The Enchantress of World's End

Scene: Northern YamaYama* Land; The Wastes of Ning; The Free City of Chx; the Vanishing Mountains.

The Characters: An Illusionist, a Construct, a Girl Knight and the Bazonga; Chxiaii Townsfolk, Jailers and Triumvirs; Thirty-Two Death Dwarves.

1. THE SCARLET CITY

Through the skies of Gondwane the Great, Earth’s last and mightiest continent, there floated an extraordinary vehicle. It bore the likeness of an ungainly Phoenix-shaped bird of dark bronze, with spread wings and peacock-tail, measuring some thirty feet from beak to tail-tip. For all that it should have weighed many tons, it soared as lightly as a wisp of cloud through the sides.

Behind the arched neck, and between the broad shoulders of the bronze bird-machine, a cockpit containing six seats was hollowed. The vehicle transported a remarkable foursome. In the “driver’s seat,” so to speak, reposed an elderly but vigorous man robed and gloved in glimmering silks, whose features were perpetually masked from sight behind a visor of lilac vapor. This personage was a powerful but friendly magician known as the Illusionist of Nerelon. For better or for worse, he regarded himself as the benign protector of these regions of north-central-eastern Gondwane—a position of responsibility he had, in a sense, inherited.

Seated beside him was a pert, long-legged, adolescent girl with a snub nose, a pretty, freckled face, sparkling green eyes under a mop of tousled red curls, full lips and a small, stubborn chin. She wore odd bits of steel armor—greaves, girdle, gorget, and the like. Her firm, pointed, tip-tilted breasts were also cupped in steel, and an abbreviated mail-skirt, which barely covered her rounded hips and left her tanned thighs deliciously bare, completed her curiously warlike costume. She was a girl knight from the distant kingdom of Jemmerdy where the women are the warriors and the men are all scholars, administrators, or aesthetes. Her name was Xarda.

Behind these two, uncomfortably squeezed into the second row of seats, towered a gigantic warrior. He had a grim-jawed, heavy-boned face, with fierce black eyes under scowling brows; the dark bronze of his naked hide was offset by his spectacular mane of glittering silver hair which poured over herculean shoulders and down his back. His bronzed torso, bulging with steely thews, was strapped into a war-harness of black leather. Between his shoulders an enchanted Silver Sword was scabbarded. He was a Construct, a synthetic superman created by the Time Gods for some unknown world-saving mission, and his name was Ganelon Silvermane.

I have referred to these persons as a remarkable foursome: the fourth individual of their company, possibly the most unique and curious of them all, was their bird vehicle itself, called the Bazonga. This animated aerial contraption housed a sentient crystalloid brain, connected by cunning electrodes to vision lenses, ear tympanies and a voice-box. It could thus see, hear, reason and speak; and, as its bronze body was rendered weightless by antigravitic yxium crystals, powered for flight by magnetic waves, it made the perfect companion of their travels.

At the time whereof I write, the four adventurers, having successfully terminated the menace of the Airmasters of Sky Island who had terrorized the Tigermeri of Karjixia*, were enroute from the kingdom of the Tigermen to the realm of Jemmerdy in the east. The Illusionist had decided that the very least they could do to thank the girl knight for her share in their adventure was to assist her in returning home, before journeying themselves back to the magician’s enchanted palace of Nerelon in the Crystal Mountains, south of the Voormish Desert. They had left the flying island early that morning, after ending the career of the tyrannical Elphod of the Airmasters; and, after a brief visit to Xombol, the capital of the kingdom of the Tigermen, where they had given Prince Vrowl the glad tidings that his difficulties with the troublesome Sky Islanders had been brought to a happy conclusion, they had flown in the Bazonga bird all day across the regions of Northern YamaYamaLand.

* As described in the first volume of the Gondwane Epic, a book entitled The Warrior of World’s End, DAW, 1974.

Skirting the northerly borders of the dominions of the Horxites, they had traversed the kingdom of Ixland from west to east; and from thence along the northern slopes of the Mountains of the Death Dwarves. At the present tune they were soaring high above a desolate and barren region called Ning, which was inhabited only by a few monastic settlements of Mind Worshippers. Late afternoon was upon them; the golden sun of Old Earth declined in the west and the bleak landscape beneath their keel was drowned in purple shadows.

“At this rate, my dear Bird, we shall be flying all night, not to reach the capitol of Jemmerdy until sometime tomorrow morning,” remarked the Illusionist testily. “Had you not loitered along the way, we might have been in Vladium by now, being wined and dined in the hostelries of Xarda’s homeland!”

“Oh dear me, I suppose you’re right,” their peculiar vehicle clacked carelessly in her metallic tones. “But the view was so interesting I simply did not have the heart to speed my flight. Don’t you find travel broadening, my dear?” the Bazonga asked the girl. “Personally, after so many eons spent deep in the bosom of Gondwane, I find the experience very educational!”

The knightrix of Jemmerdy grinned at the quaint Bazonga, as the ungainly bird artlessly prattled on. “By my halidom, ‘tis true,” replied the Sirix Xarda wryly, “but we mortals, composed of flesh and blood, unlike yourself, require nutriment and repose. And, if we continue this interminable flight, my dear Bazonga, we are not likely to enjoy either until mid-morn, when the battlements of Vladium will hove into view.”

“Perhaps we’d better land at some friendly city along the way, and secure lodgings,” grumbled the Illusionist. “It has been so long since luncheon that my digestive processes are no longer on speaking terms with my mouth. Ganelon, you have the map, where are we, exactly?”

The bronze giant consulted the chart which he spread out on his lap. “Near the eastern edge of Ning, master,” he replied in his deep voice. The Illusionist nodded briskly.

“Quite so. Well, we are not likely to find lodgings among the Ningevites; they are Mentalists, convinced in the non-existence of soul or spirit, worshipping the mind alone and cultivating its powers, which they augment and develop through the ceremonial imbibing of hallucinogenic drugs. A harsh, fanatic lot, with little inclination towards friendly hospitality. What lies beyond the bleak country of the Mind Worshippers?”

“The Free City of Chx,” said Ganelon.

“Aye, that’s true; I had forgotten. Chx. A small city-state to the north of Dwarfland, just over the Vanishing Mountains. Surely we can find some manner of hospice, inn or caravanserai in Chx …”

“Master—”

“As a matter of fact, it would be interesting to visit Chx,” the Illusionist ruminated. “I have not been there in ages—in many years, that is. A colorful city, as I recall, with a local honey-wine most delectable—”

“But master—”

“—And a spiced meat pie you have to taste to be—”

“Master—”

“—lieve! Well, what is it, my boy?” the Illusionist snapped.

“Um. Nothing, really. But … remember how we got into trouble in Holy Horx on the last trip? And we were just going to stop there for the night …”

“Stuff and nonsense, Ganelon, you great lump! By the Purple Vortex, lad, have some faith in my powers, can’t you? “Rs not for naught that I am deemed preeminent among the magicians, wizards, sorcerers and thaumaturgists of Northern YamaYamaLand! Dear me, all we’re going to do is take a room at an inn for the night, and enjoy a hot meal and a comfortable bed for once, after roughing it across the length and breadth of Gondwane all these weeks! You may require only the rudest sustenance to revitalize your mighty frame, but these old bones of mine need a bit of comfort from time to time.”

“Yes, master. I’m sorry, master,” said Ganelon unhappily. “It’s just that I don’t want us to get into any more trouble, like we did back in Horx.”

“There is very little likelihood of that, my boy! The Holy Horxites were religious maniacs who considered everybody else in the world despicable heretics! But Chx, as I seem to recall, is a decent, respectable, law-abiding city, now under the benign government of the Ethical Triumvirs—”

“And what are Ethical Triumvirs?” asked Xarda curiously. “By my troth, magister, ne’er heard I of such before.”

