaced, when in honor bound I have ever felt as though I did not belong to myself.\ \ I should judge
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so; underlying your
so; underlying your gaiety conscientiousness holds you to an extent few would dream of; you have frequently sacrificed yourself to a mistaken sense of duty. Am I not right?\ \ Yes; I have been a slave to what I used to think the voice of conscience, but which I am now sure was extreme sensitiveness, and a sort of moral cowardice; but how strange you should read me so truly.\ \ Not at all, I am a phrenologist; if you will allow me the very great privilege, I shall read your character to you in some quiet hour.\ \ With very great pleasure. And now will you do me another favor? Make my piano sing and speak to us.\ \ Thank you; I should like to try your instrument. It is
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from Mason &
from Mason & Risch, I see.\ Having arranged a table at whist and euchre, Mrs. Gower seated herself to enjoy the entrancing music, while looking over some photographs to amuse the boy Noah St. Clair, but it was not to be, for the voice of Mr. Cobbe said in her ear: \ This won t do; you must come to the library with me; I have not had a single word with you all evening, and am, as you are aware, an uninvited guest.\ \ Why invite you, Philip? Alas! there is invariably discord with your presence,\ she says sadly, in the lowest of tones, moving away from the curious gaze of the boy. \ Sit here, Elaine, if you positively refuse to leave the room with me,\ he said
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excitedly, indicating a
excitedly, indicating a tete-a-tete sofa not within ear-shot of her guests, managing to detain her until, the hours creeping on apace, freighted CHAPTER VI. 55 with the music of soft laughter, and ravishing songs without words by the skilled performer, Mr. Buckingham, when pretty Mrs. Dale s sweet voice is heard, as she rises from the table, saying triumphantly: \ Win! of course we won. Why, Mr. Dale will tell you, Mr. Smyth, that in our card circle at New York, mine is dubbed the winning hand. \ \ Indeed! no wonder at our good fortune. Congratulate us, Mrs. Gower; we won three straight games, all by reason of the admirable forethought of my partner,\ cried Smyth, exultantly.
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the very usefulness
the very usefulness of it bores me. And besides, many people take me for a sweep.\ \ I dare say they do, for unfortunately many people are fools. But I am bent upon adventure. It has dawned upon me that every day has its possibilities, that the right turn at any corner may bring me face to face with the most stirring encounters. My age protects me where youth must timidly turn back. My physician pronounces me good for ten years more of active life, and I intend to keep amused. If I were a young man like you, I should crawl through chimneys no more, but take to the open road. I resent the harsh clang of these meaningless years. As I walked among the hills that lie behind the Manor this morning I heard the bugles calling. Out
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there in the
there in the Avenue at this hour there are miles of fat dowagers in padded broughams who think of nothing but clothes and food. And speaking of food,\ she continued, with a droll turn, \ I am convinced that the caviare in that sandwich was never nearer Russia than Casco Bay.\ She drew out her watch, and noting the hour, concluded:– \ Clearly we have much in common. I should like to ask you further as to your unusual profession, but errands summon me elsewhere. However, something tells me we shall meet again.\ She rose in her swift bird-like fashion and passed lightly down the room and through the door. She had left a dollar beside her plate to pay her check, which I noted called for only forty cents. I glanced at the
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cashier s desk. The
cashier s desk. The aureoled head had not reappeared; but immediately I heard a voice murmuring beside me. I had believed myself alone, and in my surprise I thought some wizardry had made audible one of the verses on the wall. \ What of Rafael s sonnets, Dante s picture\ — It was she whose aureoled head I had marked earlier in the receipt of custom, the girl who had vanished as Miss Hollister appeared. She wore the snowy vestments of the other attending vestals, with the difference that the cap that crowned the waitresses was omitted in her case. This I took to be the Asolando s tribute to her adorable head, which clearly did not need the electric light or other adventitious aid to invoke its lovely glow. The line she had spoken hung goldenly
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upon the air.
upon the air. She was not tall, and her eyes, I saw, were brown. She had clearly not climbed far the stairway of her years, but her serenity was the least bit disconcerting. \ Pardon me,\ I began, \ but I am an ignorant Philistine, and cannot cap the verse you have quoted.\ \ There is no reason why you should do so. It is the rule of the Asolando that we shall attract the attention of customers when necessary by speaking a line of verse. We are not allowed to open a conversation, no matter how imperative, with Listen, or the even more vulgar Say. \ \ A capital idea, of which I heartily approve, but now that I am a waiting auditor, eager\ — \ It s
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merely the check,
merely the check, if you please,\ she interrupted coldly. \ My desk is closed, and the Room will refuse further patrons for the next hour, as the executive committee of the Shelley Society meets here at four o clock and the Asolando is denied to outsiders.\ \ This, then, is my dismissal? The lady who joined me here for a time left a dollar, which, you will see, is 13 somewhat in excess of her check. My own charge of fifty cents is so moderate that I cannot do less than leave a dollar also.\ \ Thank you,\ she replied, unshaken by my generosity. \ The tips at the Asolando all go to the Sweetness and Light Club, which is
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of our being.
