Damsel: daughter of Banker Sod (the Governor of the Safrak
Bank). In appearance, she shares some of her father's attributes:
pale skin heavily larded with white body-hair, golden eyes and
golden teeth, a thicket of golden hair upon her head, and
fingernails of jet black. But she has other attributes of her own
which are most definitely female. Her perfume, for example, which
suggests more the flesh than the flower. This comely lass is, in
the Weaponmaster's estimation, seriously infatuated with the said
Weaponmaster, and urgently desirous of making his erotic
acquaintance.

                                                 * * *

        Early in the evening, the young Weaponmaster Guest Gulkan was
seated early in the evening with his brother Morsh Bataar on one
side and the Rovac warrior Rolf Thelemite on the other. But Morsh
made an early night of it, and Rolf drank so strenuously that he
slid under the table at about the same time, and was removed by
diligent servants.
        In his loneliness, Guest was joined by Damsel, the daughter
of Banker Sod. She he had seen from a distance during his earlier
sojourn on Alozay, when she had been but newly nubile. Then, she
had been rumored as a virgin; but her matured confidence made
Guest disinclined to think her a virgin any longer.
        Damsel was like her father Sod in that she was a pale-skinned
person of iceman race, with black fingernails and thick white
bodyhair, with the hair of her head bright in its gold, with her
eyes yellow and her teeth being of a matching lustre. A strange
combination! Yet, after long deprivation, Guest found her comely
indeed.
        These two lasted out the length of the banquet together, by
which time Guest had come to the conclusion that Damsel was
seriously infatuated with him, and was urgently desirous of making
his erotic acquaintance. Therefore Guest did not resist too
strenuously when at last Damsel of the buxom buttocks suggested he
might like to take a break from his social exertions by resting
himself on her bed.
        Soon he was in her boudoir, testing the warm honey between
her thighs. Perched upon his body, she oiled and oozed, gasped and
clutched, and then - greatly to his disconcertment - squealed like
a mouse in agony.
        Had he hurt her? Apparently not, for she did not seek to
dismount; and, once their wrestling was done, she proved an
impeccable hostess. She fed him wine to follow that which he had
drunk already at banquet, and listened with unstinting patience to
his generously drunken boasts. For Guest, who had told Damsel of
his past during the banquet, was now engaged in telling her his
future.
        "We will kill Khmar," said Guest Gulkan.
        "You can hardly defeat Khmar if you must come as beggars to
the Safrak Islands."
        "If this is a beggar's life," said Guest, complacently sated,
"I wish I'd turned beggar before."
        "So begging is enough. Or have you plans for our islands?"
        "Plans?" said Guest, mystified.
        "Plans for conquest."
        "Conquest?" said Guest, so surprised he almost felt sober.
"Us, to conquer Safrak? With what? Our tongues and teeth, perhaps.
Not swords, for certain. Our swords were all surrendered."
        "I think he truths," said the woman Damsel, rising from the
bed. "They are no more than the fools they seem."
        "Who?" said Guest in bewilderment.
        As Guest was gaping for meaning, men came crashing through
paperwork screens, their advent teaching him the identity of at
least one of the fools to whom Damsel had referred. Guest lurched
from the bed. Liquor betrayed him. He was too slow to stop the
first fist which slammed him, and was swiftly battered into
submission by knuckles and elbows.
        "So this is death," said Guest, a blood-thickened voice
speaking through thickened lips.
        He tried to be strong, to be staunch - but found this
difficult since he was naked. Staunchness in the face of death
requires the dignity of sword and shield, or of armor, or of
leathers and rags at a minimum.
        "This is not yet death," said one of Guest's captors, as the
still-naked Weaponmaster was dragged through rockwall corridors.
        "So you will sport with me first."
        "We play no sport with merchandise."
        "Merchandise?"
        "Khmar will pay highly for you. Surely."
        At that, young Guest struggled like a very hurricane trying
to fight its way out of a leather sack. Fates worse than death! He
screamed and he fought. But his best efforts availed not against
his attackers, and, panting with effort, he was flung into a dour
rockwall prison.
        Guest Gulkan was flung so hard that he would have bruised
himself grievously against rock had the prison not been generously
padded with flesh. A small and guttering lamp lit the scene with
enough light to allow that flesh to be identified. Young Guest
untangled himself in a hurry from Bao Gahai.
        "Wa!" said Guest.
        To be seized and imprisoned was bad enough. But to be locked
up with the dralkosh Bao Gahai - that was intolerable!
        There was a long and uncomfortable silence.
        Then:
        "Are you hurt?" said Bao Gahai, her bearded voice husky in
the gloom.