“Well, ah, actually I’m not quite certain what the term means,” admitted the Illusionist. “But the people are ethical and law-abiding in Chx, and not fanatical adherents to any particular sect, like those madmen of Horx. We shall spend a comfortable evening for once, and simply stay out of trouble! Come, no more arguments, now! I’ve decided on Chx, and that’s all there is to it. Ganelon, will you instruct the Bazonga oh the way thither …”

The giant warrior did as Ms master bade, and they flew on into the east as the Sun sank in golden splendor behind them. Ere long, the towers of the Scarlet City of Chx rose before them and their ungainly flying vehicle brought them down to land in the bazaar of the small metropolis.

And thus there was set into motion a sequence of events which was to have exceedingly far-reaching consequences for this portion of Old Earth in the Twilight of Time.

2. A QUIET EVENING IN CHX

The travelers discovered the Scarlet City to be neat, clean and, as advertized, respectable.

The squares and bazaars of Chx were filled with a quiet, orderly populace who regarded the exotic Outlanders with curious but not unfriendly eyes. Ganelon and Xarda looked about them with interest: flowering trees lined the spacious boulevards, and these were neatly trimmed and clipped. The streets and sidewalks were recently swept and the doorsteps of the Chxian houses were freshly scrubbed, the houses themselves neatly painted. Everything within view was spotless, immaculate, in excellent repair. The Scarlet City was attractive, with its red towers and bright yellow houses, tinkling fountains and gay bazaars; the people themselves looked comfortable, happy, and well-fed.

The girl knight said in an undertone to Ganelon, “They certainly dress in an odd fashion!” The giant nodded silently, staring about him. While the Chxians were a pleasant-looking folk, they were robed and coifed with a somberness that he found quaint and odd. The men were clothed in sober hues of gray, brown, black or umber, with tight-fitting hose, knee-breeches, and buckled shoes. The women wore voluminous skirts in the same somber and joyless hues, and these skirts completely covered their lower limbs, while long-sleeved, high-necked bodices covered their upper bodies from neck to wrist Even their hair was covered with stiff cloth, and their faces were devoid of cosmetics. Also, they wore no jewelry.

Even the children, who played quietly before the houses, were dressed in miniature replicas of the adult raiment. Accustomed to screeching, dirty-faced ragamuffins, the Illusionist found their quiet play a welcome relief and pooh-poohed the comments of his fellow adventurers.

“There is nothing here that need disturb us,” he said with lazy good humor. “I gather that the Chxians are a highly moral, respectable people: what’s wrong with that? So the women don’t bare their bosoms, paint their lips, or bedizen themselves with gauds and bangles —what difference does it make? By the Ninth Plenum, you two worriers would find something to disturb you in the Paradisical Gardens themselves! Come along, now, and stop grexing!”

Ganelon exchanged a dubious glance with Xarda, then shrugged and fell in behind his master. But, like the girl knight, he found something oppressive in the extreme sobriety of Chx. Despite its bright colors, a gloomy pall of severe puritanism seemed to hang over the quiet streets, the freshly-painted houses, the orderly populace. And all about hung signs which proclaimed a variety of maxims. “STRONG DRINK, WEAK MORALS,” one placard reminded. Another announced warningly, “FLIPPANCY IS FATAL,” while a third glowered down upon them with the grim legend, “WHY SING AND DANCE WHILE DEATH IS NEAR?” Despite herself, the Sirix shivered slightly.

The Illusionist affably accosted the nearest of the Chxians who stood staring at the strangers curiously, if not disapprovingly.

“Tell me, my good man, is there an inn nearby where weary travelers can find a meal and lodgings for the night?” The Chxian nodded and replied, in neutral tones, that the nearest might be found on the south side of the bazaar square. Thanking him, the old magician led his companions to the threshold of the establishment which termed itself, in sober brown-painted letters, “The Hospice of the Twelve Cardinal Virtues.”

“Come, come, you two, stop staring about apprehensively, and let us enter,” he said testily.

Within they found a long, low-ceilinged room with tables and oaken benches neatly arranged before a cheerfully-crackling fire on a stone grate. The plaster walls were painted a solemn gray and the wooden rafters were neatly blackwashed; but the odors of meat turning on a sizzling spit were appetizing and the taproom, despite its lack of color or ornament, seemed snug and comfortable enough. A plump, sober-faced innkeeper assigned them rooms for the night at a remarkably low fee and set dishes before them laden with hot meat, brown bread and fresh fruit, together with large mugs of a spiced drink which turned out to be an extremely mild ale whose alcoholic content was virtually nil. Tasting the meat, Ganelon found it a choise cut, but almost tasteless.

“Come, innkeeper, have you no spices to enliven the flavor?” he grumbled. The placid-faced Chxian stared at him wide-eyed.

“Spices heat the blood and are a toxic moral influence,” he said primly. “Solid, nourishing fare is the best.”

“Aye, and this ale is excessively bland, by my troth,” the girl knight grimaced after tasting it. The innkeeper shrugged.

“Strong drink unhinges the reason and makes quarrelsome the temper,” he replied, almost tonelessly, with the air of one repeating a maxim which frequent reiteration had made all but meaningless. “You will find the beverage wholesome and filling, mistress, I am sure.”

The Illusionist munched on the tough meat and took a swallow from his mug. He then glanced around at the somber room, whose only note of cheer came from the crackling fire. A number of soberly-dressed Chxians sat about conversing in a monotone, sipping their mugs, paying little or no attention to the Outlanders beyond a single, wide-eyed glance at Xarda’s bare legs and Ganelon’s skimpy loincloth.

“Your taproom seems remarkably quiet tonight,” the Illusionist complained. “Can none of these fellows give us a merry tune on lute, pipe, or tambourine?”

The innkeeper turned a cold eye on him. “Song and dance,” he said, with a slight, fastidious shudder, “are cankers which devour the moral fiber of sinful men. We Chxians abhor the loose morals and ethical decay of foreign realms; sobriety, a clear head, and a quiet, respectable tongue are high among the virtues we celebrate. Your rooms are ready.” And with that, and a slight, disapproving sniff, he turned on his heel and left them to then: own devices.

“Hmm,” the Illusionist grumped. “A dour lot, these Chxians! Well, let them be as glum and solemn as they please, so long as they let us be. Eat up children, drink deep, soft beds await our weary, toil-worn limbs!”

“Let’s hope so,” said Ganelon Silvennane gloomily.

Their three rooms were small and bare, devoid of furnishing, save for a narrow bed, a small table bearing a candle-stub in a pewter dish, and a chamberpot. The rooms were identical, even to the frowning placards on the walls which bore stern injunctions against licentious behavior such as “CONTINENCE LEADS TO QUIET SLUMBER” and “A CHASTE BED IS A RESTFUL BED.” The beds themselves, mere cots, were hard and uncomfortable. Nevertheless, weary and well-fed, they were ready to retire.

Ganelon had accompanied the Bazonga to the stables at the rear of the hospice; finding the stalls too small to contain the huge creature, he had tethered her to a zooka-zooka tree in the courtyard. He came clumping up the stair to their adjoining rooms after the termination of this task with a wide grin on his habitually grim features.

“What’s so funny, my boy?” inquired the magician.

“The innkeeper,” chuckled Ganelon. “I tied the Bazonga bird to a tree in the courtyard and asked the innkeeper if she would be safe there for the night on account of thieves. Thieves! I thought he would fall in a dead faint at the very suggestion. It appears that here in Chx thievery is about as rare as leprosy, and regarded with much the same degree of loathing!”

Chuckling, they bade each other good-night and turned to their respective rooms.

Night fell. The immense, cracked orb of the Falling Moon rose over the edges of Gondwane to flood the Supercontinent with silver light. And, with the coming of darkness, a most peculiar change came over the sober, respectable, Galendil-fearing people of Chx.

“Ganelon? Hsst, you great oaf, wake up!”

