PART ONE

Gathering of Talents

1

Death in the Wellwood

Jarral Gullen slid noiselessly forward through the brush. Gripping his spear
firmly, he fixed his gaze on his quarry, feeding unaware in the sunlit glade.
One more silent step forward... then one more....

But an unseen briar, snagging his bare ankle, brought JarraPs game abruptly to
a halt. "Ow!" he said, stumbling sideways. Three twigs snapped under his feet
and a sapling threshed as he fell against it. His prey, a small, tufty-tailed
rodent, swept up a tree with a volley of chittering abuse as JarraPs spear
clattered harmlessly against a lower branch.

Jarral stepped out of the thicket, glanced up at the foliage where the little
animal had disappeared, then gazed round at the great trees of the Wellwood,
the forest that gave his village its name. The trees and shrubs still
displayed the freshness of their early summer greening. Even the glade's
carpeting of coarse grass was glowing with new green, dotted here and there
with tiny wildflowers bright as jewels.

Jarral ambled across the glade to retrieve his weapon—a thin, slightly crooked
stick that was a spear only in his imagination. Idly he used it to prod

3

4     BLADE OF THE POISONER

a small anthill, then squatted to watch the insects scurry. He was just twelve
years old, an ordinary boy from the tiny forest village. He was of average
height and weight for his age, with plain brown hair and brown eyes and a
plain, cheerful face, simply dressed in shirt, short trousers, and sturdy
shoes.

He glanced around the glade again. The day was wearing on towards
mid-afternoon, and the overcast sky had begun to darken slightly as heavier
clouds moved above the forest, bringing the murky threat of a thunderstorm.
That did not trouble Jarral, for the weather was very often gloomy, with
frequent swirls of storm clouds and mutters of thunder. In that land, sunlit
days tended to be rare. But with the humid heaviness of the air, Jarral
decided that what he wanted was a cool drink from the great spring-fed well on
the fringe of the forest, around which clustered the villagers' cottages.

He set off at an easy jog toward the well. After his drink he supposed he
should go and see if his cousins had any chores for him. He did not feel at
all like doing chores, but he knew that his life would be a little more
pleasant if he offered to do so, now and then.

The cousins—a quiet, elderly man and wife— had actually been cousins to
JarraPs parents, who had died when he was an infant. The cousins had taken the
boy in and had looked after him as well as they could. They were a stolid pair
with no children of their own. They filled their days with what seemed to be
endless, plodding labor that was rarely lightened by affection or amusement.
Because of them, and because there were no other children of JarraPs age in
the tiny village, he had got quite used to his
Death in the WeUwood       5

own company and to the games of his own invention, in which he played the
parts of warriors and heroes.

So, as he jogged through the shadow-patterns of the Wellwood and heard
strange, faint noises in the distance, his imagination began at once to dream
up a game, or a story, that might fit around those noises.

Then he stopped. A breeze had brought some of the sounds more clearly to his
ears. They came from the direction of the village, now less than a mile away.
The half-invented game faded from his mind as uneasiness wrapped around him
with a sudden chill.

The noises sounded like screams—the ragged screams of people gripped by
unimaginable agony and terror.

He began to move forward again, tense and nervous, straining to hear more.
Ahead, the land sloped steeply upwards towards a long, flat fidge that
extended far into the distant forest depths. On much of the ridge an expanse
of evergreens grew, leaving the ground free from dense brush. Jarral started
up the slope, peering worriedly at the trees ahead. Then again he halted with
a jolt, his heart leaping in a rush of panic.

Something had moved out from behind a tree near the top of the ridge.
Something, or someone, huge and looming...

Then recognition filled JarraPs eyes. He half-raised a hand. "Archer!" he
called, his voice cracking with relief.

The figure moved smoothly down the slope towards him, still huge but no longer
threatening.

6        BLADE OF THE POISONER

Archer   was a giant—twice Jarral's twelve-year-old height, half as tall again
as the   tallest man in the village. Archer was sun-browned and powerfully
built,   with arm muscles like cables from drawing the mighty bow that was slung
across   the broad shoulders.

But Archer also had a kindly face, bright grey eyes, dark brown curls, and a
female shape within her jerkin and breeches of doeskin and her low, soft
boots.

Archer had been visiting the village now and then for some years. She was a
wandering hunter, with a huge bow that few men could draw—and with an uncanny
skill that no man could match. During her visits she had always been
especially kind to Jarral, claiming a fellowship since she had been raised an
orphan, too, in her homeland far to the east. She had become one of Jarral's
dearest friends. He had even begun to dream that one day she might take him
with her on her travels.

His dream was about to come true—though not in a way that Jarral could ever
have imagined, or wished for.

His grin of greeting faded when he saw the look on Archer's usually cheerful
face. A pain-filled darkness shadowed her broad brow, and anger flashed from
her eyes and leaped in the clenched muscles of her jaw. For a moment Jarral
thought that he had done something wrong. But then he saw that the giant
woman's anger was not aimed at him. The village, he thought fearfully. She has
come from the village.

'Archer, what's happening?" he asked.

Archer shook her head. "Horrible things, Jarral. Things I can hardly make
myself speak about." Her

Death in the Wellwood    7

grey eyes searched his, in a gaze that mingled sorrow and fury and deep
distress. "You are young, Jarral, but you must be brave. What I must tell you
will be the worst thing that you have known in your life."

Jarral stared, wide-eyed with fear.

Archer's mouth twisted. "The village has been destroyed, Jarral. Everyone is
dead—except you. The cottages, the gardens, the barns and fields—all has been
crushed and burned. There is nothing left."

The clouds above the forest rumbled with deep thunder as Archer spoke. Jarral
had begun to shiver, seeing mental images of his cousins, his friends, the
village as he knew it. Tears filled his eyes and a terrible coldness spread
through him. Again his voice cracked slightly as he spoke. "Who... who did it?
Why would anyone do that?"

Archer shook her head again. "1 do not know why. But 1 know that the Prince
Mephtik did it. Or ordered it to be done by his soldiers and his...
creatures."

"Prince Mephtik?" Jarral had heard the name only once or twice before.
Villagers mentioned it in nervous murmurs, if at all, and Jarral had known
that it was a subject to be avoided.

"Mephtik, called the Poisoner," Archer said. "The ruler of all these lands,
this whole eastern domain."

Jarral's trembling grew worse as tears blurred his vision. "Why would a prince
destroy the village and... and kill everyone? What did we do?"

Archer laid a strong brown hand on his shoulder. "I do not know, Jarral. He is
the Poisoner, a man of terrible cruelty and evil. He does many monstrous
things that seem to have no meaning."

8     BLADE OF THE POISONER

Jarral's tears finally spilled over. "What's going to happen to me?" he
wailed.

"You will come with me," Archer said gently.

Jarral sobbed, then leaned forward against the towering figure. Archer put an
arm around his shoulders, kindly and comforting, as Jarral wept out his loss
and bewilderment and fear. But in a moment, as the thunder growled again,
Archer gripped his shoulders and stepped back.

"We cannot mourn properly now," she said. "The Poisoner's servants are still
in the Wellwood. We must get away, swiftly."

"Can we go and... look at the village?" Jarral asked.
"No," Archer said quickly. "There is nothing left to see, except horror.
Remember it as you last saw it...."

Her voice broke off as she stiffened, then dropped into a low crouch, dragging
Jarral down beside her. "Be still!" she hissed.

Panic clutched at Jarral again. "What—what—?" he stammered.

"Soldiers," Archer said. "There."

Jarral's gaze followed her pointing finger, but even straining his eyes he
could see no one. He was not surprised, for he had long known about Archer's
astonishing keenness of eye over vast distances. But a second later he could
just glimpse a movement, much farther along the ridge-top. It was a vague
shape that looked like a horse and rider. And the rider seemed to be clad in a
weird, mottled green.

"Do the soldiers wear green?" Jarral asked.

As Archer nodded, an eerie sound came to their ears. Not distant thunder, this
time, but a strange

Death in the Wellwood   9

combination of a breathy hiss and a rapid, rustling patter, like the paws of
two or three dogs galloping through the forest.

The sound turned Archer pale beneath her tan. She unslung her bow and drew
from her quiver an arrow nearly as long as Jarral was tall. She gripped both
so tensely that her arm muscles leaped and knotted.

"There is something besides soldiers on that ridge, Jarral," she murmured. "So
now we must run, as fast as we can. You must keep going, deep into the forest,
without looking back, without stopping. No matter what I do, or what you hear,
keep running until you can run no more—and then walk or crawl if you must. But
do not stop. Do you understand?"

Jarral was rigid with fright. On the distant ridge he saw another flicker of
the mottled green of a soldier's uniform, then another. And beyond them,
briefly visible in an open area, he seemed to see a weirdly shaped shadow,
dark and low-slung, moving in what was surely an impossible way....

A sob escaped his lips as he whirled and fled into the depths of the Wellwood,
terror flinging him forward at a headlong speed, with Archer in a long-legged
gallop just behind him.

2

The Tainted Blade

Terror gathered around Jarral like a haze. It was as if he were flying along a
narrow, leaf-walled tunnel. He saw only the twigs and thorns that clutched at
him as he plunged through leafy tangles—only the fallen logs or patches of bog
that threatened to trip him up as he sped along the barely visible forest
trail.

But his mind was half-aware of the eeriness around him—the ghastly silence
among the trees. Even the thunder had faded, though dark clouds still shed
murkiness onto the forest. It seemed as if every creature of the Wellwood,
even the trees themselves, had been silenced by the presence of unnatural
horror.

Then he stumbled and almost collapsed under a fresh assault of panic. He had
realized he was alone. The steadying bulk of Archer was no longer behind him.
Then he might have disobeyed the bow-woman's order—might have stopped running,
turned to look back. But before he could do so, he heard a series of noises in
the distance.

One was the sound of galloping hooves, seeming 10

The Tainted Blade

11

very loud in that eerie stillness. As Jarral's pace faltered, he heard, from
fairly close by, the deep, musical twang of Archer's bowstring. It was
followed, from farther away, by a high-pitched human shriek. There was an
abrupt halt to the galloping hooves.

Then Archer was suddenly with him again, running with long strides, not at all
out of breath. "Do not slow down, Jarral!" she cried. "The danger is great!"

So Jarral resumed his desperate flight, ignoring the twinges in his leg
muscles and the ache in his chest. Again the haze settled around him, blotting
out everything but the tunnel-like trail ahead. And again, a few minutes
later, Archer faded back, letting Jarral dash on alone.

" This time, instead of hooves in the distance, he heard that other
combination of sounds: the weird hissing and pattering. The memory of that
dimly glimpsed shadow on the ridge sent a shock-wave of icy terror along his
spine, which poured new energy into his tiring legs. Once again Archer's
bowstring sang its baritone note. But the sound of pursuit did not stop. The
fearsome hiss and patter kept on—only seeming slowly to swing aside and fade
away.

Could Archer have missed? The thought nearly drove Jarral to his knees, for
she had never done so in all the times he had seen her shoot. Then Archer was
at his side again, running tirelessly,, but with a grim and troubled
expression, indicating that Jarral's thoughts had been correct.

But at least the arrow must have driven the unknown horror off their trail,
for they ran on now surrounded only by the ominous stillness. By that

12

BLADE OF THE POISONER

time, Jarral's legs were like lifeless wood and his lungs were aflame. But
still Archer urged him on, still his panic drove him like a whip. Eyes blurred
with near-exhaustion as well as fear, he did not see the barrier across the
trail. Not until Archer, with a cry, clamped a great hand on the back of his
shirt and flung him sideways into a leafy bush.

There he lay for a moment, breathing in huge sobbing gulps, before crawling
slowly out of the bush. And fresh terror closed round his throat and body like
huge cold fingers.

The barrier was like a large net, with a loosely woven pattern made from
silvery cords that gleamed as if covered in wetness. The pattern extended
across the trail from one tall tree to another, reaching upwards higher than
Archer's head.

It took Jarral several seconds to recognize the barrier, though he had seen
others like it many times. The others had been... far smaller.

The barrier was a web. An enormous, sticky spider's web.

Jarral struggled to his feet, backing away, white-faced, from the monstrous
web. Within two paces he collided with Archer, behind him, who seemed to be
standing very still. Slowly Jarral turned—and froze.

He was looking at a squad of soldiers, all in the uniforms of unpleasantly
mottled green, like a reptile's hide. From the backs of their necks armored
collars rose, looking as solid as metal, curving up and over their heads to
form helmets, like ugly serpentine hoods. The soldiers all held heavy
crossbows, aimed • unwaveringly at Archer. And behind them... Jarral's

The Tainted Blade

13

knees went watery at the glimpse of the shape in the shadows.

Its bulbous body, like a bristly dark sack, was the size of a large dog—and
was supported by eight long, springy, jointed legs. Several eyes glittered
redly from the head, while below those eyes, curved jaws like huge fangs
slowly opened and closed.

For a long moment they all stood motionless, the soldiers staring cold-eyed at
their captives. Then the soldiers moved smartly aside as past them stalked a
tall, narrow man with long white hair and a short black beard. His hair was
held back by an emerald' studded coronet of silver, and more emeralds and
silver decorated the dark green leather of his long tunic. From a broad silver
belt around his waist hung a silver sheath out of which jutted the hilt of a
short sword—a hilt that seemed to be carved from a single huge emerald.

The man's close-set eyes surveyed Archer and Jarral disdainfully. Then he
smiled, showing sharp and unpleasantly stained teeth.

'An excellent hunt." His voice was slightly high-pitched, with a discordant
edge that made Jarral's skin crawl. "How amusing to see again that frightened
beasts will flee blindly into traps."

Archer ignored him, staring watchfully at the group of soldiers. The man's
smile faded and his dark brows fell in a glower.

"She has not been disarmed," he snapped.

"No, Highness," said one of the soldiers quickly. His helmet and sleeve held
badges that looked like insignia of command. "Your pardon, Highness." He
stepped forward, gesturing with his crossbow at

14

BLADE OF THE POISONER

Archer. "Throw down your bow, and the knife at your belt!"

For a long moment Archer did not move. Her gaze seemed to grow even more
piercing, so that the officer blinked and almost quailed. But then he raised
the crossbow, finger taut on the release. Archer glanced at Jarral, grimaced
as if in apology, then flung her weapons to the ground.

The white-haired man was still glowering. "Nor has she been bound," he
snarled.

"Your pardon, Highness," said the officer again, nervously. But before he
could move, the white-haired man raised a narrow hand.

"It seems I must do these things myself," he said peevishly. Turning, he made
a complex series of gestures, a pattern in the air. And Jarral was unable to
hold back a yelp of fear.

The eight-legged horror had surged forward out    of the shadows, in a pattering
scuttle of terrifying speed. As it approached,    it flung out from its body a
length of the same glistening cord that formed    the web. The cord hissed
through the air to wrap itself around Archer's    upper body before the giant
woman could begin to avoid it.

Archer strained every   great muscle, but the cord did not yield. Jarral saw
that it was as sticky   as any true spider's web, clinging tightly to Archer's
jerkin and skin. Then   the monster retreated at another signal from the
white-haired man, who   was smiling with satisfaction.

"Excellent," he said. "A most gratifying day. AH shall be rewarded."

"Thank you, Highness," said the officer, bowing

The Tainted Blade

15

his head with a vivid expression of relief, which was reflected on the faces
of his men.

"Now, giantess," the white-haired man went on. "Explain your presence here."

Archer took a deep breath. "We are but innocent wayfarers, Prince Mephtik,"
she said. The name jolted Jarral, even though he had guessed by then who their
captor must be.

Mephtik gave a snarling laugh. "Innocent you probably never were—and certainly
not now that you have slain one of my men. Your arrows fly too far, and too
true, for those of a mere wayfarer." The ugly laugh became a cackle. "I'm
quite sure I know what you and the whelp are—and I will soon have it confirmed
by my Master."

Jarral had no idea what he meant. But something in Mephtik's voice, and an
answering deep flicker of tension in Archer's eyes, brought out an icy sweat
on Jarral's skin.

"The boy, I believe," Mephtik was saying, "is a survivor from that wretched
village. And you, giantess, are almost certainly an agent of that fool of a
wizard who dreams of opposing my Master."

"Whatever I may be, Prince," Archer said calmly, "the boy is of no importance.
Do with me what you choose, but release him."

"Do you give me orders?" Mephtik raised a mocking eyebrow, then snickered.
"No, no, I shall do with both as I choose. A person of your size and strength,
giantess, will provide a valuable subject on whom I can test some of my newer
venoms." He laughed again evilly. "I can guarantee you many weeks of unbridled
torment before I finally put an end to you."

16

BLADE OF THE POISONER

Then Jarral flinched as Mephtik turned cold eyes towards him.

"As for the whelp, he is merely a piece of unfinished business. But it would
be a pity to finish it too soon. His pathetic village was erased far too
quickly to provide much amusement." His grin was demonic. "Perhaps the boy
should be honored—through being shown the way to death by my favorite
plaything."

His narrow hand reached down, drawing the short, emerald'hilted sword from its
sheath. Jarral stared at it, paralyzed, like a bird hypnotized by a snake. The
sword's silvery blade was stained, all along its gleaming length. And the
stain was another shade of Mephtik's favorite color—a livid, sickly green.

Bound as she was, Archer flung herself in front of Jarral. "Mephtik, you
cannot!" she shouted. "He is a child! Use your vile Blade on me if it must be
used!"

"I have told you of my plans for   you, outlaw," Mephtik said coldly. At his
gesture, soldiers dragged Archer   roughly aside. Two others gripped Jarral,
immovably. As Mephtik raised the   stained sword, grinning when Jarral tried to
cringe away, one of the soldiers   pulled open the front of Jarral's shirt,
baring his chest.

"Let me tell you about my toy," Mephtik said to Jarral. A redness had appeared
in the Prince's cheeks, a cruel glitter in his eyes. "It is a gift to me from
my Master—a weapon of great and special power. A magical sword, boy. People
call it—the Tainted Blade."

He swept the sword-tip past Jarral's face and cackled as the boy cowered back.

"But I prefer another name," he went on. "I call

The Tainted Blade

17

it the Blade of Lingering Death. Lingering, boy—note that. A mere scratch from
this Blade will be fatal. But not at once. In fact, not until the next full
turning of the moon. And then the person with the scratch falls dead as if
stabbed to the heart. Do you understand? No ill effects at all, until the moon
completes its changes—and then instant death!"

Again he brandished the Blade—again he laughed his cruel laugh.

"But during that time, before the moon changes..." he went on. "Think of it!
In every moment of every day, the wounded person sees his death drawing
closer, reaching for him. In every moment, for all those days, he feels terror
and despair, waiting for the moon to complete its changes. He is dying, in his
mind, all that time. Dying in every moment of every day...."

Mephtik's voice had become shrill, and a small fleck of foam had appeared at
one corner of his mouth. With an effort, he gathered himself and stared at
Jarral with burning eyes.

"Here is your honor, boy," he snarled. "Last night the moon was full. Four
weeks hence another full moon will rise, though you will not see it. By then
you will be in my throne room, to provide my entertainment, but you will not
enjoy it. For that full moonrise will be the last moment of your life." He
tittered evilly. "Take my mark, boy—and begin your month of dying!"

The Tainted Blade reached out toward Jarral's bare chest. But then it halted.
Mephtik, startled, seemed to strain every lean muscle of his arm to force the
sword to move. But it did not budge. Then the Poisoner's eyes widened and
sweat burst from his

18    BLADE OF THE POISONER

brow. The Blade had begun to swing away from Jarral. Shakily but steadily, its
deadly point rose, then began to curve backward.

Within a moment, despite the Poisoner's frantic efforts, the lethal Blade in
his hand was pointing toward his own throat.

Staring wildly around, Mephtik saw Archer. Still bound by the spider's cord,
she seemed to be under incredible tension—every muscle of jaw, neck, and
shoulder taut and bulging. And her luminous grey eyes were fixed on the Blade
in the Poisoner's hand, as it inched toward his throat.

"It's a Talent!" Mephtik screeched. "Stop her! Stop her.'"

The soldiers seemed frozen with shock, gaping at the moving Blade. But then an
officer lunged forward, swinging his crossbow like a club. Archer crumpled to
the ground, sudden blood staining her brown curb. And the unseen force that
had gripped the Blade vanished, so that the weapon jerked violently in
Mephtik's hand.

Then the Poisoner gathered himself, glaring furiously at Jarral. "So you see
there is no escape, for you or her," he snarled. "Now begins your death— which
will end finally when next the moon is full."

Again he reached out with the Tainted Blade, this time with nothing to impede
him. The sickly green tip of the Blade touched Jarral's chest, cold as a shard
of ice. A thin line of red appeared on his skin as the Blade-tip moved.
Slowly, skillfully, Mephtik drew the Blade up and down, up and down again.

The surgically neat cut—just skin-deep—traced on Jarral's chest, in his blood,
a perfect letter M.

But Jarral was unaware of the shape of the cut.

The Tainted Blade

19

The mounting series of horrors that had assailed him finally proved
overwhelming. Mephtik's words and the first icy touch of the Tainted Blade had
flashed through his entire being in a crushing wave of shock. Before his wound
had fully begun to bleed, he had sagged in the grip of his captors, his mind
spiralling down into a welcome, pain-free darkness.

3
Many Blades

Earlier, many days and nights before Jarral was to feel the icy touch of the
Tainted Blade—and many days' march to the west of the Wellwood—a crowd had
gathered in one street of a mighty city. The city was Xicanti, the capital
where Prince Mephtik had his Stronghold. But the street where the crowd had
gathered lay in another part of the city, a poor and decrepit area. And the
crowd itself was ill-clad and uncouth—as rough as the bare wooden planks that
formed the platform around which they clustered.

Night was well advanced in the city, so the platform was lit by the flame of
torches, shedding their orange gleam on the eyes and sweaty faces of the crowd
as they grinned or yelled. On the platform, a troupe of traveling entertainers
had been performing for about an hour, receiving plenty of noisy appreciation.

But the person onstage at that moment had almost managed to silence the crowd.
He was a man slightly below average height, with a shock of short dark hair,
wearing only a dark loincloth and knee-high boots. His lean body was pale and
hairless,

20

Many Blades

21

slabbed with muscle as hard and sharply defined as a sculpture.

He was a juggler, but this was no ordinary juggling of balls or hoops or light
clubs. A brightly lettered sign at one side of the stage announced:

CARVER——MAM OF MANY BLADES. And SCVCral of thoSC

blades were spinning in the air above him.

What had almost silenced the crowd was that all those blades were slim,
needle-pointed poniards and stilettos. Each one was whirling through two neat
turns above the juggler's head before he caught it by the hilt to spin it up
again. The action looked easy, almost casual, although the man's eyes seemed
narrowed with concentration, glittering almost wolfishly through slitted lids.

The only part of the crowd that was not holding its breath while the blades
spun was a foursome of bulky, half-drunk men, wearing uniforms of mottled
green with armored collars rising like serpentine hoods. Those men preferred
to hoot and bellow, as if trying to break the juggler's concentration, as if
hoping that one of the daggers would plunge down to more dire effect.

But it did not happen. Within a few moments the juggler was gathering in his
blades, nodding briefly as the crowd roared its applause. The roars became
more tumultuous when the juggler was joined onstage by a smiling young woman,
whose shapely figure was barely covered by a sleeveless top and a
semi-transparent skirt.

The four soldiers made the most noise when she appeared. Some of them bellowed
remarks that were more coarse than even that rowdy company could enjoy. But no
one objected. The four men were big

22

BLADE OF THE POISONER
and well-armed—and everyone knew who their master was.

As for the juggler, he seemed indifferent to all the noise, merely standing
quietly to one side next to an oddly shaped sack of coarse cloth. When the
young woman could make herself heard, she cheerily announced the finale of the
entertainment.

"The Man of Many Blades will now demonstrate his skill at throiymg those
blades! Knives, axes, short swords—he is master of them all! And he will throw
at a living target—myself!"

With a flourish she swept off the skirt, showing that her top was part of a
skimpy one-piece costume. The crowd roared again, with more crude bellows from
the four soldiers. Then the young woman strutted over to some upright planks
at one side of the stage, painted a smeared off-white. Placing her back
against those planks, she waited, smiling, as the juggler began to take an
assortment of bladed weapons firom the sack next to him. As the young woman
had promised, they came in every sort—more stilettos, many hunting knives,
skinning knives, heavy dirks, one short sword, several hatchets, and two
narrow, beautifully balanced throwing knives.

The young woman held up her hands for silence. "In this final act, Carver will
perform as no other knifeman in the world would dare perform!" She paused
dramatically as the audience gawped. "He will throw these weapons—at me,
remember— while Wma/olded!"

The crowd stared, open-mouthed, as the man called Carver drew from the sack a
band of soft leather and fastened it around his eyes.

Many Blades

23

One of the soldiers hooted scornfully. " 'S a trick!" he yelled. "Fakery!"

"Course it's a trick, dolt," said the biggest of the four, who was their
sergeant. 'And we'll prove it to these clowns before he's done!"

The others grinned and settled back to watch. The juggler had begun to pick up
the weapons one by one, whirling them up into the air in another intricate
juggling pattern. His blindfolded head seemed to be turned slightly away, so
that he was facing the stained dark curtains at the back of the stage rather
than his female target. Within moments, all the weapons were spinning and
glinting through the torch-lit air. The crowd was holding its breath in
near-silence as the juggler's lean hands kept up the pattern without effort.

By then a few more voices were beginning to echo the soldier's shout, that it
was all a trick—for who could juggle anything, let alone so many blades, with
his eyes covered? But most of the crowd was untroubled. If it was a trick, it
was an intensely entertaining trick.

Then, collectively, the crowd jerked and gasped. From the midst of the
juggling pattern, one of the blades had been thrown. It was the short sword,
flashing across the stage to bury its point in the planking a finger's-breadth
above the young woman's glossy hair.

She grinned, the crowd whooped with delight, and the juggler calmly continued.
Regularly, smoothly, with one hand and then the other, he sent weapon after
weapon whirling out of the juggling pattern. One after another sank with a
vibrating thud into the whitened planks. Slowly they began to outline

24

BLADE OF THE POISONER

the young woman's body. One of the dirks bit into the wood close enough to
touch the cloth at her waist, but her brave grin did not flinch. One of the
hatchets slammed into a plank only a hair's thickness from her thigh, but not
a muscle in the bare leg moved.

At last she was almost fully outlined by weaponry jutting from the planks. The
man called Carver was left with only the two wicked-looking throwing knives,
•one in each hand. With a snap of his wrists he flung them both high above the
stage into the darkness. Again the crowd held its breath, seeing that he had
not moved his head, that he was still holding his blindfolded face turned
slightly to one side.

The two knives plummeted back down into the torchlight—and the juggler
smoothly plucked them from the air by their hilts, one in each hand, and
hurled them. An instant later, they were both quivering in the planking, one
on either side of the young woman's throat, nestling against her skin.

For that instant the audience was totally silenced, staring with wonderment
and, in some cases, a tinge of fear. As the juggler walked over to the young
woman to collect his weapons, the onlookers seemed to be asking themselves—was
it a trick? And if it was not—how could it be possible?

Then the awed stillness was shattered by a bellow from the green-clad
sergeant, lunging to his feet. "Run out of blades, btind man?" he roared.
"Have mine!"

And he snatched a heavy knife from his belt and threw it.

It was thrown with some skill and considerable power, and it was aimed for the
dead center of the

Many Blades

25

juggler's back. But no one in the crowd had time even to register shock at the
murderous attack when a greater shodc struck them.

The juggler, still blindfolded, with his back to the crowd, had not reacted in
any way to the sergeant's roar. But in the last fraction of an instant, as the
knife flashed toward him, he twisted his lean body to one side. The knife flew
past his shoulder, driving into a plank.

And even as the sergeant's jaw was beginning to drop with amazement, the
juggler jerked the knife from the wood, spun, and hurled it back. With
unnerving accuracy it flew above the heads of the crowd to strike deep into
the wooden table where the soldiers were sitting. By reflex they jerked away,
tipping over their chairs and the table that held their drinks, sprawling on
the floor, drenched in a cascade of ale.

As the juggler plucked the two throwing knives from the planking and strode
offstage, the crowd erupted into riotous cheering—mingled with uproarious
laughter at the stunned, ale-soaked sergeant and his men.
The curtains at the back of the stage led into a narrow shed where some small
dressing rooms had been set up, with leather hangings at the door. The juggler
stalked into one of the rooms, which was lit by another flickering torch, and
tossed the two knives onto a crude table that held a small, scratched mirror.
Removing the strip of leather from his eyes, he tossed that beside the
knives—before turning, eyes sHtted, to the doorway at the sound of a soft
knock.

26

BLADE OF THE POISONER

The young woman from the stage came in, carrying the clanking sack of his
bladed weapons. Setting it on the floor, she looked at him with concern.

"You took a great risk with the soldiers," she said quietly.

His eyes flashed orange in the torchlight. "They took the risk, Dorinna," he
said with a thin smile.

"They're soldiers of the Poisoner," the young woman told him, frowning. "And
you've made enemies of them."