        "Who knows?" said Guest. "Who cares?"
        "I care," said Bao Gahai softly.
        "You!" said Guest. "Why?"
        Bao Gahai hesitated. Then thought:
        - What does it matter?
        "I care," said Bao Gahai, "because - "
        But Bao Gahai never explicated her "because", for the door
burst open. Guest promptly made a break for freedom, but armed men
jabbed at him with spears of a size fit for the harpooning of the
very Great Mink itself. Once the belligerent Weaponmaster had been
forced back against the far wall, other prisoners were hustled
into the cell. The dralkosh Zelafona, and her dwarf-son Glambrax.
The slow-witted Morsh Bataar. The scholarly Sken-Pitilkin. The
master chef Pelagius Zozimus. A fine scooping, this!
        With the door slammed shut and locked against escape, Guest
looked around the cell, scanning all by lantern light. As best he
could, he feigned the staunch self-control of a hero, concealing
his extreme embarrassment at his own nakedness. The Yarglat do not
uncover themselves in public, and while Guest had done as much at
his father's command on the washing-pool island, he would never
voluntarily have done as much in the cells of the mainrock
Pinnacle, for, leaving aside all questions of taboos and
embarrassments, the place was abominably cold. The cell was frigid
and freezing, for all that there was so much flesh stuffed into
it.
        "So," said Guest, when he had summed the faces. "Our own have
not betrayed us."
        "Bravely said," said Morsh Bataar.
        Then Morsh took off his over-length weather jacket, a fleece-
lined item of apparel which he had bought second-hand from one of
his father's league riders many, many days ago in far-off
Gendormargensis, and handed that jacket to Guest. Who took it in
wordless gratitude. The wool was warm, and snugged down to his
thighs.
        Then, since nobody else seemed disposed to do it, Guest began
testing the weaknesses of their place of dungeon, first trying the
window. The window, which led to the outer world, was guarded with
iron bars. The bars admitted great draughts of air for the cooling
of overheated tempers, but would not admit a human.
        "Still," said Guest, giving the iron a slap. "It is but brute
matter. We can gnaw it through in less than a year with teeth and
fingernails alone."
        Lightly he spoke, but had already deduced that even a rupture
of the iron bars would secure them only the liberty to crawl out
onto the sheer cliffside high above the waters. Unless they
searched for sudden death, this liberty was not likely to be
advantageous.
        The young Weaponmaster then turned his attention to the
stones of the cell, and soon determined that they could be
hollowed out by tunneling, though it would probably take four or
five decades for a tunnel of any significance to be made through
rock so hard.
        "The door," said Guest, deciding. "It has to be the door.
Zozimus! Sken-Pitilkin! Have done with this door!"
        So spoke the Weaponmaster, for he was determined to get out
of that cell that very night.
        "If the door were a corpse then I could do with it," said
Zozimus. "But as a mere necromancer, I can do nothing with brute
wooden timbers."
        "And I," said Sken-Pitilkin, "can scarcely make the thing
fly, for it is fixed in position."
        "Then you could jiggle it," said Guest. "You could jiggle it
till it burst."
        "I cannot," said Sken-Pitilkin, "for I have been drinking
strong liquor, and the exercise of wizardry is unwise in
combination with drink. Besides, if I burst the thing, then
shattered wood might fly inwards as likely as outwards."
        Actually, Sken-Pitilkin had been very conservative in his
banqueting, and thought the exercise of wizardry safe in itself.
But could he truly use his powers of levitation to shake the door
till it burst? He did not know, for he had no way of computing the
door's strength.
        It occurred to the sagacious wizard of Skatzabratzumon that
he might conceivably be able to use his powers to manipulate the
very locking mechanism of the door itself. But he said nothing of
that to Guest, for to escape from the prison cell would be to find
themselves at war with the armed strength of Alozay - and Sken-
Pitilkin thought such war likely to end in their deaths.
        Through long generations of experience, the wizards of
Argan's Confederation have learnt that the powers of a lawyer are
ultimately greater than those of a warrior. So, rather than brute
it out with every sword in Alozay, Sken-Pitilkin planned to rest,
and later to use his lawyerly skills to find a way out of his
present predicament by negotiation.
        But Guest had not the lawyer's temperament.
        "Shoulders!" said Guest.
        And Morsh Bataar joined him in rigorously bruising that
portion of the human anatomy against unbruisable timbers.
        "Yunch!" said Guest, giving vent to one of the choice Yarglat
obscenities. "The thing will not give."
        "What did you expect?" said Zozimus. "This is no bridal
suite, you know."