The giant blinked awake to find the supple, half-naked form of the Sirix Xarda bending over him, shaking his shoulder.

“What’s happened—trouble?” he grunted, sitting up and reaching for the Silver Sword.

“Can’t say,” hissed the girl knight enigmatically. “Come take a look out of the window!”

The giant obediently clambered out of the cot and crossed the closet-sized room to peer out at the street below through glassy panes. What he saw from the window brought a rumble of astonishment to his lips.

By night, the streets of the Scarlet City were transformed into a fantastic carnival of revelry. Colored paper lanterns were strung across the streets, swinging gaily in the breezes. And through these streets, which by day were so exceptionally sober and respectable, surged a motley throng in gaudy festival garments. Most of the revellers carried flasks and bottles from which they drank heavily, the heady vapors of strong wines and brandies rising to the nostrils of Silvermane and Xarda. Musicians led the dancing throng with the patter of drums, the jingle-thump-jingle of gay tambourines and the tootle of pipes. Giggling bands of young children, naked except for flower-wreaths, fondled each other in doorways, while beneath every streetlight voluptuous women with unbound hair, their rounded limbs completely devoid of clothing, undulated to a hip-waggling dance.

“Great Qal-en-dil!” Silvermane gasped.

“You said it,” the girl knight grinned. “Look down the alley there!” Ganelon followed her pointing finger to see a nude woman enthusiastically volunteering her services to five or six partially-unclothed men, in a complicated multi-embrace of considerable anatomical ingenuity. He gasped again, coloring faintly. “And there!” the girl pointed. A band of looters, having smashed in the windows of a shop, were busily emptying it of every last movable object. He stared out over the city, his amazement growing. Five masked bandits were quarreling over the plump purse of a lone quarry who stood helpless before then* drawn knives while they squabbled. A bit further on a fat man sprawled, drunk and snoring, in a doorway while two stark naked, grubby-faced, grinning urchins relieved him of his purse, headgear, cloak and buskins. Further off, over the city, the sound of smashing windows came to them, the scuffle and thud of innumerable bar-room brawls, and a whiff of smoke from several burning buildings was evident. Snatches of wild carnival music, drunken song, and street-corner fights, drifted to them on the evening breeze.

“Has the entire city gone—mad?” asked Ganelon, puzzled. “Or have we?”

Xarda had no answer to his question.

3. THE MORNING AFTER

They went into the next room, where the Illusionist was, to find the old magician seated near the window peering out into the riotous streets with curiosity and just a touch of amusement.

“Master, have you—”

“Sssh! No chatter, my boy—and don’t strike a light, either! We don’t wish to attract undue attention, do we?” warned the magister. Xarda took one look at the figure of the old man, silhouetted against the pane, and clapped her hand over her mouth to restrain an attack of the giggles. For she had never before chanced to see the Illusionist accoutered for bed. He wore a loose nightshirt which exposed his skinny shanks, clothed in wrinkled hose, and his bony feet were shoved into a dilapidated pair of snuff-brown carpet slippers. He wore a long night-cap with a threadbare tassel at the end, she was amused to notice. But his veil of violet vapor was still in place. For a giddy moment, the girl knight wondered if he wore his mist-mask even in bed.

He seemed highly gratified by the spectacle of the streets below, and was peering out with an interest more clinical than voyeuristic.

“Heh, heh!” he chuckled dryly. “I was wondering about that. Delighted to see …”

“What?” asked Ganelon bewilderedly. “Wondering about what, master?”

“Well my boy, you know, when a people repress their natural human fleshly appetites to the degree the Chxians have, such repressions cause a dangerous blockage of the id which can, in time, lead to serious psychosis. Puritanism is at one end of the spectrum of human behavior, libertinism at the other. The wise man selects a middle course—'Everything in moderation; but a little of everything,' as wise old Ophion puts it. The unwise, howsomever, hew to one extreme or the other, to their error and eventual detriment.”

Xarda observed the view from the window with bright, interested eyes. Her quick wits had ascertained the point of the Illusionist’s rambling, philosophic discourse while Ganelon, of course, was still fumbling along word by word.

“You mean,” she started.

“Of course!” he snickered good-humoredly. “The so-called Ethical Triumvirs, when they first imposed these tight moral strictures on their people, must have envisioned or guessed what would happen. So, with commendable maturity of judgement, they imposed a double law upon the Chxians. By day they are chaste, sober, frugal, industrious, clean and moral to a fault But by night—”

“—By night, they are anything but!” giggled Xarda.

“Exactly, my dear! Doubtless, living by this double standard engenders schizophrenia to some degree; but that is far more wholesome than a blocked, congested, sorely inflamed libido.”

Ganelon, plodding dully behind, began to catch their meaning.

“Do you mean to say,” he demanded, still puzzled, “that while by daylight the Chxians are moral, ethical, scrupulously honest, law-abiding and sober—?”

“At night they turn into a bunch of thieving, murdering sots and lechers,” the Sirix chuckled. Ganelon seemed shocked; the old magister, however, was fascinated. He began to pull his glimmering robes on over his nightwear.

“Come, children, let’s go down and enjoy the spectacle at first hand!”

“Are you sure we should?” said Ganelon, dubiously.

“Certainly. Why not? We are hardly likely to have our morals infected by the-example of the Chxians, and they can do us no harm in their present state. Since we certainly won’t get any sleep, what with all this clamor, we might as well get some fun out of it. Come —get some clothes on, and join me below!”

The taproom was transformed. From some hidden cellar, strong beverages had emerged and were being sold across the counter by the wainload. The long room was thronged, mostly by men in an advanced stage of inebriation, but there were more than a few women amongst them. None of these wore any clothes to speak of (unless a flower behind an ear, or a bit of jewelry here and there can be called “clothes”). They were either dancing with slow, wriggling, lascivious motions to the sultry atonal music of the pipes, or were busy being embraced, kissed and so on.

At least three fist-fights were in progress by the time Xarda, Ganelon and the Illusionist got downstairs, and one of these was developing into a splendid bar-room brawl. Ganelon was faintly shocked to see three or four civil monitors sitting at the bar, watching the miniature riot with expressions of sodden satisfaction on their faces. During the day, these same monitors in their stiff collars and uncomfortable tabards had been everywhere, suspiciously eyeing the populace, alert for the slightest signs of incontinence, indecency or inebriation. Now they were virtually wallowing in a den of sin, and seemed to be enjoying every minute of it!

The street outside was a shambles. Broken, looted shops gaped emptily; drunks slouched, snoozing in the doorways; thieves in black vizors with naked dirks lurked in every alley-mouth; men and women, reeling drunkenly in every conceivable state of disarray from gaudy carnival garb to total nakedness, staggered about giggling and embracing, dancing arm in arm.

A pungent cloud of mint-green vapor floated past from a band of sniggering, wobble-kneed loiterers. The Illusionist sniffed sharply, and laughed. “Crazy-weed! I didn’t know they still grew it in these parts. No, my dear, thank you very much for the compliment, but I fear a man of my centuries is somewhat past such things!” This last comment was made to a heavily painted woman whose bodice was open to the navel, and who strolled about openly soliciting the attentions of unengaged males.

Ganelon, towering above the throng by head and shoulders, stared about htm with an expression of gloomy disapproval of his glum features. I fear I shall never understand True Men, he thought to himself somberly.

Many a fight was in progress along the avenue, and some of the streets and squares they passed contained full-scale riots. Silvermane kept a wary eye out for trouble, and his hand was never far from a weapon, but nothing untoward happened to them during their tour of the streets of Chx. Any troublemakers still sober enough to walk could measure the heroic thews and towering height of the bronze giant, obviously, and decided to leave well enough alone.

“Tally-ho, there goes another riot!” laughed Xarda, as a growling mob went charging by, waving makeshift clubs in a belligerent manner. “And to think, earlier I was saying to myself that Chx was just about the dullest town I had every visited!”

