'Yes, certainly.' Clef wasn't sure, now that he was this close, that he really wanted to reach these mysterious elves. If he were not the Foreordained, they would take the Flute from him, for it belonged to them.
Serrilryan knew of an existing shelter nearby, and they spent the night there. 'I want thee to know,' he told her, ''how I appreciate the trouble thou hast taken on my behalf. This all may come to naught, yet it has been worthwhile for me.'
'I thank thee, man,' she said. 'It has been nice talking with thee and hearing thy music. Few among the Pack have time or courtesy for the old.'
She did not look well at all. It was evident that pain was preventing her from relaxing. Clef whistled, filling the air with melody, and after a time the werewolf fell into a troubled slumber. Then Clef himself relaxed.
'I didn't know there were harpies in that vicinity,' Stile said, waking. 'I should have given him better protection. Though the way he used that rapier-' He shrugged and returned to sleep himself, secure in the robot's embrace.
In the morning Clef woke before the werebitch. She was breathing in pants and whining slightly in her sleep. The bad shoulder bulged with swelling, and the fur was falling out. This was obviously a severe infection. A good antibiotic could abate it - but this was Phaze, the frame of magic, where antibiotics were not available and perhaps would not work anyway.
Magic was what was needed - but he could not perform it. Unless the Flute - but no, he had resolved to play it only for the Mound Folk, because of the potential significance of the rendition. Still, maybe its magic could help. He laid the instrument against her body, as close to the wound as he could.
Her whining stopped; she was drawing comfort from the propinquity of this powerful talisman. Still, she was shivering, though the morning was warm. He had nothing with which to cover her.
Clef began to whistle again; it was all he could do. This time he selected a merry folk-song melody. He whistled it well; the joyous notes rippled through the forest, abolishing sadness. The bitch's shivering eased, and she slept peacefully at last.
For an hour he whistled. At last she turned and woke. She made a growl of displeasure at the lateness of the hour, but Clef wasn't fooled. She had needed that extra rest.
Breakfast was no problem. Squirrels and birds had dropped nuts and berries as offerings of appreciation, and these were excellent. This was a world that liked music.
Clef, in return, was becoming quite fond of this world. Yet it had its dark side, as Serrilryan's ailment showed.
They mounted the steep trail leading to the Mound Demesnes. Clef was now better able to manage than the werewolf. He wished he could help her, but all he could do was slow his pace to make it easier for her, leaving her pride intact.
Deep in the mountains there was a thin, suspended bridge crossing a chasm. Clef eyed it dubiously, but Serrilryan proceeded on across without hesitation. She was so unsteady he hastened to follow, so he could catch her if she started to fall.
Halfway across he looked down. The chasm yawned so deep and dark it made him dizzy. He did not enjoy the sensation. Fortunately the chasm was narrow, and in moments they were across.
At last they came in sight of the Mound. Serrilryan sank in a heap before it, her waning energy exhausted. She had done her job; she had delivered him safely.
But there was no one about. The sun shone down brightly and the hills were alive with small animals and birds - but no people. Clef, worried about the werebitch, did not care to wait overlong for an introduction. 'Ho there!' he called. 'I must meet with the Platinum Mound Folk.'
There was no answer. Could he have come to the wrong place? 'Serrilryan-' he began.
She changed with difficulty to dame-form. She was haggard. 'This is the place, music man. The Mound Folk go not abroad by day. At night thou wilt see them.'
'I don't think thou canst last till night,' he said. 'We must have healing magic for thee now.'
She smiled weakly. 'It is too late for me, friend. My day is done. One favor only I beg of thee-'
'Anything!'
'I would hear the Flute ere I die. Canst thou play an epitaph for me?'
He knew this was final. She would expire within the hour. He was at the realm of the Little Folk; he was no longer obliged to wait. 'Yes, it is time,' he agreed. 'There can be no better use for this instrument.' He brought out the Flute.
He played an ancient folk song that he felt was appropriate to this occasion:
From the first note, the Platinum Flute was potent, the finest instrument he had ever played, enhanced by its magic so that the sound transcended mere physics. The music rippled, it flowed, it resonated; it was as if he were flying, expanding, encompassing the landscape, the world, the universe, the split infinities that were the frames of science and magic. The sound loomed loud enough to embrace all of Phaze, yet delicate enough to touch the soul.
And the mountain trembled. The ground shook, but not in the manner of an earthquake. It started shuddering where he stood, and vibrated outward rhythmically, responding harmonically to the music of the Flute. The effect intensified as he continued playing. Leaves fluttered on trees, pine needles shook free of their moorings, and the green grass of the slopes stood up tall and quivered like the tines of tuning forks. The clear sky thickened; clouds formed from nothing, flinging outward in rainbow-hued bands. The sunlight dimmed; dusk coalesced.
Clef played on, caught in the wonder of the animation the Flute was working. Serrilryan's fur stood out from her body, charged. There was a canine smile on her face. Washes of color traversed her, causing her human and canine aspects to mingle aesthetically.
The ground shook harder. Branches fell from trees. The roof of the Mound collapsed. The mountains in the Purple range peeled off segments of themselves and settled substantially. Dust rose up. Animals fled. The sky swirled nearer and nearer.
The Little Folk appeared, for now there was no direct sunlight to shrivel them. They stood in the twisting dust and fog, staring while their Demesnes collapsed about them. Yet such was the power of the Flute that no one protested.
An avalanche formed and crashed downward. No one moved. The rocks and debris coursed past them all, avoiding living creatures, and advanced like a channeled flow of water until they piled up in a cairn over the body of Serrilryan, the werebitch. She had died smiling. She had heard the Platinum Flute; she had expired. Now she had been buried.
Still Clef played. From the cairn a spirit diffused, billowing and tenuous, extricating itself from the piled stones. Now it looked like a wolf, and now like a woman. It was Serrilryan's soul, departing her tired body at last.
Barb-tailed, horned, fire-clothed man-form devils hurried across the slope to intercept that soul. Suddenly Clef realized that the werebitch had spoken literally of Hell; she had known her spirit would be taken there. But Clef recoiled from the concept. She had helped him loyally and given her life in consequence. Surely that helped counterbalance whatever prior evils there might have been in her life. If he had any say at all in the matter, she would go to Heaven, where she wanted to be. He owed her that much. He shifted his playing, questing for the tune that would carry her soul upward.
Now from the troubled sky came wolves, flying without wings, their fur shining, so that they seemed possessed of light auras like halos. The music brought them down, showed them the way they might otherwise have missed, and marked the cairn.
The devils reached the soul first. But the angel-wolves arrived in time to balk the conveyance of the soul to Hell. A battle ensued, the half-visible humanoid figures against the half-visible canine figures. Spiritual fog and cloud and dust roiled along with the physical. But the theme of the Flute strengthened the wolves and weakened the devils. In a moment the angel-wolves wrested the bitch soul from the minions of Hell and loped up into the turbulent sky.