of our being. This aspect of creation brings about the eventual completeness of everything established by the “All.” To understand creation in terms of elemental structures, and the developmental/evolutionary processes which govern them, it is important to realize that: 1) There are 144,000 stages of existence; 2) There are nine divisions of each stage; and 3) For each of these nine divisions, there are eight phases of transitional harmonic frequency which produce the impetus for evolution within each and every dimension of the universe. Actually there is one phase per division for the first eight. The ninth division is one of transformation, wherein elemental structures undergo all eight phases again. The aspects of the impetus produced, may be described thusly: Phase-1: Frequency signature acquisition. We each possess our own unique signature, which changes throughout our evolutionary transitions. Phase-2: Pitch adjustment of the morphogenetic
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seed crystals.
seed crystals. This is a slight alteration resulting from the activity in Phase-1. The seed crystals provide attunement between the morphogenetic/auric field, and the Sound Current. Phase-3: Speed-up in the vibratory frequency of the Morphogenetic chakras/hvels. This provides the frequency requirements for ascension from one elemental state of existence, to another. Phase-4: Speed-up in the vibratory frequency of the soul essence/Hamingja. Phase-5: Speed-up in the vibratory frequency of the mental body. Phase-6: Speed-up in the frequency of the causal body. Phase-7: speed-up in the frequency of the astral body. Phase-8: Structural development of the DNA Template/Lower Etheric Energy Matrix (Hamr). As I noted earlier, Runic Cosmology follows the Code as the actualization of creation, structure, and evolution; then the process (as intended) establishes the elements of existence. Unknown to modern-day scientists, is the fact that
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there exists 540
there exists 540 elements, which in various combinations, as we know, produce molecular structures of gases, liquids and solids. Ultimately, we experience the elements in terms of earth, air, fire and water. Obviously, these four divisions do not depend on specific elements for their existence. In other words, we are not going to find certain elements, such as hydrogen or chromium in one of the divisions, and never find it in one of the others. Earth, air, fire and water simply describe the form that elements may take. Those in the form of large molecular structures are said to constitute the earth element. Those in the form of smaller molecular structures (also known as colloids), are said to constitute the water element when dispersed in water. Hydrogen and oxygen combined, however, form the water element themselves-but only when a catalyst, such as a
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high voltage spark,
high voltage spark, or palladium is introduced. Those elements that form gases, are of the air element; but what about fire? Fire is a rapid chemical chain reaction. Essentially, we are talking about oxidation, where an element’s atoms lose electrons in reaction to being combined with oxygen. Therefore, while earth, air, and water constitute relatively stable forms that elements may take, fire is not stable in the least bit. It constitutes an elemental form that is in constant flux; it is a transitional form by which action, the earth forms are converted into the air forms. It is common to find systems where in each of the four elemental designations is embodied by a particular Rune. As I have discussed elsewhere, however, the Runes cannot be compartmentalized in such a strict manner. Each one, in fact, embodies all the elements, and will express one
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handbook or guide
handbook or guide to the Broads and Rivers, I thought it a good idea, in that enquirers might, by buying such a book, save themselves the trouble of writing to me, and getting necessarily short and inadequate replies. I am afraid, however, the guide-book style is rather beyond me, and I shall be most at home if I try to convey the requisite information by describing one of the numerous cruises in which I have sailed as guide to those friends who have trusted their holidays to my care, and I will select one lasting but a fortnight, during which time we covered most of the available ground. Before doing so, a few words, descriptive of the situation of these rivers and lakes, will not be amiss. From Yarmouth, looking inland, three main water-highways radiate. The chief is
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the Yare, flowing
the Yare, flowing from the westward; then comes the Bure, flowing from the north-westward, and having her large tributaries, the Ant and the Thurne, flowing from the northward. From the south-west come the clear waters of the Waveney. All these rivers are navigable for considerable distances, and on the Bure and its tributaries the greater number of the Broads are situate. These Broads are large shallow lakes, connected with the rivers, and are many of them navigable. Flat marshes follow the lines of the rivers, and while higher and well-wooded ground rises near the upper portions of the rivers, near the sea the country is perfectly flat, and vessels sailing on all three rivers are visible at the same time. The level of the marsh is frequently below that of the rivers, and at the outlet of each main drain
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is a drainage pump,