The Illusionist laughed “Yes, my dear, quite a transformation, indeed! But / am wondering if this sort of thing goes on all night, or only for a pre-arranged period. Because if it does last until dawn, I am wondering what the poor Chxians do in order to get some sleep!”

Within another hour or so, the noise and bustle began to slacken sharply, answering the Illusionist’s question for him. Those citizens determined on wife-stealing, infidelity, rape or more outre sexual encounters had already stolen away to some dark, cozy places; and the rest of the citizenry were either dead drunk, or had been bludgeoned into unconsciousness in this or that riot, fist-fight or bar-room brawl. Soon the city was peaceful again, and the travelers returned to their inn to snatch a few hours of slumber before daybreak.

What with being up half the night, it was only natural that they overslept by several hours the next day. Indeed, the sun was well up into the noonward skies by the tune they roused themselves, washed, dressed, and came downstairs for some breakfast. The innkeeper, his gaudy carnival robes tucked away, looked stiff and solemn (and ever so slightly hung-over) in his modest daytime raiment as he served them a meager, spiceless but nourishing meal.

The Illusionist good-humoredly strove to engage the glum, puffy-eyed fellow in conversation concerning the riotous doings of the night, but the proprietor regarded them with eyes full of reproving severity at such flippant, suggestive talk and made a pointed reference regarding the civil monitors, which gave the old magician a clear hint to lay off. Obviously, what was done at night was never mentioned by day.

With one exception, however.

The Illusionist and Xarda were taking a brisk stroll in the square, prior to their departure, while Ganelon paid their bill, collected their gear and stowed it aboard the Bazonga. Suddenly a squad of stiffly-tabarded monitors approached, surrounding them.

“What seems to be the trouble, officer?” inquked the Illusionist, affably.

“It has been reported to headquarters that you and your companions committed numerous indiscretions during the nocturnal period, stranger,” the leader of the squad replied. “I fear they are sufficiently serious to require you to accompany me to the constabulary. Come along quietly, now.” And, so saying, he took the old magician firmly but politely by the arm.

” ‘Indiscretions?’” repeated the Illusionist incredulously. “That’s not true at all! We were remarkably discreet, considering the behavior of the local citizenry; why, we neither engaged in a brawl, nor got drunk, nor bothered any of the women! On the whole, we behaved with what I might term considerable decency and restraint!”

“Those are, to be precise, the very counts listed against you,” said the officer sternly. “You are accused of nocturnal sobriety, continence, pacifism and public decency. Come along now; I don’t want to have to clap you in chains.”

Flustered, arguing volubly all the way, the magician was led off with Xarda in the direction of a large structure towards the center of the city.

4. UN-DISTURBERS OF THE PEACE

The central edifice into which the civil monitors conducted the Illusionist of Nerelon and the girl knight of Jemmerdy turned out to be the Administratium of the city.

They were led into a domed rotunda where three odd-looking officials sat at square wooden desks piled high with papers. The first official, a lank, gloomy-faced individual with thin, tight lips and an expression on his face as if he sensed a singularly repugnant odor, looked them up and down with sour disapproval stamped on his long horsy face.

“Outlanders, I perceive!” he grumbled. “Always getting into trouble. Foreign riffraff! Ban the lot of ye one of these days, if ye’re not careful. The count?”

“Failure to disturb the peace during the nocturnal period, my lord Nurdix,” said the monitor, snapping to attention.

The man at the second desk, a pudgy, sallow-skinned little man with a bald, round head and squinting, gelid eyes, snapped his fingers loudly.

“Be precise, fellow, when you address the Triumvir Nurdix! The full list of particulars, if you please!”

“Sorry, my lord Glastro,” said the officer, whereupon he began to crisply rattle off a roster of crimes which the Illusionist and his Mends had not committed. Since they had been guilty of no crimes whatsoever, the list was extraordinarily lengthy. It began, in alphabetical order, with Abandonment of Spouse or Offspring, Failure to Commit Same; Abberation, Sexual, Lack of; Abjuration of Sworn Oaths, Refusal to Do So; Abortion, Non-, and so on. The recital took forever, or anyway it seemed like forever. At about the time the monitor had got to Defenestration, Anti-, or failure to throw anybody out of the window, a second squad entered the hall lugging the unconscious form of Ganelon Silvermane.

The third Triumvir, who had yet to be heard from, eyed the slumbering giant curiously. This third ruler, Petraphar by name, was a gray and mousy little wisp of a man with a soft, purring voice, veiled, elusive eyes and an annoying habit of constantly rubbing his hands together in a washing motion.

“Oh, my, and another one!” he lisped breathily. “That is correct—the bill of particulars does mention three of them. Goodness! Three nocturnal malefactors on the same day! A new record, I do believe. Tell me, captain, did the big man, ah, vigorously oppose his arrest?”

“You might say so, my lord,” replied the captain through a mouthful of broken teeth. “A whiff of the sleep-gas laid him out, however; and the boys will be just fine, the Surgeon informs me, in a week or two at most.”

“My, my! Well, just lay him down over there. Pray continue with the counts, lieutenant!”

The Illusionist cleared his throat. “If it please the court, I believe “we can dispense with the full list of crimes which we unfortunately failed to commit. If your honors please, we are willing to concede ourselves guilty of, ahem, not committing every crime in, ah, the book. Except possibly for Ogling in the First Degree, which we did quite a bit of last night, heh hen!”

The Triumvirs were not amused. “Ogling is not a crime, merely a misdemeanor!” snapped glum Nurdix fiercely. “That will do, lieutenant; leave the document of complaint with the registrar on your way out. Smartly, now!”

The officer saluted and turned on his heel. The Illusionist stepped forward and began speaking amiably.

“If it please the court, I should like to point out that in no other country or city known to me, is the failure to commit a crime a culpable offence—”

“The customs in foreign realms have no bearing on the present case, sir,” puffed fat Glastro imperturbably. Behind his veil of lilac vapor, the Illusionist blinked thoughtfully.

“Well, perhaps not, but your honors will realize that, as mere peaceful travelers, visitors to your fair city, just passing through, we had no fore-knowledge of the peculiarly Chxian criminal code—”

“Ignorance of the law is no excuse,” whispered pallid little Petraphar, rubbing his hands together.

“But—surely, your honors can’t hold us to blame for breaking a law so unheard-of as to be unexpected! How could we possibly have known—?”

Law-abiding travelers should make a point of inquiring into the local statutes upon the moment of entering a city,” said Nurdix shortly. “Are we agreed, then, brothers?”

“Aye! Guilty as charged,” said the others in a chorus.

“But—but—see here—you can’t—” spluttered the Illusionist helplessly, as the monitors led him out of the room and down to the dungeons below the Adininistratium.

“Can’t we, indeed?” smirked Glastro, in the ensuing silence. The other two Triumvirs laughed.

For a city as grim, colorless and dour as Chx—by daytime, at least—where even the inns provide few of the creature comforts, it would be folly to expect the jails to be comfortable. And, true to form, they were not. Furnished only with a wooden bench, a tin pot, and a pile of straw, they were harshly utilitarian.

“But at least it’s a clean cell,” said Xarda brightly, trying to put the best face on things. Grumbling and grexing, the old magician slumped in a corner and refused to be cheered up. Still unconscious from the sleep-inducing vapor, the bronze giant lay on the floor, snoring stertorously.

Seeing that she was not going to perk up the Illusionist with ease, the girl knight strolled about the stark little stone cubicle, eventually going over to the barred grille that served as a door. She tested the bars and found them firm; tried the lock and discovered it to be new, well-oiled and quite solid. Even Xarda could not help heaving a little dispirited sigh.