"I've had worse enemies," the juggler said.

"I don't doubt that," Dorinna replied. For a moment she gazed at him, nibbling
her lip. "Carver— won't you tell me?" she finally burst out. "How you do it? I
know it's a real blindfold—and that sergeant's knife was thrown at your backl"

The man called Carver shrugged. "I've told you, Dorinna. I have a... trick,
for seeing past the blindfold. But it's my stage secret. As for that lout's
knife, I was lucky. That's all."

Dorinna looked at him sadly. "Why is it that I don't believe you?" she asked.
And she turned swiftly and went out.

The juggler sighed wearily. Then, as if putting Dorinna out of his mind, he
picked up the sack of weapons and took it to the far corner, where there stood
a tall, curious staff of dark wood. It was about the juggler's height, oddly
carved for a short distance at the upper end, with a thong that would allow it
to be slung over a shoulder. And it was slightly curved for more than half its
length.

But the juggler ignored the staff. Crossing back to the table with the smeared
mirror, he picked up a

Many Blades

27

small satchel from beneath it. Out of the satchel he took some items of
clothing and pulled them on: loose trousers that tucked into his boots, a dark
shirt with cuffs tight at the wrists. Then, without looking in the mirror, he
put his fingertips to each eye in succession and removed from beneath his
eyelids two small curved pieces of glass. On each piece there was painted the
appearance of an eye, complete with iris and pupil. The painting had been done
with almost magical skill, amazingly lifelike.

But the juggler's own eyes, now exposed, were eerily, inhumanly lifeless—two
surfaces of cold and shiny black.
Carefully the juggler placed the bits of glass on the table, next to the
throwing knives and the leather blindfold. Then, reaching again toward the
satchel, he paused. Something strange had begun to happen to the mirror at his
side.

It had begun to reveal an image—at first only a series of orange streaks, like
reflections of the torch's flame. But at once the streaks settled, shifting
themselves slowly into letters, a group of words.

The man named Carver stiffened, motionless and alert. Yet, oddly, he still did
not turn to look at the mirror as the message formed:

SEEK ARCHER IN THE WELLWOOD SAVE THE BOY

4

Departure

After a moment the letters began to fade, until once again the face of the
mirror was blank. And still the juggler had not moved, except for the grimace
that briefly twisted his mouth.

"Wouldn't bother to mention where to find a Wellwood," he muttered to himself.
"Or why Archer can't save the boy—whoever he is."

He picked up the satchel and began to remove its contents—mostly spare
clothing, including a cloak of a blue so dark as to be almost black. After
examining each item he repacked them all carefully, except for the cloak,
which he tossed onto the table. Then he went over to the sack that held his
weapons and took from it a heavy dirk, sheathed, with a blade nearly as long
as his forearm. This, too, he took back to the table, where for a moment he
paused, as if pondering.

"This will make Dorinna unhappy," he muttered. A wry smile twitched the
corners of his mouth. "For about a day and a half."

And that was the moment when the leather

28

Departure

29

hangings on the doorway were abruptly ripped aside.

Through the opening lunged the green-uniformed sergeant and his three men,
swords ready in their hands.

The man called Carver did not start or flinch or even blink. He merely shifted
his feet slightly as if to improve his balance and stood still, waiting.

The sergeant gestured with his sword. "All right, blind man," he growled.
"You're gonna learn you can't make a fool out of me!"

The juggler's mouth twitched. "You're doing that all by yourself," he said
coolly.

The sergeant flushed dark with rage, roared, and swung his sword in a furious
arc. If the blow had landed, the juggler's head would have rolled on the
floor. But the juggler had moved, a darting leap almost too swift to follow.
The other three soldiers had only just registered the fact that their
sergeant's sword had missed when the juggler slammed in among them. Though he
was shorter and slimmer than any one of them, the three were flung aside,
staggering like scattered bowling pins. One tumbled to the floor, one thumped
against the wall, the third crashed noisily into the table with the mirror.

The juggler's foot flashed out twice in well-aimed kicks, and two of the
soldiers shrieked and folded in the middle, clutching themselves. But as the
juggler turned towards the third soldier, coming away from the wrecked table,
the sergeant attacked again, his sword stabbing viciously at the juggler's
back.

As before, on the stage, the juggler seemed to be aware of the attack from
behind. He swayed

30

BLADE OF THE POISONER

smoothly aside, just in time. The sergeant's sword flashed past him to bite
deep into the sword-arm of the third soldier.

In that instant the juggler was leaping for the curved staff in the far
corner. As his hand found it, the wounded soldier was howling, the sergeant
was bellowing—and through the doorway stepped young Dorinna, who took one look
at the melee and screamed.

In the midst of that din, the juggler's hand gripped the carved top of the
staff, twisted it and pulled. With a faint click the top came loose, showing
itself to be the carved hilt of a sword, which slid smoothly out of the staff.
It was a long, slim, bright sword, with a slightly curved blade that looked
lethally sharp.

But that sword faced no opposition. The three soldiers were slumped on the
floor, moaning. Dorinna had stumbled back against the doorframe, eyes round
with fear. The sergeant was standing very still and staring with bulging eyes
at the juggler.

Clearly in the heat of battle the sergeant had not looked too closely at his
opponent. But now, in that tiny pause, he had looked. And he had seen the
curved sword and the glittering blackness of the juggler's eyes.

Sweating and shaken, the sergeant let his sword dangle from his almost
nerveless hand. "Your eyes..." he breathed.

His words directed Dorinna's attention to the same place. With a choked
version of her previous scream, she slid bonelessly to the floor in a dead
faint.

"I've... heard of one like you," the sergeant

Departure

31

was saying. He began edging back toward the door, his voice ragged. "A warrior
with great skill... whose dead black eyes can see behind and before, all
around, in every direction."
"You've heard that, have you?" the juggler said, almost idly.

"Men say he may be a demon, or a Talent," the sergeant went on shakily. He had
nearly reached the door. "They say his true name rises from the curved blade
he wields. Scythe, they call him. Scythe the Blind Man... Scythe the Seer."

"You shouldn't worry about names too much," the juggler said calmly.

But the sergeant was still staring at the curved sword glinting in the
torchlight. Just as bright, just as cold, the light flashed from the shiny
black eyes of the man called Carver, the man named Scythe.

"Scythe the Seer..." the sergeant choked, his face twisting. "Scythe the
Slayer...."

And he whirled and sprang through the door in a burst of speed bom of terror.

Scythe jerked forward as if he might pursue, but then drew back. Smiling his
small, chill smile, he turned towards the wounded soldier, now
half-unconscious from loss of blood. Scythe could see— without needing to turn
his head—that the other two soldiers had mostly recovered. But they remained
on the floor, weapons forgotten, staring up at him. One of them whimpered as
Scythe stood over the wounded man, his curved sword sweeping down.

But the incredible keenness of Scythe's blade merely sliced a strip of cloth
from the man's uniform, with which Scythe bound up the slashed arm.

"I   might   have   killed your sergeant,   had he

32

BLADE OF THE POISONER

stayed to fight," he said conversationally to the other two, who were still
staring at him as mice stare at a hunting cat. "But I don't kill those who are
unarmed or unconscious—or unmanned with fear."

Then he turned away, ignoring them as he slid the curved sword back into the
staff. Moving to the shattered table, he halted, muscles clenching in his jaw.
Everything that had been on the table had been spilled onto the floor. And the
two small pieces of painted glass, which he had worn over his eyes, had been
crushed to powder by a soldier's boot.

"At least they deceived Dorinna these months," he murmured to himself. "So now
I must be a blind beggar again."

He picked up the strip of leather and fastened it over his eyes, then took up
the two throwing knives and the heavy dirk. The dirk's sheath went onto his
belt at one hip, while the knives slid into sheaths within his shirt, at the
back of his collar. Then he gathered up the dark blue cloak, slung it and the
satchel over a shoulder, grasped the staff, and strode towards the door. There
he paused, gazing down at the still unconscious form of Dorinna. Sighing, he
slung the staffs thong over his other shoulder, then stooped and, without
apparent effort, lifted Dorinna's limp form from the floor before vanishing
through the door.

For a long moment there was silence in the room. Then the two uninjured
soldiers expelled long, shaky breaths and began to climb to their feet,
wincing slightly.
"What d'we do now?" one said.

The other shrugged. "Go find th' serg'nt, I reckon."

Departure   33

"He'll still be runnin'," the first soldier said with a grimace. "An' me too,
if I was him. I never faced nobody like that."

His comrade nodded. "Got to be some kind of devil-spawn, eyes like that. Got
to be no kind of human—"

He broke off as if his throat had suddenly closed, staring at the doorway.

The cloaked figure with the headband and the staff had silently reappeared, as
if sprouting from the floor. He had obviously placed Dorinna safely somewhere,
and just as obviously had heard what the soldiers had been saying.

"I'm human," Scythe said easily, his chill smile flickering. "If I'm cut, I
bleed." The smile vanished. "But you two together will never be good enough to
find that out for yourselves."

The soldiers gulped and flinched.

"I don't suppose," Scythe went on, "that either of you knows a place called
the Wellwood?"

They glanced at each other and gulped again. "Yes sir," one said shakily.
"Wellwood, sir. Big forest, a long ways east, sir. Beyond the Far Barrens. You
follow the Bloodvein River, turn northeast past a big waterfall called the
Chimes. Sir."

"Good," Scythe said. "I know the Barrens." He frowned slightly. "But how is it
you know the route so well?".

"All of us know it now," the soldier said, his voice still shaky. "The Prince
Mephtik, he's travelin' out that way. To go... huntin'."

Scythe's mouth went thin as a sword-slash. "Hunting. Now I understand. I know
very well what happens when the Poisoner hunts."

34    BLADE OF THE POISONER

He stood silent for a moment, as the soldiers quailed back from the steely
anger that showed on his face. Then the dark cloak swirled, and the two men
were once again staring at an empty doorway.

5

Meeting of Minds

Some days later, Scythe rode slowly along a dusty road far to the east of the
city where he had performed as a juggler. He seemed to sag in the saddle as he
rode, as if overcome by weariness and gloom. His dark blue cloak hung limply
down, hiding the dirk and half-covering the staff that was slung beside the
saddle. The cloak was travel-stained, the band around his eyes was
sweat-stained, his face was grimy with dust. Even his mount looked miserable—a
gangling, bony horse of a dull muddy-brown color, whose head drooped as its
rider's did.
All in all, Scythe looked like a sightless, poverty-stricken, wretched
wanderer—which is just how he wished to look. There were many such folk in
Prince Mephtik's realm: homeless and hopeless drifters, staying alive through
odd jobs or petty crime or begging. They were sometimes sneered at and abused,
sometimes pitied and given a coin or two, most often ignored. Scythe wanted
very much to be ignored.

The road—little more than a vague trail—led through an expanse of wild
country, where the thin soil showed a great many sharp grey outcrops of rock

35

36

BLADE OF THE POISONER

and many fewer tufts of coarse grass or scrubby patches of trees. This was the
Far Barrens, where the land rose and fell in a series of low ridges and
shallow dips. And the road kept itself cautiously winding among the dips and
gullies, so that a traveler would never be framed against the sky. That sky
was overcast as usual, with streaks of darker cloud running among the grey,
and occasional faint rumbles of thunder.

In the near distance, on Scythe's left, the silty waters of the Bloodvetn
River drifted by. And ahead, farther to the east, Scythe could just hear a
sound that might have been more thunder rumbling, except that it was
continuous.

"That's it, Hob," he said to the horse. "The waterfall. We'll camp there
tonight and take our bearings."

The bony horse had swiveled an ear back towards him as he spoke. But then both
its ears switched forward as it jerked up its head.

Scythe had also spotted the movement ahead of them. Above the road, on the
crest of a small ridge, a rider had appeared. The horse seemed light in color,
perhaps white, and the rider seemed fairly small. But even Scythe's uncanny
vision could make out no more detail at that distance. The rider seemed to
pause, as if watching Scythe—or perhaps waiting.

"Not wearing green, anyway, whoever it is," Scythe muttered. He shook the
reins, urging Hob out of his loose-jointed plod into an easy trot.

In almost the same instant, Scythe stiffened. Behind him, coming into view
around a bend in the road, he saw—without turning—a group of seven riders. And
these were wearing green. The soldiers

Meeting of Minds

37

saw Scythe at the same time and kicked their horses forward.

"Getting crowded here," Scythe said, shaking the reins again. "Run, Hob!"

The horse surged forward, and instantly its bony, ungainly appearance was
shown to be deceptive. Hob seemed to flow along the ground in an effortless,
distance-devouring stride. Ahead, Scythe saw that the unknown rider's pale
horse had also broken into a gallop, down the slope of the ridge. But then the
rider swung the horse to one side, vanishing into an expanse of trees and
scrub brush.

"To the woods," Scythe muttered. "Good idea."

Hob's storming gallop soon brought him to the same stand of woods. Behind,
Scythe could see the dust cloud raised by his pursuers, but for a moment the
soldiers were hidden by another curve in the road. With the touch of a knee,
Scythe sent Hob into a sure-footed swerve toward the trees. There he gripped
the staff and leaped from the saddle, landing on his feet and taking a few
running steps, as balanced as an acrobat.

"On, Hob!" he shouted. And as the horse thundered away through the trees,
Scythe drew his curved sword from the staff and sprang for a nearby thicket.
Dropping the staff and cloak, drawing the dirk with his other hand, he waited
for the seven soldiers.

Soon he heard their horses out on the road, but the sounds indicated that they
were riding past. He began to edge forward out of the thicket, knowing that
the soldiers would soon realize what had happened and would come back to
search the woods. But then he froze.

38

BLADE OF THE POISONER

Clearly visible to his unique vision, someone was creeping silently through
the trees behind him.

It was a young girl, slim, blond, and pretty, despite a slightly superior
expression around her pert mouth. She wore a fine lacy shirt under a long
riding tunic of dusky red, tight leggings of the same color and high black
boots—with the ivory hilt of a narrow dagger at her waist. Her clothing was
made of rich material, expensively decorated, as were the saddle and harness
and traveling bag on the beautiful creamy-white mare she was leading.

She did not seem to have spotted Scythe, crouched in the brush, but he did not
wait to be discovered.

"Stop where you are, girl," he snapped, rising and turning.

The girl's face went chalk-white. She had seen him turn to face her only after
he began to speak. And then she saw the band across his eyes. "How... how did
you see... ?" she asked.

Scythe shook his head. "The question is why you're coming up behind me."

The girl was still shocked, but a flash of haughty anger showed in her eyes.
"I didn't even see you. I was watching for the soldiers."

Scythe studied her for a moment, then nodded. "Then what," he asked, **is a
little rich girl doing out here alone, hiding from soldiers?"

The girl drew herself up. "You will not speak to me so! I am the Lady
Mandragorina, daughter of Lord Felley of Felley Hale, who is Warden of the
northern region."

Scythe shrugged. "If you say so. The question still stands. Why are you here?"

Her glare faded a little as she seemed to grow ill
Meeting of Minds

39

at ease. "I was... sent to this road, to wait for someone." Her uneasiness
increased. "I was told to seek a... a blind man who sees more fully than men
with eyes." She was watching Scythe, looking more flustered as he began to
smile. "You cover your eyes, yet you seemed to see me behind you...."

Scythe's wry smile widened slightly. "By any chance," he said, "were you sent
by one who wears only blue, has a very good opinion of himself, and likes
speaking in riddles?"

Mandragorina's relieved smile was like the sun after rain. "Oh, yes—that's
Cryl."

Scythe nodded. "Cryltaur Tabbetang—sorcerer, outlaw, humorist, collector of
Talents... who could never do anything so simple as tell you my name."

Her laugh was silvery music. "Still, I suppose there can be no other blind man
with vision, like you. It must be a true Talent, of course?"

Scythe nodded. "I can see all around me, above and below, all at once. But
with part of my mind, not my eyes." He reached up and pulled the leather band
away.

"Oh," she said in a small voice, staring at the shiny blackness within his
eye-sockets. "The grim reaper..."

Scythe looked startled. "Why do you say that?"

"An image came to my mind," she said uneasily. "Of a figure in a hooded cloak,
bearing a scythe."

He nodded dourly as he replaced the headband. "I've had many names in many
places, but most often—by those who know me—I'm called Scythe. Because like
the figure in your image I've harvested a number of lives—from the camp of the
Enemy. And will harvest a few more before my time is done." He

40

BLADE OF THE POISONER

smiled his chill smile, "And that is your Talent, then, that brought you to
Cryl? Reaching into the minds of others?"

"In a way," Mandragorina said. "But getting images from other minds happens
only with some difficulty. My main Talent—"

She stopped, tensing at Scythe's abrupt silencing gesture. From the edge of
the woods came the muffled thump of hooves, the rattle of harness. The seven
soldiers had returned.

"Where is your horse?" Mandragorina whispered.

"I sent him on," Scythe told her softly. "The green ones would find a cat in
these woods more easily than my Hob, if he's hiding. But with you and your
mare, we have little chance of staying out of sight."
"You're wrong," she said briskly. "With me there is every chance."

But Scythe was paying no attention. Still gripping his two weapons, he jerked
his head at Mandragorina and began to move stealthily away.

"Stay here!" she hissed sharply. "Just stand still and don't make a sound!"

Scythe turned, frowning, but then froze into a half-crouch. His vision showed
him, to one side, three green-clad riders with crossbows ready, moving slowly
through the brush.

At the same moment when the three men swung their gaze toward the man and the
girl standing with the white mare, Mandragorina went strangely tense—eyes
closed, mouth pursed, a frown drawing down her pale brows.

The soldiers' gaze swept over them—and past. They did not blink or change
expression. Their

Meeting of Minds

41

mounts whickered and shook their heads as if suddenly fretful, but the
soldiers merely jerked at the reins and moved steadily forward. One came
within a hand's-breadth of the astonished Scythe but did not look at him,
merely peering briefly at the nearby thicket. Then the men moved on deeper
into the woods.

A silent moment later, a voice shouted .from somewhere in the brush. "NothinM
He musta ridden out on the far side!" Then there was a thudding of hooves,
fading slowly.

Scythe released the breath he had been holding. "That was well done—whatever
it was."

Mandragorina's smile held a touch of pride. "My main Talent is in making
people see things, or not. They looked at us and saw three small bushes.'*

"Their horses seemed troubled," Scythe said.

"The horses saw what the men saw," she replied. "But they could smell
us—especially Pearl, my mare. We must have seemed very strange bushes to
them."

Scythe inclined his head. "Then my thanks— and apologies for not paying
attention at first." His thin smile twitched. "A pleasure to meet you, my lady
Mandragorina. I hope we can be friends as well as allies in the service of
that riddling wizard."

"My friends call me Mandra," she said with an answering smile.

"Mandra it is," Scythe said. "And that"—he pointed to the ungainly shape of
his horse, who had ambled into view—"that is my faithful Hob, whose name comes
from hobgoblin, or hobby-horse, or hobbledehoy, depending on my mood. He's not
as lovely as your Pearl, but he has surprised many men

42

BLADE OF THE POISONER
and outrun many horses. In times past he has been my only friend."

As he was speaking, the muddy-brown horse had nickered in a friendly way at
the pretty mare, whose eyes gleamed with interest, Mandra glanced at them with
a smile, then turned back to Scythe.

"Your only friend?" she asked. "What about Cryl?"

Scythe shrugged. "I owe the wizard much, of course. When I was a stripling of
perhaps your age—fifteen?"

"Fourteen—and a half," Mandra said.

"Near enough," Scythe went on. "Cryl plucked me from poverty, found a teacher
to give me a warrior's skills, and developed my Talent when it showed itself,
as he no doubt has developed yours. He even made me small glass coverings to
make my eyes look normal. But I don't think of him as a friend. I'm... in his
service, doing his bidding against the Enemy. As I'm doing now, riding to the
Wellwood."

Briefly he told her about the message in fiery letters, and she nodded
thoughtfully. "Cryl mentioned that name—the Wellwood—when he sent me here."

"You seem very young," Scythe said bluntly, "to be sent on a mission. With
Mephtik abroad, the risk could be great."

Mandra drew herself up. "I'm not afraid. Cryl always says I have more courage
than is good for me—my family calls it recklessness. And Cryl said that my
Talent especially would be needed—beyond the Wellwood."

"Interesting," Scythe said quietly.

"But who is Archer?" Mandra asked. "And this boy who must be saved?"

Meeting of Minds

43

Scythe shrugged. "Archer is another of Cryl's collection of Talents. As for
the boy, the wizard told me nothing. No doubt we'll learn more when we find
Archer."

He gathered up his cloak and staff, sheathed his weapons, and together they
swung up into their saddles. Back on the road, they moved at an easy pace
while Mandra chattered brightly about her home and family, and about her
experiences with their mutual friend, the wizard called Cryl. It turned out
that her family believed she was on a prolonged visit to an aged aunt in a
distant town, so her absence was explained. As she talked, Scythe seemed
wholly at ease, enjoying her sparkling personality. But his unique vision was
tirelessly scanning every detail of the landscape around them, especially as
the late afternoon began to darken into twilight.

"Time to find a place to camp," he said at last. As ever, he did not need to
turn to see her quick, nervous glance. "And now you've realized," he added,
"that we'll be camping "together at night as well as riding together by day."

She tossed her blond curls. "That doesn't both' er me in the least."

"Good," Scythe said with a smile, "because you'll be quite safe. Think of me
as an uncle...."
He stopped. Though not a breath of breeze was stirring in the deepening dusk,
a small whirlwind had arisen in the middle of the road. It danced and spun
before them, gathering dust and leaves and bits of twigs into its spiral.
Then, as they watched, it swirled one final time and disappeared.

In the roadway, the debris that the wind had

44

BLADE OF THE POISONER

carried settled to the ground—into the clear shapes of letters, spelling out
words.

MAKE HASTE

THE POISONER IS IN THE WELLWOOD THE BLADE HAS BEEN USED

Silently they watched the debris lift briefly from the ground again,
scattering the letters. Then Mandra turned anxiously to Scythe.

"What does it mean?" she asked. "What Blade?" "I'll tell you as we go," Scythe
said grimly. "And I hope your Pearl has strong legs. It's a long ride— and we
won't be stopping on the way."

6

Rescuers

Only about a day and a half later, eight people were sitting in the midst of a
black and starless Wellwood night. Six 6"f them were green-hooded soldiers of
the Poisoner, clustered around a small fire, crossbows close at hand. To one
side, Archer sat against a tree—still bound, but now with a length of heavy
chain rather than the spider's web cord. She seemed wholly recovered from the
blow on the head. But her eyes were filled with anxiety as she gazed at
Jarral.

Jarral was sitting near her, also chained, also unmoving. But he did not
appear to be looking at anything. Blank-eyed and pale, he merely stared
emptily into the night. But in fact he was seeing a great deal, within his
memory, none of it pleasant.

Over and over he relived the moment when the icy tip of the Tainted Blade
touched his skin. Over and over he saw again the horror that had awaited him
when he woke from his faint—the red-smeared M on his chest, the leer of Prince
Mephtik, the repeated promise of death in four weeks* time.

And the promise also of living with horror and anguish every moment of those
weeks.

45

46

BLADE OF THE POISONER

All this Jarral saw, endlessly repeated images in his tormented mind. He
wanted to writhe, he wanted to scream—but he had learned that the soldiers
struck him if he did either of those things. So he sat still, staring into the
darkness, silent tears glinting on his cheeks.

The soldiers were growing slightly boisterous as a leather flask went from
hand to hand. Covered by the noise, Archer wriggled a foot or so nearer.

"Jarral!" Her murmur pierced the cloud of horror enveloping the boy. He turned
his head, saw the concern on her face. "Jarral, things are not as bad as they
seem. Someone will come for us. Just as I was sent to your aid, others will be
sent to ours."

Janal's face crumpled. "What does it matter? I'm going to die in four weeks!"

"No!" Archer's voice snapped with intensity. "There is one who can save you,
Jarral. One who has great powers, who will know how to heal the Blade-wound.
You must not despair!"

Jarral stared at her. "Are you just saying this to make me feel better?"

To his surprise, Archer grinned. "I am saying it because it is so, though
certainly it makes me feel better." She glanced warily at the soldiers,
dropping her voice. "The one who will help us is a wizard, Jarral. A man of
great power and great goodness. He has devoted his life to a struggle against
the evil that overwhelms this world."

"You mean against Prince Mephtik?" Jarral asked.

Archer shook her head. "The Poisoner is only one of a number of lesser rulers
in diiferent parts of the world. They themselves are ruled by another— the
world's evil master, who claimed that mastery

Rescuers

47

long ago. To us, he is the Enemy. The Unnamed Enemy—for to speak his true name
can be fearsomely dangerous. He is a mighty sorcerer, perhaps the mightiest
who ever lived, a high adept in the blackest of the Dark Arts. Those who know
and fear him have their own names for him. Like Demon-Driver ... Phantom
Leader... Master of Fiends."

Jarral looked appalled. "I never knew any of this," he said faintly. "I'd
hardly ever heard of the Poisoner before. And now all this magic, and
monsters... and what... what was done to me...."

"You must be strong, Jarral," Archer said quietly. "You have lived in a
child's innocence, in the sheltering Wellwood. But now there is no more
shelter. You must leave the forest just as you must leave innocence. You have
shown strength already, for many in your position might have been driven mad.
But now you must show more strength, and courage." Her voice softened. "Be
sure you will not be alone."

There was a sob somewhere in Jama's voice, but he fought it. "You... you said
you were sent to help me. Why?"

Archer looked somber. "The wizard whom I and the others serve sends me where
he will, and does not always give his reasons. But 1 know that he keeps watch,
when he can, on events throughout the world. Perhaps he knew that the Poisoner
was ordered to destroy the village. Perhaps also he foresaw that you would be
spared—and sent me to your aid, because I have known you."
"I still don't understand," Jarral said weakly, "why the village was
destroyed."

"I am not certain," Archer replied, "but at times the Unnamed Enemy has
ordered such horrors

48

BLADE OF THE POISONER

so as to destroy someone who might come to oppose him." She leaned closer,
intently. "The wizard I speak of—we call him Cryl—strives to maintain a
fighting force of.. .people like myself. Equally, the Enemy strives to find
and destroy us."

Jarral was looking dazed. "Are these other people giants, too?"

Archer smiled. "No—they are like me only because they, too, have been born
with very rare and special mental powers, which are called Talents."

Jarral remembered the Tainted Blade twisting like a living thing in the
Poisoner's hand. "You mean magic?" he asked.

Archer shook her head firmly. "The True Magic is possessed by even more rare
individuals—like Cryl— and operates in a different way. I will explain it
another time. A Talent is an ability to make things happen by the power of the
mind alone. Some can see visions of events far away, or in the future—as I can
sometimes, faintly. Some Talents can reach into a man's mind and make him do
things, or see things that are not there. Some can send their own spirits, the
'astral self,' traveling out of their bodies. Some can start fires mentally.
And some can move objects with mental power. That is my main Talent—so I can
direct my arrows to their targets."

"The way you moved the Blade," Jarral said.

"Correct. But my Talent is not powerful enough to move heavy objects." She
glanced at the rowdy soldiers. ''1 could unfasten our chains with my Talent.
But it would not help me to face six armed men barehanded." Her eyes grew
fierce. "Or not until they grow drunk enough...."

Jarral shivered. He had become so absorbed by

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49

all the new information that he had almost, for a moment, forgotten their
plight. "Then you think this... Cryl... will send other people with Talents to
help us?"

"Without doubt. He might even come himself, though that would be a great risk
for him. The Enemy seeks tirelessly to find and destroy him. But Cryl's powers
allow him to watch events—and sometimes foresee them—anywhere in the world. He
will know of our situation."

"Is Cryl as powerful as the... the Enemy?" Jarral asked nervously.

"Probably not," Archer said calmly. "But if he can gather enough Talents to
aid him—"
She broke off, startled by a sudden crashing in the woods beyond the
firelight. The half-drunk soldiers whirled and froze, eyes popping, as a horse
burst into view. It was a glorious animal, raven-black and powerful, and it
was ridden by a startling woman. She had long hair as black as the horse's
mane, smooth pale skin, lips as scarlet as the skin-tight dress she wore.

As the soldiers leaped up, the horse shied and reared, flinging the beautiful
rider from the saddle. Then the horse dashed away as she picked herself up,
looking dazed but unhurt. Turning, she threw one horrified look at the six
loutish soldiers, gave a muffled shriek, and fled.

All six soldiers roared with cruel glee and charged into the darkness after
her.

Jarral turned to Archer with astonishment, but the bow-woman looked just as
bewildered. For long moments they listened to the soldiers bellowing and
crashing through the lightless woods. Then they

50

BLADE OF THE POISONER

heard a different sound—almost a gurgle, as if someone were choking or
drowning. A moment later there was a strange gasping grunt, and then another.
Next, a ragged howl was followed by an angry roar, more crashing in the brush,
something oddly like a whimper—and silence.

