corpses — here a great warrior in cloison armor, there a young man in a green cloak, and others, many others. Their cavernous regard chilled him to the heart, but could not extinguish the little fire burning hot at the pit of his stomach. He nudged his horse and rode on.
The senescent red sun limped across the sky, and now the Old Town lay behind him. The grade of the path steepened as the land began to undulate. Shaggy fields of Foun’s dalespread clothed the hillocks and hollows in patinated bronze, sparked with the bright rose-gold of vessileaf. Another hour of riding brought him to the verge of Xence Moraine.
Farnol Drew rein and gazed about him. The land dipped and rolled like the waves of a petrified sea. Everywhere bulked the great boulders and mounds of debris deposited in the lost ages of the past; all of them polished to satiny sheen. The long rays of the westering sun warmed multifarious crowns and summits to crimson. Shadows pooled purple and charcoal in the hollows. Among the hills wound a slow brown stream, its banks lined with tall, narrow, emphatic mounds, whose regularity of size and shape suggested intelligent construction. He studied them for a time, but caught no hint of motion or life. At length, he urged his horse forward at a cautious pace.
The deserted mounds rose twice the height of a man. Closer inspection revealed them to be formed of rock, mortared with glinting crystalline adhesive and plastered over with a black substance whose even luster suggested porcelain. For the most part, the outer coverings were intact and unblemished. Here and there, however, the force of some ancient assault had ripped away chunks of matter to reveal interiors comprising countless compact polyhedral chambers strung like beads upon narrow corridors and galleries. Farnol resisted the impulse to halt and inspect. The sun was sagging toward the horizon, and the shadows rose like spectres from the depths of the ancient earth. He rode on, following the curves of the listless stream until he encountered a gigantic mound, towering above its companions, rising five times the height of a man. The featureless structure communicated nothing beyond assertiveness, yet instinct pushed him toward it. Twice he circled the mound, discerning no gleam of light, no evidence of habitation. Dismounting, he approached and rapped upon the hard surface. No response, but now at last he glimpsed life. A sinuous form slipped along the edge of his vision, and was not there when he turned to look. The wind sighed in regret. His heartbeat quickened, and the spot of heat at the bottom of his stomach seemed to pulse. Farnol drew a deep breath, tried to moisten dry lips, and rapped again.
A nearby tuft of rewswolley shuddered in response. The bristling stalks parted to reveal a hole. A lean figure thrust its head, shoulders, and torso up into the dying light. Farnol glimpsed grey garments; a narrow face partially concealed by a mask fitted with bulging, faceted eyepieces; bony white hands with long, curved fingernails; and a cloak of diaphanous, transparent stuff.
“Well, and what do you seek?” asked the stranger.
“I seek Tcheruke the Vivisectionist.”
“What do you want of Tcheruke?”
“His assistance, for which I am willing to pay well.”
“And what does he care for your terces? Shall he bury them on the Xence Moraine, and wait to see if they sprout?”
“I can offer him an interesting tale — the story of a foolish young heir to a fine estate, a treacherous uncle, and a murder taking place slowly, over the course of ten days.”
“I state with assurance that Tcheruke will hear it, for I am he. Enter.” Head and torso vanished into the hole.
Farnol hesitated. The sinuous form slithered nearly into view for a moment, or he thought that it did. When he turned, there was nothing. Delaying no longer, he tethered his horse, then slid feet first through the rewswolley down into the hole. He found himself in a barrel-vaulted passageway, its curving walls composed of neatly mortared stone, its low arch dictating a crawling progress. For a time, he advanced on hands and knees, his way barely lit by the weak rays trickling into the hole behind him, and a flickering glow somewhere ahead. Then, quite abruptly, he emerged from the passage into a six-walled chamber whose peaked hexagonal ceiling permitted upright posture. The room was austerely furnished with a pallet, low table, mats and floor coverings of woven and twisted grasses. A modest fire crackled on the hearth. An open case of many shelves contained books, folios, scrolls, and assorted small curiosities. Bunches of dried herbs, crystal whorls, and faintly luminescent bone fragments hung suspended from the ceiling.
Tcheruke the Vivisectionist turned to survey his visitor through faceted eyepieces. “Ah, you marvel at the nature of my home,” he observed. “Know that I have built in accordance with the tastes of the Xence Xord, the race inhabiting this locale in ages past. Hybrid of man, shrew, knuve, and winged white ant, the Xence Xord constructed their hives of simple, functional beauty, inscribed verses in praise of Nature’s wonders upon tablets of wax, developed the finest set of aesthetic standards ever known to this world, and at last solved the deepest mysteries of philosophy and morality. Their greatest writings they enclosed in spheres consigned to one of the countless voids between worlds. Then, the Xence Xord died, perhaps unequal to the burden of their own perfection. The wax tablets melted, and the location of the void between worlds was forgotten. But the philosophical treasures yet exist, awaiting rediscovery. To that end, Tcheruke dwells in this place, embracing the ways of the Xence Xord and entreating their small winged ghosts to return and enlighten him.”
“And have they ever done so?”
“Once, ten years ago, a transparent form — something akin to rodent and termite — flitted through this hive, illuminating the recesses with its eer-light. I pursued it with my pleas, but it vanished. I am not without hope that it will one day return, and hold myself in perpetual readiness.”
“A wise precaution.” Farnol nodded gravely.
“I have spoken of myself, and now it is time for you to do likewise. Young man, state your name and tell your story. Should you engage my interest, you may sup here.”
“My name is Farnol of Karzh, and I ask more than a meal of Tcheruke. Here are my circumstances.” Farnol related his story concisely, but with animation.
Tcheruke listened in silence. His expression, if any, vanished behind the mask. The cock of his head communicated attentiveness. When he had heard all, he stood mute and motionless for the space of a meditative minute, then spoke.
“Your story is all that you promised. Were the Xence Xord present to hear it, they would doubtless offer you assistance. In good conscience, I can do no less. What would you have of me?”
“An antidote to the poison presently corroding my internal organs.”
“Easily supplied, once the offending substance has been identified. To the best of my recollection, the world harbors some nine hundred sixty-eight thousand, four hundred seven elements and compounds of proven toxicity. Perhaps nine hundred sixty-eight thousand, four hundred eight, if you count grizamine, but I would regard its inclusion as redundant. Which of these poisons have you ingested?”
“I have no idea.”
“Unfortunate. We shall commence testing without delay, but success is likely to demand some years of continuous effort.”
“I have no more than ten days. No, they have already dwindled to nine and a half. Could you not furnish me with a talisman or rune fit to loosen the knot of glass reptiles?”
“Indeed not. Such intricacies demand recourse to a spell, and my librams contain many. I shall locate the appropriate incantation, you will encompass the syllables of power, and all will be well, as the Xence Xord themselves might desire. Now seat yourself and wait while I consult the writings.”
“I will use the time to tend to my horse.” Farnol crawled back along the low passageway, pushed through the rewswolley, and emerged into the open air.
The sun was setting. The last low rays bled over the quiet land. He cast his eyes this way and that, but caught no sight of his horse. He had left the animal tethered near the hidden entrance to Tcheruke’s hive, reins wrapped about the central stalk of a tall moorsmere. And here was the same moorsmere, which he approached with trepidation. The torn remnants of leather reins wrapped the central stalk. A few long strands of chestnut hair had caught in the branches, and the leaves were spotted with blood.
The air seemed suddenly colder. He went back inside at once, where he found his host seated upon a mat at the low table, perusing a folio bound in moldering maroon leather.
“My horse has been taken,” Farnol reported, “and I suspect the worst.”
