The Steel General, who has dismounted, stands now before Wakim and Vramin like an iron statue at ten o’clock on a summer evening with no moon.
“I have seen your beacon, Angel of the Seventh Station.”
“Alas, but the title perished with the Station, sir.”
“I still recognize the rights of the government in exile,” says the General, and his voice is a thing of such beauty that one could listen to it for years.
“Thank you. But I fear that you have come too late. This one—this Wakim—who is a master of temporal fugue, would, I feel, destroy the Prince and thus remove any basis for our return. Is that not so, Wakim?”
“Of course.”
“…Unless we might find a champion.” says Vramin.
“You need look no further,” says the General. “It is best you yield to me now, Wakim. I say this with no malice.”
“And I reply with no malice: Go to hell. If every bit of you were to be destroyed, then I feel there would no longer be a Steel General—and there would never be again. I think a rebel such as yourself deserves annihilation, and I am here.”
“Many have thought so, and I am still waiting.”
“Then wait no longer,” says Wakim, and he moves forward. “The time is here, and begging to be filled.”
Then Vramin encircles Madrak and himself with green fires, and they look upon the facing of the masters.
At this moment Bronze rears, and six diamonds flash among the colors of Blis.
The Town Scrier of Liglamenti
Horus has entered the Middle Worlds, and he comes to the world of mists that is called D’donori by its inhabitants, meaning Place of Contentment. As he disembarks from his chariot that has crossed the cold and airless night he hears the sounds of armed strife about him within the great mists that cover over all of D’donori.
Slaying with his hands the three knights who fall upon him, he comes at length to the high walls of the city of Liglamenti, whose rulers have in the past had some reason to consider him a god kindly disposed toward their welfare.
D’donori is a world which, though it lies within the tides of the Power, has never been subject to the plagues, the wars, the famines that limit the populations of the other Midworlds. This is because the inhabitants of D’donori take care of their own problems. D’donori is made up of numerous small city-states and duchies which are constantly at war with one another, uniting only for purposes of destroying anyone who attempts to unite them on a permanent basis.
Horus approaches the great gates of Liglamenti and bangs upon them with his fist. The booming sound carries throughout the city and the gates creak upon their hinges.
A guard hurls down a torch through the gloom and follows it with an arrow which, of course, misses its mark—for Horus is able to know the thoughts of his attacker and mark the line of the arrow’s flight. He steps to the side as the arrow whizzes past him and he stands in the light of the torch.
“Open your gates or I’ll unhinge them!” he calls out.
“Who are you that walks about weaponless, wearing only a loincloth, and would give me orders?”
“I am Horus.”
“I do not believe you.”
“You have less than a minute to live,” says Horus, “unless you open these gates to me. Your death will be the proof that Horus does not lie. I will then unhinge these gates and enter here, walking upon you as I pass in search of your Lord.”
“Wait! If truly thou beest he, understand that I am only doing my duty and following orders of my Lord. Do not think me blasphemous if I should refuse admittance to any who may call himself Horus. How do I know but that thou art an enemy who would say this to deceive me?”
“Would an enemy dare to be so foolish?”
“Mayhap. For most men are fools.”
Horus shrugs and raises his fist once more. A vibrant musical note stirs then within the air, and the gates of Liglamenti shiver upon their hinges and the guard within his armor.
Horus has increased in stature by now, to near three meters. His breechclout is the color of blood. The torch flickers at his feet. He draws back his fist.
“Wait! I will give thee entrance!”
Horus lowers his fist and the music dies. His height decreases by a third.
The guard causes the portal to be opened and Horus enters Liglamenti.
Coming at length to the fog-shrouded palace of its ruler, the Lord Dilwit, Duke of Ligla, Horus learns that word of his arrival has preceded him from the walls. The somber, black-bearded Duke, whose crown has been grafted upon his scalp, manages as much of a smile as he is able; that is, the showing of a double row of teeth between tight-drawn lips. He nods, slightly.
“Thou art truly Horus?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“It is told that every time the god Horus passes this way there is difficulty in recognizing him.”
“And no wonder,” says Horus. “In all this fog it is rather miraculous that you manage to recognize one another.”
Dilwit snorts his equivalent of a laugh. “True—often we do not, and slay our own men in error. But each time Horus has come, the ruling Lord has provided a test. The last time…”
“…The last time, for Lord Bulwah, I sent a wooden arrow into a two-foot cube of marble so that either end protruded from a side.”
“Thou rememberest!”