After a further moment, Jarral heard unsteady footsteps approaching. A soldier
staggered into the firelight, his sweaty face strangely calm, empty-eyed.
Jarral felt cold shock as the soldier toppled forward like a felled tree,
revealing the slim hilt of a throwing knife jutting from his back.

Looking again toward Archer, Jarral was amazed to see that she was grinning.
Then the grin widened, and Jarral looked back to see a dark-clad, dark-haired
man, fairly lean and not very tall, stroll into the firelight. He was holding
a slim, curved sword, which he was wiping with a ragged piece of green cloth.
He stooped, retrieved the throwing knife, wiped that blade on the dead man's
tunic, and slid it back into its collar-sheath. Only then did he look over at
the two prisoners.

"Archer," he said calmly.

"Scythe!" Archer said happily. "1 wondered if it would be you. Was that one of
your girlfriends, on the horse?"

Scythe smiled thinly. "A girl, yes, and a friend, yes, but not what you
think." He held out a hand, and Mandra stepped into the light, bright-eyed.
"This is the Lady Mandragorina of Felley Hale, whose friends call her Mandra
and who can make people see whatever she chooses—such as raven-haired runaways
on black horses, to tempt soldiers into traps." He made a mocking half-bow.
"My lady,

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51

this is Archer, warrior and bow-woman of many Talents."

Mandra produced a cool nod. "Not so many that she can avoid being captured, it
seems," she murmured.
Archer looked taken aback, then smiled wryly. "Forgive us for not rising, my
lady," she said with cheerful sarcasm. A spasm of strain tightened her face,
and her chains and Jarral's snapped apart and fell away. At the same time
Archer's bow, arrows, and hunting knife rose from where the soldiers had
placed them and floated across to her waiting hand.

For a second Mandra in turn looked taken aback as the towering bow-woman
climbed to her feet. But then Mandra tossed her head and turned her ironic
gaze onto Jarral.

"And this will be the mysterious boy we were sent to save. Does he always let
his mouth hang open in that unsightly way?"

Jarral had been staring dazedly, but at that he closed his mouth and glared.

"It is sad," Archer said easily, "that your ladyship's Talents do not include
good manners."

That produced a similar glare from Mandra, and Scythe smiled again. "Nice to
see you becoming friends," he remarked dryly.

Archer laughed, then introduced Jarral, with a quick explanation of how he and
she had come together. Soon she had explained to Jarral as well the nature of
Mandra's hypnotic Talent and also Scythe's Talent. And Jarral gazed astounded
at the chill blackness of the warrior's eyes when the covering headband was
removed.

But the talk began to make Scythe restless. "We

52    BLADE OF THE POISONER

should move—before Mephtik comes to join the party."

"He is elsewhere in the forest," Archer told him. "Seeking other survivors of
the village."

Scythe nodded, but did not relax. "We had a message—that the Blade had been
used."

"It has," Archer said tightly. "Open your shirt, Jarral."

Slowly, with the haunted look returning to his eyes, Jarral pulled the cloth
aside. Scythe's face hardened, and Mandra paled, as they stared at the raw
wound in the form of an M.

"Signed with the Tainted Blade," Scythe growled. "How long do we have?"

"Nearly four weeks," Archer told him. "Till the full moon."

Mandra looked at Jarral, all her sarcasm replaced by sympathy. "Does it hurt?"

He shook his head dully. "It's just cold and numb, like frostbite."

"Time enough," Scythe was saying. "We can get him to Cryl, or get him
somewhere safe so Cryl can come to us."

Within a few moments they were ready to travel. Scythe had called Hob—who had
Scythe's cloak and staff on the saddle—and Mandra had collected Pearl, while
Archer gathered two of the soldiers' horses for herself and Jarral along with
some food and containers of water from the soldier's packs.

As they mounted, Mandra was looking troubled. "I don't understand why we're
doing this," she announced.

Archer looked shocked. "To save Jarrai's life! Why else?"

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53

"Of course," Mandra said hastily. "But Prince Mephtik must kill people all the
time—and Cryl doesn't always send his Talents to help. Why has he done so
nou»?"

Scythe frowned. "Must be that the lad's impcr-tant. Which likely means a
Talent. So he's probably the one Mephtik was aiming to kill when he wiped out
the village."

"It must be so," Archer agreed. "Perhaps the Demon-Driver had become aware of
a Talent growing in the village, but had not singled out which individual. So
he sent the Poisoner to kill them all."

Scythe nodded. "And Cryl also must have become aware of our young friend's
growing Talent, and sent you to help."

"But I'm no Talent!" Jarral broke in, looking alarmed. "I haven't got any kind
of... of power, or anything!"

"You wouldn't know," Scythe said. "Talents don't start to show until the age
of twelve or so. Cryl can explain it all to you when we get to him—while he's
fixing that wound."

Jarral might have felt heartened by that statement. But in that second, his
flesh seemed to turn to ridged ice, as he heard a sound—some distance away
through the darkened forest—that was all too hideously familiar.

A pattering sound, with a faint breathy hiss. A sound that brought to Jarral's
mind the nightmare image of eight long scuttling legs, and snapping venomous
jaws.

7

Wizard in Blue

"What is it?" Mandra asked, as Scythe and Archer halted, listening tensely.

"One of Mephtik's monsters," Archer said. "It helped him capture Jarral and
myself."

"One of the Seven Widows," Scythe added.

"When I saw it, earlier today," Archer went on grimly, "I shot at it. But... I
missed it."

Scythe nodded. "You would—even you. Those things can sense a missile coming at
them. At the tast second they leap aside."

Archer brightened. "Is it so? Then perhaps there is a way..."
"But it means that the Poisoner is coming back!" Mandra interrupted anxiously.

"More likely the creature is ranging on its own," Scythe said. "Mephtik often
lets them roam free, and it's fast enough to cover a huge area."

"Wonderful," Mandra said hollowly. "What other facts can you terrify us with?"

"Many," Scythe said, smiling. "The venom of the Widows will kill
anything—their jaws are like

54

Wizard in Blue

55

shears—they can outrun any horse—they can climb anything—"

"Enough," Archer broke in. "Let us ride." She glanced at the dying campfire.
"I would pay a good price for a torch."

Scythe shook his head. "If it was just the Widow, I'd agree, for the monsters
fear fire. But Mephtik may be near enough to see a torch in the forest. No,
I'll lead, because I don't need light to see. Just let your horses follow
Hob."

So they set off, tense and wary, through the blackness that was no different
from daylight to Scythe. Hob moved at an easy trot, weaving in and out among
the trees, with the other horses following single file. Jarral, still chilled
by the distant sound of the monster, strained his ears for any repetition of
the noise. But as none came, he soon began to relax slightly into the steady
rhythm of his horse's movement.

They traveled for more than an hour until Scythe called a halt. Leaving Archer
with the two youngsters, he scouted on foot into the forest around them for
any sign of pursuit. The others waited, their silence growing more tense,
until at last Mandra broke it.

'Archer," she said softly, "surely the Widow monsters are supernatural. So
your arrow wouldn't have hurt it anyway."

"The Widows are natural creatures that have been enlarged by magic," Archer
replied quietly. "Not created by magic. They can be slain by human weapons."

"Those that hit their target," Mandra murmured sardonically.

56

BLADE OF THE POISONER

"Archer never missed before!" Jarral burst out hotly. "Ever!"

"Keep your voices down," Scythe said from the darkness, making them all jump,
"or Mephtik won't miss us, either."

"Did you see anything?" Archer asked him as he came back to them and swung up
into his saddle.

"Nothing unusual," Scythe replied, sounding slightly edgy. "But the thing is
out there somewhere. The whole forest has gone still as death."
"As it was after the village was destroyed," Archer said.

Jarral felt even more cold and shaky as the horses resumed their steady trot
in Hob's wake. His back was crawling with the feeling that evil Widow-eyes
were staring at him from the black depths of the foliage around them....

Then all images were driven from his mind by a sudden breathy hiss—from above
him. All the horses suddenly reared and plunged, whinnying with frantic
terror. Jarral felt his feet lose the stirrups. Then he was screaming along
with the horses as, with another penetrating hiss, a heavy body with eight
widespread legs dropped and clung onto the neck of his mount.

The screaming horse fell sideways, flinging Jarral from its back. Vaguely
Jarral heard a roar from Archer and Mandra's shrill cry amid the clatter of
the other horses' hooves. But above all those sounds he could clearly hear the
sickening crunch as the Widow's ranged jaws closed on the back of his horse's
neck. The horse's screams were cut off as if a door had slammed.

The attack by then had taken no more than two or three seconds. But to Jarral,
near hysteria, time

Wizard in Blue

57

seemed almost to stop, and every movement seemed slow and languid, distorted,
as if seen through water. From where he lay, only a few paces away, he saw in
the darkness the dim shape of the monster lift itself slightly, saw the huge
sack of its body swing round toward him. His imagination more than his vision
saw the dripping fangs, the ghastly bulging eyes fix upon him.

He screamed again, a wordless cry, as horror swelled like a gale in his mind.
He saw and felt the Widow's shiny legs twitch as if it was going to leap
again. His scream soared up past shrillness into soundlessness as terror
blanketed his senses—except for a final instant.

In that fragment of time he felt an odd warmth flash across his forehead. And
a tiny tongue of flame leaped up impossibly from the ground, in the narrow
area between where he lay and where the spider-monster crouched on the dead
horse.

The light from the startling little flame glinted on the Widow's eyes as the
creature seemed to hesitate and pull back. Then Jarral heard a deep musical
note—and, as the Widow sprang away from the flame, a broad-feathered arrow and
a heavy dirk suddenly struck, together, deep into the bulbous body.

The creature seemed to contract, its legs pulling in tightly. It twitched and
quivered, the jaws flexing. Then the movement faded, the eyes turning blank
and empty as the Widow sagged into death.

"It did not dodge that shot," said Archer, with satisfaction.

"No—we were too close," Scythe said, as the other three, dismounted, moved
forward into the

58

BLADE OF THE POISONER
light of the little flame. "And it was focused on the fire."

"So Jarral is a Talent," Archer said softly.

The flame was beginning to flicker and die, but there was still light enough
for Jarral to see the interest and approval on the faces of the others. He got
slowly to his feet, blinking dazedly, trying not to look in the direction of
the dead Widow.

"Seems he is," Scythe agreed. "Anything like this happen before, Jarral?"

He shook his head. "Never."

"His Talent's just starting to show," Mandra said positively. "He's barely old
enough."

"That is so," Archer said. "And no doubt it showed itself now because he was
terrified." She smiled at Jarral. "You would never have felt such fear in that
quiet little village."

Jarral shivered, trying not to remember how he had felt facing the Widow,
trying also not to feel frightened by the fact that he, too, seemed to have
one of the eerie mental powers called Talents. At that moment he would have
given anything to be able to return to the peaceful, ordinary way things had
been before he had met Archer in the forest.

"It explains Cryl's interest in the lad," Scythe was .saying, and the words
dragged Jarral's dazed attention back to the overwhelming reality of what was
happening. "A firebrand is quite a power. When he learns to control it, he'll
be one of Cryl's most valuable weapons."

"Once Cryl has dealt with the wound from the Blade," Archer added.

And then they all jerked with a new shock. An unexpected voice had spoken from
the darkness.

Wizard in Blue

59

"In that you are mistaken," the voice said. "Cryl cannot deal with the wound."

Jarral could hardly take in this new astonishment. For him, too many terrors
had gathered in the past short while. His mind had retreated into a protective
blank numbness. He merely stared, dumbly, at the slightly hazy human figure
that floated in midair above their heads.

Vaguely, by what remained of the little flame, he registered the fact that the
person was male, short and slightly plump, with pale hair carefully arranged
to disguise its thinness. He was dressed entirely in different shades of blue,
from his high-necked tunic and well-tailored trousers to the elegant shoes on
his feet. His pale hands displayed several bright sapphire rings, and a larger
sapphire shone from the clasp that held a short, sky-blue cape around his
shoulders. His chubby face looked slightly smug and sardonic as he looked down
at the others. But deep in his eyes, which were bluer than any sapphire, lay
an expression that mingled intelligence, compassion, and considerable strength
of will.

"The riddling wizard himself," Scythe muttered sourly as the hazy figure
floated down to the ground.
"Cryltaur Tabbetang," the figure said warmly to Jarral. "A pleasure to meet
you, young man, even in such distressing circumstances."

"He has a fire-Talent, Cryl," Archer said. "You did know?"

"Why else would I send you to seek him?" the

man in blue said blandly. "Why indeed would the

- Enemy send Mephtik to destroy the village, if not

because he too sensed a new Talent about to emerge?"

60

BLADE OF THE POISONER

The wizard looked again at Jarral. "A powerful new Talent, to be sure. More so
than we yet may know."

"We'll never know, if the Blade-wound kills him in four weeks," Mandra said
pointedly. "What did you mean, you can't deal with it?"

Cryl frowned at her. "I am here in my astral being, as you should have
noticed." He gestured at the haziness around his body. "I would have to be
here in my real self, my physical body, to wield the True Magic against the
Blade. And even then..." His frown deepened. "The Blade was tainted by a
mighty demonic magic. I might prove unable to overcome it."

"You can try," Scythe told him. "When we get Jarral to you."

Cryl looked despondent. "That is the difficulty," he said. "I have recently...
moved my residence. The Enemy located my previous hiding place and nearly
captured me. Where I now live is more than four weeks' journey from here, even
if you were to ride without pause. And I dare not come to you in person.
Beyond the magical screens of my dwelling, the Demon-Driver would certainly
sense the pres-ence of my actual self. His search for me grows ever more
powerful and determined."

His words jolted Jarral out of his numbness. "Then.. .you can't help me?" he
whispered.

"I have not said that, my young friend," the wizard replied, with an
encouraging smile. "But the fact is that I must remain safely hidden away for
some while—perhaps until the Enemy is diverted to some other activity."

"Can you not use your magic?" Archer asked,

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61

her brow furrowed with a worried frown. "To bring us, or Jarral alone, to
where you are?"

Cryl sighed. "If I cast a spell to do that, it would make the clearest
possible path for the Enemy to follow. I am running a grave risk as it is, in
my astral self—and that is a use of a Talent, not the True Magic." A deep
sadness grew in his eyes as he gazed round at them all. "You may not realize
it, but in the last year the Demon-Driver and all his forces have been hugely
intensifying their efforts against me— and my dwindling band of Talents."

"Dwindling? What do you mean?" Scythe demanded.

"Deaths," Cryl said darkly. "Talent after Talent has been located by the
Enemy's evil gaze, and now they are no more. Flint fell, in the west, and
Reader, and in the east Ellistree and Hand, and others in the south and
north...."

Archer and Scythe had visibly flinched as each name had been intoned. "How
many left?" Scythe asked bleakly.

Cryl hesitated. "If you three had not saved Jarral, there would be... three."

"Just us?" Mandra asked shrilly.

Cryl's nod was slow and heavy.

Scythe's voice sounded remote and metallic. "Then our way is clear. If the
Demon-Driver is making a final, all-out move against us, there's no more point
in hiding. Flint and the others tried that. Let's strike a blow while we can."

"What blow?" Mandra asked tensely.

"Cryl knows," Scythe growled. "It's what he's been leading up to. Getting us
to go after Mephtik and his filthy Blade."

62

BLADE OF THE POISONER

There was a long, shocked pause before the wizard spoke again. "It is true.
JarraPs wound would indeed be healed if the Blade could be destroyed— along
with the one who wielded it." His voice darkened. "The future is veiled and
shadowed for mortal eyes, so very hard to read. But there have been signs...
in wind and flame and the shapes of bones.... A time of great portent is
approaching— and the Enemy knows it, too, which is the reason he has struck so
fiercely against me and the Talents. And somehow the center of the portent is
linked with Mephtik and the Tainted Blade."

"But we would need an army to get to Mephtik!" Mandra protested.

"A few can get farther by stealth," Scythe told her. "Especially if they
muster some very useful Talents among them."

Jarral was gazing wide-eyed from one to another during all the talk. Finally
he turned to Cryl. "You... you wiU be helping us, won't you?"

"When I can," Cryl said warmly. "But I doubt if this array of Talents will
need much help from me, at least at the beginning."

"You must understand, Jarral," Archer added, "that Cryl can never run foolish
risks. Other Talents will come along, after us. But if Cryl is taken, there
might never be another wizard willing—and able—to take up the struggle. Then
the Enemy would be victorious—forever."

As Jarral shivered at those words, Mandra turned to Scythe. "Do you think we
have a chance?"
Scythe shrugged. "What does it matter? I never expected to reach old age
anyway. We might creep away and try to hide, but then Jarral would die. And

Wizard in Blue

63

the Enemy would still find us sooner or later, if he's looking as hard as Cryl
says. But if we fight—then with some luck we just might manage to kill Mephtik
and heal Jarral's wound." His thin smile was wolfish. "And that would please
me—because I hate the Poisoner, and I've begun to like the lad."

"So say we all," Archer said firmly, and Mandra sighed and nodded.

"Then you should know," Cryl said somberly, "that Mephtik is even now leaving
the Wellwood, on his way back to his capital city. You are unlikely to
overtake him before he reaches the city. So, to accomplish your task, you will
have to penetrate to the very heart of his Stronghold."

"At least," Scythe said lightly, "that's the last place the Enemy will look
for us...."

PART TWO

Garden of Torment

8

Fugitives

"Now it grows more difficult," Archer said heavily. "The Poisoner's search for
us has begun."

The four of them, with the three horses—Jarral behind Scythe on Hob—had
descended into a narrow dell thick with dry brush. By then they were a
considerable distance west of the Wellwood. After crossing the bleakness of
the Far Barrens, they had entered a region known as the Blackgrass Moors—
rugged upland country, broken and difficult, but colorful in its contrast of
dark grass and bright, flowering shrubs. It was a slightly more populous area
than the Barrens, with small, scattered villages and the crude huts of
shepherds.

Through the haziness of that late afternoon, Archer's incredible long-range
vision had spotted a cluster of people in the distance—but not shepherds or
farmers, for their green uniforms were unmistakable. The soldiers were too far
away for their eyes to see the four travelers, so the four had time to find a
hiding place in the dell. There they dismounted, to wait for dusk.

"So Mephtik knows what happened   in the

67

68

BLADE OF THE POISONER

Wellwood," Mandra said with satisfaction. "Won't he be annoyed at the death of
his pet!"

"Enough to stop at nothing to find us," Scythe said tersely. "We'll be dodging
soldiers from now on. And we're only about halfway—with time passing."

Archer glanced quickly at Jarral, but the boy, standing calmly beside Hob, had
apparently not heard. "Can we have something to eat, now we've stopped?" he
asked hopefully.

Archer relaxed, while Mandra allowed herself a small proud smile.

In the days following Cryl's astral visit, and the beginning of their journey,
Jarral had begun to sink deeper into the blank numbness that was close to
despair. What Cryl had said, and the wizard's inability to heal him on the
spot, seemed an end to hope. He withdrew into silence and misery, as Mephtik's
threat became real. The iciness of his wound was a constant reminder that he
had entered a time of lingering death. Despite the brave plans of the others,
Jarral was seeing the end of his life drawing closer, every moment of every
day. And the horror of it was tearing at the very roots of his sanity.

So, to protect him, Mandra had used her Talent. She had reached into Jarral's
mind and had raised a barrier. It was only a small barrier, but it lay within
the boy's memory, preventing him from recalling certain images. He could
remember nearly everything that had happened since he had met Archer in the
Wellwood. But he no longer remembered the existence of his wound, or what was
to happen when the moon was full.

Freed from the terrible awareness of approaching death, he had become almost
his usual self again—

Fugitives

69

still capable of being greatly frightened by what might be happening, but no
longer prey to that mind-crushing depth of hopelessness and despair.

So the others smiled at his very normal request for a meal. Certainly there
was no shortage of food, for Archer's arrows kept them well supplied with
game. "Let us eat, then," Archer said cheerfully, reaching for their sack of
provisions.

But then she staggered, with a grunt of pain, her hands flying up to her face.
For a second Jarral thought she had been struck by an unseen missile— until he
heard the words that came jerkily from her mouth.

"Attack... in the night... fangs beneath the soldier's hood... be still... be
still!"

Jarral and Mandra stared, appalled, as the giant woman swayed. Then Scythe was
steadying her with a sinewy hand.

"Archer has a secondary Talent," he told them quietly. "She gets glimpses of
future events. Mostly vague and half-formed—but I've never known them to be
wrong."

"Yet they are confusing," Archer said. She was recovering quickly as the
vision released its grip on her. "There are rarely enough details to know
where or when the event will happen."

"Or what, it seems," Mandra said. "You talked about 'fangs beneath a soldier's
hood'—what does that mean?"
"We'll find out in time," Scythe said calmly.

"I don't understand!" Jarral burst out. "How can you have Talents that don't
work very well? How can I have a Talent if it doesn't work at oil?"

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BLADE OF THE POISONER

"You have it," Scythe said. "No doubt there. You just need to learn to control
it."

"Normally you would spend time with Cryl, who would help to draw out your
Talent as he has so many others," Archer added.

"Using magic?" Jarral asked uneasily.

Mandra looked disdainful. "Don't be silly. Talents are natural powers, not
supernatural. Cryl uses his own mental Talents—he has several—to bring others
along,"

"It doesn't make any sense," Jarral said sullenly. "Your wizard has all that
magic, and now you say he has Talents, too, but he's safe somewhere and we're
the ones out here hiding from soldiers...." He frowned, his face clouding.

"Let me explain—about Cryl and the Talents and what we call the True Magic,"
Archer said quickly.

Jarral's face cleared as his mind slid safely past the barrier in his memory.

"Cryl must remain in hiding," Archer went on, "because the Enemy—the
Demon-Driver—is searching furiously for him. Cryl does not know if he alone
could stand against the Demon-Driver. But he is certain that he could not
withstand the Enemy together with all his creatures."

Jarral's brow creased. "What creatures?"

Mandra sniffed. "Don't village peasants know anything about the world?"

Archer raised a hand to silence her and to forestall Jarral's angry reply. "To
understand, Jarral, you must see that it has to do with the difference between
natural and supernatural." And she went on to explain.

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71

Because humans are natural beings, she said, the Talents—the strange powers of
a few special minds—are natural powers. So a person's Talent could be strong
or weak, just like any other natural ability he or she might have. But the
True Magic is supernatural power.

"That power," Archer said, "is not found within natural beings like men and
women. Supernatural power belongs to supernatural beings—spirits."

"You mean ghosts?" Jarral asked, his skin crawling.

Archer shook her head. "Not spirits of the dead. I speak of spirits that were
never human, or natural, though some will take human form. But then they can
take almost any form, as they can do a great many 'magical' things. Some
spirits are enormously powerful; some have only limited powers. But it is
always supernatural power—the ability to change reality, which no Talent can
do."

Jarral was looking pale. "1 thought that was what magicians did."

"The sorcerer's power," Archer said, "is in his ability to caU. spirits and
control them, with spells and charms and so on. A sorcerer draws supernatural
power from the spirits, and also requires them to use their powers as he
orders."

"And these spirits belong to the... Enemy?" Jarral asked.

"Many do. The dangerous, evil ones, the demons, who have always been enemies
of mankind. The Demon-Driver gained that name by his ability to summon and
control them."

"And Cryl?" Jarral asked nervously.

"A high-adept wizard like Cryl," Archer said, "has other spirits to call on.
Some are not evil but

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BLADE OF THE POISONER

are neutral, and there are many spirits of the purest good—demigods, seraphs,
and such powers."

Mandra frowned. "Cryl told me that the good spirits have turned away from this
world and all its evils. He said they are more and more difficult to call."

"No doubt," Archer said. "But Cryl still has his faithful Urauld. That is
Cryl's own familiar spirit," she added, when Jarral looked puzzled. "Urauld is
a good spirit of great power, a staunch friend and ally to Cryl for many
years. Through him above all, Cryl works his wonders with the True Magic."

Mandra was looking dubious. "They're still not terribly strong. I used to tell
Cryl he should try to reach the Elementals."

"What are they7." Jarral asked despairingly.

"Nothing important," Archer reassured him. "They are like spirits, but not
like them. They have no real shapes, no real minds or personalities. They are
simply natural forces that exist within the most powerful events of nature.
Lightning, gales, tidal waves, river currents, fire, earthquakes... all such
things contain the spirit-forces that we call Elementals."

"Could Cryl reach them," Jarral asked, "like Mandra said?"

"Lady Mandra should know," Archer replied firmly, "that Elementals are of the
natural world, not the supernatural. So a sorcerer could not summon an
Elemental with a magic spell. It is said that there have been people in past
ages who could call up Elementals. But that would be a Talent, a natural
mental power, not supernatural sorcery. Anyway" —she grinned broadly—"calling
Elementals would

Fugitives

73
be dangerous, since they are usually destructive and always uncontrollable."

Jarral rubbed his eyes, feeling dazed and troubled. Understanding more about
this frightening world— with its magic and demons and powers—was not at all
comfortable. Not when they were in the midst of an unfriendly land, hiding
from soldiers and perhaps from monsters.

Another frown creased his brow. It was so odd that he couldn't remember why
they were there. He just seemed to have a hole in his memory. It worried him,
much of the time, but he was not going to admit it to anyone. He had been
growing almost at ease with his companions, despite Mandra's sharp tongue and
Scythe's chill wryness. Yet he did not feel so at ease that he wished to seem
a fool—or more of one than he sometimes felt.

"Jarral." Archer's voice broke into his unhappy thoughts, once more allowing
his mind to slide past the barrier in his memory. "You must not think too many
dark thoughts about the evil in this world. Cryl and Scythe and I are still
alive, though the Demon'Driver and all his powers have been searching for us
for years. We can continue to elude that search—I know we can. We must now
merely gather our determination and courage and take one step at a time, one
day at a time."

Scythe, who had wandered over to join them, smiled thinly. "And I doubt if old
Cryltaur will leave us entirely on our own all the time."

"I hope you're right," Mandra said.

"I'm often right," Scythe said easily. "For instance, I'm right when I say it
will rain tonight. So we can stay here and be wet and miserable—or we

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BLADE OF THE POISONER

can seek shelter less than two hours' ride away, if no soldiers bar our path,
in a comfortable inn famed for its food and drink and warmth of welcome."

"For us?" Mandra said sourly. "Would it be safe?"

"As safe as staying out here, with all'the soldiers around," Scythe said.
"Maybe safer—because the inn is owned by a warm-hearted lady whom I know very
well—and who is very fond of me."

And he turned toward Hob as Archer chuckled and Mandra sniffed with disdain.

The innkeeping lady, whose name was Charaya, was small and round and fair and
energetic. She shrieked with joy at the sight of Scythe, calling him "Carver"
and flinging her arms around him in an embrace that drew another chuckle from
Archer and another sniff from Mandra. Scythe was again in his guise of a blind
traveler, with eyes covered, and Charaya led him carefully to a table in the
inn's ale-room, chattering merrily.

"I knew this was to be a lucky month," she bubbled, "and now you've returned
to make it so, on top of all the extra business...."

Scythe managed briefly to interrupt her to present his companions. Charaya was
impressed by Archer, respectful to Mandra (who gazed coldly down her nose),
and instantly motherly toward Jarral. In no time she and two maids had bustled
about to produce a steaming meal and four mugs of fine ale. The ale-room was
comfortable, there was no one else in the inn to threaten them with curiosity,
and four clean beds awaited them upstairs. In his drowsy fullness after the
meal, Jarral felt closer to content-

Fugitives

75

ment than he had felt for what seemed a very long time.

Naturally, it did not last.

Scythe, accepting another mug of ale, smiled at Charaya. "You spoke earlier of
extra business, my sweet. Have you grown rich since I saw you last?"

She chuckled. "Would you stay, if I had?" But without waiting for a reply she
went on. "It has been strange, indeed, though most welcome. Troop after troop
of them, hither and yon on the roads, almost drinking me dry...."

Scythe was no longer smiling. "Who, Charaya?"

"Soldiers, dear. Troops of them, in those ugly green uniforms. Searching for
some fugitives, I gathered, from what they—" Charaya suddenly became aware
that her four guests were listening very tensely. Her hand flew to her mouth.
"Is it you? Carver, are they searching for you!"

Scythe lounged back, and Jarral marveled at how easily his smile returned.
"Us?" he asked. "Charaya, my lovely, what would soldiers want with us? I am
merely traveling in company with my friend Archer, who is serving as
warrior-escort to the two young people on their way to the northern region."

Charaya relaxed, her bright smile returning. "I'm glad. Because it would have
been terrible. Six soldiers passed earlier and said they would come back for a
drink after dark...."

Her words were barely spoken—renewed tension had barely gripped the four
travelers—when they heard the sudden jingle of horses' harness outside the
door and the rumble of voices.

"And here they are now!" Charaya concluded brightly.

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BLADE OF THE POISONER

The door swung open, and six rain-wet, green-hooded figures clumped into the
inn. For a fleeting fraction of a second, the eyes of the sergeant in the lead
began to widen with surprise. Then Jarral saw Mandra's eyes close, her face
tighten, a frown gather on her brow. The sergeant relaxed, looking slowly
around the room.