is a drainage pump, or turbine wheel, sometimes worked by a windmill, and sometimes by steam, which pumps the water out of the drains into the rivers. The fall of the river is about four inches to the mile. The ebb and flow of the tide are felt for thirty miles inland, but its rise and fall are very little indeed. There are no impediments to navigation of any consequence, so it may be imagined what a \ happy hunting ground\ this is to the boat-sailor, the naturalist, and the angler. [Picture: Decorative end divider] [Picture: Decorative header divider] II. II. DOWN THE YARE. NORWICH TO REEDHAM. 8 [Picture:
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your home, where
your home, where your father and mother spoke so pleasantly, and where you and all your sweet children made such a delightful noise. Nay, how lonely the old man is!–do you think that he gets kisses? do you think he gets mild eyes, or a Christmas tree?–He will get nothing but a grave.–I can bear it no longer!\ 7 \ You must not let it grieve you so much,\ said the little boy; \ I find it so very delightful here, and then all the old thoughts, with what they may bring with them, they come and visit here.\ \ Yes, it s all very well, but I see nothing of them, and I don t know them!\ said
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the pewter soldier,
the pewter soldier, \ I cannot bear it!\ \ But you must!\ said the little boy. Then in came the old man with the most pleased and happy face, the most delicious preserves, apples, and nuts, and so the little boy thought no more about the pewter soldier. The little boy returned home happy and pleased, and weeks and days passed away, and nods were made to the old house, and from the old house, and then the little boy went over there again. The carved trumpeters blew, \ trateratra! there is the little boy! trateratra!\ and the swords and armor on the knights portraits rattled, and the silk gowns rustled; the hog s-leather spoke, and the old chairs had the gout in their legs and rheumatism in their
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backs: Ugh!–it was
backs: Ugh!–it was exactly like the first time, for over there one day and hour was just like another. \ I cannot bear it!\ said the pewter soldier, \ I have shed pewter tears! it is too melancholy! rather let me go to the wars and lose arms and legs! it would at least be a change. I cannot bear it longer!–Now, I know what it is to have a visit from one s old thoughts, with what they may bring with them! I have had a visit from mine, and you may be sure it is no pleasant thing in the end; I was at last about to jump down from the drawers. \ I saw you all over there at home so distinctly, as if you really were here; it was again that Sunday morning; all
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you children stood
you children stood before the table and sung your Psalms, as you do every morning. You stood devoutly with folded hands; and father and mother were just as pious; and then the door was opened, and little sister Mary, who is not two years old yet, and who always dances when she hears music or singing, of whatever kind it may be, was put into the room–though she ought not to have been there–and then she began to dance, but could not keep time, because the tones were so long; and then she stood, first on the one leg, and bent her head forwards, and then on the other leg, and bent her head forwards–but all would not do. You stood very seriously all together, although it was difficult enough; but I laughed to myself, and then I fell off the table, and
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there will be
there will be no way in which our bankers can get gold from America. No–at that time, Germany will be no place for strangers.\ Stewart listened incredulously, for all this sounded like the wildest extravagance. He could not believe that business and industry would fall to pieces like that–it was too firmly founded, too strongly built. \ What I have said is true, sir, believe me,\ said the little man, earnestly, seeing his skeptical countenance. CHAPTER II \ One thing more–have you a passport?\ \ Yes,\ said Stewart, and tapped his pocket. \ That is good. That will save you trouble at the frontier. Ah, here is your baggage. Good-by, sir, and a safe voyage to your most fortunate country.\
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13 A
13 A brawny porter shouldered the two suit-cases which held Stewart s belongings, and the latter followed him along the hall to the door. As he stepped out upon the terrace, he saw drawn up there about twenty men–some with the black coats of waiters, some with the white caps of cooks, some with the green aprons of porters–while a bearded man in a spiked helmet was checking off their names in a little book. At the sound of Stewart s footsteps, he turned and cast upon him the cold, impersonal glance of German officialdom. Then he looked at the porter. \ You will return as quickly as possible,\ he said gruffly in German to the latter, and returned to his checking. As they crossed the Domhof
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and skirted the
and skirted the rear of the cathedral, Stewart noticed that many of the shops were locked and shuttered, and that the street seemed strangely deserted. Only as they neared the station did the crowd increase. It was evident that many tourists, warned, perhaps, as Stewart had been, had made up their minds to get out of Germany; but the train drawn up beside the platform was a long one, and there was room for everybody. It was a good-humored crowd, rather inclined to laugh at its own fears and to protest that this journey was entirely in accordance with a pre-arranged schedule; but it grew quieter and quieter as moment after moment passed and the train did not start. That a German train should not start precisely on time was certainly unusual; that it should wait for twenty minutes beyond tv lcd 19