said:
'Who asks?'
But before he could be answered, a monster came bursting through the Door – a brute of a thing as gray as one of the Janjuladoola, its neck frilled with a collar of ruffled armor from which great man-tearing spikes projected.
Moments later, the monster was dead, killed by the swift reactions of those it had incontinently assailed. The speed of the battle-blades of his new companions told Guest they were all trained for war. Dangerous men, then. He scanned the dead monster, noting the heavy-duty claws on its feet, and the mud on those feet, and the dead leaves plastered to its underbelly. On the slender evidence of the mud and leaves, he guessed that the thing had come from the Old City in Penvash.
But -
'What is it?' said Guest.
'No member of my family, you can be sure of that,' said one of the bloodthirsty ruffians who had helped kill the thing. Guest summed the man. An Ashdan. Beyond his prime. Bald. Hard death in his weathered blue eyes. A battle-worthy confidence in his shoulder-width stance. A warrior's training confirmed by the methodical cleansing of his blooded blade. Guest realized that blood was still dripping from the blade of his own sword, which had taken its share of the gray-skinned monster's lifeforce. He should clean it, but -Guest wanted time, time to think, time to question, to find out who and what and when and where and why. But the Ashdan was already ordering his men through the Door. But to where? Where were they going, and why?
'Where does this Door go to?' said Guest.
'You know about Doors, do you?' said the Ashdan. Guest almost gaped at the question. How could the fellow be so stupid? Of course he knew about Doors! Else how could he have arrived on the island?
Even as he was thus thinking, and parrying the question with a joking reply, Guest remembered the rowing boat. Of course! The Ashdan had seen the rowing boat, and had presumed that Guest had arrived on the island by means of that vehicle! So he didn't know who Guest was! Or how he had got here!
Even as Guest was figuring that out, his companions were bustling through the Door at the scramble.
'What did you say?' said Guest, realizing the Ashdan had said something.
But the Ashdan, having done with dialog, went plunging through the Door himself.
It was like a battle. Everything was happening too quickly, with not enough time to sit down and figure out what was going on, or why, or who was involved.
As Guest was thinking then, two more men came through the Door. The first hacked at Guest, who almost died then and there.
But his sword was in his hand, and a short and vicious battle saw him hack down both of his would-be murderers.
'What the hell is going on?' said Guest.
Then, unable to answer that question on his own account – and realizing that he was now alone again, if corpses be not counted as company – the Weaponmaster plunged through the Door.
To his shocked surprise, Guest found himself by Drangsturm.
Drangsturm, of all places! Yes, and the wrong side of Drangsturm at that!
During his time at the Castle of Controlling Power, Guest had studied the fortifications of Drangsturm with a battle-commander's diligence; and, on a march from the Castle of Controlling Power to the Castle of Ultimate Peace, he had taken every opportunity to back up study with scrutiny.
So Guest could place himself with a great degree of exactitude, and was surprised to find his small group of new companions were entirely ignorant as to where they were. He started to explain, and, as he gave his explanations, he realized one of his companions was – why, it was Rolf Thelemite!
Wasn't it?
It was now so many years since Guest and Rolf Thelemite had last seen each other that Guest was not certain of this identification. When Rolf had bodyguarded Guest in the city of Gendormargensis, both had been mere striplings. Since then, the battering of the years had seen them mature, age, thicken and change. Yet -Guest caught Rolf's eye, and Rolf gave him half a wink.
So it was Rolf!
Then Guest began to conjecture wildly. Maybe Rolf was engaged in a plan to rescue him. Maybe Rolf had been directed to the island by Shabble, or by Sken-Pitilkin, or by Thayer Levant. Maybe there was conspiracy here, and danger. Maybe Rolf was rescuing the Weaponmaster in defiance of his Ashdan master, the bald-headed warrior who seemed to be in charge of the party. Maybe -
But at this point Guest was forced to abort thought in favor of action, for a gigantic green centipede came trundling across the landscape, forcing all to retreat through the Door.
They came out on a mountainside of precipitous ice and driving cold, a mountainside so high and bleak that Guest was more than half-convinced it was a part of Ibsen-Iktus. There they thought themselves safe, but the centipedes attacked them through the Door.
They fought viciously with one of the monsters, by brute strength precipitating it from the plinth of the Door, and sending it hurtling down the mountainside in an avalanche of snow which saw it precipitated over a cliff. Guest realized he was fighting in the company of great warriors, for none shirked combat. But one of their number was dead by the time the silver-shining screen of the Door suddenly snapped out of existence, amputating the head of one of the monsters.
Then Guest asked the obvious question:
'Who was controlling the Door for you?'
'Nobody,' said the Ashdan. 'We had a star-globe. We left it where we started out.'Guest was all the more perplexed to know who he was dealing with. Who were these people? Adventurers? Bandits? Pirates?
Deserters? How come they were so organized for action, yet so disorganized in their management of the Door? If they were bent on exploring the Circle of the Old City of Penvash, then why hadn't they left a party to guard their star-globe? And who were the people whom Guest had fought on his own desert island? Guest was about to ask about this last point when he checked himself. For a dreadful possibility occurred to him. Two men had assailed him on his desert island, and he had killed both. But maybe those men had been in the service of the Ashdan with whom he was now in dialog! If so, then what would happen if this whole party went right round the Circle of the Door and discovered the corpses?
Realizing he might have some explaining to do, Guest wondered if he should make his escape. He clutched the yellow bottle under his rags. He could toss it to the snows. Then, as it slid down the mountainside, following the path of the avalanching centipede, he could turn the ring on his finger, which would cause him to get sucked into the bottle.
Should he do it? Guest flexed his fingers, which were rapidly losing all sensation. If he was going to act, he must act soon, else he would be quite incapable of turning the ring. The shock of transit from tropical heat to iceland mountainside was telling on him, and quickly. All warmth had been stripped from his body already, and he would be a casualty of the cold unless he did something, and quickly.
Meantime, his companions were arguing angrily, arguing in a babble of voices, discussing the possibility of killing and cooking one of their number. Grief of gods! What manner of people was he mixed up with?
No sooner had he asked himself this question than the Door abruptly reopened. One of the adventurers – apparently in danger of being immediately slaughtered and cooked – bolted for safety. Guest expected his companions to go yahooing after him, hot for slaughter. But they hesitated.
Why?
Everyone was going to freeze to death unless they moved quickly!
Then Guest took a better look at his new companions, and realized that all of them were dressed for cold weather. He caught sight of bits of grass sticking out from the lumpy jackets of one or two of that number, and realized that some of them had used vegetative padding to supplement the warmth of their clothing. A good trick, but not one Guest could emulate, not when he had nothing but snow available as padding. Guest flexed his fingers. Or tried to. His gloveless digits were so stiff he would be hard put to turn the ring.
Decisions, decisions!
He was right out of the habit of making quick decisions, but the weather was giving him a helping hand. The bottle or the Door!