Mandra's lips moved, forming soundless words. "Don't much like the looks of
this pig-pen."

"Don't much like the looks of this pig-pen," growled the sergeant.

"Let's move on, find a better place," Mandra mouthed.

"Let's move on, find a better place," said the sergeant.
The six men wheeled and clumped out again. A moment later thudding hooves
signaled their departure from the inn.

"Pig-pen?" Charaya was flaring. "This place is as clean—"

"Who knows how a soldier's mind works?" Scythe said soothingly.

"It was almost as if they didn't see—" Charaya began, then broke off with a
glance at Scythe's covered eyes. "No, that's silly," she said briskly, and
bustled off towards the kitchen.

"Well done," Scythe said quietly to Mandra, and Archer nodded admiringly.
Mandra merely grinned, with a mischievous wink at Jarral.

But the occurrence, and general weariness, put an end to any dallying in the
ale-room. Moments later, Charaya—looking upset because Scythe had gently
refused her suggestion that they should have another drink, just the two of
them—was showing

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77

her guests to their rooms. Jarral and Scythe were in a room near the
stairwell, Archer and Mandra in the adjoining room. Each room was small but
cosy, with two narrow beds.

"We sleep in our clothes," Scythe told the others when Charaya had left. "We
might have to move swiftly, with soldiers around."

"Especially if any have fangs," Mandra said sourly, "as in Archer's vision."

But even that thought, on top of all the other fears that shadowed him, could
not overcome Jarral's weariness. Yawning hugely as he settled himself on his
bed, he toppled into sleep the instant his eyes closed.

It seemed only seconds later—though from the grey glimmer of first light at
the window, it must have been hours—when some shapeless dream dragged him back
to wakefulness with a jerk. The jolt shook his narrow bed, the mattress
rustling and creaking loudly. He opened his eyes and his body seemed to
solidify into stone.

The creature rose, swaying, at the foot of the bed, obviously disturbed by
Jarral's sudden movement. Its color was not visible in the dim light, but the
scaly, shiny, muscular length of it could be seen all too easily. A giant
serpent, eyes glinting like fragments of metal, forked tongue flicking. And
around the triangular head the flesh had expanded outward and upward, into a
terrible, threatening hood.

Jarral stared in paralyzed horror as the huge snake lifted itself higher from
the bed, drawing its evil head back—poising itself to strike.

9

Fateful Warning

As Jarral lay immobilized, staring at the serpent, a part of his mind became
aware once again of a strange warmth building up across his forehead—the same
sensation he had felt when facing the Widow monster in the Wellwood. But
before the warmth could become stronger, the creature hissed and struck in a
blur of speed, fangs gaping.

But that blur met another, just as swift, as Scythe's curved sword flashed
above Jarral's body and neatly severed the huge, hooded head.

The serpent's body flailed aside, threshing in its death throes, blood
reddening the bedclothes. Jarral flung himself from the bed, his stomach
clenching, as Scythe sprang to the door. When he opened it, Jarral heard the
faint sound of voices from the bottom of the stairs—and an odd metallic
clinking, as if of coins.

"Sold us, by the gods!" Scythe snarled, turning. Jarral shrank back, for he
had never seen such anger as showed in Scythe's face—a fury as black and cold
as his sightless eyes.

"Come—quietly," Scythe hissed. Taking their 78

Fateful Warning

79

few possessions, they crept out of the room and along the corridor, just as a
number of booted feet began to climb heavily up the stairs. Noiselessly Scythe
opened the door of the adjoining room, slid inside with Jarral at his
heels—and halted. They were facing Archer with arrow nocked and great bow
drawn, and Mandra behind her, dagger in hand.

At once the giant woman lowered the bow. "Soldiers?" she asked quietly.

Scythe nodded. "Mephtik's found us. With one of his hooded Najas, on Jarral's
bed."

Archer blinked. "So—that was the vision, fangs beneath the hood. But how did
he find us here?"

"We were betrayed," Scythe said shortly.

Then they all heard the footsteps in the corridor, the shout as the door of
the other room was flung open.

"Archer, brace the door," Scythe snapped. "Mandra, Jarral, gather our things."

He sprang to the window, which was set low on the wall and looked wide enough
even for Archer's shoulders. Flinging the window open, Scythe peered out and
down, then swung round. By then the soldiers were pounding on the locked door,
which would have quickly given way had it not been braced by Archer's broad
back.

"All clear outside!" Scythe said, with a beckoning gesture.

Mandra and Jarral hurried towards the window as Archer released her pressure
against the door and leaped across to join them, grinning. Then her grin
froze, and Scythe went rigid. Mandra screamed.

Death burst into the room, through the open window.

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BLADE OF THE POISONER
It came with a buzzing that was a roar. It came in a swarm of winged insects,
shiny as if formed from bronze, each as large as Archer's thumb, swift and
bright and entirely deadly.

Yellowjackets. The word formed in JarraPs mind as he stumbled back. The word
meant nasty little insects with painful stings. But these yellowjackets were
five times normal size, and there were at least three score of them, their
poisoned stings glistening wetly like golden needles.

Jarral and the others backed away toward the hole in the wall. In the center
of the room, the yellowjackets swirled and circled. Then they seemed to gather
themselves, almost as if they were being controlled, about to be hurled like a
murderous weapon.

"Jump!" Scythe yelled. He half-pushed Mandra through the window, then leaped
after her. Archer turned toward Jarral, who stood rooted.

In that instant the soldiers battered down the door and crashed into the room.

Once again Jarral was staring at inescapable death. In that flashing fraction
of a second he knew that even if he jumped, the insects, or the soldiers, or
both would follow. And not even Scythe and Archer could withstand that
combined onslaught.

He did not feel Archer's hand on his arm. All he could feel, in that instant,
was a totality of terror—until the other feeling arose once more. The warmth
above his eyes, swelling rapidly into a raging heat.

An eye-searing yellow flame erupted from the floor, in a wall of fire directly
in front of Jarral and Archer.

Fateful Warning

81

Dimly he heard the startled shouts of the soldiers. Dimly he heard the even
more furious buzzing roar of the yellowjackets, as they swirled away from the
fire that was the only thing they feared. Dimly, at last, he heard the screams
as the maddened insects turned their fury onto the panic-stricken soldiers.

Then Archer simply plucked him from his feet, hurled him through the window,
and dived after him.

They landed in a heap in the muddy stableyard. At once Archer sprang away,
tugging Jarral after her. But he had an instant to glance back. No
yellowjackets were storming out after them. Only yellow flames leaped from the
window—flames that now filled the whole of the room they had left.

Then Scythe and Mandra appeared, mounted, leading two horses—which had
belonged to soldiers. Archer half-flung Jarral into a saddle, and all four of
them galloped at full speed across the empty moor.

Again Jarral looked back to see that die devouring flames had enveloped the
whole of the inn. It was a beacon of fire, framed against the approaching
sunrise, with ash and smoke rising in a tall grey tower. The four of them
slowed, since there was clearly no pursuit.

"Your friend Charaya," Archer said to Scythe, "has lost her livelihood now."

"She deserves worse," Scythe said with a scowl.
"Why, Carver dear," Mandra said mockingly. "How can you speak so about your
lady love?"

"She meant nothing to me," Scythe snapped.

"Just as well," Mandra said sweetly. "I wonder how much she was paid to betray
us?"

"Forget the woman," Scythe said irritatedly. "What's more important is how it
happened. How

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BLADE OF THE POISONER

did the soldiers get word to the Poisoner so swiftly? And how did he get his
creatures to us just as swiftly? There's a smell of dark magic about it."

Archer frowned. "Mephtik is no sorcerer."

"His Unnamed Master is," Scythe said shortly.

"There is your answer, then," Mandra said. "But does it matter? We still must
continue with the task. Unless you've changed your mind...."

"No," Scythe snapped. His chill smile flickered. "Not when we have a secret
weapon. Our young firebrand can make quite lethal blazes, can't he?"

"A valuable Talent for us," Archer agreed. "There are none of Mephtik's
creatures that do not fear fire."

"I still don't know if it is a Talent," Jarral said unhappily. "I can't make
it happen when I want to. It only happens when I'm totally scared to death!"

"Lucky for us," Mandra murmured, "that courage isn't one of your strong
points." Then she gazed airily away as the others frowned at her with
reproach.

"No matter, lad," Scythe said. "You'll come to control it, in time."

"It may be," Archer said, "that even without Cryl we could help Jarral, along
the way, to gain some control over his fire-Talent."

Scythe's thin smile reappeared. "If we can do that, we'll take Mephtik's city
by storm!"

Then he nudged Hob, raising their pace to a mile'devouring canter towards the
west.

Jarral was a little overcome by what had been said. But he was more pleased,
rather than disturbed, to think that he probably did have a Talent, and an
important one at that. As he rode along he tried very hard to make the strange
warmth gather again, just

Fateful Warning

83

above his eyes. But no matter how he concentrated, his brow remained
frustratingly cool.

Archer noticed his frowns and strained grimaces, and after an hour or so she
touched his arm gently. "Do not trouble yourself so, Jarral. We will work with
you tonight when we make camp. Perhaps you can light our fire for us!"

As Jarral returned her smile, Scythe suddenly drew Hob to a halt with a
muttered oath of surprise. Jarral tensed, looking round for some enemy, then
tensed further as a sound from above drew his gaze upward.

Swooping down toward them was a huge bird, like none that had ever existed in
the world. It was long-legged and long-beaked, with a high crest on its head
and an enormous wing-span. And its plumage was the brightest, most beautiful
blue that had ever met Jarral's eyes.

"Have no fear," Archer murmured, as the bird settled on the ground beside
them. "We have met this messenger before."

Jarral stared, puzzled. And then he nearly fell out of his saddle, as the bird
opened its sharp beak—and spoke.

"I am Urauld," it said in an oddly musical voice, "as these others know."

Dazedly Jarral realized that the bird was speaking to him. Archer leaned over,
still smiling. "Cryl's familiar," she told Jarral. "His spirit friend and
ally, of whom I told you."

"Cryltaur has sent me," the bird went on, "because he dares not stir from his
hiding place at this moment— not even in astral form. The Demon-Driver has
become aware that you four may be the last living

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BLADE OF THE POISONER

humans with Talents. So he has given Prince Mephtik further assistance to seek
and destroy you. And he is pouring even more of his power into discovering
Cryltaur's whereabouts. Our veils of secrecy are hard-pressed to keep his
searching magic at bay."

"Will they hold?" Scythe asked bluntly.

"We believe so," Urauld replied, "for we still have some strength in reserve.
But it is you four, even with the boy's new-found Talent, who are in the
gravest danger."

"Tell us," Archer said.

"The Unnamed Enemy," the bird said gravely, "has sent Mephtik a new aide and
ally. He is one who, in this sphere, takes the name Flameroc. He is the reason
why Mephtik was able to send his creatures against you so swiftly, once your
location was known this past night. Flameroc is terrible and powerful, and his
power is supernatural. He is an evil spirit from the first realm of the
Farther Darkness."

Archer paled, and Scythe's face went as hard as carved metal. "A High Demon,"
he said bleakly.

"A most fearsome demon," Urauld agreed. "One of the primary beings from whom
the Enemy draws his power. So the dangers facing you now are great. To save
the boy, and yourselves, you must not only survive to confront and destroy the
Poisoner. You must also face the monstrous evil of Flameroc."

10

Demonic Talons

Archer stared at the bright blue bird. "I have never seen a demon," she said.
"I had hoped to live all my life without doing so."

"You may," Scythe muttered. "Your first sight of -Flameroc may be your last
moment of life."

"Can't Cryl help us?" Mandra asked Urauld.

"He and I will seek to do so," Urauld said, "whenever we can elude the Enemy's
search. But that grows ever more difficult and dangerous. For that reason I
dare not linger here. Farewell—and good fortune."

The great wings spread, beating powerfully. With smooth grace Urauld swept
upward, growing hazy as he rose, until within a moment he had vanished
utterly. Jarral stared upward, hardly able to believe that he had met a
supernatural being—and only half-aware of the others drawing slightly apart
from him.

"What do you think?" Archer asked Scythe.

Before he could reply, Mandra interrupted. "What's there to think about? We
have to go on."

85

86

BLADE OF THE POISONER

Archer blinked. "That is great courage, for one so young."

"Not really." Mandra was pale and her voice was brittle, as if she could
barely keep it from trembling. "I'm terrified—but nothing has changed. If
Mephtik and the Enemy are hunting us, what does it matter where we go? So we
might as well try to go on, as we intended."

"That's right," Scythe agreed. "Especially if Mephtik has a High Demon helping
him. All we can do is keep going, as far as we can."

Archer glanced toward Jarral. "1 say the same. The reasons for our task have
not changed. But I do not see much hope for us."

"As you told Jarral," Scythe said, "take one day at a time. Who knows what
might come along?"

"At least," Mandra added, "we might get some help from Cryl and Urauld,
against a demon."

By then Jarral had rejoined them, feeling odd as always whenever anyone
mentioned their 'task,' since he never seemed able to remember just what it
was. But he still felt reluctant to admit that to the others. Instead, he
glanced once more at the sky and asked another question that had occurred to
him.
"Archer," he asked, "if Urauld is a spirit, why does he look like a bird? Is
he one of those nature spirits you told me about? Elementals?"

Scythe smiled mirthlessly. "Would that he was. We could use an Elemental, if
we meet Flameroc."

As Jarral looked puzzled, Archer explained. "Urauld is no Elemental," she
said. "He enjoys the form of a bird, but he is a true supernatural being, not
a nature spirit. As I told you, Elementals are formless spirits without minds
or personalities, who

Demonic Talons

87

exist within the mighty forces of nature. Sorcerers cannot call them or
control them. No one with that special Talent has existed for centuries."

"What does Scythe mean, then?" Jarral asked.

"Elementals are natural spirits, belonging to this world," Scythe said. "But
demons don't belong to this world. They're supernatural and unnatural, from
the Farther Darkness. And there's something Archer didn't tell you before.
Legend says that in this world a demon is always weakened, sometimes made
powerless, just by being in the presence of an Elemental."

Jarral shivered, chilled once again by the thought of strange nature spirits
and evil beings from the Farther Darkness. Then Mandra twitched irritably.

"If we must give lessons on the supernatural," sbe said acidly, "could we do
so as we ride?"

For the rest of that day they rode steadily westward. As usual, the weather
closed down over the Blackgrass Moors, with somber, seething clouds whipped
along by a slashing wind. The wind's hollow moan made Jarral feel even more
uneasy as he stared around, half-expecting demons or Elementals to rise up
from every bush or rock. The others were also keeping a careful eye on the
countryside, to more useful effect. Many times Archer's eagle eyesight or
Scythe's vision saved them from being discovered by patrols of soldiers. At
other times, when the soldiers appeared too suddenly to be eluded, Mandra's
Talent touched their minds so that they saw nothing. By twilight of that day,
they had covered a considerable distance.

"Mephtik must have his whole army here on the moors, searching for us," Archer
said quietly, as they made camp in a sheltered, tree-tangled gully.

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BLADE OF THE POISONER

Scythe nodded. "It'll get harder for us as we get

closer."

"I don't understand," Jarral said, "why Mandra can't use her Talent all the
time, so we could just ride past the soldiers?"

Mandra sniffed. "You don't understand anything. Using a Talent is very tiring.
If I did what you say I'd be exhausted in no time. Especially when a bit of my
Talent is working all the time to keep—" She caught herself just in time to
keep from mentioning the barrier that she was maintaining in Jarral's memory.
"Also," Archer said, taking JarraFs attention away from what had almost been
said, "we will need Mandra's Talent at full strength to disguise us when we
reach Xicanti City."

Jarral nodded, feeling a little dazed as ever by all the strange new
information. "At least we'll have the darkness to hide us now," he said.

Archer turned toward the west. The dark clouds looked as if they were
streaming down a runnel toward the horizon where the sun had set, its last
rays staining the clouds an ominous red, "Only from the human searchers," she
said gloomily.

By then, as Archer turned to bring out some food, Scythe had vanished into the
dusk for a careful scout around. When he returned, with an armful of firewood,
their camp was ready. Meanwhile, Mandra had been using her Talent to probe
Jarral's mind, to see if somehow she could help him to gain control over his
Talent.

Jarral found the process disturbing. "Are you sure you can't read my
thoughts?" he asked warily.

Mandra frowned at him. "I've told you. Other people's thoughts are all jumbled
and cluttered—because

Demonic Talons

89

most of the time we think in our own private inner codes. No one else can read
them. Don't be so silly."

Jarral subsided sulkily as Mandra went on with her probe. But in a moment she
sat back, looking frustrated. "I can't do anything," she announced. "He's just
too young"

"I have a name, you know," Jarral said sourly.

"I'm not sure if it really is a Talent," Mandra went on, impatience and
tension running away with her. "Not if it only shows when he's frightened.
Maybe he just has a Talent for cowardice."

And Jarral completely lost his temper.

Red-faced, almost spluttering with rage", he grabbed Mandra by the shoulders.
Though he was no bigger, he was at that moment much stronger, for he shook her
like an adult might shake a child.

"Stop it!" he raged, "I don't care who you are—stop it and leave me alone! I'm
not a coward! And I'm sick of you treating me like a /oof!"

As he yelled the last word, he flung her stumbling aside and whirled toward
the others.

"I can't help it if I don't know much about the world!" he shouted. "Or if I
can't make my Talent work! I don't even want to have one! I don't even know
what I'm doing here! So why don't you all just leave me alone!"

As he roared those words in a final burst of fury, his brow felt suddenly
afire, as if clamped by a band of hot metal. And the small heap of firewood
that Scythe had brought burst into bright flame.

It was so startling that Jarral's fury vanished at once. Scythe sprang back,
Archer goggled, Mandra yelped. Then she gave a small, shaky laugh.

90

BLADE OF THE POISONER

"My," she said brightly, "think what we'll save in flint and steel."

"Maruira.'" said Archer and Scythe together.

At once she looked contrite. "I'm sorry, Jarral," she said in a small voice.
"Sometimes my mouth says things, even things I don't really mean, before I can
stop it."

"It is the effect of strain and fear," Archer said with a smile. "I become
gloomy, Scythe grows more cold and withdrawn, Mandra's tongue becomes sharper—
and Jarral sets things afire. Indeed, his Talent now seems to burst out when
he is angered as well as afraid. We should not rouse his temper."

And they were all smiling—even Jarral, a little shamefacedly—as they relaxed
and began their supper.

But no one was relaxed the following morning. In a misty, clammy dawn they had
broken camp and moved cautiously to the wind'scoured brow of a low hill, to
survey the land ahead. Jarral had been told that they were now approaching the
Serried Valleys, a succession of broad, fertile lowlands with ranges of rugged
hills rising between them. Beyond the Valleys, still several days' ride away,
stood their goal, the city of Xicanti. But as the morning mists began to
clear, they saw from their vantage point that more than hills and valleys lay
in their way.

Westward, as far as even Archer's eyes could see, the entire countryside was
dotted with small groups of green riders. They seemed to be moving in an
organized pattern, sweeping slowly across the landscape. No copse or thicket
went unexamined by some eyes within that army of searchers.

"Can we ride around them?" Mandra asked.

Demonic Talons

91

"Maybe—but not to the north," Scythe said grimly. "That's no direction to
approach the city from." As Jarral looked at him questioningly, he explained.
"The Poisoner has a special... playground, on the north side of the city, full
of more of his monsters. He sends prisoners into it sometimes, for amusement.
And none of them has ever come out to tell about it. Mephtik calls it his
Garden of Torment."

"Then what do you suggest?" Mandra asked.

Scythe shrugged. "If the soldiers get bored and lazy later on, we might slip
through—with the help of your Talent...." He paused, turning to Archer. "What
are you looking at?"

Archer had been staring up at the sky intently. "A strange large bird, very
high," she said. "It looks like a vulture. But I have never known vultures in
this region."

Squinting upwards, Jarral saw nothing. And Scythe merely shrugged again.

"No matter," he said. "It won't be Mephtik's. There aren't any poisonous
birds—not even vultures."

Archer nodded and lowered her gaze again to the distant soldiers on the
terrain ahead. Then she stiffened. "See there, Scythe," she hissed. "In front
of those evergreens. Do you see?"

Scythe's face tightened, "I see them. So—Mephtik has released the Widows."

Jarral's spine crawled icily as he-strained his eyes to see where Archer was
pointing. Then he saw them, looking tiny at that distance yet still
terrifying. Six hideous creatures, moving in short, scuttling dashes, the
morning light glinting from the shiny black legs and bulbous bodies.

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BLADE OF THE POISONER

Archer reached for an arrow, unlimbering the great bow.

"Waste of an arrow," Scythe said idly.

She shook her head. "I have thought about it. At first, in the Wellwood, that
Widow could evade my arrow because it was at long range. But later, Scythe,
you and I could kill it because we were so close. It did not see our weapons
in time to jump away."

Scythe nodded. "So?"

"So I will use my Talent," Archer said with a fierce smile, "in a different
way."

She pulled the bow back and released. The bowstring boomed as the arrow shot
into the sky. For a moment Jarral lost sight of it, then caught it again, a
tiny glint of reflected light beginning to curve back down towards the ground.
Jarral also saw that the leading Widow had halted—aware in its own uncanny way
of the speeding arrow.

But to Jarral's eyes it seemed that Archer was a long way off target. The
arrow was surely going to fall some twenty paces away from any of the
eight-legged horrors. And apparently the Widows realized that, for they were
not poised to leap to safety. They had begun to move forward again, as the
arrow plummeted harmlessly down.

But in the last second Archer's face twisted, neck muscles leaping taut. And
the flash of light that was the hurtling arrow swung impossibly sideways.

Before the leading Widow could move, the arrow struck its bulging body and
skewered it like an insect on a pin.

The creature's legs jerked wildly as it lurched to one side, antennae flailing
feebly. Then it stopped,

Demonic Talons
93

seeming to shrink, collapsing in upon itself, and went entirely still.

By then the other Widows were scuttling frantically in different directions,
while a group of green riders spurred their mounts forward anxiously. And on
their hilltop, Jarral and Mandra were cheering as Scythe nodded
appreciatively.

"Clever," he said. "Deflect the arrow with your mind at the last instant, so
the Widow hasn't time to jump. You might get more of them that way."

"The others are out of range now," Archer said, peering into the distance.
"But they may—"

She did not complete the sentence. Without warning, Scythe had flung his lean
frame against her, yelling "Down!" as his shoulder struck her. The two of them
tumbled in a heap, with Jarral and Mandra just beginning to look startled.

At that instant the air was torn apart by a raging, grating shriek. By reflex
Jarral and Mandra also flung themselves down, as above them, vast black wings
threshed thunderously and huge black talons raked through the air where
Archer's back had been.

11

Change of Direction

"The vulture!" Archer yelled, snatching an arrow even as she and Scythe sprang
to their feet. In the same moment one of Scythe's throwing knives appeared as
if by magic in his left hand, and the curved sword was free from the staff.

The huge bird was wheeling in the sky for a new attack, shrieking its
battle-cry. Jarral stared up, horrified. It was evilly hunched, with a scraggy
neck and dusty black feathers. Its wings were enormous, the talons and the
hooked beak looked like black metal, lethally sharp, and the eyes blazed
scarlet as it hurtled down at them.

Then it screamed again, as Archer's arrow struck deep into its black breast
and Scythe's knife took it in the scrawny throat. But it was a scream of evil
triumph—for the weapons had no effect. Instead, both arrow and knife seemed to
droop, as if melting. A second later they had vanished entirely, save for
faint tendrils of smoke.

And Archer and Scythe flung themselves aside as the monster swooped, slashing
at them with its iron claws.

94

Change of Direction

95

Jarral was glazed with horror at what had happened to arrow and knife. Beside
him, Mandra was chalk' white, shivering, while the vulture soared above them
screeching its challenge.

"It's a demon!" Jarral heard Mandra whisper.

The word seemed to root Jarral to the ground. He saw that Scythe and Archer
were grimly awaiting the next attack, bow and sword ready, though they knew
the weapons were useless. Then Mandra got to her feet, drawing her dagger.
Jarral knew that he was looking at three people intending to die fighting—
against a supernatural horror that they could not harm.

The vulture-demon wheeled high, screeching, its eyes like hot coals. With some
surprise, Jarral found himself stumbling to his feet as well. And he found
that within the frozen terror that gripped him, there was a sharp edge of
anger—at the sheer unfairness of a battle against a demon that could not be
killed by human weapons.

As the vulture-demon began its dive, a high, clear call sounded from elsewhere
in the sky. A flash of bright color appeared, hurtling downward like a
spear—of the most beautiful blue.

"Urauld," Mandra whispered, almost in awe.

The vulture hesitated, then flapped away to gain more height as the blue
bird-spirit flashed down. Urauld's long sharp beak was truly like a spearhead
as it stabbed at a vast black wing. The vulture squawked and swung aside, well
aware that it was not invulnerable to supernatural weapons, including the
bird-spirit's beak.

Jarral almost stopped breathing as he stared up, watching the winged beings
whirl into their aerial

96

BLADE OF THE POISONER

combat. Urauld was by far the more graceful of the two fliers, and looked
quicker and more maneuverable. But the vulture was swift enough, and larger,
with the claws that Urauld lacked. Jarral did not need to be told what a risk
Urauld was running—both from the vulture and from exposing himself to the eye
of the Unnamed Enemy.

So he held his breath and watched with growing alarm as the battle went on.
Urauld swooped and swirled and stabbed, a fighting blur of glorious blue. But
the vulture evaded each attack and countered with frightful blows of beak and
claws and thundering wings.

"Can't we help him?" Mandra gasped.

"There is no way," Archer growled. "Perhaps Cryl will come...."

But even if the wizard had been intending to arrive, there was no time. As the
two beings closed on one another again, it seemed that Urauld's beak would
strike home. But the vulture somehow jerked back in midair, so that the
spearing blow drove harmlessly beneath one of the huge dark wings.

At once, like a black'feathered club, that wing slammed ferociously against
Urauld's head.

He staggered in the air, wings faltering. And with another ear-shredding
screech, the vulture flung itself after him, claws reaching out.

Jarral threw up a hand as if he was trying to reach up to the battle. "No!" he
screamed. "You can't!"

The cry seemed to mingle equal parts of horror and fury—and another band of
heat clamped round his forehead.

Change of Direction     97

The black feathers on the vulture-demon's breast exploded into flame.

The demon fell back as if it had run into a wall. Its screech altered from
triumph to terror. And then it simply vanished, as if it had never been.

Urauld sailed wearily down to land heavily, his eyes fixed on Jarral. "So it
is true, as Cryltaur guessed."

"What is?" Scythe asked intently.

But Urauld shook himself and looked quickly round. "There is no time. You must
flee with all the swiftness you can muster, as far from here as you can. With
the defeat of the vulture-demon, it is likely that Flameroc himself will come.
I could not oppose him, alone."

Jarral looked astonished. "Then that thing wasn't Flameroc?"

"No," Archer said, "a minor, low-level demon—"

"You must not delay!" the bird-spirit broke in desperately. "You must flee
now! Ride—ride!"

And he flung himself into the air, wings beating, to vanish as suddenly as the
vulture had.

"Where can we go?" Mandra asked tremulously as the four leaped toward the
horses.

Scythe grimaced. "Only one way now—where maybe even Flameroc won't think to
look for us. North. Toward the Garden of Torment."

They galloped at full speed, until even Hob and Pearl were foam-covered and
gasping, while the other horses—especially the one carrying Archer—were
staggering. At last they halted, seeking cover within a stand of trees and
brush. Only then did they dare to look back.

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BLADE OF THE POISONER

With relief, they saw no signs of pursuit. Not even Archer's eyes could detect
green uniforms—or worse—behind them. But all of them saw something strange and
eerie in the distance.

The day had grown fairly clear and bright, and yet a darkness had fallen on
one small area. It was as if something they could not see was blocking the
daylight from that spot—which was the hilltop where they had faced the
vulture.

"Flameroc is there," Archer said hollowly.

"Can you see... anything?" Mandra asked.

Archer shook her head. "The demon will be at the heart of the shadow he has
brought, and I cannot see into it." A shudder shook her huge frame. "I think I
am glad of it. I have seen one demon today and wish to see no more."
Then she tensed, narrowing her eyes. "It looks— yes!" she said excitedly. "The
shadow is moving away—to the sout/i!"

"The way we'd be expected to go," Scythe said. "So we have a breathing space.
Let's use it."

For a while they walked, until the horses had recovered. Then they rode on at
an easier pace. By midday they had still seen no signs of pursuit. But even
so, they were increasingly careful and alert as they entered the populated
farmlands of the Serried Valleys. Often they had to skirt stealthily around
farms or villages, or seek cover to avoid other travelers on the dusty roads.
But now only a few of those travelers were green-clad soldiers. And, best of
all, they saw no further hint of that eerie shadow that had settled on the
hilltop and no menacing wings in the air above.

