“Where in the devil’s name have you come from, Krag?”
“The great point is, I am here.”
“Where’s Nightspore?”
“Not far away.”
“It seems a hundred years since I saw you. Why did you two leave me in such a damnable fashion?”
“You were strong enough to get through alone.”
“So it turned out, but how were you to know? … Anyway, you’ve timed it well. It seems I am to die today.”
Krag scowled. “You will die this morning.”
“If I am to, I shall. But where have you heard it from?”
“You are ripe for it. You have run through the gamut. What else is there to live for?”
“Nothing,” said Maskull, uttering a short laugh. “I am quite ready. I have failed in everything. I only wondered how you knew. … So now you’ve come to rejoin me. Where are we going?”
“Through Barey.”
“And what about Nightspore?”
Krag jumped to his feet with clumsy agility. “We won’t wait for him. He’ll be there as soon as we shall.”
“Where?”
“At our destination. … Come! The sun’s rising.”
As they started clambering down the pass side by side, Branchspell, huge and white, leaped fiercely into the sky. All the delicacy of the dawn vanished, and another vulgar day began. They passed some trees and plants, the leaves of which were all curled up, as if in sleep.
Maskull pointed them out to his companion.
“How is it the sunshine doesn’t open them?”
“Branchspell is a second night to them. Their day is Alppain.”
“How long will it be before that sun rises?”
“Some time yet.”
“Shall I live to see it, do you think?”
“Do you want to?”
“At one time I did, but now I’m indifferent.”
“Keep in that humour, and you’ll do well. Once for all, there’s nothing worth seeing on Tormance.”
After a few minutes Maskull said, “Why did we come here, then?”
“To follow Surtur.”
“True. But where is he?”
“Closer at hand than you think, perhaps.”
“Do you know that he is regarded as a god here, Krag? … There is supernatural fire, too, which I have been led to believe is somehow connected with him. … Why do you keep up the mystery? Who and what is Surtur?”
“Don’t disturb yourself about that. You will never know.”
“Do you know?”
“I know,” snarled Krag.
“The devil here is called Krag,” went on Maskull, peering into his face.
“As long as pleasure is worshiped, Krag will always be the devil.”
“Here we are, talking face to face, two men together. … What am I to believe of you?”
“Believe your senses. The real devil is Crystalman.”
They continued descending the landslip. The sun’s rays had grown insufferably hot. In front of them, down below in the far distance, Maskull saw water and land intermingled. It appeared that they were travelling toward a lake district.
“What have you and Nightspore been doing during the last four days, Krag? What happened to the torpedo?”
“You’re just about on the same mental level as a man who sees a brand-new palace, and asks what has become of the scaffolding.”
“What palace have you been building, then?”
“We have not been idle,” said Krag. “While you have been murdering and lovemaking, we have had our work.”
“And how have you been made acquainted with my actions?”
“Oh, you’re an open book. Now you’ve got a mortal heart wound on account of a woman you knew for six hours.”
Maskull turned pale. “Sneer away, Krag! If you lived with a woman for six hundred years and saw her die, that would never touch your leather heart. You haven’t even the feelings of an insect.”
“Behold the child defending its toys!” said Krag, grinning faintly.
Maskull stopped short. “What do you want with me, and why did you bring me here?”
“It’s no use stopping, even for the sake of theatrical effect,” said Krag, pulling him into motion again. “The distance has got to be covered, however often we pull up.”
When he touched him, Maskull felt a terrible shooting pain through his heart.
“I can’t go on regarding you as a man, Krag. You’re something more than a man—whether good or evil, I can’t say.”
Krag looked yellow and formidable. He did not reply to Maskull’s remark, but after a pause said, “So you’ve been trying to find Surtur on your own account, during the intervals between killing and fondling?”
“What was that drumming?” demanded Maskull.
“You needn’t look so important. We know you had your ear to the keyhole. But you could join the assembly, the music was not playing for you, my friend.”
Maskull smiled rather bitterly. “At all events, I listen through no more keyholes. I have finished with life. I belong to nobody and nothing any more, from this time forward.”
“Brave words, brave words! We shall see. Perhaps Crystalman will make one more attempt on you. There is still time for one more.”
“Now I don’t understand you.”
“You think you are thoroughly disillusioned, don’t you? Well, that may prove to be the last and strongest illusion of all.”
The conversation ceased. They reached the foot of the landslip an hour later. Branchspell was steadily mounting the cloudless sky. It was approaching Sarclash, and it was an open question whether or not it would clear its peak. The heat was sweltering. The long, massive, saucer-shaped ridge behind them, with its terrific precipices, was glowing with bright morning colours. Adage, towering up many thousands of feet higher still, guarded the end of it like a lonely Colossus. In front of them, starting from where they stood, was a cool and enchanting wilderness of little lakes and forests. The water of the lakes was dark green; the forests were asleep, waiting for the rising of Alppain.
“Are we now in Barey?” asked Maskull.
“Yes—and there is one of the natives.”
There was an ugly glint in his eye as he spoke the words, but Maskull did not see it.
A man was leaning in the shade against one of the first trees, apparently waiting for them to come up. He was small, dark, and beardless, and was still in early manhood. He was clothed in a dark blue,