“I gather you are strangers to Chx?” said a male voice in a pleasing tenor. She looked up in surprise to find a tall, well-set-up young man standing at the door of the cell directly across the corridor. He was tanned and handsome in a well-bred way, with a finely-shaped head and clear-cut, if rather delicate, features. But his arms were admirably muscular and his shoulders strong-enough looking, which belied the slight delicacy she detected. His legs and torso were clothed in close fitting steel mesh, over which he wore the tattered remnants of a surcoat emblazoned with an heraldic emblem unfamiliar to her.

Catching her eye, he smiled pleasantly. Xarda frowned, then, with a slight shrug, decided to smile back.

“Strangers, by my halidom!” she swore bitterly. “Jailed for the non-commission of every crime in the book. And yourself, good sir?”

“Another un-disturber of the peace,” he smiled. Then, making a courtly bow, he said: “Pray permit me to introduce myself, madam! Erigon of Valardus, at your service.”

“I am the Sirix Xarda of Jemmerdy, and my companions in misfortune are.a friendly magician called the Illusionist of Nerelon—for he seems to have no other name than that—and Ganelon Silvermane, the Hero of Uth, formerly of Zermish-city in the Realm of the Nine Hegemons.”

“Good-day, then, to you all,” said the young man amiably. “I fear your places of origin are unknown to me, perchance even as mine realm of Valardus be unknown to you …”

“Yes,” the girl knight nodded, ““I was about to ask you where Valardus was.”

“Far to the north of here, beyond the Purple Plains, lieth my unhappy kingdom.”

“Wherefore unhappy, sir?” asked Xarda, falling in with the young man’s slightly antiquated mode of speech, which almost exactly suited her own.

“Alas, the fair glades and dells of gleaming Valardus now groan ‘neath the tyrant’s heel,” he said, somewhat dramatically.

“Oh? What tyrant is that?” asked the knightrix.

“Zaar, as he calls himself. The Warlord, as his followers term him, in all their grim and martial myriads. ‘Tis a mighty horde of savages, come wandering down from further north to ramp and roar through the tiny kingdoms of the lands Valardine … said Barbarians having over-run my realm, and tossed me forth upon the winds of chance, a homeless wanderer, who once upon a time could claim the very princely coronal—”

Xarda cleared her throat a bit impatiently; this old-fashioned roundabout way of talking was all very grand and stately in its way, but not ideally suited to the succint imparting of information. “Do you mean you’re a Prince?” she demanded.

The chiseled features of the young man looked faintly pained at such curt inquiry, but he nodded. “Prince Erigon of Valardus,” he admitted. “Or such at least I was when Good King Vergus held the throne! My hereditary throne!” She looked blank. “My late father,” he added. “Oh,” she said.

Along towards noon, a jailer came shuffling down the corridor to ladle a greasy and unappetizing stew into tin dishes from a common bucket. He eyed the knightrix primly, thin lips clamped shut in an expression of sour disapproval, failing to reply to several questions she asked of him. Among these were, “What are they going to do to us, and When?”

By this time, the old magician had recovered much of his good-humor and tackled the cold stew with a degree of zest the girl knight found repulsive and annoying. She had noticed, on similar occasions how the Illusionist seemed to virtually thrive on hardships, perils and adventures. He had once explained that after a long, fairly dull and uneventful career of magicianhood, a few dangers, imprisonments and excitements like these were a welcome change from unrelenting safety and security.

She was no limp-hearted weakling, was Xarda of Jemmerdy; but after the colorful, unsettling events of the last few weeks, she could happily have suffered through a bit of that same safety and security.

By this time, Ganelon had recovered from the sleep-inducing vapor, and gloomily prowled the narrow cell, testing the bars of the door until they squealed and squeaked. The giant did not enjoy captivity, and such were his incredible thews that the girl knight wondered if they should have to suffer very long. Indeed, next to Silvermane, the door of steely bars looked somewhat fragile and flimsy.

“Relax, my boy,” advised the old magician, chewing with relish on the greasy stew. “Even if you did rip the door off its hinges, which perhaps you could, we should still face an entire city filled with enemies before reaching the outside world. Relax, and keep calm.”

“I’ll try, master,” said Ganelon. “But I keep worrying about the poor Bazonga, and what these crazy people may be doing to her …”

“The dear Bird can take care of herself, as you will doubtless learn,” said the magician cheerfully. “No doubt she is still floating in the courtyard of the hospice, obediently tethered to her tree, amusing herself by singing little songs. I doubt if the so-called Ethical Triumvirs have any notion the vehicle is animate, much less sentient. Do stop that pacing to and fro, my boy! Sit down and have some stew. Save your strength, for the time when we shall need it.”

“And when will that be?” asked Xarda with a sigh. The Illusionist winked, although she couldn’t see the wink, with his vapor veil covering his features.

“When we make our escape,” he said comfortably.

“And when win that be?” she repeated the question.

“Soon enough,” he said, with a smugness she found rather irritating. It was annoying to share adventures with people who refused to take danger seriously, she thought to herself. But there was no use complaining about it. Wiping his lips and taking a swig of fresh water from the pail, the Illusionist settled back on the bench, folded his hands in his lap, and seemed to doze.

How could anybody take a nap at a time like this? Xarda swore under her breath, and turned back to the door to start another conversation with the pleasant, young prince across the corridor.

5. OF THE XIMCHAK HORDE

During the rest of that afternoon, Xarda and Prince Erigon got better acquainted, while the old magister napped and Ganelon moped and sulked gloomily to himself.

In a rather hazy fashion, Xarda was familiar with the local geography of this part of the Gondwane super-continent. She knew the Free City of Chx was directly north of Dwarf-Land, across the Vanishing Mountains, whatever they were; and that north of Chx were many little dukedoms, princedoms, city-states and kingdoms, with Jemmerdy itself northeast of Quay. And she knew that to the north of Jemmerdy and the Glass Lake, there stretched an interminable region of flatland called the Purple Plain, whereon the ferocious Indigon herds wandered and the Moving Cities were occasionally seen. But whatever realms might, or might not, lie north of the Purple Plain were thoroughly unknown to her.

This slight geographical ignorance in the education of the Jemmerdine girl is quite understandable, when you pause to consider the true immensity of Gondwane. In the seven hundred million years between our own Twentieth Century and the Eon of the Falling Moon, the theory of the continental drift was more than proven scientifically accurate. The continents did indeed form one vast land mass (called Pangaea) in Time’s Dawn; tidal forces did cause the breakup of the primal super-continent and set the various fragments into a slow drifting apart. But, after enormous ages of time, they came together again on the opposite side of the globe, until now, in the Twilight of Time, a second Supercontinent had been formed, which comprised the total land surface of the planet.

The continent of Gondwane, therefore, was vast. Unthinkably vast! Picture Africa, Antarctica, Australia and the Americas, to say nothing of all the various islands, from Greenland on down to Wak (which is the smallest island in the world), all piled together in one interminable expanse of dry land, then you will have some notion of the true extent of Gondwane the Great.

The Supercontinent measured fully sixty million square miles from shore to shore. And sixty million is rather a lot of square miles, you will agree. Room enough on Gondwane for no fewer than one hundred and thirty-seven thousand kingdoms, empire^, city-states, federations, theocracies, tyrannies, conglomerates, unions, principates, democracies, republics, plutocracies, realms, nations and countries. So many, in fact, that no one person—not even a professional geographer—could claim familiarity with them all. Which may help to explain why Xarda of Jemmerdy did not know where the kingdom of Valardus was.

Or where it had been, that is. For, having been ground into the dust by the Ximchak Horde, it could no longer be presumed to exist. Such, at least, was the belief of Prince Erigon, or the former Prince Erigon, since homeless exiles enjoy only slender claims to monarchial titles.

The old magician was quite interested to hear some firsthand observations concerning the Ximchak Barbarians, from an eye-witness to their horrendous depredations. Quite some time ago he had confided to Ganelon that they comprised, with the Ainnasters of Sky Island and the mysterious Queen of Red Magic, one of the three greatest dangers to the peace and security of this part of Gondwane. Now he eagerly queried the pleasant Prince on their strength, number, equipment, temper, customs, religion and military prowess.