"It is odd," Archer said at last, as they stopped

Change of Direction

99

for a rest and food in another sheltering wood. "It would make sense to send a
creature of the air to seek us. Do you think Jarral's fire kiUed the
vulture-demon?"

Scythe shook his head. "Jarral's fire-Talent is natural. It couldn't kill
anything supernatural."

Jarral thought of the arrow and the knife melting to nothing after they struck
the vulture; he could not help glancing nervously at the sky.

"But then why hasn't it come back?" Mandra put in.

Scythe shrugged. "Mephtik and his demon seem to be looking for us to the
south. Flameroc probably has the vulture with him there. And I'd bet that
Cryl, wherever he is, is doing something to keep Flameroc looking in the wrong
place." His thin smile twitched. "But then I don't suppose Mephtik and the
demon are feeling troubled. They'll feel sure that they'll have us in no time.
After all, we're just four humans against two demons, the Widows, and an army
of soldiers."

"Four humans and Urauld," Jarral murmured.

"True," Scythe said. "And thanks to you, young firebrand, Urauld is still
alive."

"You must be gaining some control of your Talent after all, Jarral," Mandra
said encouragingly.

"No," Jarral said, looking glum. "I was just scared and angry, like always."

"Not like always," Scythe told him. "Before, you were just afraid. The anger
is new. And, Jarral— anger is one of the surest ways of overcoming fear."

"As any warrior knows," Archer added. When Jarral looked surprised, the big
bow-woman smiled.

100
BLADE OF THE POISONER

"Yes, even those for whom fighting is a way of life will feel fear before a
battle."

"Courage isn't an absence of fear," Scythe said. "It's refusing to give in to
fear—like you're beginning to do. So anger helps." His smile flickered.
"Especially if it makes the enemy burst into flame."

The others laughed, and Jarral was still smiling a little when they regained
their saddles and rode on. Perhaps he was getting braver, he thought to
himself. It did not occur to him that courage had always been there within
him, waiting to be brought out. Perhaps its roots could be found within his
fairly solitary life as a child in the Wellwood, which had given him a solid
self-reliance that he could now draw on.

All the terrible things that had happened, all the attacks by ghastly
creatures, had filled him with the most bone-freezing terror. Yet he
remembered, in the vulture-demon's attack, he had been able to stand upright,
to face with open eyes what he had believed would be the end.

He glanced around at the others. They had been very kind and approving in what
they had just said—about his courage. And the approval brought a strange
feeling to him, something quite new, which at first he did not understand. But
then he realized. Despite all the terrors surrounding them, Jarral had begun
to bask in the warmth of being accepted and liked—the warmth of belonging. The
four of them were facing the dangers together as a unit, a group of friends.

Jarral had never had true friends before. And he suddenly understood that it
was from their acceptance and approval, as well as from his own being,

Change of Direction

101

that he was drawing much of his new-found courage and inner strength.

But then a more uncomfortable thought struck him. There was the strange fact
that he could never remember exactly why they were riding together, or where
they were going. Before, he had tried not to think too much about that
disturbing lapse of memory. But now, if he was going to learn to overcome his
fears, he would have to face that one, too.

He turned in his saddle, meeting Archer's kindly gaze. "What you said before,"
he began lamely, "about me maybe finding some courage..." He took a deep
breath. "I'm... not so sure. Maybe I'm... maybe there's something wrong with
me."

Haltingly, he described the strange blank place in his memory, where his mind
seemed to slip away, without remembering. Archer was frowning, looking
troubled, as if she was at a loss for words. But then Mandra, who had
overheard, moved closer.

"Lots of people have... lapses," Mandra said, "when their mind goes blank
about something. It'll probably all come back to you sometime, by itself. It
certainly doesn't mean there's anything wrong with you. And I doubt if it has
anything to do with how much braver you've been getting about things."

Jarral stared at her suspiciously. Yet there had not been the slightest tinge
of sarcasm in her voice. "Do you think I have, too?" he asked.
"Yes, I do," Mandra said firmly. "And it makes me all the more sorry for
calling you cowardly before. I hope you've forgiven me."

Jarral replied, almost without thinking, "That's all right. I suppose you
couldn't help being unkind, seeing .how spoiled you are."

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BLADE OF THE POISONER

For a second Mandra drew herself up, mouth taut, eyes flashing. But then
Archer spluttered with uncontrollable laughter, and even Scythe's smile almost
widened into a grin. Mandra's lips trembled slightly—and then she burst into
giggles.

Jarral laughed along with the others, not noticing the tinge of relief in
their laughter at having again shifted the subject away from his memory lapse.
In fact, for some time all that Jarral noticed was Mandra— her melodic laugh,
the curve of her lips, the brightness of her eyes.... It was as if he had
never looked at her before, never seen how pretty she was. So he rode on
almost peacefully, watching her when he could, no longer thinking very much
about fear and courage and blank places in his memory.

The following day or two proved uneventful if tiring, with the constant need
for caution and battle-readiness. But there were far fewer villages and farms
in the country around—almost as if they had reentered the Blackgrass Moors.

"We're getting close to Xicanti," Scythe said. "And the Garden of Torment.
Sensible people stay away from it."

Those words made Jarral stare fearfully at the landscape ahead. But the
country remained perfectly ordinary as they rode on. For the rest of that day
and most of the next, they wove their way up through another of the stretches
of stony hills that separated the Serried Valleys. Finally, on one
brush-covered hilltop, Scythe drew Hob up and gestured.

"There it is," he said.

Jarral saw only a dusty slope leading down toward a narrow, slow-moving river.
Beyond the river the land looked bleak and unappealing—dry, rocky,

Change of Direction

103

with some patches of half-dead grass, thorny brush, and thin, scabby trees. In
dips and hollows here and there, scummy water pooled on the surface of thick
mud and bog, where foul-looking mists hung low to the ground. The entire
overcast sky seemed to droop low over that landscape, covering it with a
shadowy haze.

"The Garden of Torment," Scythe said. "The land slopes down awhile, then up
again till it reaches the north wall of Xicanti City."

"How do you know?" Mandra asked, surprised.

"I rode around the Garden once," Scythe said, "just to have a look. The river
runs around most of it, and the city wall blocks off the rest. To keep what's
in it... in."
'And to keep us out, it seems," Archer muttered.

"There's a way across the river," Scythe said.

Jarral and Mandra stared, astonished. "You mean we're going in?" Mandra
demanded, her voice rising.

Scythe shrugged. "Somewhere there's a High Demon looking for us. If we bypass
the Garden and look for another way into the city, we might ride right into
him. But he won't think to find us here. It's our safest way."

"Safest!" Mandra said scornfully.

"And quickest," Scythe added. "We don't have many days left before the moon is
full."

"What's in this Garden, anyway?" Mandra asked quickly, diverting Jarral from
his puzzlement at the mention of the full moon.

"Poison," Scythe said shortly. "Just about every kind of poisonous plant and
animal. And some of Mephtik's special creations. But nothing with wings.

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BLADE OF THE POISONER

Nothing that might fly over the wall and attack Mephtik's city."

"Oh, that's a comfort," Mandra said acidly.

Jarral was looking frightened as well as puzzled. "It doesn't make sense," he
said. "Scythe, you told us no one ever came out of the Garden alive...."

It was Archer who replied. "None of Mephtik's prisoners, Jarral. But we are
going in fully armed, with Talents as well as weapons."

"But what /or?" Jarral burst out. "Why do we want to get into the city? And
what's the full moon got to do with it?"

Archer blinked uneasily and began to turn to the others for help.

And that was when Mandra screamed.

12

Mephtik's Creatures

Jarral whirled, just in time to see a weird, shadowy shape, about the size of
a horse but with rather more legs, scuttle out of sight behind a distant
thicket.

"Was that.. .another Widow?" he asked fearfully.

Scythe shook his head. "Looked like one of the npisonous little dagger-tails
you get in the northern deserts. But a bit oversized."

"At least it was going in the right direction," Mandra said shakily. "Away
from us."
By then Jarral had forgotten about the questions he had been asking before
Mandra's scream. And there was no time to recall them, for Scythe was leading
them down the slope toward the river that was the boundary of the Garden.
There, to Jami's surprise, he said that they must abandon their mounts, for
the Garden was no place for horses. And, he added, on foot the four of them
might manage to escape the notice of some of the larger horrors in the Garden.

"Hob will look after Pearl and the other horses," Scythe assured Mandra. "Hell
keep them out of

105

106

BLADE OF THE POISONER

sight, and he'll stay nearby waiting for me, as long as he thinks I'm alive.
He always has."

So, with some reluctance, the others released their horses. Hob, knowing his
business, at once led the small herd away from the river, back to the
brush-covered hills they had just crossed. Then the four travelers set out to
cross the river, surprised when Scythe showed them a place where broad, smooth
stepping-stones lay just below the surface.

"These stones were here before Mephtik made the place over into his Garden,"
Scythe told them. "And none of his creatures can cross this way. Most of them
are dry-land beasts that don't like water. And the rest of them would stay
away from this water."

Jarral could see why. The creatures in the river were numerous, hideous, and
undoubtedly lethal. Many fish and most of the plants bristled with evil spikes
that were surely venomous. Dozens of bulging, jelly-like sacs floated through
the stream, trailing silvery stinging tentacles. And many of them, along with
some spiny fish and eel-like things with fangs, were rising near the surface,
wriggling up on to the stepping stones to get at the humans.

But Scythe calmly flicked them back into the water with his staff while
striding from stone to stone, with the others following. At last they reached
the other side, where Jarral stared around anxiously. If the river had been so
crowded with horrors, he thought, how many would be creeping through the grass
and brush ahead?

They set off in single file, witb Scythe leading and Archer protectively
bringing up the rear. Jarral watched with some envy as Mandra unsheathed her

Mephtik's Creatures

107

slim dagger, to have it ready. "I wish I had a weapon," he said wistfully.

Scythe smiled. "A firebrand always has a weapon," he said. "But you can carry
this if it makes you feel better."

He drew the heavy dirk and handed it to Jarral. In the boy's hand it looked
like a short sword, sturdy-bladed and sharp. Delighted, Jarral hefted it and
half-swung it—then looked quickly at Mandra, expecting a mocking remark. But
she merely smiled, which delighted him even more.
Scythe had also drawn his sword, and with his other hand used the staff to
prod at bushes and tufts of grass ahead of him. Within the first few minutes
the staff had been struck by two buzzing, gaudily colored snakes and bitten by
a small hissing lizard, while Archer, using her bow like a club, had flattened
two more lizards rushing at them.

"Couldn't Mandra use her Talent," Jarral asked desperately, at last, "to Jude
us somehow?"

"Too tiring," Scythe said briefly. "At her age, trying to reach all these
creatures with her mind, she'd be drained and exhausted in minutes."

"And even then," Archer added, "she could not hide us from the plants."

A moment later another lizard charged them. It was the size of a small dog,
with a scaly, bumpy hide and glaring yellow eyes. It came at them in a blur of
stumpy legs, mouth agape to show needle-pointed fangs. But suddenly it halted,
in the midst of a stretch of coarse brown grass and weeds. It was as if it
were being held fast—eyes bulging, legs trembling, hissing cry rising into
shrillness. Then it abruptly fell sideways and was still.

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BLADE OF THE POISONER

Scythe stepped forward warily, then froze. "Look ,at the grass," he said.

Only then did Jarral see what waited there. Some of the weeds grew along the
ground, half-hidden in the grass. From those stems long thorns jutted up,
hardly visible: a venomous trap for anything that walked that way.

"Good," Mandra said tensely. "Let all the things in the Garden kill each other
off."

"There'll always be plenty left for us," Scythe said.

As they moved on, circling round the patch of grass, Jarral felt an icy
hollowness growing in the pit of his stomach. He wanted to stare at the
ground, to watch for more deadly thorns—but he also wanted to watch the
shrubbery on the right, the branches of the trees on the left, the misty
expanse of low bogland up ahead. He could feel the cold sweat of terror on his
skin, a tightening of his muscles that made his knees feel watery and his
teeth nearly start to chatter. With every step he felt more cold and sick and
wretched, as the horror of the Garden wrapped round him like a shroud.

Then Mandra, just ahead, stumbled over a stone and muttered an almost
inaudible but startlingly vulgar word. Then she glanced back at Jarral with a
grimace. "I'm so frightened I can't walk properly," she said.

Jarral blinked, as Archer snorted from behind him. "You would be a fool if you
were not," the bow-woman said.

For Jarral, it was like a sudden sunrise. He had not stopped to think that the
Garden might terrify Scythe and Archer as well as Mandra. They always

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109

seemed so steady and controlled. But he remembered what they had told him
before, about courage being not the absence of fear but the victory over fear.
And he could see that they were fighting hard for that victory just then. He
could see the sweat on Archer's forehead, the tension of her shoulders. He
could see the muscles jumping in Scythe's jaw and his white-knuckled grip on
the sword-hilt.

They are afraid, Jarral thought, but they aren't paralyzed by it. And in that
moment when Jarral clearly saw that fear could be controlled, he began to
learn to control his own.

Some of the coldness began to fade from his flesh; some of the tightness began
to leave his muscles. The Garden of Torment had become no less terrifying—yet
somewhere within Jarral's being was a sureness, small but solid, that the
terror was not going to overwhelm his mind.

Oddly, in the next short while, nothing came along to threaten that new
sureness. The Garden seemed to have gone quiet, as if all the vicious
creatures had declared a truce. There was even a spot of unexpected beauty,
when they circled a pool of stagnant, stinking water and found a smooth,
winding pathway made of white sand, leading to a high-arched little bridge,
decoratively carved, that reached across a ravine.

"That looks nice," Archer said warmly.

"It's probably supposed to," Scythe said. "We might not like where it leads."

Archer studied the bridge with her eagle vision, and her face darkened. "No,
we would not," she said, reaching for an arrow.

When she shot, the arrowhead struck deep into

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the wooden floor of the bridge, just before the highest part of the arch.
Under the impact of the arrow, a section of the bridge fell away, hinged like
a trap-door.

"And what would we have fallen into?" Mandra murmured.

They moved forward, avoiding the path, and peered over the edge of the ravine.
Jarral felt sick as he looked down, for the ravine was clogged with snakes,
writhing and coiling together. Many were huge, hooded monsters like the one on
Jarral's bed at the inn. But there were dozens of other sorts—bulky ones with
diamond-shape patterns on their skins, elongated ones that were black or green
or multicolored, small thin ones as decorative as jewelry, and many more.

And the acid taste of nausea rose in Jarral's throat as he saw, among the mass
of tangled serpent bodies, the white glint of bone—from scattered human
skeletons and grinning eyeless skulls.

Archer led the way across the bridge—the only way of crossing the
ravine—stepping calmly along the narrow edge of the framework beside the
gaping trap-door, stooping dangerously down into the opening to reclaim her
arrow. Scythe and Mandra crossed next, Mandra looking very pale but still
determined. So Jarral clutched the dirk tightly, gulped back the nausea
stinging in his throat and followed.

He was to swallow that acid sourness and shiver in the icy clasp of fright
many times more in the hours that followed. Yet he fought to keep a grip on
his new-found courage, trudging manfully in the steps of the others. Scythe
was leading them on a winding path, seeking open ground, well away from

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111

thickets of brush or stands of trees or murky stretches of swamp with their
ominous mists. Even so, there were dangers aplenty that came to attack them
wherever their path led.

.Fanged snakes and lizards of all sizes still infested the open, grassy
stretches. More deadly thorns hid within the grass, along with weird, swollen
pods that popped open as they passed, to release foul yellowish vapors.
Several times they just barely avoided one kind of hooded, serpentine horror
that spat its poison from many paces away. And when avoiding those dangers
they often nearly walked into others—including hairy, fanged spiders the size
of dinner plates, or tall weeds covered in bristling, poisonous filaments.

Some of their escapes were by fractions of seconds and breadths of hairs—but
they were escapes. The astonishing vision of Scythe or Archer seemed always to
see danger before it struck, if sometimes only an instant before.

Or nearly always.

The exception came after another strange lull, when they had not been attacked
for several minutes. Perhaps they had relaxed a fraction, so that in avoiding
one tangle of brush they passed slightly too close to another.

The monstrosity burst from it with a sound like clattering sticks. It was as
high as a horse and bulkier, charging in a many-legged, skittering run. It was
almost upon them before they could move, huge pincer claws reaching out, and
above the body the tail arching high, with its curved sting like a claw, shiny
with deadliness.

13

Unequal Combat

It had come at them from behind, so that as Jarral and Mandra stumbled aside
with choked screams, Archer was standing alone in its path. The big woman
managed to jerk away from one giant claw, fending it off with her bow. But the
monster was lethally quick. Its other claw swept across and slammed against
the side of her head.

Archer took one stumbling step, then collapsed in a heap. The pincer claws
reached down to clutch and crush her.

But before Jarral could find breath to scream again, Scythe appeared, as if
rising from the ground in front of those claws. The curved sword flashed, and
one claw jerked away, deeply gashed, dripping pale slime from the wound. The
creature reared back, turned slightly with furious speed—and the terrible tail
lashed down with its sting.

Scythe met and blocked it with his sword, gripped two-handed. For a wild
moment the monster's tail flexed again and again, the steel-hard sting
stabbing and stabbing. But Scythe's blade parried

112
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113

each deadly stroke, in a ghastly imitation of a fencing match.

The monster seemed to pause, glaring with its many wicked eyes. Then Jarral
found the breath to cry out. A second many-legged horror plunged out from the
thicket, tail raised high, and skittered around behind Scythe.

The warrior's black eyes glittered, though his face was as expressionless as
smooth marble. Raising his sword, two-handed still, he waited.

The monster behind him moved first, flashing forward, snatching at Scythe with
its claws. But Scythe had moved at the same instant, slipping aside, slashing
twice with the sword. Its razor edge sliced a chunk out of the creature's
hard-shelled head, then swept on to chop away a front leg.

The grating, clattering noise rose higher as the furious creature half-spun
and struck down with its sting. At the same time, the other creature joined
the attack. Their stings stabbed down again and again, twin blurs of
deadliness, in the same pattern of attack as before. And for the first time
Jarral saw fully the towering skill and inhuman vision of Scythe the Slayer.

He seemed constantly to be perfectly balanced, poised between the two horrors.
Yet he was in continuous flowing motion, almost too swift for an ordinary eye
to follow. The sword became a dazzle of steely light, flickering back and
forth. Each movement parried one of the deadly thrusts of a sting, yet
Scythe's speed gave him time as well to try an attacking slash or thrust of
his own.

For more than a minute, which seemed a lifetime to Jarral, the hideous combat
continued. Scythe

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seemed tireless, his movements smooth and precise, his sword like an endless
barrier of steel between him and the grisly stings. Then, somehow, he managed
the seemingly impossible.

For a fragment of a second, he increased the speed of his counterattack.
Before either sting could fall again, he sprang forward, directly between the
pincer claws of one monster. It was the one from which he had chopped away a
leg, which slowed its response. Before it could evade or strike, Scythe
slashed at one of the great claws, and drove his sword for half its length
into one of the monster's eyes.

Then he leaped lightly away as the monster staggered, tail slumping, legs
collapsing under it like cracked sticks.

That was the moment when the second monster turned and ran at Archer.

The bow-woman was still down, still stunned. The creature was only a few paces
away, sting raised. Jarral saw Scythe start to leap in pursuit, but saw his
foot slip on a patch of the other creature's slimy blood. As he half-fell, it
was clear that he could not reach Archer in time. The monster was poised over
her, arched tail quivering.
The shriek in Jarral's throat came out as a whimper. He raised a hand, hardly
aware that it was the one still clutching Scythe's dirk. But in that moment of
terror, no band of warmth grew across his brow. For once, the fear and fury in
his mind had found another outlet.

Blindly, taking a quick stride forward, he thrust the dirk with all his
strength up into the monster's bulging abdomen.

By good fortune the blade's point found a join

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115

between two segments of the hard-shell covering. Slime gouted over Jarral's
hand—and then the dirk was wrenched from his grip. The monster whirled, and
the dirk snapped in two under the shell's twisting pressure. Jarral stumbled
and half-fell as the sting struck down at him.

Once again Scythe seemed to appear out of nowhere. A wild leap had carried him
onto the back of the monster, and his sweeping sword intercepted the
downward-slashing tail. The blade bit deep, stopping the sting less than an
arm's length from Jarral's face.

The monster sagged, slowing as both wounds took effect. And Scythe leaped down
and finished it off in two flashing thrusts of his sword.

As the creature's legs crumpled under it in death, Archer sat up slowly. "What
happened?" she asked.

"Scythe had a fight with some oversized dagger-tails," Mandra said, trying to
keep her voice light,

"Not just me," Scythe said. He turned toward Jarral, who was half-kneeling,
still trembling slightly. "We don't just have another Talent. We have another
warrior." He lifted Jarral effortlessly to his feet. "I've never seen anyone
so scared," he went on. "But you overcame it. You found your courage and did
what had to be done."

Then Archer was putting a powerful arm around Jarral's shoulders, murmuring
her gratitude, and Mandra's smile was warm with approval. So Jarral's
trembling faded, and he was beginning to feel quite pleased with himself as
they set off again. He even managed a smile when Scythe pretended to chide

for carelessly losing the dirk.

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And he felt better still a few minutes later, for the ground had begun to
slope upward. Jarral did not need to be reminded that that meant they had now
crossed more than half of the valley that contained the Garden, Within an
hour, Scythe told them, they should come to the outer wall of the city.

That news gave Jarral a fresh burst of energy. And his feeling of well-being
was helped by the fact that these stretches of the Garden nearer the city
seemed to hold fewer creatures, while those that did appear were all
normal-sized and easily dealt with.
Eventually they came to a spot where the upward slope grew steeper, leading up
to the vertical rise of a low cliff-face, slightly higher than Jarral was
tall.

"From, the top of that cliff," Scythe announced, "we should be able to see the
city wall."

As they started up the loose soil of the slope, Jarral was certainly not the
only one striving to think about the coming joy of leaving the Garden—rather
than the darker prospect of entering the city.

Archer and Scythe were carefully studying the slope ahead, alert as always.
But suddenly Scythe halted, stiffening, his sword drooping in his hand.

"What?" Mandra said anxiously, staring up.

"Behind us," Scythe said thickly. "An enemy we can't fight."

The others turned, and went quite still, as if turned to stone.

The land behind them was alive with an army of insects.

They were in their thousands, moving steadily toward the slope. Many of those
thousands were ants, shiny red and black. Many others were humped,

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117

hairy centipedes. There were strange worm-shapes and ugly beetle-shapes. And
all of them were enlarged, as the yellowjackets had been, so that each insect
was as long and thick as the hilt of a knife.

Jarral felt frozen and heavy, as if cold lead had been poured into his veins.
He had a sudden image of the insect army swarming over them, injecting their
poisons with each savage bite. Yet he could not seem to lift his feet.

"We'll never get away from them!" Mandra cried raggedly.

"We can try!" Archer roared. "Run!"

Impelled by her voice and a powerful push, Jarral began stumbling up the
slope. Beside him, Mandra was sobbing softly while she clawed her way upward.
Scythe and Archer were just behind, as Jarral saw when he turned a fearful
head to look.

The deadly army, sweeping like a dark tide toward them, had nearly reached the
slope. Jarral felt that he could see all their thousands of tiny, malevolent
eyes staring hungrily up at him.

"Climb, Jarral!" Archer bellowed.

He scrambled on frantically. As he climbed, he struggled to find somewhere in
his mind the trigger to his fire-making Talent. He knew it was their only hope
against the swarming insects. But at that mo-ment there was nothing—no
gathering of heat within his brow. Just a wetness, where the sweat of fear and
exertion met the tears that squeezed from his eyes.

He saw that Scythe and Archer had hurtled on ahead, leaping to the top of the
low cliff. Scythe Straightened, turning as Archer reached down to

Mandra up, shouting at Jarral to hurry.

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At which point Jarral slipped.

He sprawled, face down in the crumbly dust, sliding back down the slope a foot
or two. Instantly he leaped up, fresh panic flinging him onward—for a swift
glance showed that the tide of insects was only two or three strides behind.

"Jarral, here!" Archer shouted.

She was leaning over the edge of the cliff, reaching down with one great hand.
One step away, Jarral's foot slipped again, and he saw with horror that Archer
was about to leap back down, risking everything to help him.

"No!" he shrieked, and hurled himself at the cliff, flinging a hand up toward
Archer. As the giant woman's hand clamped around his wrist, he scrabbled and
kicked at the cliffside, trying to propel himself up. One foot landed firmly
on a solid ledge—a flat, craggy rock jutting for half its length from the
cliff-face. But as he drove his foot down against it, it broke away, dragged
out of the soil by his weight. Just in time, Archer lifted him smoothly
upward.

Below, the swarming sea of insects had reached the base of the cliff. But they
were met by a sound so totally unexpected that Jarral thought it was an
illusion: an explosive gush of sparkling water, bursting out of the spot on
the cliff-face where the flat slab of stone had jutted.

A second later, the gush became a torrent. The four travelers, astonished and
disbelieving, stumbled back from the edge of the cliff as the ground beneath
them started to shudder. In the next second the whole cliff-face collapsed,
and a wall of foaming water cascaded down the slope, surging out onto the

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119

land below—where not a single insect of any sort could be seen. >

Scythe shook his head as if to clear it and Archer grinned a huge delighted
grin, while Mandra and Jarral sagged a little, suddenly weak in the aftermath
of panic. But none of them turned away from the amazing sight of the water
still spreading out across the land, as the torrent continued to boom out from
the cliff.

"Perhaps it is an underground river," Archer said at last. "When the cliff was
weakened, as Jarral climbed, it burst free."

"I've never been so glad to see water," Mandra said faintly.

Scythe smiled. "Mephtik will be annoyed. His Garden's going to be a lake."

Slowly they turned away, finding that the land sloped up still farther from
the clifitop. But when they trudged the short distance up to the crest, they
halted again, standing in silence.
Beyond the crest was an expanse of flat land covered with more dusty soil and
brown grass, a few outcroppings of white rock, and some clusters of spindly
trees. But for once the four were not looking at the terrain.

On the other side of that flat stretch rose a wall. It seemed to be made of
the same white stone as the outcrops, carved into gigantic blocks. It loomed
into the sky, menacing, impenetrable.

"The end of the Garden," Mandra breathed. "We've done it."

"All we have to do now is find an entrance in that wall," Scythe said sourly.
"And get through without being seen."

PART THREE Glistening Tower

14

The Streets of Xicanti

The massive wall loomed even more awesomely when they were standing beneath
it. Jarral could not Imagine how such mighty blocks of stone could have been
lifted upon one another. Yet Scythe seemed to think that getting through the
barrier would not be difficult. That pan of the city wall was a protection
against the monsters of the Garden, not against human raiders. There would
certainly be a gate through which Mephtik would come to gloat when he had
flung some victim into the Garden.

They waited awhile, until dusk, before crossing the stretch of open land—in
case there were guards on the wall looking in that direction. It was an
anxious time, waiting there in the Garden. Yet, oddly, they were left alone.
Scythe remarked wryly that the outfush of the underground river, or whatever
it was, had no doubt drowned many of Mephtik's creatures and discouraged all
the rest.

When the shadows were long enough they crept across the open space. A few
moments more, and Scythe had located the entrance that they needed. It was an
impressive gateway, with tall metal doors that

123

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BLADE OF THE POISONER

were ornately decorated. They were also securely fastened on the other side.

"Time for the Talents," Scythe said to Archer and Mandra. "Any signs of life
on the other side?"

Mandra closed her eyes, and in the twilight Jarral could see a pulse beating
in her temple. She was reaching out with her mental power, searching for other
minds on the far side of the gate.

"No one there at all," she said finally, in a voice that sounded strangely
weary.

"Probably just a patrol now and then," Scythe said. "Archer, can you do the
lock?"
"Certainly," Archer said. Her face and neck went taut as she fixed her eyes
piercingly on the doors. There was a soft, grating sound, a muffled clank—and
the doors swung apart.

"It was only a set of large, plain bolts," Archer said with satisfaction.

Scythe nodded. "When we go through," he said, "we have two choices. Kill
anyone we meet, or let Mandra make them see... something else. I prefer the
latter, because it doesn't leave unexplained bodies—we don't want Mephtik and
his demon to suspect that we're here. But it puts a strain on you, Mandra. Can
you do it?"

Mandra was half-leaning against the wall, her face in shadow. "I'll do it,"
she said, her voice still heavy with weariness.

Archer peered at her with concern. "Mandra? Are you not well?"

"Just... tired," Mandra murmured. She seemed to sag slightly, and Archer threw
a supporting arm around her shoulders.

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125

"It is the strain," Archer said. "All the terror in the Garden, and then her
efforts here at the gate."

"And the constant effort she's making," Scythe said. "It's drained her. I keep
forgetting that she's still very young."

Jarral was gazing worriedly at Mandra, who was still drooping, eyes
half-closed, in Archer's clasp. "What constant effort?" he asked Scythe.

"Can't tell you right now, lad," Scythe said. Archer looked slightly uneasy.
"But I think we'll have to tell you before long."