“Of course. I am Horus. Do you still have that cube?”
“Yes. Certainly.”
“Then take me to it now.”
They enter the torchlit throne room, where the shaggy pelts of predators offer the eye its only diversion from the glittering war weapons upon the walls. Set atop a small pedestal in a recessed place to the left of the throne is a cube of gray and orange marble which contains an arrow.
“There you see it,” says Dilwit, gesturing.
Horus approaches, regards the display.
“I’ll design my own test this time,” says he. “I’ll fetch you back the arrow.”
“It might be drawn. That is no—”
Horus raises his right fist to shoulder level, swings it forward and down, striking the stone, which shatters. He retrieves the arrow and hands it to Dilwit.
“I am Horus,” he states.
Dilwit regards the arrow, the gravel, the chunks of marble.
“Thou art indeed Horus,” he agrees. “What may I do for thee?”
“D’donori has always been justly famous for its scriers. Those of Liglamenti have oft been exceeding good. Therefore; I would consult with your chief scrier, as I’ve several questions I’d have answered.”
“This would be old Freydag,” says Dilwit, flicking rock dust from his red and green kilt. “He is indeed one of the great ones, but…”
“But what?” asks Horus, already reading Dilwit s thought, but waiting politely, nevertheless.
“He is, Great Horus, a mighty reader of entrails, and none but those of the human sort will serve him. Now, we seldom keep prisoners, as this can run into some expense—and volunteers are even harder to come by, for things such as this.”
“Could not Freydag be persuaded to make do with the entrails of some animal, for this one occasion?”
Horus reads again and sighs.
“Of course, Great Horus. But he will not guarantee the same level of reception as he would with better components.”
“I wonder why this should be?”
“I cannot answer this, Most Potent Horus, being no scrier myself—though my mother and sister both had the Sight—but of all scriers, I know scatologists to be the queerest sort. Take Freydag, now. He’s quite nearsighted, he says, and this means—”
“Furnish him with the necessary components, and advise me when he is ready to entertain my questions!” says Horus.
“Yes, Puissant Horus. I will organize a raiding party immediately, as I can see thou art anxious.”
“Most anxious.”
“…And I’ve a neighbor could use a lesson in observing boundaries!
”
Dilwit springs upon his throne, and reaching upward takes down the long gol-horn which hangs above it. Three times does he place it to his lips and blow until his cheeks bulge and redden and his eyes start forth from beneath the pelt of his brows. Then does he replace the horn, sway, and collapse upon his ducal seat.
“My chieftains will attend me momently,” he gasps.
Momently, there cornes the sound of hoofbeats, and three kilted warriors, mounted upon the unicornlike golindi, come riding, riding, riding, into and about the chamber, staying only when Dilwit raises his hand and cries out, “A raid! A raid, my hearties! Upon Uiskeagh the Red. Half a dozen captives I’ll have of him, ere the mist lightens with tomorrow’s dawn!”
“Captives, did you say, Lord?” calls out the one in black and tan.
“You heard me right.”
“Before tomorrow’s dawn!” A spear is raised.
Two more flash high.
“Before tomorrow’s dawn!”
“Aye!”
And they circle the chamber and depart.
The following dawn, Horus is awakened and conducted to the room where six naked men lie, hands and ankles bound together behind their backs, their bodies covered with gashes and welts. This chamber is small, cold, lighted by four torches; its one window opens upon a wall of fog. Many sheets of that monthly journal the Ligla Times are spread upon the floor, covering it fully. Leaning against the window sill, a short, age-tonsured man, pink-faced, hollow-cheeked and squinting, sharpens several brief blades with a whetting bar. He wears a white apron and a half-furnished smile. His pale eyes move upon Horus and he nods several times.
“I understand thou hast some questions,” he says, pausing to gasp between several words.
“You understand correctly. I’ve three.”
“Only three, Holy Horus? That means one set of entrails will doubtless do for all. Surely, a god as wise as thyself could think of more questions. Since we have the necessary materials it is a shame to waste them. It’s been so long…”
“Three, nevertheless, are all the questions I have for the entrail-oracle.”
“Very well, then,” sighs Freydag. “In that case, we shall use his,” and he indicates with his blade one gray-bearded man whose dark eyes are fixed upon his own. “Boltag is the name.”
“You know him?”
“He is a distant cousin of mine. Also, he is the Lord Uiskeagh s chief scrier—a charlatan, of course. It is good fortune that has finally delivered him into my hands.”
