The Illearth War

He needed to verify where he was, and knew only one way to do it.

Nearby, his hands found a patch of ground that felt burned. The dirt which stuck to his fingers reeked of attar. And in the patch, he located Ruel's twisted body. His sense of touch told him that Ruel was badly charred. The dark bird must have caught fire when it died, and burned away, leaving the Bloodguard's corpse behind.

The touch of that place nauseated him, and he backed away from it. He was sweating heavily. Sweat stung his burns. The night was hot; sunset had brought no relief to the ruins. Folding his arms over his stomach, he climbed to his feet.

Standing unsteadily in the open, he tried to clear his mind of Ruel and the bird. He needed to remember how to deal with blindness, how to orient himself in the ruins. But he could not determine which way he had come into this open place. Waving his arms before him, he went in search of a wall.

His feet distrusted the ground-he could not put them down securely-and he moved awkwardly. His sense of balance had deserted him. His face felt raw, and sweat seared his eye sockets. But he clenched his concentration, and measured the distance.

In twenty yards, he reached a wall. He touched it at an angle, promptly squared himself to it, then moved along it. He needed a gap which would permit him to touch both sides of the wall. Any discrepancy in temperature between the sides would tell him his directions.

After twenty more yards, he arrived in a corner. Turning at right angles, he-followed this new wall. He kept himself parallel to it by brushing the stone with his fingers. Shortly, he stumbled into some rubble, and found an entryway.

The wall here was thick, but he could touch its opposite sides without stretching his arms. Both sides felt very warm, but he thought he discerned a slightly higher temperature on the side facing back into the open space. That direction was west, he reasoned; the afternoon sun would have heated the west side of a wall.

Now he had to decide which way to go.

If he went east, he would be less likely to meet enemies. Since they had not already found him, they might be past him, and their search would move from east to west after the Warward. But if any chance of help from his friends or Mehryl remained, it would be on the west side.

The dilemma seemed to have no solution. He found himself shaking his head and moaning through his teeth. At once, he stuffed his throat with silence. He decided to move west toward Mehryl. The added risk was preferable to a safe escape eastward-an escape which would leave him alone in the Southron Wastes, without food or water or a mount.

He leaned against the unnatural heat of the wall for a few moments, breathing deeply to steady himself. Then he stood up, grasped his sense of direction with all the concentration he could muster, and started walking straight out into the ruined hall.

His progress was slow. The uncertainty of his steps made him stagger repeatedly away from a true westward line. But he corrected the variations as best he could, and kept going. Without the support of a wall, his balance grew worse at every stride. Before he had covered thirty yards, the floor reeled around him, and he dropped to his knees. He had to clamp his throat shut to keep from whimpering.

When he regained his feet, he heard quiet laughter-first one voice, then several. It had a cruel sound, as if it were directed at him. It resonated slightly off the walls, so that he could not locate it, but it seemed to come from somewhere ahead.

He froze where he stood. Helplessly, he prayed that the darkness would cover him.

But a voice shattered that hope. “Look here, brothers,” it said. “A man — alone.” Its utterance was awkward, thick with slavering, but Troy could understand it. He could hear the malice in the low chorus of laughter which answered it.

Other voices spoke.

“A man, yes. Slayer take him!”

“Look. Such pretty clothes. An enemy.”

“Ha! Look again, fool. That is no man.”

“He has no eyes.”

“Is it an ur-vile?”

“No-a man, I say. A man with no eyes! Here is some sport, brothers.”

All the voices laughed again.

Troy did not stop to wonder how the speakers could see him. He turned, started to run back the way he had come.

At once, they gave pursuit. He could hear the slap of bare feet on stone, the sharp breathing. They overtook him swiftly. Something veered close to him, tripped him. As he fell, the running feet surrounded him.

“Go gently, brothers. No quick kill. He will be sport for us all.”

“Do not kill him.”

“Not kill? I want to kill. Kill and eat.”

“The Giant will want this one.”

“After we sport.”

“Why tell the Giant, brothers? He is greedy.”

“He takes our meat.”

“Keep this one for ourselves, yes.”

“Slayer take the Giant.”

“His precious ur-viles. When there is danger, men must go first.”

“Yes! Brothers, we will eat this meat.”

Troy heaved himself to his feet. Through the rapid chatter of the voices, he heard, go first, and almost fell again. If these creatures were the first of Fleshharrower's army to enter the masterplace-! But he pushed down the implications of that thought, and snatched out his sword.

“A sword? Ho ho!”

“Look, brothers. The man with no eyes wants to play.”

“Play!”

Troy heard the lash of a whip; cord flicked around his wrist. It caught and jerked, hauled him from his feet. Strong hands took his sword. Something kicked him in the chest, knocked him backward. But his breastplate protected him.

One of the voices cried, “Slayer! My foot!”

“Fool!” came the answer. There was laughter.

“Kill him!”

A metallic weapon clattered against his breastplate, fell to the ground. He scrambled for it in the dust, but sudden hands shoved him away. He recoiled and got to his feet again.

He heard the whistle of the whip, and its cord lashed at his ankles. But this time he did not go down.

“Do not kill him yet. Where is the sport?”

“Make him play.”

“Yes, brothers. Play.”

“Play for us, man with no eyes”

The whip burned around his neck. He staggered under the blow. The bewildering crossfire of voices went on.

“Play, Slayer take you!”

“Sport for us!”

“Why sport? I want meat. Blood-wet meat.”

“The Giant feeds us sand.”

“Play, I say! Are you blind, man with no eyes? Does the sun dazzle you?”

This gibe was met with loud laughter. But Troy stood still in his dismay. The sun? he thought numbly. Then he had chosen the wrong direction, east instead of west; he had walked right into these creatures. He wanted to scream. But he was past screaming. He could feel the light of his life going out. His hands shook as he tried to straighten his sunglasses.

“Dear God,” he groaned.

Numbly, as if he did not know what he was doing, he put his fingers to his lips and gave a shrill whistle.