Jarral was mystified, but then his attention was distracted as Mandra stirred
and straightened.

"I'm all right, really," she said.

"You will be soon, anyway," Scythe said, "once we're through this gate. And
you can relax—Archer and I will take care of any trouble. If we have some
corpses we'll just bring them here to the Garden. Jarral, you stay with
Mandra. Let her lean on you if she needs to."

Mandra seemed glad to agree and shakily glad to lean on Jarral's shoulder. He
put his arm around her slender waist to steady her, and for that moment felt
powerful and reliable and as tall as Archer.

Then they went through the gateway like four silent shadows.

On the far side, dimly lit by a few small, scattered lanterns, lay a broad
grassy stretch running alongside a roadway made of smooth paving stones. To
Scythe's vision, which made light of darkness, no living creature of any sort
was there to see them.

Undetected and all in one piece, they had arrived in the Poisoner's city.

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"This is a wealthy part of Xicanti," Scythe said as they slipped quietly
through the shadows on the long stretch of grass. Behind them Archer had made
sure that the doors to the Garden were solidly closed and bolted again.
"Around here, it's big houses and ornamental gardens. Probably some patrols of
soldiers, but I'll see them before they see us."

"I'll be able to help," Mandra said. She was still half-leaning on JarraPs
arm, which continued to delight him.

"Not till you're rested," Scythe said firmly. Jarral saw that he was leading
them into even denser shadows contained by a thicket of flowering shrubs. "And
you won't be rested," Scythe went on as they halted, "till you let go of that
barrier."

"I can't!" Mandra said, shocked.

"I think you have to," Scythe told her. "Your Talent is vital to us here in
the city. You have to be at your strongest."

Archer nodded. "It is true, Mandra. And there may be less risk, now, if you
let go. We have all seen how... things have changed."

"I suppose so," Mandra said doubtfully. She had drawn away to stand
unsupported, and that disturbed Jarral almost as much as the mysterious
conversation.

"What are you all talking about?" he demanded.

There was a moment's silence, and then Scythe laid a hand on his shoulder.

"Jarral," he said quietly, "we have to ask you to show a lot of courage
again—more than many grown men might be able to show. We have to do that for
Mandra's sake and for all our sakes. And I think you can do it. You've grown
up a great deal, as we saw in the Garden."

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127

Archer and Mandra murmured agreement, which pleased Jarral despite the anxiety
he was beginning to feel.

"Back there," Scythe went on, "you found strength and courage you didn't know
you had. You didn't run or freeze or faint. When you were needed, you attacked
that monster. And I believe you still have that courage. YQU will need it for
what we must do."

Jarral swallowed nervously. "What... what is it?"

"Some time ago," Scythe said, "a terrible thing was done to you. It filled you
with so much horror that we feared it would crush your mind. So Mandra used
her Talent to set up a barrier in your mind, to stop you remembering that
thing. That's the blank place in your memory that you've been worried about."

"What was done to me?" Jarral asked, his voice trembling.

"If I tell you while the barrier is still there," Scythe said, "you'll
instantly forget my words. The barrier must be lifted. Then you'll
remember—and it will be terrible. But keeping the barrier there is weakening
Mandra. And without her, we have no chance at all in this city."

Jarral turned, peering through the darkness at Mandra, seeing the sympathy and
concern on her face. For Mandra. ..foraU our sakes... Scythe's words throbbed
in his mind. AH I have to do, he thought wretchedly, is be brave about
something so horrible it might drive me mad.

With his gaze still fixed on Mandra, he shuddered. Then he clenched his jaw
and nodded once. 'All tight," he whispered.

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BLADE OF THE POISONER

Mandra's eyes softened as she returned his gaze. Then they closed, for the
brief space of a heartbeat or two.

And raw, shrieking horror struck Jarral like an avalanche, driving him to his
knees.

The memories surged back, storming through his mind, bringing shattering
terror and desolation. He saw again the Poisoner's sadistic grin, saw the evil
glitter of the Blade, felt its icy edge slice through his skin, heard again
the promise of the lingering death to come when the moon was full....

Only vaguely he heard Archer say, "Scythe!" in an urgent whisper, and Mandra
say, "We can't do this!" in a voice full of tears and pity. Vaguely he heard
Scythe reply, "Leave him. He will break or he will not. This must be done."

The words were like distant echoes through the cataclysm of horror and despair
in Jarral's reeling mind. And then somehow he heard other words, which had
been spoken by Scythe just before. You found strength and courage you didn't
knew you had.

The statement seemed to lodge in Jarral's mind, where the horror-storms still
shrieked and crashed. And from it he felt a kind of stubbornness begin to
rise, slowly growing and swelling. It seemed to be made partly from the inner
strength he had found in the Garden of Torment, partly from a desperate wish
to help Mandra and the others, but also from a wild anger—a child-like fury
that he should have been so assaulted by the Poisoner.

The stubbornness burgeoned in his mind like a silent shout of defiance. And
the storms began to recede.

It was not that he had lost his awareness of his

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129

wound and the lingering death it carried. It was simply that his new inner
strength refused to let him be crushed by that awareness. That strength pushed
back the horror, holding it at mental arm's length where it could not threaten
or damage him.

Slowly he raised his head, opening blurred eyes to look at the others. It had
been no more than a minute since the lifting of the barrier had felled him to
his knees. Yet he felt as if he had been fighting a punishing battle for a
year.

"When..." he began, then choked, his voice raw and hoarse. "When will the moon
be full?"

"Two nights from now, Jarral," Archer said, her (ace creased with sympathy.

Jarral closed his eyes against a fresh wave of horror. Then, as his new inner
strength fought back again, he opened them and looked up. The sky was dark, so
it seemed that the moon was rising late. For no logical reason, that made him
feel slightly better.

He stumbled to his feet. "Then we'd... better get going," he croaked.

Scythe smiled his wry smile and nodded approvingly. Archer grinned, patting
his shoulder. And Mandra leaned forward—and gently kissed him.

Then they all turned and slipped away into the darkness.

Scythe led them warily through that wealthy section and from it into more
rundown areas. For some time it was a fairly uneventful journey, since few
people seemed to be on the streets of Xicanti at night. So Jarral paid only
minimal attention to their route. -Instead, with a strange calm that seemed to
be part of the after-effects of his mental turmoil, he found himself once
again thinking about horror. But

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BLADE OF THE POISONER

not the horror of what had been done to him. Now he was thinking of the honors
that were to come.

He knew that the four of them had already done things that many would have
thought impossible. But what was to come, he thought, must surely be beyond
any possibility. Vividly he recalled Cryl saying that, to heal the wound from
the Blade, they would have to destroy both the Blade and its wielder. But how
could that be done when Mephtik was so well protected, and when he had a High
Demon at his side? „

Again, desolation and despair howled through the corridors of his mind. But
now it was not solely because of the approach of his own ghastly death. Now he
was thinking of what seemed to be the almost certain deaths of Scythe and
Archer—and Mandra.

Involuntarily, his fingers reached up to his cheek, where she had kissed him.
And as the strange calm regained control of his mind, he knew that he could
not let them continue. It seemed to him the most obvious thing in the world.
They were there in the city to try to save him from the Blade-wound. But if he
were no longer with them...

He reached the decision at once. He knew he would be terrorized to the depths
of his being, yet he now knew with some sureness that the terror would not
crush him. He knew what rnonstrousness would be waiting for him, yet he felt
that he could face it. For Mandra's sake, and the others. Within himself he
felt the strange calm, enlarging and strengthening, as if his own mind was
putting up a barrier against thoughts of what was to come. He imagined it was
like the calm acceptance of a warrior who must fight

The Streets of Xicanti
131

when he knows he cannot win. And it was allied, in Jarral, to a gladness that
he would no longer be taking his friends into destruction with him.

- He glanced around. Deep in his thoughts, he had continued being only
half-aware of the surroundings. Vaguely he remembered seeing one or two people
along the way, but Mandra must have dealt with them. And now they were in a
sprawling rat's-warren of narrow, stinking streets and alleys, a paradise for
beggars and thieves and low-lifes of all sorts. Scythe seemed to know it
well—he called it the Middens—and was leading them on a tangled course into
its depths.

Jarral's chance came in a particularly dark and cluttered alleyway, with
several narrower passages opening off it on either side. There they came upon
a handful of drunken men, hunched and ragged. Jarral knew that Mandra would be
using her Talent to disguise the four of them. But clearly Scythe and Archer
were carefully watching the ragged group.

In that moment, when not even Scythe was looking at him, Jarral simply stepped
into one of the dark side passages and moved quickly away, alone.

15

Eyes of the Demon

The** others became aware of Jarral's absence within moments. But despite
their frantic dash back through the foul alleyway, rushing into the narrow
side passages, they found no sign of him. Even though the moon had risen, huge
and silvery, aiding their search, they could not find him.

Finally, in a safely shadowy corner, Mandra wearily sent her mental power
questing out like a telepathic bloodhound, seeking some trace of Jarral's
mind. But after a moment or two she slumped against the crumbling wall.

"I can't do it," she wailed, her voice shaky with misery and fatigue. "I'm not
strong enough. I can't reach very far, and there are too many other minds
around. I can't hear Jarral arrywhere!"

"What does he think he's doing?" Scythe snarled.

Archer sighed. "I imagine he has fled because he believes it will save us."

"Then he's a fool," Scythe said. "Does he think we'll just quietly go home,
now he's gone?"

"Perhaps he does," Archer said quietly. "Perhaps

132

Eyes of the Demon

133

at least he hopes that we will not continue... with the task."

Scythe snorted. "Then he's twice a fool. The task remains, whether he's here
or not, and we can't waste time looking for him now. He'll either die two
nights from now, wherever he is, or we'll succeed and he'll be saved, wherever
he is."

He turned and stalked away. Archer and Mandra glanced up briefly at the
brilliant face of the moon, only a fraction from being a perfect circle. Then
they followed, into the murky depths of the Middens.

A great many stinking passages away, Jarral had found a hiding place for the
night, after a nerve-racking time of skulking through the darkness. He had
found a small space under some broken steps leading to a disused shed. There
he curled up, unseen by anyone other than some small furry scavengers. By then
Jarral was almost as troubled by hunger and thirst as by fright, and was
feeling more totally miserable than he had ever felt. That misery deepened
when the moon rose—for then the Blade-wound on his chest grew even colder,
beginning to ache and throb.

But despite all that, his weariness dragged him down into a sort of fitful
sleep, from which he awoke feeling even more miserable. A grey morning had
gathered over the city, with a penetrating drizzle. Stiff and shivering, with
thirst and hunger now actively painful, Jarral crawled from his hideout and
stumbled away through the alleys.

Before long he could ease his thirst by squeezing water from his rain-soaked
shirt. And while hunger and general wretchedness still plagued him, the ache

134

BLADE OF THE POISONER

of the Blade'wound had faded with the arrival of the day. Also, as he plodded
aimlessly through the Middens, the strange calm that had arisen in his mind
earlier returned to help him again, to keep fear and misery at arm's length.

So he trudged on, all that day, lost in his own doleful thoughts, ignored by
the other miserable inhabitants of those alleys. Finally, as the rain-sodden
dusk began to gather, he found himself beside a warped and cracked wooden
door, which had not only light but some amazing odors coming through the
cracks.

Nervously peering in, he saw what looked like a tavern, crowded with unlovely
and dangerous-looking men and women. The interior was lit by a roaring fire
and a few hanging lanterns, which added the smell of woodsmoke and burning oil
to the other odors—which, for Jarral, were dominated by the scent of cooking
meat and tangy spices.

His mouth began to water like a starving dog's. As if of their own volition,
his hands pushed open the door and his feet carried him inside.

No one seemed to look at him as he sidled along one wall, trying to make
himself small. But as he drew near the source of the cooking smells, a figure
blocked his path, and a sharp, whining voice said, "Boy? What d'ye want here,
boy?"

The man facing Jarral was short, skinny, and smiling an unpleasant,
gap-toothed grin. Perhaps his size often made him a victim among those lawless
alleys. So he was not missing a chance to victimize someone smaller.

"Say up, boy, what d'ye want?" the whining voice demanded again. Nearby
several other men

Eyes of the Demon
135

were nudging each other with coarse grins. Jarral was to be baited, a moment's
entertainment.

"Hungry," Jarral muttered.

The skinny man snickered. "An" can ye buy food, boy? Have ye money?"

Jarral stared at the floor. Of course his pockets were entirely empty. He had
entered the tavern because he had hoped... he wasn't sure what he had hoped.
Numbly he shook his head, trying to back away. But the skinny man reached out
and grasped his shirt, dragging him back.

"No money, hah?" he said with triumph. "Come thievin', have ye? Think ye can
thieve from thieves, do ye?"

Jarral did not reply but merely pulled back, twisting away. The sudden
movement jerked his shirt free from the scrawny hand of the man, who lurched,
off-balance. One or two of the onlookers guffawed, and the skinny man reddened
with rage. He swung his hand in a vicious backhand blow that sent Jarral
reeling back. Colliding with a table, he felt metal under one hand, a blunt
knife used for eating. Without thinking, he clutched it as he straightened to
face his tormentor.

The skinny man blinked. Then a needle-sharp stiletto leaped into his hand. "So
the thief thinks he's a knife-fighter? 1 tell ye—"

There came a resonant bong, like the note of a large bell. And the skinny man
rolled his eyes up and fell straight forward, onto his face.

Behind him stood a woman, clutching the iron skillet that had felled him. She
was not tall, but she was immense. She had bare arms bigger than Jarral's
thighs and an enormous bosom that jutted out like a

136

BLADE OF THE POISONER

cliff, outdone only by the astounding girth of her hips. She also had large
and beautiful hazel eyes, which were blazing with wrath.

"Knife-fight with children, will he, and in my place?" she roared. "And the
rest of you smirking and giggling and sitting there! I've a mind to fling the
lot of you out, bar my door against all your pig-filth and

stupidity!"

All the people around, Jarral saw, were sitting hunched and half-cringing,
like schoolchildren, as the woman's fiery glare swept the tables.

"Some of you pick up the Whiner," she went on commandingly, "and toss him in
the gutter where he belongs. The rest of you drink up and mind your manners,
or more of you will find a night's rest out there."

As two men hurried to scoop up Jarral's scrawny attacker, Jarral found the
bright hazel eyes resting on him. "You, boy," she said, "come to the fire. You
can eat now, and then I'll find you jobs to do till the price is paid. Fair?"
"Yes'm," Jarral said eagerly, dropping the dull

knife.

An hour later, he had engulfed an amazing amount of spicy stew and was up to
his elbows in scummy water, rinsing out the well-used drinking vessels. But
seeing that his eyes were drooping and his yawns were huge, the big woman took
pity on him. Asserting that, for a boy, he had worked well enough, she showed
him a straw pallet in a nearby corner that would be his bed.

"Sleep peaceful, lad," she said. "No one'll trouble you."

So Jarral curled up, with another vast yawn,

Eyes of the Demon 137

feeling warm and full and oddly peaceful. He knew very well what lay ahead of
him, for nightfall had brought the return, slightly stronger, of the burning
ache within his Blade-wound. But his mind seemed determined to cling to its
calm acceptance and to avoid all dire thoughts. With the horrors mostly kept
at bay, sleep came over him like a wave.

He awoke with a start, seeing the room half-lit with the chill grey light of
dawn. Resonant snores told him that he was the only one awake in the place. He
rose, stretching, shivering slightly—not with cold but with the thought that
had entered his mind at the moment of waking.

This is the morning of the lost day of my life.

Yet as he looked firmly at that fact, he did not feel as if he would collapse
with panic and terror. As he tiptoed out of the tavern, to begin the day that
would end with the rising of the full moon, he felt the fatalism again taking
over his mind, like an anaesthetic, freezing his thoughts into a calm
numbness.

A light drizzle was falling as he moved away through the choked alleys. He was
wandering randomly, indifferent to where he might be when night fell and the
moon rose. And in that indifference he was not at all aware of the small
hunched figure drifting quietly along behind him, always keeping him in sight.

As the morning drew on he found himself beyond the Middens, nearer the center
of the city, where the roadways were filled with people—well enough dressed,
for the most part, and obviously on their way to their places of work. They
seemed glum,

138      BLADE OF THE POISONER

cheerless, and tense, and Jarral understood that cheerfulness would be rare in
the city of the Poisoner. Then a sudden clatter of hooves made him draw back,
into a dark niche between two buildings. He saw the people on the street turn,
saw them grow even mote tense. Then they were moving quickly, and the street
was suddenly empty.

Approaching, in the distance, Jarral saw a troop of mounted soldiers. Then, as
they trotted closer, he saw something glitter—and realized with a sick clench
of his inside why the street had emptied.

The soldiers were riding ahead of a vehicle, a large carriage of sorts. The
whole upper part of it was made of a clear, transparent material resembling
thick, pale-green glass, formed in sections like the facets of an immense
emerald. Within the carriage Jarral could see two figures, one larger than the
other. And icy fear clutched at his heart as he saw the long white hair, the
dark beard, the narrow frame of the slighter one: Prince Mephtik himself.

The Poisoner's thin face was twisted in an angry scowl, and he seemed to be
talking loudly with much hand-waving. It occurred to Jarral that Mephtik might
have just been to see how part of his Garden of Torment had turned into a
lake.

By then the carriage was opposite Jarral's hiding place. And the other, larger
figure, who had been sitting motionless, muffled in a vast hooded robe, flung
up a hand. The Poisoner abruptly stopped talking as the coachman dragged the
carriage to a

halt.

Jarral's eyes fixed in horror upon that hand. And then upon the rest of the
larger figure, as it

Eyes of the Demon

139

flung back the robe, pushed open a door in the side of the carriage and
stepped partway out.

Flameroc, said a small terrified voice in Jarral's mind.

The demon was in human form, but only to a degree, for everything about him
was wholly inhu-man. Upright, he was enormous, nearly twice as tall as Archer,
Yet he was unnaturally, revoltingly thin— as narrow as a skeleton. His ribs
showed clearly, as did the bones of shoulder and elbow, hip and knee. His long
crooked fingers tapered to curved tips of bone, like claws. His face was a
craggy skull-face, with a flattened nose, no visible ears, and a wide lipless
mouth in which glinted sharp saw-teeth, like a shark's. What sparse flesh and
skin he had were stretched tight over the bones, and were a dull, flat grey
streaked with dark orange, as if he were made of rusting metal.

But all of that was nothing, compared to the eyes.

They were pools of molten yellow, like the heart of a fire. No feature showed
in them, no pupil or iris—just the solid golden flare. But wordless things
were spoken by those eyes. Terrors were promised beyond human imagination or
endurance. Mighty hatred showed in them, and cruelty, and murder, and a power
that could rend mountains. As Jarral stared at those eyes, dark twisted shapes
of horror writhed in his mind, clawing at his sanity.

He knew that the eyes of the demon were looking for him.

Somehow Flameroc had sensed his presence as the carriage passed. Though Jarral
shrank back into the niche, whimpering in the depths of panic, he

140

BLADE OF THE POISONER

could see the hot glare of those eyes sweeping to-ward him like rushing flame.
The courage that he had found, the numbing calm, were swept away like cobwebs
as an ultimate horror grasped him. He saw the demonic eyes probing his hiding
place... he could feel their monstrous fire....
Panic swelled within him as if to shatter his skull, and he opened his mouth
and screamed.

At the exact same instant, a muffled roar sounded in the street, drowning his
cry.

He was only vaguely aware of the sound, in the extremity of his terror. But he
did not fail to notice the trembling of the ground beneath him. All around, he
could see the buildings wavering slightly as the ground shook. Small dislodged
fragments of stone and plaster fell clatteringly onto the street.

The horses of Mephtik's carriage squealed and reared with fright, the coachman
battling to hold them. In the carriage, Mephtik was staring wildly around,
shouting. And Flameroc seemed to have half-fallen back into the heaving
vehicle. As he raised a long clawed hand again, the coachman allowed the
horses to take the carriage away in a

headlong gallop.

The last rumbling echoes of the earth'tremor died away   at the same time as the
noise of the horses' hooves. In the silence Jarral sat   where he was, trying to
quell his trembling. He had no idea what had happened,   since he had never
experienced an earthquake before, of any strength. But   it had got rid of the
terrible Flameroc, which was all that mattered.

Calmer, he struggled to his feet, blankly noticing that the drizzle had given
way to pale sunshine. Around him the people were emerging fearfully from

Eyes of the Demon

141

the buildings, with flurries of nervous talk. Something strange and different
had happened—and such things spelled nothing but trouble in the Poisoner's
city.

As Jarral stepped out of the niche, he saw that there seemed to be a general
movement of people away from him. As he looked at them, puzzled, he heard a
rough voice behind him and felt new fear ripple icily up his spine.

"Jus* lookit," the voice said. "Right where the Whiner said he'd be."

Slowly Jarral turned. Four green-uniformed soldiers with short javelins stood
grinning at him.

"First time that rat-whelp ever told the truth," another grunted.

"You sure this's him?" a third asked idly.

"Sure," the first one said. "Lookit the clothes. He's no citizen. Serg'nt says
this's prob'ly one of the four we was searchiu* round the country for the
other day."

"All by hisself now," the second one said.

Jarral half-turned, as if to seek some kind of help or escape. But all he saw,
lounging nearby, was the skinny form of the Whiner, staring at him with a
leering grin. And then one of the soldiers hefted his javelin meaningfully.
"Jus" stay still, boy," he growled. "Prince Mephtik wants y'—an' he's gonna
get y'."

16

Poisoner's Plaything

Soon afterward, in another part of the city, the Lady Mandragorina was driving
a crude and filthy cart pulled by a sway-backed horse. A few passers-by might
have smiled at the sight of such a pretty girl driving a very decrepit
vehicle. But at least Mandra looked the part to some extent, since—like the
others—the journey had left her mostly unwashed and rumpled, her clothes
tattered and soiled. And certainly she was a less startling driver for the
cart than a blind man or a giantess.

Scythe and Archer were hidden in the cart, under a pile of hides. Scythe had
stolen the cart during the disturbance caused by the strange earth tremor, as
a way to cross the city while giving Mandra's Talent a rest. Later it would be
all-important.

In the driver's seat, Mandra was looking pale and strained, trying to attract
no attention, twitching with nerves when anyone on the street idly looked her
way. So she almost leaped into the air with shock when a groan sounded from
the cart behind her.

"What is it?" she hissed wildly, twisting around. "Scythe...!"

142

Poisoner's Plaything    143

"It's all right," Scythe said quietly from the cart. "One of Archer's
visions."

Archer's groan was turning into recognizable words. "Jarral... soldiers and
shadows... the stones that shine...."

"What is it?" Mandra repeated fearfully.

It was Archer who replied, in a despondent voice, as her vision left her.

"I saw Jarral," she said, "a prisoner—in some huge building that seemed to be
shadowy and shiny at the same time."

"The Poisoner's Tower," Scythe said flatly.

Mandra gasped. "Mephtik will torture him!"

"Maybe," Scythe said. "But he'll keep him alive. Mephtik wouldn't miss a
chance to watch Jarral die from the Blade-wound, when the moon rises. So
there's time."

Mandra shivered. "Time for what?" she asked hollowly.

"Time to do what we're doing," Scythe growled from within the can. "Time to go
and knock on the door of Mephtik's Stronghold."

Standing by himself in the middle of a vast, cold floor, Jarral was looking
upward, at the unbelievable structure soaring high above his head. It was the
structure that contained Prince Mephtik's throne room—a gigantic tower, the
dominating centerpiece of the Stronghold. It was magnificent, overwhelming, a
fantasy in metal and stone. Jarral could hardly believe that a single building
could be so immense. The expanse of the polished marble floor looked as if it
could contain his entire village with room to spare. Upward, where he was
looking, the Tower's

144

BLADE OF THE POISONER

vault was lost in shadowed dimness,   so that the building seemed to rise,
roofless, into the sky. And

the walls...

They were curved, with no sharply angled corners, and were built of fairly
small blocks of stone, perfectly fitted. The blocks were multicolored, mostly
in shades of green and yellow, and were polished to a gleaming
mirror-brightness. With the color and the shine, it looked as if the walls had
been covered with the glistening, scaly hide of some colossal serpent.

No natural light entered that throne room— only the light from decorative
lanterns here and there on the walls, and braziers at various places on the
floor. So, despite the glistening walls, there were great pools of shadow in
many parts of the throne room. They were not enough, however, to hide the huge
works of art-—paintings and tapestries—hanging around the walls, depicting
beings engaged in activities that were obviously to Mephtik's taste. That was
another reason that Jarral was looking up, so that his eyes would not be drawn
to those sickening images. Then, too, there was the disturbing area near where
he stood. It was like a wide but fairly shallow pit set into the marble floor.
Jarral had not looked into it, for he could hear a number of unsettling sounds
from within it, as if it were full of living creatures. And he had heard
plenty of sounds like that in the Garden of Torment.

He was aware that the soldiers who had brought him were standing somewhere
behind him, near the tall, lustrous metal doors that opened into the throne
room. The squad of soldiers had gone silent upon entering, overawed and
nervous. About two dozen other soldiers stood in the shadows around the walls,

Poisoner's Plaything

145

on guard, also wholly silent. The only sounds in the room came from the
chilling movements in the pit—and the low rumble of two voices.

The voices came from a broad stone terrace, like a stage, some distance ahead
of Jarral. Its smooth surface was above his eye level, reached by long steps
of polished stone. The terrace was lit by many more of the decorative
lanterns, and around it hung more of the revolting tapestries. At one side was
an ornate table holding different vials and flasks—and Jarral did not need to
wonder about the nature of the fluids within them.

Dominating the terrace was a huge dark throne of shiny wood and metal, carved
with images of men and women who were contorted into what had to be the
farthest reaches of agony. On that throne sat the Poisoner, narrow race
intent, deep in conversation with the hideous, golden-eyed figure of Flameroc.

From the outset their voices had lifted the hairs on Jarral's neck and turned
his insides to ice. But as the moments dragged on and he was ignored, some of
his courage—or the numb acceptance—returned to him. A part of his mind had
been noting the passage of time, so he knew it was well past midday. In not
too many hours night would fall over the Tower. His final night.

Mephtik will probably hurt me very badly, Jarral thought, tightening his leg
muscles to stop them from trembling. But it can't last long. Only till
moonrise.

So he breathed deeply and gathered what inner strength he could. And then he
lowered his gaze from the high, darkened vault of the Tower to the two figures
on the terrace.

146

BLADE OF THE POISONER

The Poisoner was wearing a loose robe of livid green, with strangely beautiful
necklets and bracelets that moved, writhing and twisting, revealing
them-selves as small, lethaliy beautiful snakes. Next to the prince stood
Flameroc, immense and ghastly. It was easier for Jarral to look at him now,
for he was again swathed in the large hooded robe. Yet from within the hood
those monstrous eyes glared, bright as

molten gold.

The eyes   swung to meet Jarral's gaze, and for a moment Jarral swayed, feeling
that the   layers of his mind were being stripped away under that blazing stare.
But then   the demon's eyes shifted away, so that Jarral could catch his
balance,   as the Poisoner spoke in his high, grating voice.

"Captain," he said curtly to some officer behind Jarral, "you say your
sergeant and his men found the boy because of a creature called the Whiner.
What is

he?"

"Highness," came the captain's voice, raw with

tension, "he is a common pickpocket from the Middens. We have him in a chamber
nearby, for he believes he will be rewarded."

"Rewarded? A Middens thief?" Mephtik laughed chillingly. "He will receive his
due. Keep him where he is." He waved a hand languidly to dismiss the captain,
whose sigh of relief was not quite inaudible. Doors closed behind Jarral as
the Poisoner's close-set eyes, and the demon's blazing ones, turned toward

him.

"You seem an unimportant worm," Mephtik said sneeringly, "yet we are told you
have been traveling with the three rebels who have dared to use Talents

Poisoner's Plaything

147

against my rule—and who now, it seems, lurk within my city."

Jarral said nothing. He was fighting an inner battle against a newly
paralyzing horror. Did the Poisoner's words mean that his friends had not left
the city? But they would be captured, too... !
"He is terrified, or ignorant," Mephtik said, smiling cruelly. "Or both. Are
you sure, Flameroc, that he is the one?"

"There can be no doubt of it." The demon's voice was the deepest sound Jarral
had ever heard, but totally without warmth or mellowness. It was like the
rumble of a landslide in some frozen cavern beneath a mountain that had never
seen the light of day.

"Then I shall torment him," Mephtik said with evil   enthusiasm, "till he tells
me where the three are. And when we have them, our   Master will more easily
gather up the rebel sorcerer Tabbetang." He paused   as a thought seemed to
strike him. "Unless, friend demon, your powers can   leam from the boy where the
rebels are hiding?"

"I have told you before, Prince," the demon said contemptuously. "I cannot
read the pallid clutter of a human mind. Nor would I wish to do so."

Mephtik glared, then switched the glare to Jarral. "Boy! Say at once where the
three rebels are!"

Jarral scraped together a few crumbs of courage. "I don't know," he said, in a
voice sounding more shrill and shaky than he wanted it to. "And I wouldn't say
if I did!"