The one called Boltag spits upon the Times obituary section when this is spoken. “Thou are the fraud, oh mighty misreader of innards!” says he.
“Liar!” cries Freydag, scrambling to his side and seizing him by the beard. “This ends thy infamous career!” and he slits the other’s belly. Reaching in, he draws forth a handful of entrails and spreads them upon the floor. Boltag cries, moans, lies still. Freytag slashes along the bending length of the intestines, spreading their contents with his fingers. He crouches low and leans far forward. “Now, what be thy questions, son of Osiris?” he inquires.
“First,” says Horus, “where may I find the Prince Who Was A Thousand? Second, who is the emissary of Anubis? Third, where is he now?”
Freytag mumbles and prods at the steaming stuff upon the floor. Boltag moans once again and stirs.
Horus attempts to read the thoughts of the scrier, but they tumble about so that finally it is as if he were staring out the room’s one window.
Then Freydag speaks:
“In the Citadel of Marachek,” he says, “at Midworlds’ Center, there shalt thou meet with one who can take thee into the presence thou seekest.”
“…Strangely,” mutters Boltag, gesturing with his head, “thou hast read that part aright. But thy failing vision—was clouded—by that bit of mesentery thou hast erroneously mixed— into things…” With a mighty effort Boltag rolls nearer, gasps, “And thou—dost not tell—Great Horus—that he will meet with mighty peril—and, ultimately—failure…”
“Silence!” cries Freydag. “I did not call thee in for a consultation!”
“They are my innards! I will not have them misread by a poseur!”
“The next two answers are not yet come clear, dear Horus,” says Freydag, slashing at another length of entrail.
“False seer!” sobs Boltag. “Marachek will also lead him to the emissary of Anubis—whose name is spelt out in my blood-there—on the editorial page! That name—being—Wakim…”
“Oh false!” cries Freydag, slashing further.
“Hold!” says Horus, his hand falling upon the man’s shoulder. “Your colleague speaks truly in one respect, for I know his present name to be Wakim.”
Freydag pauses, considers the editorial page.
“Amen,” he agrees. “Even an amateur may suffer an occasional flash of insight.”
“…So it seems I am destined to meet with Wakim after all, if I go to the place called Marachek—and go there I must. But as to my second question: Beyond the name of Wakim, I wish to know his true identity. Who was he before Lord Anubis renamed him and sent him forth from the House of the Dead?”
Freydag moves his head nearer the floor, stirs the stuff before him, hacks at another length.
“This thing, Glorious Horus, is hidden from me. The oracle will not reveal it—”
“Dotard…!” gasps Boltag. “…It is there, so—plain—to see…”
Horus reaches after the gutless seer’s dying thought, and the hackles rise upon his neck as he pursues it. But no fearsome name is framed within his mind, for the other has expired.
Horus covers his eyes and shudders, as a thing so very near to the edge of comprehension suddenly fades away and is gone.
When Horus lowers his hand, Freydag is standing once more and smiling down upon his cousin’s corpse.
“Mountebank!” he says, sniffing, and wipes his hands upon his apron.
A strange, small, beastly shadow stirs upon the wall.
Arms and the Steel Man
Diamond hooves striking the ground, rising, falling again. Rising…
Wakim and the Steel General face one another, unmoving.
A minute goes by, then three, and now the falling hooves of the beast called Bronze come down with a sound like thunder upon the fairground of Blis, for, each time that they strike, the force of their falling is doubled.
It is said that a fugue battle is actually settled in these first racking moments of regard, before the initial temporal phase is executed, in these moments which will be wiped from the face of Time by the outcome of the striving, never to have actually existed.
The ground shakes now as Bronze strikes it, and blue fires come forth from his nostrils, burning downward into Blis.
Wakim glistens with perspiration now; and the Steel Generals finger twitches, the one upon which he wears his humanity-ring.
Eleven minutes pass.
Wakim vanishes.
The Steel General vanishes.
Bronze descends again, and tents fall down, buildings shatter, cracks appear within the ground.
Thirty seconds ago, Wakim is standing behind the General and Wakim is standing before the General, and the Wakim who stands behind, who has just arrived in that instant, clasps his hands together and raises them for a mighty blow upon that metal helm—
—while thirty-five seconds ago, the Steel General appears behind the Wakim of that moment of Time, draws back his hand and swings it—
—while the Wakim of thirty seconds ago, seeing himself in fugue, delivering his two-handed blow, is released to vanish, which he does, into a time ten seconds before, when he prepares to emulate his future image observed—
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