        "Nor I a virgin eager for penetration," said Guest. "Have you
about you perhaps a tinder box, master chef?"
        "I have," said Zozimus, who was seldom without such an
article.
        "Then evidence your skills with it," said Guest. "The hell
with brute force and battery! We'll burn our way out!"
        Obviously Guest was severely drunk, or brain-damaged by the
bruising he had suffered at the hands of his enemies, else would
have realized that fire could easily be started with the cell's
slow-burning lamp. But nobody chose to remind him of this,
thinking that wisdom lay in silence.
        "Zozimus!" said Guest imperiously. "Your tinder box, man!
        Get to it! Get to it, and burn!"
        Now Zozimus was not wise, not in comparison with a true
master of the intellect like Hostaja Torsen Sken-Pitilkin, yet the
slug-chef possessed sense enough not to argue with an ox of a boy
when the worst temper in that boy was bent upon works of wreckage.
So, even though Zozimus knew full well that what Guest proposed
was impossible, he yet consented to kindle fire. However, as Guest
soon proved to his own dissatisfaction by experiment, nothing is
so reluctant to burn as a big burly door chunked out of planks
thicker than a wrestler's thigh.
        It is a commonplace error to think that wood burns easily. It
does not. Wooden houses burn of a regularity, but the prior
combustion of curtains clothes carpets wickerwork and children's
toys is necessary to set walls and roof alight. Wooden forests not
uncommonly perish in flame, but grass and undergrowth must be well
alight before the shafting timbers of the trees themselves catch
fire. Ships of wood likewise succumb to conflagration, but it is
in ropes, rubbish, sails and paint lockers that the chief danger
lies. The ardors of your very household fire must be carefully
conjured into life with handfuls of pine needles and sticks of
fine-split kindling - and must not the wood be dry? And a
ventilating draught provided for its enlivenment?
        State it as a certainty: a bulky chunk of timber untainted by
oils and paints will stand staunch against all but the greatest
efforts to set it alight. Even when it burns, thick wood does not
burn through quickly; not does it easily lose its strength, even
though the surface be charred. Hence, as most doors are timber in
bulk, your most learned experts in incendiarism advise that,
should you be trapped in a burning building, your survival will be
prolonged by closing the door against the blaze and mugging all
cracks with damp cloth to ward against the infiltrations of smoke.
So it is next to useless to try to escape by burning a hole
through a wooden door.
        But Guest had forgotten this, or, like a starving man trying
to keep himself alive by eating his shirt, had hoped that reality
would alter its nature to accommodate his needs.
        It did not.
        By the time the prisoners had exhausted their small stock of
expendable burnables (Bao Gahai's handkerchief, clogged with moist
deposits of green and yellow snot; three packets of dried herbs
extorted from Zozimus by threat; and a Book of Verbs which Guest
Gulkan extracted from Sken-Pitilkin's possession after violent
argument and then burnt with an expression of what looked
suspiciously like satisfaction), the door manifested no
conspicuous sign of injury, though its surface had been liberally
smeared with soot.
        Though Guest had found but little to burn, the burning had
generated smoke and fumes in prodigious quantities. Despite the
generous draughts which circulated within the cell, the air was
still filled with the sour reeking smoke which had issued from
Sken-Pitilkin's incinerated verbs, with the variously pleasant and
unpleasant stinks of Zozimus's herbs, and with the scabrous fumes
released by the incineration of Bao Gahai's handkerchief. Bao
Gahai and Zelafona were both coughing, and had become exceedingly
irritable; and Guest Gulkan's own temper had been in no wise
improved by this debacle.
        "This failed," said Guest decisively. "But other schemes and
stratagems will not. There must be a way out!"
        "Yes," said Sken-Pitilkin wearily. "Through the door. They
will open it, in time, and drag us out. Thus we escape."
        Sken-Pitilkin spoke for all, for everyone was in a mood to
settle down and sleep. It was late; they were weary; and Guest
Gulkan's prowlings were unsettling each and all to the point where
they were quite unable to pretend to themselves that they were
getting comfortable. But Guest, disregardful of his companions'
comfort, decided to attack the bars guarding the sewer-hole built
into the corner to the right of the window.
        "Move aside," said Guest to Glambrax, for the dwarf had
settled himself by the sewer in order to be spared from
involvement in the Weaponmaster's frenetic escape attempts.
        "You're mad," said Glambrax.
        "Yes," said Guest, taking the dwarf by the ear, "and my
madness oft expresses itself in the strangulation of dwarves."