“As to how great their numbers may be, I have no precise knowledge, magister,” Erigon replied. “For I was absent from Valardus when they descended upon the kingdom; my royal father, King Vergus, had dispatched me upon a mission of desperate urgency to the neighboring realms about, hoping to solicit forces to make a concerted stand against our common enemy. Alas, the Ximchak patrols were out in force, and cut me off from the pass through the mountains. I was forced to seek a rather wandering and circuitous route which I followed in a southerly direction. Completely losing my way, I wandered from city to city and realm to realm, eventually rinding myself here in this abominable city of Chx. Like yourselves, my failure to partake in the nocturnal criminalities resulted in mine imprisonment. I am now so far away from my unhappy natal land that I despair of ever finding my way back … not that there is likely to be anything left of fair Valardus for me to return home to!”

Ganelon cleared his throat fretfully.

“Master, why are we sitting here talking? Shouldn’t we be attempting to escape, before these people execute us for our non-existing crimes?”

“All in good time, my boy, all in good time,” chirped the Illusionist in his cheerful way.

“But, magister, the boy doth have a point,” argued Xarda firmly. “Whatever are we waiting for—surely, with your mastery of the Arts Magical, ‘twould be an easy matter to unhinge yon door and dispeople the entire building—”

The Illusionist clucked her into silence.

“You children, with your constant fretting over time lost, spent or wasted!” he sighed. “As if an hour or two, or even three, mattered when measured against a lifetime! Had I harkened to your urgings, I would have resisted arrest or trial or imprisonment with my small skill—to our considerable detriment, for then we should not have made the acquaintance of Prince Erigon, here!”

“Yes, ‘tis true, of course, but—!”

“But nothing, my dear child. We shall be set free when it pleases the good Galendil to free us, and not before,” said the old magician, testily. “For one thing, my dear, has it occurred to you that as soon as night falls, Chx will return to her normal routine of murder, arson, burglary, rapine, and other assorted malfeasances? What better occasion for jail-break, than during that period of the night when such is no longer to be considered a crime?”

The girl knight bunked, as if thunderstruck, then burst out laughing.

“Of course! As soon as night falls, the guards will be withdrawn, so as to partake of the assorted skullduggeries in which each Chxian must, by law, indulge. Forgive me for doubting you, magister! I fear that I had not fully thought through the implications of Chx’s dual legal system …”

“Quite all right, my dear; that’s what older and wiser heads are for. Now, my dear Prince, to return to our most interesting discussion of the Ximchak savages … I believe it was your opinion that they descended through the mountain countries, approaching Valardus from the north. Could it not, perchance, have been from the northwest? My own sources of information, you see, suggest a northwesterly course for the Horde, following their destruction last year of the Thirty Cities of the Gompish Regime …”-

The sun of afternoon declined into the west. However swift the judicial processes of the Chxians might be, the final sentencing certainly seemed a drawn-out and lengthy process. Prince Erigon, they learned, had been condemned to the dungeons beneath the Administratium some four or five days before, on charges of being an un-disturber of the peace. And he still awaited his sentencing.

“Sometimes it is to be chained to labor in the water mines,” he told them. “Other offenders are condemned to penal servitude repairing the aqueduct system. A former cell-mate of mine, an Ixlander, I believe, who acted as a travelling salesman in warlockry with a line of talismans and sigils, ended up serving his term as a sewer-cleanser. An unpleasant task, surely, and a stenchful one, to boot!”

Before sundown, the prisoners were removed from their consnon cell and were escorted by a squadron of monitors so numerous and stoutly armed for resistance to be futile, if not sanguinary, to private cells higher up in the monstrous office. Ganelon did not care to be separated from his dear friends, but no choice in jail accommodations was offered to him, and his master cheerfully bade him be of good spirits and not to fret. Therefore he complied with docility to the new arrangement, and found himself in a cell somewhat smaller even than before, whose door was a solid panel of adamant. The one factor of comfort in his new quarters was that his cell had a window, albeit one heavily barred, which gave forth on a wide prospect of the rooftops and spires of Chx. From this orifice he peered gloomily out upon the westering sun as it sank to its conflagration in the hills.

He wondered where Xarda and the old magician were housed, and why their cells had been switched, and how long would it be before the Illusionist came to free him from his durance? And whatever had possessed them to seek accommodations for the night in this mad metropolis in the first place.

After a time he dozed.

“YOO-HOO! Is that you, dear boy?” a familiar, if unexpected, voice hailed him through the mists of sleep. For a moment, convinced that he dreamed, Ganelon kept Ms eyes closed. But then a whump shook the walls of his cell with staggering impact, bringing down flakes of plaster from the ceiling in a gritty shower.

He opened his eyes and jumped up to see a beaked bronze head peering at him with brightly inquisitive eye-lenses through the bars of the window. It was the Bazonga bird!

“Wh-whatever are you doing here?” he asked, inanely.

The Bird cocked a disapproving eye at him and sniffed in a hurt manner. “Tush! You certainly don’t seem glad to see me,” she complained.

“Well, of course I’m glad to see you; but how … I mean, why …”

“You folks went away and left me all alone,” the Bird said accusingly. “I sang little songs to myself, watched the stars go wheeling overhead and counted the leaves on the zooka-zooka tree to which you tied me. Morning came, then mid-morn, then fore-noon, then noon itself. Well, my goodness, I got to feeling lonely! So I decided to come looking for you.”

“But however did you find me? Behind all these stone walls, I mean?” The Bird tartly reminded him of her ability to sense the radiations of an individual human aura, and to tell one auric spectrum from another, which was the method by which the Illusionist and she had found him and Xarda in the jungles of Karjixia, after their escape from the Air Mines on an earlier adventure.

“Now stand back, do,” she carolled. Without further ado, the animate vehicle rammed her bronze beak into the outer wall of his cell in an effort to free him.

6. FLIGHT FROM CHX

The talking vessel was built of solid bronze and measured some thirty feet, from her parrot-beak to the tip of her peacock-tail. When a flying battering-ram of that size, weight and mass drives itself against a wall of mortared stone, well, something has got to give. In this case, it was the wall.

Bits of stone and chips of mortar sprayed the room, rattling off the walls and floor-tiles. Ganelon shielded his eyes with his burly fore-arm, and as soon as the whirling cloud of stinging rock-dust cleared away, he blinked through watering eyes to see a fairly man-sized hole punched directly through the outer wall of his cell. The Bazonga’s battering thrust had carried away the lower portion of the wall in which the window was built. Now the bars waggled uselessly in empty air, and even as he watched, one of them clanked to the gravel-strewn floor.

“Come along, there’s a dear,” the Bird sang carelessly. Wobbling on her magnetic waves, she maneuvered herself about in such a manner that her cockpit now yawned temptingly just beyond the hole in the wall. Ganelon climbed through the opening and stood there indecisively for a moment, not certain whether to go or to stay.

“Come along, smartly now, there’s a good boy!” snapped tfte Bazonga. “If you think it’s easy holding a steady keel in such a position, let me inform you otherwise!”

“Yes, but—what about master, and Xarda? Shouldn’t we rescue them, too, so we can all leave together?” asked Ganelon bewilderedly.

The Bird wiggled her wing-tips impatiently.

“Time enough for that later,” she said crossly. “I want to carry you to safety first. This is my rescue, and I am in charge! As soon as I get you over the border, I’ll come whizzirtg back for the others. Serve that old geezer right, to make him wait a bit and stew in his own juices! Always tying me up to trees or chimneys, and leaving me behind while the rest of you go zipping off to have adventures together, with never a thought for the poor old faithful Bazonga, your tireless steed! Come, child, get into my cockpit and let’s be off—”

“Well … all right, then … I guess you know what you’re doing,” said Silvermane a bit dubiously. He stepped into the swaying cockpit of the peculiar craft and settled down in the first seat. The bird-vessel thrust herself clear of the wall with a flick of her magnetic waves, then curved sharply about and sped off in a southerly direction, bound for the borders of Chx.