"Excellent!" Mephtik cried, clapping his hands. "Then I can play with you! Oh,
I shall make you die so slowly...."

148   BLADE OF THE POISONER

"Princeling," Flameroc's ghastly rumble broke in, "you are a fool. Unlike you,
I have never seen the boy before—yet, unlike you, I recognize him. You cannot
kill him slowly, because you already have."

The molten eyes blazed brighter, and Jarral felt an icy breeze that seemed to
congeal his blood as he glanced down. His shirt had vanished. And the M' on
his chest was pulsing horribly, as if with a life of

its own.

"Oh. Him." Mephtik sat back sulkily. "The whelp from the Wellwood. I had
forgotten." Then he brightened. "But the moon is full tonight! So 1 can still
play with him awhile, and then we can be entertained at moonrise. A death from
the Blade is always amusing."

"Before your playtime, little Prince," the demon said, "I would question him.
1 cannot read human minds, but I can hear a human lie. He spoke the truth when
he said he does not know where his companions are. I would hear him speak the
truth

again."

The terrible eyes flared once more. Jarral felt himself seized by invisible
hands, lifted from the floor. Fresh terror fell upon him so totally he could
not even whimper as he drifted through the air up to the terrace, suspended
before the demon's awful gaze.

"Tell me," Flameroc rumbled, "what you know of the earth-tremor this morning
in the city. You were there, somewhere, for 1 sensed the presence of the
Blade-wound."
Sweating and shivering, Jarral found himself opening his mouth almost without
willing it. "I know n-nothing," he stammered.

"Ah, the tremor," Mephtik said, grinning. "It

Poisoner's Plaything

149

quite upset you, did it not, demon? Made you all unsteady...."

He stopped abruptly as the molten glare swung toward him. "I told you," the
demon growled, "I was merely unbalanced when the horses nearly bolted." He
turned back to Jarral, floating before him. "But it is clear that the boy
speaks the truth. As I expected. For a moment it seemed that the impossible
had happened.... But of course it could not."

"Ask the worm about the water in my Garden," Mephtik said sourly. "It's too
much—floods and earthquakes."

"It is of no importance," the demon said. "The boy knows nothing."

"Then why did the three rebels bother with him?" Mephtik said, frowning.

"Doubtless they had some notion of saving him from the Blade. Perhaps with the
sorcerer's aid."

"Saving him?" Mephtik tittered. "No one can be saved from that deadly bite."
His hand dipped into his robe, snake-fast, and brought out the Tainted Blade.
Laughing again, he brandished it before him, sweeping its green-stained edge
toward Jarral. But the swing brought it just as close to the dark robe of
Flameroc.

The demon jerked back so violently that his hood fell away—revealing the
sudden tautness of the skeletal face and neck flinching away from the Blade.

"Ho ho!" the Poisoner crowed. "How the mighty demon shies from the little
Blade!"

Flameroc's deep bass bellow of rage was like the roar of a thousand tigers.
Mephtik paled and shrank away as the demon's eyes flared. "You will presume
once too often, fool!" Flameroc thundered. "One

150   BLADE OF THE POISONER

day, despite our Master's order, I will pull you inside out and carve my name
upon your very guts!"

"Yes, yes, indeed, Lord Flameroc," Mephtik babbled fearfully. "It was a
harmless jest. I meant no disrespect, I assure you...."

The demon's shark-teeth flashed in a ghastly grimace. As Mephtik cringed,
Flameroc flicked a glance at Jarral that sent him wafting back to the floor
below the terrace. Released, he half-fell, dazed by what he had seen and
heard.

"Play your foolish games, Princeling," the demon was rumbling. "I will be
better employed spur-ring on your underlings as they scour the city for the
rebels."

Still glaring, the demon gathered his robe around himself and vanished in a
sudden rush of frigid wind.

Mephtik straightened, recovering his arrogance and fixing his gaze on Jarral.
"Now, boy," he snarled, "let us see what extents of anguish can be achieved
before moonrise."

17

Into the Stronghold

The battered cart rattled over the paving stones of a street lined with
well-kept buildings and shops. In the driver's seat, Mandra looked
increasingly ner-vous, since more people were looking at her and the cart,
quite out of place in that more superior area. But their glances were without
suspicion—and there were no soldiers in sight, from whom suspicion might have
come.

Farther along, following the directions that Scythe whispered from within the
cart, Mandra turned the tired horse into an even more impressive avenue. And
there, instinctively, she pulled up, staring, as Scythe and Archer pushed the
screening hides slightly apart so they, too, could look.

They were looking at an uprearing bulk of stone that was the outer wall of
Mephtik's Stronghold. At the far end of the broad avenue was a mighty gateway,
its stone surround carved horribly to show men and women, mouths wide in
silent screams, being attacked by the most ghastly of venomous creatures.

151

152   BLADE OF THE POISONER

"Pictures from a torture chamber," Mandra said

softly.

The others were silent, studying the great gateway, where a single, immense
metal door stood within the ghastly surround. As they watched, the door opened
with a deep, creaking groan, and a detachment of soldiers marched out, to take
up positions around the gateway. Meanwhile the soldiers who had been in those
positions had formed up and were marching back into the Stronghold. The huge
door closed with a metallic crash.

"I was hoping to get here in time for the change of guards," Scythe said.
"Mandra could have walked us in with them."

"Do we wait for the next one?" Mandra asked.

"No time," Scythe said. "It's midaftemoon already. Mandra, you'll have to make
us seem like ranking officers in a carriage—with a message for

Mephtik."

Mandra nodded, and they rolled ahead along the avenue. The detachment of
guards at the gateway numbered fourteen, all armed with crossbows, all coming
to attention as the cart drew near.

In front of the huge metal door, the guard-captain saluted stiffly, looking at
Scythe and Archer, who were now in plain sight on top of the pile of hides.
Archer glanced at Mandra with a smile. She was obviously making them seem to
be very high'

ranking people.

"We bring news of the rebels," Scythe said.

"Open the gate."

"At once, my lord," said the captain. He gestured, and another soldier sprang
to a small opening

Into the Stronghold

153

in the wall that clearly communicated to others on the inside.

"His Highness is in the Tower," the captain volunteered, "enjoying some...
recreation. He may be angry if he is disturbed."

As Archer glanced worriedly at Mandra, who was beginning to show some strain
at maintaining the illusion in fourteen minds, Scythe leaned forward. "He may
be even angrier," he snapped coldly, "if we are delayed in bringing him our
news."

The captain paled and whirled on the soldier who had spoken through the
opening. "Why is the gate not opening for their lordships?" he roared.

The soldier jumped, shouted through the opening, and the vast door groaned
again as it swung open. As the captain saluted nervously again, Mandra shook
the reins, and the old cart clattered through the gate and into the
Stronghold.

But Mandra was not guiding it. Her eyes were still squeezed shut, her face
drawn with strain—for there was another detachment of guards on the inside,
standing at attention, and another captain offering a salute.

Ahead lay another broad roadway, but with only a few buildings along it,
interspersed with expanses of a beautifully tended park—soft, rich grass with
clusters of delicate shrubbery and graceful flowerbeds. Fortunately it was a
winding roadway, so that in a few moments they were out of sight of the guards
at the gate. Then Mandra could heave a huge sigh of relief, slumping wearily
in the driver's seat.

But a moment later she was tensing again, aware through her remarkable Talent
that other minds were to be found behind the windows of the build-

154   BLADE OF THE POISONER ings overlooking the roadway- Those buildings were
offices, barracks, storerooms and so on, where anyone might idly glance out at
the vehicle passing

by-

"I'm going to have to rest a moment," Mandra said through gritted teeth.
"There's so many of

them."
Scythe nodded. "When it's safe, pull off the

road, into the bushes."

So, shortly, Mandra swung the horse and cart off the roadway, at a spot where
no buildings interrupted the sweep of the lovely park. And there they
discovered the ugliness within the loveliness—the smeared thorns among bright
flowers, the grisly, oozing fruit and fungi on the shrubs, the evil statuary
of torment and despair standing here and there on the grass.

Mandra shuddered at the sight, then flinched again as a break in the foliage
ahead showed them, for the first time, their ultimate goal. From the heart of
the Stronghold, Mephtik's Tower soared up, its glistening multicolored
stonework looking even more like oversized snakeskin in the late, golden beams
of the afternoon sun.

"Let's leave the cart and make use of all this cover for a while," Scythe
said. "Give Mandra a

rest."

She smiled gratefully as they climbed down. For a moment they all glanced at
the distant Tower again, as they prepared themselves for the last stage of
their journey.

And then a harsh voice struck out at them. "You there! Stand where you are!"

Mandra and Archer whirled. Four soldiers had come into view past some bushes,
to one side. They

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155

were clearly a squad that patrolled the Stronghold's grounds, and their
crossbows were flashing up to take aim.

Mandra went tense again, her eyes squeezing shut, and the soldiers jerked with
astonishment.

"Where'd they go?" one said, as they began to run forward.

"Musta ducked into the bushes," another said.

They went past in a rush, plunging noisily into a nearby thicket.

"If you made us invisible," Scythe said calmly to Mandra, "they'll keep
looking for us."

Mandra looked distressed. "It happened so fast... I didn't think..."

Archer glowered at Scythe. "It does not matter, Mandra. You have done
wonderfully—"

But she was interrupted by voices that proved it did matter. A great many
voices, raised in question-ing and angered shouts—which mingled with pounding
feet and clanking weapons.

"I'm sorry," Mandra said faintly, her eyes squeezing shut again. "There must
be forty of them... all > joining the search. I... I don't think I can handle
them all."

Scythe's black eyes glinted, as his sword leaped from the staff. "Then Archer
and I will whittle their number down a little."

He poised himself, and Archer calmly nocked an arrow, as nearly forty armed
soldiers burst into view through the shrubbery.

Archer's bow was fully drawn, Scythe was an instant from leaping to meet the
charge, when Mandra's cry held them back.

156

BLADE OF THE POISONER

"Wait1. Look at their eye$\n

It was clear at once what she meant. The soldiers were thundering toward the
three of them— but were not looking at them. They were looking beyond them,
into the greenery.

As Archer and Scythe stepped aside, the entire troop charged past, flailing
through some shrubbery, vanishing deeper into the park. Scythe turned to
Mandra, eyebrows raised, but she shook her head. "That wasn't me," she said
wonderingly.

Scythe's chill smile flashed. "Then I can guess—"

**No doubt," said a bright voice. "It was, as you

surmise, I."

The three of them looked up, amazed, at Cryltaur Tabbetang, dapper as ever,
smiling down from where he was standing—looking slightly hazy at the edges— on
the topmost leaf of a feathery bush.

"What are you doing here?" Scythe demanded.

"How brusque you are, my dear swordsman," Cryl said, floating lightly down to
the grass before them. He was garbed again entirely in blue—this time a long
frock coat and trousers in royal blue, a high-necked shirt in powder blue, and
a silky neck' cloth in midnight blue.

"Are you in disguise, as unwashed beggars?" he asked, surveying the three
distastefully. "It's very effective—especially the fragrance." He drew a large
blue handkerchief from his sleeve and applied it to

his nostrils.

"Wt haven't had much time for bathing," Mandra said sharply. "We've been
trying to stay alive."

"My dear," Cryl said, waving his handkerchief, "you smeU like you have been
dead for weeks." His smile was cherubic. "And you have not done well,

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157

have you? With young Jarral in the hand of the Poisoner and moonrise only
hours away."

Mandra's eyes flashed. "But he left...."

"Don't," Scythe said roughly. "Our wizard knows all that—he's just being
annoying." As Cryl beamed, Scythe went on in the same harsh tone. "He's also
being foolish, showing up here with Flameroc around."

CryPs smile faded. "I am here because of Flameroc, to some extent," he said
firmly. "I have every faith in your abilities—but it has begun to seem that
you might be a little overmatched against a High Demon. So I have decided to
come and save you." His smile appeared again. "I confess that the four of you,
the last living Talents aside from myself, are rather ... important to me."

"But you could be token!" Archer said worriedly.

Scythe snorted. "You saw him up there, Archer. We're talking to his astral
being, like before. Urauld would be here too if this was Cryl in his true
body. But even he isn't fool enough to come here like that."

Cryl bowed. "How gracefully phrased."

Archer was glancing up at the feathery top of the bush, then at the faint
haziness around the wizard's body. "I should have known," she said sheepishly.

By then the sounds of the soldiers had completely died away behind them. So
Cryl—floating serenely along, a few inches above the ground—led them back to
the roadway.

"But what do you hope to do, Cryl?" Mandra asked tensely. "If you're not here
in your real body, you can't use the True Magic."

158

BLADE OF THE POISONER

"True," Cryl replied blandly. "But even in my astral form, I can use my
Talents. And I have several of those, as you know."

As if to underline his words, a wild-eyed group of soldiers suddenly burst
from some bushes and raced past the four of them, seeing nothing.

"The truth is," Cryl went on, "1 am here partly because I became aware how
exhausted you have become, Mandra, my dear. You have done wonders for one so
young—but now I shall provide. I shall get us into the Tower and reinforce all
your efforts to do what must be done."

Scythe nodded. "I thought you might join us. Especially if we got hold of the
Blade. But it's still risky for you even in astral form, isn't it, with the
demon around?"

Cryl's blue eyes surveyed them, and his voice lost all of its usual mocking
playfulness. "Risky?" he echoed. "I have perceived, in the elements and the
ether, that we are approaching a crucial moment. A major crossroads in the
life of this world. It is a moment when we dare not draw back and wait
fearfully for another day. It is a time when we must run every risk, take
every strength we have and hurl it into the struggle, in the desperate hope
that it will be enough to tip the balance our way. For if it does—the gains
will be immeasurable, the victory beyond the most hope-filled dream. That is
why I am here."
He paused, and the silence that descended seemed to resonate with the weight
of his words.

Then his impish smile returned as he waved his handkerchief airily. "In any
case," he said, "Flameroc is not presently with Mephtik in the Tower. He is

Into the Stronghold

159

pursuing the search for you three in the Middens, where Urauld and I have laid
some false trails. On the other hand, young Jarral is with Mephtik. And since
we know how sportive the Poisoner can be— and since the afternoon is rapidly
waning—I suggest we make all haste."

18

Journey's End

The afternoon was indeed hurrying toward evening. As they drew near the Tower,
the beams of the setting sun now colored its glistening surface with a lurid
crimson. At the doorway—even larger, more imposing, and more revoltingly
decorated than the Stronghold's outer gate—its guards stood unseeing, under
the touch of Cryl's powerful mind. The four intruders simply marched in,
Cryl's slightly hazy form still floating just above the polished stone floor.
Not a glance came their way from the soldiers and green-robed servants moving
here and there in the great hall beyond the door.

"You make it seem so easy," Mandra whispered.

"As do you, my dear," Cryl replied. "I can merely sustain it longer, since I
am older and stronger."

"Then keep sustaining it," Scythe growled, gesturing with his staff.

They had crossed the great entrance half unseen and unharmed, and had
traversed a corridor of bright stone that lay beyond it. At that corridor's
end they faced the huge gleaming doors that led into the

160

Journey's End

161

throne room     and the further platoon of soldiers planted there.

"A refreshing sleep, I feel, for these fellows," Cryl murmured. As he spoke,
the entire platoon slid to the floor with a breathy sigh, and the lustrous
doors swung open.

As they did so, the throne room beyond the doors filled with an almost inhuman
shriek of purest agony.

Scythe flashed through the opening, sword glinting in his hand, with the
others at his heels. Then they all stopped, held motionless by the horror of
the scene.

They were staring at the shallow pit that lay near the center of the throne
room. In the middle of the pit a short pedestal had appeared—a solid pillar
rising only a few feet from floor level, like a tree stump made of stone.

The stumpy pillar was moving, as if it were alive. It shook back and forth,
rocked from side to side, tipped and jerked, swung and spun.

Below it, in the pit, rose the sounds of the horde of lethal creatures,
hissing and buzzing and scrabbling as if in anticipation.

Because, on top of the pillar, clinging to the smooth stone, was a naked human
figure. Though the figure was half in shadow, with its back to Cryl and the
others, it was clearly small, thin and youth-fill. The ankles were shackled
with dark iron bands, but the hands were free—clinging frantically as the
pillar rocked and shook, threatening to fling its occupant into the pit and
the waiting horrors.

As the four watched, in that frozen instant, the naked wretch on the pillar
shrieked again. The pillar

162

BLADE OF THE POISONER

had jerked fiercely to the side, nearly dislodging the clutching hands. On the
terrace, bolt upright on his throne, Mephtik sat hot-eyed and grinning, his
hand on the small lever that controlled the movements of the pillar.

Once again the pillar jolted and rocked, and the victim's voice rose in a howl
that spoke of terror approaching madness. A fleck of spittle appeared on
Mephtik's lips as he hunched over the control, totally unaware of the four
intruders.

"Cryl!" Archer said anguishedly. "Stop him!"

"I will," Cryl said, sounding tense and worried. "But it is difficult here,
with the demon-essence so strong. Almost too strong, with Flameroc absent...."

He stopped with a grunt of surprise. Without the slightest warning, Scythe's
hand had flashed up to his one remaining throwing knife and buried it in the
green chest of a soldier who had leaped silently out of the shadows around the
far walls. Then other soldiers surged out of the deepening shadows. As Scythe
crouched and Archer reached for an arrow, Cryl gathered himself and raised a
hand, his face darkening with tension. The soldiers crumpled to the floor.

But in that time, when Cryl was focused on the soldiers, the Poisoner—still
too intent to notice anything else—finished his game. j

Twisting the lever, he had abruptly brought the pillar shooting swiftly up to
twice its former height, its screaming passenger barely holding on.

Then, with a burst of manic laughter, Mephtik lowered it just as swiftly,
retracting the whole of the pillar back down into the floor of the pit.

For a tiny fraction of a second, the naked victim

Journey's End

163

seemed to be poised in midair. The small body was contorted, every muscle
standing out as if sculpted— but silent, gripped by a terror too monstrous for
any final scream.

Then the figure fell with a flail of arms and legs down into the fangs and
stings of the waiting monsters.

And it was Mandra's shriek that echoed through the Tower. "JAR-RAL.'"

On the high throne, licking his lips as he stared gloatingly down at what was
happening in the pit, Mephtik jerked as if he had been stabbed. His mad gaze
swung toward the intruders—and then he went rigidly still. Cryl, red-faced
with fury, had raised a hand and wrapped his Talent around the Poisoner like
steel bands.

"I'm so sorry," Cryl said, his voice trembling. "I was too slow...."

"That wasn't Jarral," Scythe broke in, sounding slightly surprised. "He's just
there—in the darkness by the foot of the terrace."

As the others spun to look, Cryl sa'id firmly, "This place needs more light."
At once the lanterns and braziers blazed up with unnaturally high and
brilliant flame. In that brightness, they all saw Jarral.

He was kneeling on the floor, eyes open, seeming unharmed. But he was not
moving, not even blinking—just staring straight ahead, as if unseeing. And the
livid letter M was steadily pulsing on his bare chest.

"He is in a semitrance," Cryl muttered, sounding strained, as if he were
trying to move some heavy weight. "There is a demon-grip on him. Flameroc has
left great power behind him in his absence...."

Slowly Cryl gestured. Jarral rose from the floor

164

BLADE OF THE POISONER

like a puppet supported by invisible strings. He did not move or blink as he
floated toward the others. As Cryl lowered him, he sank again to his knees,
still blank-eyed.

"Let's pick him up and get out," Scythe growled.

"We must take the Blade as well," Cryl said. "And there are things here that
disturb and puzzle me." He looked up at the huge throne, where Mephtik still
sat, motionless and wild-eyed. "Come, Prince," Cryl called. "You may regain
the power of speech for a moment and tell us things."

The Poisoner's eyes bulged with shock and fury as his voice returned. "It's
you, isn't it? The rebel sorcerer, Tabbetang? You dare, in my Tower—"

Scythe spat. "Why don't we twist his neck and be off before the demon
returns?"

"A moment more," Cryl said calmly. "Mephtik," he called, "who is the one in
the pit?"

Mephtik grinned evilly. "A small thief, the Whiner," he said, "who betrayed
the boy." His eyes grew brighter, his grin more mocking. "The boy who dies at
moonrise, wizard! The boy who has brought you and your fools here! But you
cannot save him now—nor save yourselves!"

"I can," Cryl said sternly. "Your demon has departed, Poisoner—and no other in
this place can stand against me."

Then he paused, startled, as Mephtik flung back his head and began to laugh.
The laughter became a shriek, crazed and shrill. It rose high into the
blackness of the Tower's soaring vault. And there the shriek seemed to alter,
taking on the shape of a word, or a name, in some ugly twisted tongue.

As it resounded, high in the inky shadows of

Journey's End

165

the Tower's summit, something stirred. The four intruders heard a scrape like
iron on stone, a rustle as if of heavy cloth.

Then the chamber was filled with a grinding screech, like metal trying to saw
through metal. And red-eyed, black-winged monstrousness plummeted down out of
the vault, dreadful talons outstretched.

Cryl cried out as if in pain. "The vulture-demon! It is here! Urauld.'"

His shout was still striking upward when, with a sound like splitting wood,
the gleaming blue form of Urauld materialized in midair.

The bird-spirit appeared once again like a blue-winged spear, long bright beak
lancing forward at the vulture-demon. The vulture screeched and swooped aside
in a thunder of dusty-black wings. For a moment the two great winged creatures
swirled around the vast chamber, maneuvering for position.

Scythe grasped Cryl's shoulder and shook him as though he was weightless.
"Cryl, you fooll This is really you—making yourself look like an astral
being!"

"Of course," Cryl said absently, peering up at the swooping combatants. "I
could not invoke magic against the Blade unless I was here in person. But I
expected the astral disguise to protect me from the Enemy's eye."

"But Flameroc..." Archer said.

"He would have gone on pursuing replicas of you three," Cryl said. "Urauld has
been seeing to that—until now."

Then he fell silent, for above them the aerial

combat had truly begun—again.    The vulture had

•suddenly swept in, claws raking, only to find Urauld

veering smoothly past those weapons and counter-

166

BLADE OF THE POISONER

attacking with spearing beak. Again and again the pattern was replayed, attack
and counterattack, in a blinding thresh and flurry of great wings. For moments
that seemed endless, the weird duel filled the air of the throne room,
appearing almost an even match. Then suddenly the four watchers gasped as a
slashing vulture-claw chopped some sapphire-bright feathers from Urauld's
wing. But the bird-spirit seemed unharmed, swooping and stabbing as before.

"Cryl, can't you help him?" Mandra asked anxiously.

Cryl shook his head. "I would need Urauld's power to use the True Magic
against a demon, even a minor one. And Urauld is too preoccupied now."

Then he went silent, biting his Up as Mandra cried out. The vulture had swept
in again, dodging Urauld's beak, then striking with its own in a wicked
sideways slash. More blue feathers floated down through the smoky air—but now
they, and Urauld's breast, were stained with crimson.

The vulture's eyes shone no less blood-red as it screeched in triumph. It
attacked ferociously, again and again, hurling its full strength into the
onslaught. And though Urauld evaded each attack, diving and swerving away, the
onlookers could see that the ooze of blood from his breast had become a gush.
His broad wings were beginning to beat more weakly, as he whirled away from
yet another series of frenzied attacks by the demon.

Then Urauld seemed to droop and sag in the air, as if his strength had failed.
The vulture shrieked once more, surging forward in a crash of wings, iron
talons stretching out.

But just before they reached Urauld, the blue

Journey's End

167

bird-spirit swung sharply round, cried out something in a language unknown to
man, and buried his rapier-beak for half its length in the vulture-demon's
heart.

The two beings spiraled downward together, failing wings beating feebly.
Pinned by that terrible beak, the dying vulture used the last scraps of its
strength to tear and slash at Urauld. Blue feathers and red blood rained down
to the chamber floor. Then, just in time, Urauld weakly pulled his besk free,
as the vulture's corpse crashed to the floor, its acid blood bubbling and
hissing on the polished surface. And Urauld settled to the floor nearby, his
own blood pooling around him.

As Cryl and the others ran to him, the bird-spirit raised his head slowly.
"The demon has brought my death, Cryltaur," he said softly. "No wizardry can
heal these wounds."

Cryl dropped to his knees, looking stricken. "Urauld—friend and companion—how
shall I go on without you?"

"You must," Urauld said, his voice growing faint. "Yet the future is dark.
There are terrors and battles to come, Cryltaur, more potent than any we have
faced." His eyes, still fixed on Cryl, were beginning to film over. "One last
thing, while I still live. I know you will not flee, for you rightly wish to
save the boy. But use the True Magic with my aid—and raise shields around
yourself and the others."

Cryl frowned. "Why—?"
"Do as I ask," Urauld said, now barely whispering, "and with haste!"

Cryl nodded and swiftly made some complex gestures, murmuring quietly. An odd
silvery sheen

168

BLADE OF THE POISONER

seemed to appear from nowhere, wrapping itself round Cryl and each of the
others—including Jarral, who was still kneeling motionlessly where they had
left him.

Urauld seemed to shrink, as if folding in upon himself. "Do not mourn my
departure, Cryltaur," he whispered. "I am merely being released... from this
sphere... sooner than we expected...."

The voice faded and was gone. The eyes went blank as glass. And from the eyes
of Cryl the wizard, usually so bright and merry, something looked out that was
immensely old and grim and weary.

"I don't know whether to mourn you or envy you, beloved friend," Cryl said
softly. And he reached out to touch the now lusterless blue plumage.

But his hand never made contact.

The body of Urauld vanished in an explosion of searing fire. And as Cryl and
the others jerked back from the sudden shocking blast, the throne room seemed
to tremble under the impact of an enormous, thunderous, deep-bass roar.

Flameroc loomed above them, next to the throne where the mad-eyed Poisoner
sat. His robe was flung back to leave him wholly exposed in his fury, towering
and skeletal, metallic shark-teeth bared as he roared again. And his monstrous
molten eyes were fixed on Cryl, with tiny yellow flames leaping out from them,
as from the blazing surfaces of twin volcanoes.

19

Cataclysm

"Weakling of a wizard!" Flameroc bellowed. "Your absurd deception has failed,
your familiar is destroyed, you are powerless and in my power! Admit your
defeat!"

"My deception served well enough, demon," Cryl said. He was feeing Flameroc
unflinchingly, chin lifted in defiance, though his voice sounded small after
the demonic thundering. 'And I am hardly powerless, as you must see."

In response, the demon's fearsome eyes flared white-gold. With a crackling
crash, a force that looked like fire and felt like bitter cold lanced down at
Cryl. But it struck the faint silvery sheen that surrounded the wizard. Like
water split by a boat's prow, the demon-fire slid off to either side of the
shield, flickering and vanishing.

Flameroc bellowed again in swelling wrath. Again his eyes blazed and
flared—again and again magical forces struck furiously down at the shields
around Cryl and the others. Each time they were deflected and resisted.

169
170   BLADE OF THE POISONER

"Are we just going to stand here?" Scythe snapped at Cryl, in between attacks.
"Can't you do something?" "Without Urauld," Cryl said bitterly, "I have no
magic to face a High Demon. But I still have my Talents, as all of you have
yours. I merely need... the right moment."

As if in reply, something like a gigantic invisible battering ram struck at
their shields. Cryl seemed to sway a little, but the shields held. From the
terrace Flameroc's roar of fury seemed to shake the stone slabs of the floor.

Scythe's face tightened. "The shields won't stand much more of that. And what
can mere Talents do against Flameroc?"

"One thing," Cryl said quietly. "They can awaken Jarral."

"Oh... Jarral!" Mandra said, realizing they had almost forgotten about him.
Turning, they saw that he was unharmed and no longer kneeling in that frozen,
staring trance. Now he was lying quietly on his side, eyes closed. But the M
on his chest was pulsing more furiously, as if a living thing fought to break
through the skin.

"Before Urauld died," Cryl said, "I managed to break the holding spell that
had been on him. He is now merely in a light sleep of my devising—and he, too,
is shielded."

That was instantly verified. From Flameroc's volcanic eyes a stream of small
missiles flowed, frag' ments of blistering fire like a burst of hot golden
bullets. They struck against the silvery shields, rattling like a host of
drums. Again the shields with-stood the attack—but Cryl reeled, almost losing
his balance.

Cataclysm

171

"The shields are beginning to falter," he gasped. "It must be done—I can delay
no longer."

"What must be done?" Scythe demanded.

"I must awaken JarraPs Talent to its full adult power," Cryl said grimly.

Archer looked puzzled. "A mere firebrand, against this enemy?"

Cryl shook his head, then took a deep breath as if gathering himself. As he
did so, from the terrace they heard Mephtik cry out. "Flameroc! I pray you,
spare some of them for me! One, at least, for me to play with!"

The demon turned on him, snarling. "Silence, fool, or I will feed you to your
own creatures!"

In that moment of relief from the onslaught, Cryl had turned urgently to the
other three. "What I am about to do," he told them, "is our only hope. It may
kill all of us, including Jarral. Because I must reach his mind with mine—and
I cannot reach him through the shields."