Night had fallen by now, and the streets were full of carousing mobs happily assaulting each other, looting shops and getting drunk. Nobody seemed to pay the slightest attention to the winged bronze bird as she soared over the rooftops-and hurtled gaily into the south. So rapid was her flight that in less time than it takes me to tell, the scarlet walls of Chx dwindled in her wake. The landscape, neat, trim checkerboard of cultivated farmland, sped by beneath her keel. Ahead yawned vast empty pits which were sometimes occupied, and sometimes not, by the Vanishing Mountains.

“I find it simply amazing, the facility you poor humans have for constantly getting into trouble,” groused the Bazonga bird as she traversed the farmlands like an immense arrow loosed from some colossal bow. “However do you manage to do it? I no sooner get tied to a tree or whatever, then you are off getting jailed for one reason or another. The last time this happened, if I recall correctly, you and that nice girl were sold into slavery …”

“Yes, that was in Horx,” said Ganelon. “I don’t understand it either, Bird, to be frank. Ever-since father and mother found me wandering about in the Blue Rain, it’s been one predicament after another …”

The vacant roots of the Vanishing Mountains were beneath them now. Ahead stretched a dark, grim landscape of tumbled stone and sterile sand, with the mighty ramparts of the Mountains of Dwarfland to the south, marching from horizon to horizon. The sight reminded Ganelon that the Death Dwarves were their enemies, and on at least one occasion, they had sought to capture them. There was that tune when they had been flying across the Voormish Desert, bound for Karjixia, the Kingdom of the Tigermen, when the little green abominations had sought to ensnare them in a monstrous metallic net stretched directly in their path between the twin peaks of Mount Luz.

“Why are we flying in this direction?” he asked uneasily. “You’re going south, and we want to travel north, towards Jemmerdy.”

“Because the nearest border is south of Chx, that’s why,” replied the Bird tartly. “That nice innkeeper back at the hospice told me. The sun was down by then, you see, and he was more than delighted to aid and abet a jail-break.” She giggled at the odd ways of humans.

Just beyond the empty row of enormous pits, the Bazonga floated down to the ground and let Ganelon jump out.

“You stay right here, now,” she said severely. “Don’t go wandering off and get into any more trouble, mind! Ill just be a little while, finding your master and that nice girl—”

“And Prince Erigon, too,” said Ganelon. “I’m sure master will want to rescue him, as well.”

“Quite right, whomever you mean,” the Bird said in her careless fashion. She rose up from the ground and spun about to go back in the same direction from which she had just flown.

“And don’t forget my sword!” Ganelon yelled as she drifted aloft. “I’m sure master will be able to find it somewhere in the building, and I’d be lost without it.”

“Yes, yes, I shan’t forget! Now, you be a good boy, mind, and don’t go wandering away; m expect to find you right here when I return!”

Ganelon nodded and waved goodbye. The ungainly vehicle shot off to the north, towards Chx, and he stood watching her for a moment The immense glowing orb of the Falling Moon had risen up over the world by this tune, flooding the landscape with brilliant silvery luminance. By the moonlight, the terrain about him looked even more barren and sterile than it had from above. He repressed a slight shiver which came over him for some reason. Then he sat down on the stone slab to patiently await the return of the vehicle.

The Vanishing Mountains, which form the southerly borders between the country of Chx and the Dominion of the Death Dwarves, are a phenomenon unique to Gondwane in the current Eon. Nature, in a state of flux, persists in devising new, novel forms of matter and kinds of life (such as the Dwarves themselves). The prevailing theory by which the Gondwanish savants explain such curiosities, as these off-again-on-again mountains which flicker back and forth between existence and non-existence, is that the atoms whereof the rocky barrier is composed consist half of normal electrons and protons, and half of contraterrone particles, with a single phi-meson on the dividing line. The phi-meson, of course, is a particle of dubious reality, whose genuineness is a matter of statistical probability. Part of the time the meson really odsts, and thus so do the Mountains; the rest of the time the finicky little particle simply isn’t there at all, and neither are the Mountains.

The appearance and disappearance of the peculiar mountain-range is, after all, a matter of little or no importance to anybody in particular. The cliffy heights are not inhabited by anything more lively than a few scruffy lichens and a small colony of disagreeable land-crustaceans, or mountain-dwelling lobsters, who formerly were denizens of the sea. That was a couple of dozen thousand years ago, when the Inland Sea of Voorm occupied most of the barrens about this part of Gondwane. Then the Vanishing Mountains were forced skywards by geological forces, when the crust of Old Earth buckled hereabouts, and the sea receded and finally drained away into the bowels of the planet. Suddenly finding themselves marooned high and dry on the mountain-peaks, the local variety of lobster would doubtless have died out, had it not been for a. sympathetic magician in the neighborhood who cast an. enchantment over them, turning them into mountain dwellers.

The magician in question, an affable personnage called Ulph the Unpredictable, had an innate fondness for marine life which was quite understandable, when you pause to consider his lineage (his mother, that is, was one of the Merfolk).

Even a land-dwelling lobster, by now inured to sudden changes in habitat, finds it difficult to adjust to blinking in and out of Reality. At the period whereof I write, the lobster-colony had been ruminating for some generations a planned migration to the lowlands, away from the Vanishing Mountains. But this is neither here nor there—like the Mountains themselves.

I mention all of this merely to point out the unpredictability of the existence of the Mountains.

They were not there when the Bazonga flew Ganelon to safety; on her return flight, however, the poor creature was less fortunate.

Suddenly, a gigantic wall of rock zoomed up right in front of her nose, so to speak. With a startled squawk, the ungainly animated contraption strove to put on the brakes, but slammed into the rocky wall nonetheless.

Solid bronze is, of course, a tough and durable metal—far less easily broken than steel, for example. Ferrous metals possess a lamentably frangible crystalline structure which permits them to fracture with surprising ease. Hence the bronze bird-vessel was not particularly damaged, even by a head-on collision with a mountain-range.

But her crystalloid brain was somewhat less durable. The impact seemed to stun the poor Bazonga. Her eye-lenses dulling, her beak-jaws wobbling open, she floated back from the impact and drifted idly on the night-breezes, which impelled her to and fro.

From their clefts in the rocky wall, the mountain-dwelling lobsters surveyed the ungainly creature with stalked eyes a-glare. This was the last straw, certainly! If thirty-foot metallic monstrosities were going to be banging into their mountains from now on, surely it was tune to decamp for the comfort and relative security of the lowlands! Packing theh” supplies of edibles, and rounding up the young ones, the heartily offended crustaceans began to migrate in unison, crawling down the slopes of the Vanishing Mountains and paying no further mind to the vacant-eyed Bazonga as she drifted lifelessly on the wind.

7. ESCAPE TO JEOPARDY

From his narrow cell, which was on the interior of the Administratum and, windowless, the Illusionist of Nerelon had no way to judge the moment of nightfall, save for the peculiar behavior of the monitors set to patrol the dungeons.

Promptly at the hour of Moonrise, one of the hard-faced monitors threw down his yarmak, plucked out a bit of chalk from a pocket in his kilt, and began to scrawl something on the wall. Peering interestedly through the bars, the Illusionist could just make out the graffiti. It read:

GLASTRO, NURDIX AND PETRAPHAR ARE A BUNCH OF OLD MEANIES!

His commentary on the rulership of Chx completed, the monitor slunk down the hall to see if he couldn’t rob the off-duty guards, asleep in the barracks.