"You want to drop the shields?" Mandra gasped.

"They are all connected," Cryl said. "If I abandon mine, all will go."
"They're going anyway," Scythe snapped. "Do what you can, Cryl. But do it
now!"

The others looked up. Flameroc seemed to have grown even more elongated, as he
raised his skeletal arms above his head, fingers like bony claws. Some of the
cold fire flickered around those claws, danced around the huge body like an
aura. And the terrible eyes altered once again.

Their molten gold swelled and brightened into a colorless white heat. And in
turn, the whiteness intensified. From the painful white of a polar sun on

172   BLADE OF THE POISONER

new snow, it grew brighter. From the blinding white of raw magnesium erupting
into flame, it grew brighter. Mandra and Archer and even Cryl flung hands over
their faces, so that Scythe stood alone, his black eyes shiny with reflections
of the demon's white fire, facing Flameroc with a defiant snarl.

The monstrous eyes swelled further, their whiteness now like that of a star
blooming into the final

convulsion of a nova. As that irresistible radiance

focused, Cryl turned his back on it to face Jarral. "Jarral!" As he spoke, his
voice clear as a bell,

the silvery shields vanished from around them all.

And Jarral rose to his feet, blinking.

"For this moment, Jarral," Cryl said, "let your

true Talent wake and function, in the full splendor of

its power!"

JarraPs eyes snapped wide. His body stiffened, his hands clenched, his hair
rippled as if trying to stand on end. And the next tumultuous fragment of a
second flung Mephtik's throne room into chaos and catastrophe.

The star-brightness of Flameroc's eyes struck down like a colossal spear of
deadliest white heat.

And at the same time something—some things— huge but invisible, like mighty
unseen giants, stormed into the chamber to hurl destruction and ruin before
them on every side.

A powerful tremor shook the throne room's floor, heaving up the huge stone
slabs as if they were straws. Many of the slabs buckled and split, or thrust
up to lean against each other at crazy angles. On the far side of the chamber
an immense crack appeared in the floor, running in zigzag fashion across to
the

Cataclysm

173

wall. All around the throne room the walls trembled and groaned, with more
cracks appearing between the stone blocks. The whole structure cried out in a
sound of pain more deep and fearsome than the roar of Flameroc, as dislodged
chunks of masonry toppled down in choking clouds of dust.

At the same time the dust was whipped up by a monstrous wind, a gale that
whooped through the great doors, ripping them from their hinges as if they
were paper. The wind tore the ghastly paintings and tapestries from the walls
and shredded them, and as the fragments swirled to the floor, flames erupted
from them. Not a molten flame from demonic eyes, but the rich yellow-orange of
natural fire. Yet it was fire that seemed uncannily to feed also on masonry
dust and bare stone.

The fire hissed and raged as, from no visible source, a torrent of clear water
crashed tempestuously down from the terrace, racing along to cascade into the
widening crack in the floor, throwing up clouds of mist and steam. Above, in
the darkened upper vault of the Tower, more darkness gathered in the form of
rolling black clouds. Thunder bellowed from them, as if to echo the groans of
the trembling stone, and lightning speared down to blast more splinters from
the walls.

The humans had been    flung sprawling by the assaults of wind and earthquake.
But by some miracle    none of the falling pieces of masonry, none of the fire or
water or lightning,    had struck them. Scythe was the first to recover, rising
into a half-crouch,    surveying the room with his all-round vision.

Not even that vision could fully penetrate the strangling clouds of dust and
smoke and steam, but

174      BLADE OF THE POISONER

he could see enough. Nearby, Mandra and Archer were dazedly picking themselves
up. Farther away, Jarral lay curled in a ball, eyes closed, but seeming
unhurt. And nowhere was there any sign of Cryl.

Another explosive tremor shook the stone un-der Scythe's feet. He sprang away,
sword still in hand, and dashed across the chamber, grimly intent. He was
looking for Cryl, watching for Flameroc, guarding against falling stone—but
his main aim was to complete the task that had brought them to that

place.

The thunder rolled again, and he veered aside as lightning smashed down
nearby. The floor was humped and uneven, made more treacherous with its
trembling and the rubble of fallen stone. Flames leaped around him, dust and
steam gathered before him like veils flung at him by the gale that strove to
hurl him from his feet. But he fought through it all, heading single-mindedly
toward the steps leading to

the terrace.

A few strides more brought him to the edge of the pit—and there he halted
briefly, studying the contents of the pit without expression. Some damage
showed that a lightning bolt and tumbling chunks of stone had struck down into
the pit. But a plentiful number of creatures remained—serpents and lizards and
scorpions and spiders of every sort, and some strange varieties of tangled
little horrors that did not bear too close inspection. All were in a frenzy at
the chaos around them, flailing and threshing, turning on one another, even
biting themselves. And many of them in their panic struck again and again at
the crumpled, blood-smeared thing that had been the Whiner.

Cataclysm
175

Scythe's face was frozen as he turned away and sprang lightly up the steps of
the terrace.

As he reached   the top, the Tower seemed to quieten slightly, as if a pause had
been declared   in that orgy of destruction. To one side Scythe saw the huge
wooden throne   overturned and smoldering, with no sign of Mephtik. Then he
turned to the   other side of the terrace—and Flameroc.

Astonishingly, the demon was half-slumped against the wall, skull-head
drooping forward. He seemed stunned, helpless, unable to move.

"By all the gods," Scythe said aloud. "It's true. And demons are weakened in
their presence."

At the sound of his voice Flameroc's head lifted slightly. Scythe tensed—but
the demon's eyes were only a lifeless, dark orange as he looked up dully.

Then the hair lifted on Scythe's neck as he fek the power that had arrived.
Like a stream of unseen energy, that would make a man tremble with its
coldness, and cower from its essence of sheer evil.

Scythe did neither of those things. He-merely stood as always, cool and poised
and watchful. The icy, unseen power seemed to expand before him. And then it
was abruptly gone—and Flameroc had vanished with it.

As if in outrage, the forces of destruction in the chamber renewed their
efforts. The wind shrieked at near-hurricane force, lightning raged and
stabbed, new flames blossomed from the floor where another quake threw massive
stone slabs several feet into the air. The Tower bellowed like a monstrous,
dying beast, and more shattered masonry fell in a crushing cascade.

176

BLADE OF THE POISONER

And Scythe turned calmly, having seen the movement behind him.

A ragged, bleeding apparition rose from behind the overturned throne: Prince
Mephtik, one whole side of his face scorched and blackened, the other side
showing a manic eye and half an insane grin.

"Mephtik is here," he gabbled. "Lightning and fire and earthquake and nothing
can kill Mephtik. I am the Prince. I have the Blade nothing can kill...," The
crazed babble faded as he lurched toward Scythe, clutching in one hand the
emerald hilt of the Tainted Blade.

"Blade can kill," Mephtik said. "Slow killing when the full moon rises, soon
now rises, and die from the Blade, slow die..."

The words leaped upward into a howl. He raised the Blade high, crouching to
spring.

Scythe raised the curved sword, but there was no need. Even through the tumult
around him he heard the resonant music of Archer's great bow. The arrow seemed
to flower from the Poisoner's wrist, whose howl rose further into an anguished
shriek. As the Blade fell from the hand where the arrow jutted, Scythe stepped
smoothly forward and caught it in his free hand by the emerald hilt.
Without turning, he could see Archer's broad' shouldered form moving toward
the terrace through the storms of smoke and dust.

"Archer!" he yelled. "Get Cryl and the youngsters out! I'll follow you!"

"I cannot find Cryl," Archer shouted mournfully.

"Then get out with Mandra and Jarral!" Scythe yelled. "Run.'"

Lightning slashed down into the dust-clouds,

Cataclysm

177

but Scythe had seen that Archer had turned away in time. As a new tremor shook
the terrace, splintering two of the broad steps, he became aware that Mephtik
was-muttering crazily, his one eye staring at the Blade in Scythe's hand.
"Don't hurt don't hurt don't hurt don't hurt don't hurt..."

Then the babble became a whimper as Scythe raised the stained point of the
Blade toward the Poisoner's face.

"1 could use this on you, Mephtik," he said in a voice thick with hatred.
"When the moon rises you would then know the death you have brought to so
many."

Mephtik stared at the Blade in glassy silence, dribbling from his ravaged
mouth.

"But you might escape that," Scythe went on. "Something might come to your
aid, as it came for Flameroc. I want to be sure you're finished."

A burst of fire seemed to walk up into the air nearby, where the dust hung
heavy. Mephtik flinched and shivered. Scythe paid no attention.

"I remember the demon's threat to you, Poisoner," he said coldly. "It seems a
good idea. Go and seek your own kind, and see which of you is the more
venomous."

Dropping both his sword and the Blade, his hands flashed out to grasp
Mephtik's ragged robe. Without visible strain, he swung Mephtik off his feet.
The Poisoner had only begun a screech of terror as Scythe smoothly pivoted and
hurled him from the terrace, a sprawl of skinny arms and legs, into the pit
where his monsters threshed.

The screech rose then, agonized and inhuman. But Scythe did not linger to
watch. He snatched up

178

BLADE OF THE POISONER

both weapons, thrusting the Tainted Blade into the empty sheath at his side
that had held the dirk, then sprang down the crumbling steps. In his dash
across the chamber floor he had to hurdle a second chasm that had opened among
the stones of the floor, duck and twist away from flames that surged up and
lightning that lanced down, battle with all his strength against the gale
still howling in through the doors. Yet he reached those doors unharmed.
But there he was nearly driven to his knees by the most deafening roar of all.
Catching his balance, he saw behind him an immense weight of stone plunge
earthshakingly down. It was the entire high vault of the Tower, in a final
thunderous collapse, crashing down into a gigantic heap like a cairn on top of
the pit where the Poisoner lay.

20

Moments Before Moonrise

"Elementak," Mandra said, with awe in her voice.

They were sitting on a dusty hillside just east of the city wall. The darkness
around them was lit by scattered stars glinting through light cloud—and by the
flames that still leaped here and there among the distant ruins of Mephtik's
Tower. Nearby stood the horses that they had taken from the grounds of the
Stronghold. No one had tried to halt their flight, though they had passed
dozens of dazed and panicky soldiers.

The entire Stronghold had been assaulted by the Elemental forces that had been
summoned. As the Tower collapsed, other walls were being tumbled down, other
gates blasted open. In the city itself the people either hid in cellars and
wailed at this new terror or stampeded to and fro hysterically on the chaotic
streets.

So the four had fled unharmed and had come at last safely to rest on that
hillside, finding time to catch their breath, to remember the Tower and to
marvel.

"Earthquake and thunderstorm, wind and fire 179

180

BLADE OF THE POISONER

and flood," Mandra was continuing. "All the spirits of the great forces of
nature..."."

"You could feel them there," Archer said, also sounding awed. "Huge...
shapeless and invisible, but giants...." She shook her head slowly,
remembering. "Their mere presence struck Flameroc down like a reed!"

"Something picked him up," Scythe said dryly. "A stream of evil power. Had to
be from the Demon-Driver." His chill smile flashed. "He'll have a few things
to think about now."

Archer nodded solemnly. "It is no wonder Cryl risked everything for such a
Talent. The mightiest of all, which has not been seen in this world for
centuries."

Mandra smiled. "And we thought he was just a firebrand."

Jarral was sitting slightly apart from them, still shiftless, arms wrapped
around his body, staring emp-tily into the darkness. Now he turned that empty
gaze onto the others.

"The fall moon is going to rise in a little while," he said hollowly. "And all
that Talent and everything won't keep me alive. Look at me!"
He let his arms fall away, and once again they all stared at the sickening
letter carved on his chest. It was pulsing as furiously as before, and now it
had also begun to glow, with a revolting green phos-phorescence.

"We can't destroy the Blade without Cryl," Jarral went on. "You've told me
that. So I'm going to die at moonrise. There's no Elemental that can keep that
from happening."

"Don't give up hope, Jarral," Mandra said gent-

Moments Before Moonrise

181

ly. "We don't know for certain what happened to Cryl. He might still come to
us in time."

Jarral turned bleakly away. "If he's safe, why isn't he here now? And anyway,
doesn't he need... Urauld, to work magic against the Blade? One way •or
another, there is no hope."

Silence fell, heavy with the helpless sympathy of the others. Slowly Scythe
drew the Blade from the sheath at his hip. It also was glowing with the same
evil luminescence as Jarral's wound, which seemed to be taunting their
helplessness.

"We have time yet," Archer said. "We could make a fire... try to melt the
steel...."

Scythe shook his head. "It's a supernatural weapon, Archer. You know that.
There's no natural way we can destroy it."

"We could try," Archer insisted.

The eerie .glow from the wound illuminated the grimace that twisted Jarral's
face. "Try, then," he said bitterly. He tensed—and a burst of bright flame
erupted from the dust in front of Archer.

"Jarral!" Mandra gasped. "You can control it!"

"A little," Jarral muttered. "Because of what Cryl did. But I don't have full
control."

"That will come when you're—" Archer began, but stopped short.

"When I'm grown up?" Jarral finished acidly.

"What about cold?" Mandra suddenly said. "Can you call an ice Elemental or
something? If the Blade was very cold, it might shatter...."

"I don't know about ice," Jarral said bleakly. "I don't know much about
Elementals at all."

"It wouldn't help," Scythe said. "Shattering the Blade wouldn't destroy it. It
must stop existing. And

182

BLADE OF THE POISONER
we can't do that." He slid the evil weapon back into the sheath.

"So we just wait for moonrise," Jarral said, with a catch in his voice.

Archer frowned. "No battle is lost until the last blow is struck. There must
be something...."

She stopped, startled. Tensely, all four of them rose to their feet, Archer
and Scythe gripping their weapons, Mandra and Jarrat wide'cyed with puzzlement
and fear.

A brightness had come into being at the top of the hill above them.

It was shapeless at first, and cold, like starlight glinting on ice. It seemed
to be contained within a frame of unnatural darkness, solid and heavy. And
somewhere almost beyond hearing that darkness held a sound like a wail, as of
lost and faceless souls.

Then the solid darkness shifted, shaping itself— and the brightness witbin it
took on form and heat. The four humans stood frozen with horror as the form
appeared. Darkly it gathered itself, towering and narrow. The distant wailing
rose once more, then died away. The huge shape loomed complete— and from its
shadowed face, two pools of molten gold blazed like beacons.

"Flameroc..." Archer breathed.

"Jarral, do something!" Mandra said desperately.

But Jarral was standing entirely still, save for the evil pulsing of his
wound. His eyes were blank and glassy, reflecting the hot yellow of the
demon's glare.

"You will not escape that way now." Flameroc's terrible bass rolled over them.
"I have veiled the

Moments Before Moonrise

183

boy's mind in darkness. He will not use his Talent— ever again. For shortly
the full moon will rise."

Scythe stirred slightly, and a tiny tongue of fire licked out from each
demonic eye. At once all three of Jarral's companions stiffened as if turned
to stone.

"I will keep you motionless as well," Flameroc rumbled. "But your minds may
remain open, so that you may watch the boy die. Will it interest you to know
the manner of that death?"

As the eyes flared again, the three watched in total horror. The luminous,
pulsing wound on Jarral's chest began to expand and grow. Slowly, steadily, it
spread like a ghastly glowing mold—along his arms, up over bis throat, down
over his stomach.

And in the wake of that evil glow, as it spread over Jarral's entire body, it
left a cracked, blackened, crumbling surface, like flesh seared beyond
recognition by fire.

Long moments more, and what had been Jarral was quivering and dying, burnt
alive where he stood. Then at last the charred body collapsed, into a
pathetically small heap of blackened ash.

Mandra's eyes were screaming, but the outcry was silent in the paralyzing grip
of the demon's power. Archer's eyes were also filled with rage and horror—but
something else showed briefly in the giant woman's expressions. Something
thoughtful, calculating....

Flameroc did not notice, for the golden fire of his own eyes was flaring
again. And new shock sprang into the expressions of Archer and Mandra, for the
small pile of ash had vanished. Jarral was

184

BLADE OF THE POISONER

Moments Before Moonrise

185

there as before—blank-eyed and motionless, but unharmed.

"That death was an illusion, for your enlightenment," Flameroc rumbled. "The
boy's real death, in precisely that form, will occur in minutes."

Scythe had shown no reaction to the illusory death. Flameroc's power kept his
face and body still, and no expression would ever show in his cold black eyes.
But there was an air of great tension coming from him, as if he were straining
every grain of his strength to break free. And a similar tension began to grow
in Archer, along with the thoughtful look in her eyes.

"Meanwhile," Flameroc was saying, "you may enjoy some further enlightenment.
About the fate of that fool of a wizard, Tabbetang."

He paused, the shark-teeth flashing as he savored the moment.

"As you know," he continued, "the fool dropped his shields in order to summon
the boy into the battle. But before the boy's Talent could act, my power had
laid hold of Tabbetang. 1 gathered him up and flung him toward my Master, whom
you irreverently call Demon-Driver."

The thunderous voice deepened even more cavernously. "Your wizard now lies in
torment in my Master's palace where he will remain, undying and agonized, for
a hundred years."

The terrible promise rolled away across the hillside, like a final toll of a
phantom bell, as Flameroc swept his molten gaze across them all. Yet those
eyes did not see a small and furtive movement that began. It was not a hand or
a foot or any part of the four bodies, still rigidly held by Flameroc's power.
It was

die hunting knife at Archer's belt. Silently, it slid as if by itself out of
its sheath.

Mandra, standing on that side of Archer, glimpsed the movement and fought to
conceal the astonishment in her eyes. Scythe, beside Mandra, also saw -the
knife move with his all-round vision, and the aura of tension and struggle
within him seemed to increase.

Flameroc had left their minds awake in order to torture them by making them
watch Jarral die at moonrise. So Archer was able to use her Talenf, her mental
power, to draw the knife.

And with a final burst of mental strength, the giant woman flung the knife at
Flameroc.

The demon's response was one of the most horrible events of that ghastly
night. He laughed. He flung up one huge, bony hand to block the knife— letting
it stab into and through his narrow palm. And his bass laughter rolled out
like a mighty drum, containing an infinity of cruelty.

Dark liquid oozed and dripped from his palm around Archer's knife, hissing
like acid. And the knife drooped and melted, dissolving in that deadly
acidity.

"A mortal weapon?" Flameroc asked, through his terrible laughter. "They cannot
harm a demon. Did you not leam that, facing my vulture? But harm will come to
you, for your disrespect!"

The molten eyes fixed on Archer, who glared back with stubborn courage. As
Scythe hurled maximum effort into his vain struggle, a sudden clear
realization flashed across Mandra's face.

She had been surprised by Archer's action, for she would have expected the
bow-woman to know that the knife would be useless. But then the realiza-

186

BLADE OF THE POISONER

tion came. Archer had been trying to say something— to her.

Had Flameroc been looking, the thought might have been read in her eyes like
words.

If Archer can use her Talent, .1 can use mine.

The thought and the action happened all at once. Within her mind Mandra
gathered her Talent, focusing it. It was a Talent that could make people see
or not see, that could form clouds upon their minds—or remove such clouds.

When Mandra hurled out the power of her Talent, she did not aim it uselessly
at the demon. She sent it storming into the mind of Jarral. And it ripped away
the veil of darkness from his mind as a high wind tears drapery from a window.

Flameroc whirled, aware of the change, just an instant away from restoring his
grip on JarraPs mind. But that instant was enough. As Jarral burst into full
consciousness, he knew without any hesitation what he had to do.

Before Flameroc's eyes could flare, they all heard a faint, bubbling splash.
And a fountain of bright water spouted up from the earth, directly in front of
the demon.

Jarral had wielded his   Talent with the new semicontrol that being awakened by
Cryl had given him. He   had summoned an Elemental, a water-spirit. It was not
particularly powerful,   but power was not needed. In the mere presence of the
pure force of a nature   spirit, the supernatural power of the demon lost its
strength.

The bright fountain, rising no higher than Flameroc's waist, darkened his eyes
to a dull orange-red, like guttering candles. He stumbled back, flinching

Moments Before Mooorise

187

away from the water. And the four humans were suddenly freed from the
paralysis that had gripped them.

Jarral, Mandra, and Archer staggered slightly before they caught their
balance. Only Scythe stood motionless, still taut, his stony face like an
image of cold death as he watched Flameroc flinch away, groaning.

Yet it was only a respite. They all knew that they were safe while the
water-Elemental remained, but it would not do so for long. Then Flameroc would
be himself again, and would take his vengeance. Nor was there any point in
fleeing, for no place would offer sanctuary from the demon's wrath when he
recovered.

In that moment Jarral saw that the bright fountain was already beginning to
diminish slightly. And then, on the edge of his vision, he saw an equally
terrifying sight. A soft brightness was growing in the east as the full moon
prepared to lift over the horizon. As he saw it, the pulsing throb of the
Blade-wound began to intensify into a burning pain.

He knew he had only seconds to live. Yet the Elemental was still there, though
smaller—and Flameroc was still flinching away from it, skull-head drawn back,
bone-thin throat arched....

It seemed—familiar. And suddenly the position of the demon, and the pain of
his own wound, came together in Jarral's mind. The realization flashed through
him like an electric shock. He had seen Flameroc quailing back like that once
before—on the terrace of Mephtik's throne room.

188

BLADE OF THE POISONER

"Scythe, the Blade!" Jarral shrieked. 'The demon /ears the Blade!"

Scythe's response was as swift as a reflex. It was as if his tautened body had
been waiting for just that cry. His hand blurred, and the ghastly brightness
of the Tainted Blade streaked the night air as it was drawn.

And Scythe threw it with unerring skill, hilt-deep into the heart of Flameroc.

The demon screamed, a sound like the tearing apart of stones, like nameless
beasts in the grip of madness. But at once the scream faltered, strangling and
bubbling, to become no more than a grinding croak. The Blade seemed to be
imparting its glow to the demon. As Flameroc croaked in his agony, the evil
luminescence spread to outline and contain his entire towering body.

At the same moment the dark acid blood that gushed from the wound engulfed the
Blade, hissing and crackling.

In seconds the lethal brightness had invaded every part of Flameroc's being.
He glowed like a giant, skeletal torch—except for his eyes, which were now a
dark and fading red. The glow of his body became more luminous, and for a
second all of the demon was transparent, the hillside and the night stars
visible in and through his body.
The humans heard a creaking -sigh, as if the door to some ageless, forgotten
tomb had slowly opened. With it, the last remnants of Flameroc vanished into
nothingness.

Even the few drops of his acid blood that had struck the ground disappeared in
that final dissolution. Where they had fallen, the ground was deeply

Moments Before Moonrise 139

scorched. In the midst of the scorch marks, by itself, lay the blackened
emerald hilt that had once been fastened to the Tainted Blade.

In the east, the first soft light of the risen moon laid its silver upon the
topmost leaves of trees.

And Jarral fell bonelessly to the ground, in a dead faint, where the moonlight
cast its glow on the pale, unmarred skin of his chest.

Southwestward

191

21

Southwestward

Some days later, the four of them were riding through open country to the
northwest of Xicanti. They had swung north to find Hob and Pearl before
swiftly putting the city as far behind them as they could. And for once, as
far as they knew, they had not been pursued. But none of them had any doubt
that, soon enough, pursuit would come.

That thought alone might have been enough to keep Jarral deeply miserable as
they rode, even though be had totally recovered from his wound—and from his
collapse after the final, overwhelming horror. Most of the time now he seemed
wrapped in somber thought, looking haunted and haggard. The only time when he
seemed to come alive was when he spent a while testing his new-found Talent.

He had still achieved only a small measure of control, so he could summon only
small sorts of Elementals—nothing tike the cataclysmic forces he had
unleashed, with Cryl's help, in the Tower. But even so, he used his Talent to
some effect now and then, and not only by lighting campfires. Once, in the
farmlands nearer the city, he had let Mandra save

190

her mental strength and had himself called a dust-cloud Elemental to hide the
four of them from prying village eyes. Another time, in an arid region, he had
called up a flow of sweet spring water. But when the others praised these
efforts, he usually scowled and looked displeased.

"It's still too weak," he once said sourly. "I still get real power only when
I'm scored-r-like with the yellowjackets or the vulture and those other times.
And in the Garden."

Archer nodded. "The stream we thought was an underground river. There was
power in plenty. You will find your way to it, Jarral—as you grow to
adulthood."
But that merely made JarraFs face tighten and sent him back into his glum
withdrawal.

Even Mandra had no luck trying to draw him out of his gloom. In the end it
took a remark by Scythe to make it clear what was troubling Jarral and what
could be done about it.

That happened early one morning when the others woke to find Scythe gone from
their campsite. But just as they began to grow alarmed, he calmly appeared,
with an explanation that was itself alarming.

"I've been keeping watch," he told them. "The Demon-Driver will be sending
something against us soon. And it's likely to come in the night."

Archer looked somber, Jarral turned away with a scowl, and Mandra paled. "What
do you think he might... send?" she asked.

Scythe shrugged. "Don't ask me how his mind works. If it can still be called a
mind."

"He might not send a demon," Archer said. "He will know by now of jarral's
Talent."

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BLADE OF THE POISONER

"Jarral has to sleep," Scythe said flatly. "So I've been staying awake."

"You can't go on doing that forever," Mandra said.

And those words brought Jarral out of his morose silence. "That's right!" he
said angrily. "Scythe can't, none of us can! We're just riding along, going
nowhere, waiting for something horrible to happen!"

"That is better than what might have been, only days ago," Archer said.

"Is it?" Jarral demanded. "I know we managed to destroy the Poisoner and a
High Demon, and I'm not dying from the Blade now. But you've told me how
powerful the Enemy is. He's going to hunt us down, sooner or later. And we
don't even have Cryl to help us now!"

Mandra's eyes filled with tears at the mention of the wizard, but Scythe broke
in before she could speak. "What do you want us to do, then?" he asked coldly.
"Lie down and wait to die?"

Jarral grimaced. "No, of course not. I don't want any of us to die. I just
feel... so helpless."

"Helpless?" Mandra said. "You're the least helpless of any of us, with that
Talent."

Jarral looked more haunted. "But it's not enough. My Talent couldn't save
Cryl—and it can't keep us safe now."

Scythe nodded slowly. "That's what's bothering you, is it?' Blaming yourself
because you can't protect us? Jarral, lad—one of the worst wastes of energy is
fretting about things that can't be done. You have to fix your attention on
what can. So I'll ask you again—what do you want to do?"
Jarral looked away stonily. "What I want to do

Southwestward

193

is... something that can't happen. So I don't know. What can we do? Just wait
for the Enemy to attack?"

"We could go to my city..." Mandra said.

"Or back to the Wellwood..." Archer said.

Scythe snorted. "The Demon-Driver will be using all his powers now to find us.
Without Cryl, we can't hide."

"And Cryl is a captive," Mandra whispered, "in torment for a hundred years."

"Maybe," Scythe said softly.

Jarral jerked his head up, something wild kindling in his eyes. "What do you
mean?"

"What I think you meant," Scythe told him, "when you said you want to do
something that can't happen."

Archer blinked. "I don't—" Then she looked astonished as understanding came to
her.

"What are you saving?" Mandra asked. "That we should... ?" She halted,
staring.

Scythe nodded. "Jarral seems to have felt the same, these past days. It sounds
suicidal, but it may be all we can do—and what we should do. We can't hide
from the Demon-Driver, and he'll come after us forever if we run. So..."

"So we go after him," Jarral said fiercely, "and try to save Cryl."

An answering fierceness showed in Archer's sud' den grin, and Mandra's eyes
went wide and bright. "My," she said to Jarral, "you have come a long way from
the Wellwood!"

Scythe smiled his thin smile. "We might even be safer, at the start, since the
Enemy won't expect us to be coming his way. And who knows how far we

194

*     BLADE OF THE POISONER

might get? Some weeks ago we never really thought we could get to Mephtik."

"We had a weapon we didn't know we had," Mandra said, smiling at Jarral.

"And we have it still," Archer said. "A Talent that might help us fight our
way to the Enemy's very gate."

"Even if it doesn't," Scythe growled, "I'd rather die fighting than running."

Jarral looked at them calmly. All the gloom and misery that had haunted him
for days seemed to have fallen away. "Yes," he said. "I would, too."
"But do we even know where to find the Enemy?" Mandra asked.

"Southwest," Scythe said. "Beyond a mountain range that few humans have ever
crossed. We look for a land where the black storm clouds never lift."

Mandra and Jarral shivered slightly, but determination was steel'bright in
their eyes, as it was in Archer's. "We will bring some storms of our own to
that place, I think," the big bow-woman said.

And, strangely, all four of them were smiling as they mounted their horses and
swung them south-westward.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Raised in the backwoods of Saskatchewan, Canada, Douglas Hill left home at
seventeen to attend school, first in Saskatoon and then in Toronto, and later
moved to England, where he was editor of the London Tribune. In addition to
his ColSec Trilogy, Exiles of ColSec, The Caves of Klydar, and ColSec
Rebellion, he is the author of The Last Legionary and The Huntsman.