Grinning to himself, the Illusionist rose to his feet, yawned and stretched lazily, and hurled a minor enchantment at the door of his cell, whose strong metal bars promptly turned to rubber. Stepping out into the corridor, the Illusionist began searching about for his friends. Xarda he discovered, pacing her cell irritably. The girl knight of Jemmerdy was much relieved when the robed and mist-masked magister popped into sight, and even more relieved when the bars of the cell-door wilted like yesterday’s asparagus.

Ganelon they could not find at all, but Prince Erigon, still locked in the subterranean dungeon, was easily found and freed. Using the Third Eye of occult vision, which functions only on the next highest plane of the Plenum, which is called the Astral, it was simple for the old magician to locate the cells of his companions. Auric spectra are clearly visible on the Astral level, and stone walls happen to be invisible on that plane.

“I can’t understand what could have happened to Ganelon,” the Illusionist said fretfully. “I’ve searched the entire area of space occupied, on the Physical plane, by the Administratium and his aura is nowhere to be seen.”

“Could he possibly have escaped, all by himself?” inquired the Skix, a trifle anxiously.

The magician shrugged. “It’s possible, I suppose. The dear boy possesses remarkable strength, and the Time Gods outfitted him with more than a few extraordinary powers which are seldom the possession of ordinary humans. Most of these super-abilities remain mere potentials, as yet, but under stress or duress, there is simply no guessing what the Great Lump might not be able to do.”

“Well, what are we to do? Just go of! and leave him?” she demanded. The magician shrugged helplessly.

“I don’t know what else there is to do!” he confessed. “This is obviously our best opportunity to escape from our captivity and gain the outside world unmolested and unpursued. Once we are free, and have found a place of relative safety, I should be able to ascertain the lad’s whereabouts by means of sortilege or divination. Come, then; let us be off.”

Xarda chewed her lip unhappily. Then, hefting the huge length of the Silver Sword, she said, miserably: “I suppose you are right. At any rate, we have found his magic weapon for him …”

Prince Erigon cleared his throat, a small, polite sound.

“I dislike abandoning a comrade as heartily as do you, for all that my acquaintance with the fellow has been very much briefer, but permit me to suggest that, while we stand here discussing the question, trouble approaches.” He gestured; down the hall a crew of rowdies approached, lustily swigging from small jugs of brandy, and reciting obscene limericks at the top of their lungs. From their soiled and disarranged tabards, it was obvious that the quarrelsome rabble, during the daylight hours, doubled as civic monitors.

Due to the regular night-time crime wave, everybody that should ordinarily have been on duty at the Administratium was off robbing stores, mugging passers-by, tying tin cans to the tails of domestic pets, or committing a malfeasance. The Illusionist, the knightrix, and Prince Erigon of Valardus found it quite easy to escape from the central edifice of the city, with a little help from one of the magician’s invisibility spells.

They returned to the Hospice of the Twelve Cardinal Virtues to find the taproom a seething mass of drunken, struggling men; eluding the several thieves, assassins, burglars and footpads who lurked in the shadows, they went around to the back. They entered the courtyard where they had left their peculiar aerial vehicle, tethered by a mooring-line to one of the tall, flowering zooka-zooka trees.

The tether was still there. So was the tree. But as for the Bazonga, it was obvious that the Bird had flown.

“What do we do now, prithee?” demanded the knightrix of Jemmerdy in a fine temper.

Unfortunately, for once the Illusionist had no adequate reply to make.

After a while, Ganelon was weary of sitting on the stone slab and stood up, looking around him. Turning to cast a glance behind him, he blinked with surprise to discover a gigantic range of mountains blocking the landscape to the south. The mountains had not been there when he and the bird vessel had flown hither; these must be the Vanishing Mountains whereof he had heard so much. He eyed the beetling ramparts with interest: considering they were made of stuff which was only half real, at best, they certainly looked solid and substantial to the untutored eye.

He was still admiring the mountains by moonlight when the Death Dwarves fell upon him.

There were thirty-two of the little green devils, although of course he swiftly became too busy to bother with counting them. He had never before seen one of the odd little monsters up close, and was not particularly happy to discover they were every bit as ugly, as formidable, and as vicious as common rumor made them out to be.

Their average height was somewhere between two-and-a-half and three feet, which meant that they hardly reached above Ganelon’s kneecap. They were colored a vile, poisonous green, covered with lumps like warts only about the size of doorknobs. Their tremendous breadth of shoulders and thick, massively-thewed arms and barrel chests reminded him of the Indigons he had battled on the Plains of Uth.

Bald and hairless, with bullet heads, they had heavy prognathous jaws and long, lipless, gash-like mouths that made them look rather froggy. Froglike, too, were their ugly, goggling eyes which glistened in the moonlight like puddles of spilt ink.

They didn’t wear any clothing to speak of, just odd bits, scraps and pieces of iron armor; but they bristled with weapons. Among these were flint-knives, stone axes, clubs roughly carven from petrified wood, and long spears made from slender stony stalactites, with obsidian blades for points.

They had no ears, and conversed amongst themselves in clicks, squeaks and hissings. They also had no genitals, just bare tough flesh between their crooked little bowlegs, which terminated in ugly, four-toed feet. They emitted a vile medicinal stench, like iodine. The insides of their mouths were black. And they had fat white tongues, like plump worms.

They had obviously been creeping up behind him for some time, taking advantage of the bewildering moonlight to crawl and scuttle among the tilted stone slabs, waddling splay-footedly from inky shadow to inky shadow. Now that they were discovered, this furtive slinking ended abruptly, and they hurled themselves at him with dizzying speed, bouncing across the slabs like so many rubber balls.

Ganelon growled and swung balled fists, batting them aside in mid-leap. He soon discovered that their broad-shouldered little bodies were hard as wood, the outer layers of their epidermis so tough as to be almost petrified. It proved remarkably difficult to hurt the squalling little monsters, but he found their skulls could be cracked open if you pounded their heads against the stone slabs enough times. In quick succession he brained the first three or four who came within reach of his long arms.

They withdrew, squeaking and hissing ominously amongst themselves, eyeing him venomously. Ganelon rested, breathing easily, wishing he had not left the Silver Sword behind him in the Scarlet City. But there was no use in crying over lost weapons. The next time they rushed him he bent, pried a mighty slab out of the crumbling soil and hurled it at them, squashing three or four of them flat as stepped-on toads.

Glancing skywards, he wished the Bazonga bird would come.

They rushed him again, hissing like so many teakettles, jabbing at him with then* stony spears. His criss-cross harness of black leather broke or deflected most of the spear-points, and the few scratches he did suffer hurt him scarcely at all. He grabbed up the first couple of wriggling little monster-men and tried to see how far he could throw them. Try as often as he could, the best he could do was about ten yards.

A change of tactics was needed here, obviously. If he simply stood here and let the little horrors come at him, they might wear him down before he had managed to extinguish all of them. Anti-life, of which the Death Dwarves were a prominent species, were of necessity remarkably difficult to kill, being not quite really alive in the first place.

He decided, after some thought, during which he managed to brain two more of the vile little creatures by hurling loose boulders at them, to make a sprint for the mountains. If he could get far enough above his pursuers, it should prove easy enough to drop big rocks on them, or perhaps trigger off an avalanche of respectable proportions.

With Ganelon, to think was to act. Whirling about, he sprang in the direction of the Vanishing Mountains, with as much speed as he could, considering the broken nature of the landscape. With a hissing cry, the green horde poured after him, waddling and hopping along at his heels.

It was no use; they could move faster than he over the broken slabs of tilted stone. In a few moments, a detachment of Dwarves had moved around in front of him, blocking him off.

He took his stand, and fought.

He was still doggedly knocking them about when they came upon him from behind, and beat him unconscious with stone clubs. Then, with many a spiteful kick in the ribs, the little green monsters trussed the unconscious Construct securely, and began dragging him off to their hidden lair. Within a few moments, save for the dead who lay scattered about, there was nothing on the plain of broken stones to show that a furious battle had been fought here—and had been lost.