        Then, having hauled Glambrax out of the way, the Weaponmaster
attacked the sewer bars. Those bars were old, and, by dint of
prodigious wrenching which almost ruptured his gut, Guest tore
the iron away from the anchoring stone.
        "Free!" said Guest.
        "Free to spit," said Sken-Pitilkin, "for there is no way we
can crawl down a hole so small."
        Nor could they, for it was far too small to admit a normal
human frame.
        "Glambrax!" said Guest.
        "It's too small for me, too," said Glambrax.
        And so it was. For Glambrax, though but a stumpy dwarf, had
bulky shoulders and a full-sized head, and experiment soon proved
that it was quite impossible for him to escape through such a hole
even when he was being assisted by Guest Gulkan's boot. Besides,
supposing he had, what then? The cold draught coming up from below
suggested the sewer ran instantly out to the cliff-face,
connecting with the limitless gulfs of the night air. Escape by
sewer, like escape through the window, would offer nothing more
than an improved view, or the chance of a brisk suicide.
        "Still," said Guest, wielding one of the iron bars he had
torn from its imprisoning stone, "we now have weapons."
        To demonstrate his point, he strode to the door and struck it
a vicious blow with this stumpy little cosh. Iron hit timber;
timber grunted; and iron exploded in a shower of rust. Guest
looked in astonishment at the disintegrated ruins of his iron bar.
        "That is a famously dangerous weapon, brother," said Morsh
Bataar, combing his fingers through his hair to remove fragments
of rust, "for you strike at one and hit a thousand."
        "I must have a weapon!" said Guest, throwing down the
fragment of iron which yet remained in his fist.
        "We have weapons in plenty," said Sken-Pitilkin wearily. "The
weapons which we were born with. Teeth, nails, elbows, knees. All
weapons in their way. But the greatest weapon in the human arsenal
is intelligence. I suggest we use that greatest weapon now."
        "How?" said Guest.
        "By going to sleep!" retorted Sken-Pitilkin.
        At which the cell's single guttering lamp voluntarily and
without encouragement extinguished itself, leaving them in
darkness.
        "There is still the ceiling," said Guest.
        "Yes, yes," said Sken-Pitilkin, with visions of Guest pulling
down an avalanche of unseated rock, stone and masonry upon his
hapless fellow captives, "and the ceiling will still be there on
the morrow. Down, boy, and kennel!"
        "You call me boy?" said Guest.
        "I call you boy, dog, beast, fish, fowl and fool," said Sken-
Pitilkin. "Now get to sleep! Lest the adults here loose patience
with the frolics of your childhood."
        "I am no boy," said Guest truculently. "I am a war leader, a
commander of generals."
        "A commander of generals, yes," said Sken-Pitilkin. "And a
supervisor of their vomit-eating competitions. Zozimus! Will you
not help me reason this boy to sense? Zozimus! Zozimus, pox you!
Beasts and bitches! The thing's asleep!"
        "So might we be," said Bao Gahai acidly, "were it not for an
overly loud-voiced old fool of a tutor, who has not even such a
modest gift as cookery at his command."
        One does not argue with a dralkosh. Not, at least, when one
is caged with the thing in a small box of unescapable stone. So
Hostaja Torsen Sken-Pitilkin settled himself on the stones of the
cell and tried to go to sleep.
        Silence, but for some smoke-inspired coughing from Glambrax
and some snoring from Zozimus.
        Then:
        A skrittling-scratching, as if some creature with murderous
talons was clawing the bulking timbers of the jailcell door.
        "Guest!" said the hoarse voice of Bao Gahai.
        "What?" said Guest Gulkan.
        "I don't know what you're doing or what you hope to
accomplish by it," said Bao Gahai, "but I adjure you to stop."
        "You adjure me, do you?" said Guest Gulkan, rigorously
unimpressed. "And who are you to adjure anything?"
        "I am Bao Gahai," said she venomously. "You will not trifle
with me. I am Bao Gahai, birthed nine thousand years before your
daylight. I am Bao Gahai, Lord of Shadow, Commander of Darkness,
Invoker of Doom."
        "Very impressive," said Guest, still unimpressed. "How kind
of you to coop together here with us ordinary mortals."
        Then he resumed his attack on the door. Scritch scritch!
Scratch scratch!
        "Guest!" said Bao Gahai savagely.
        "Yes?" said Guest.
        "Stop it. Or else."
        "Or else what?" said Guest, for all the world like a small
child daring its mother.
        No answer came.
        So:
        Scritch scritch scratch scratch.
        "Guest!"
        "Yes?"
        "If you don't stop that, right now, I'll - "
        "You'll what?"
        There was a pause, then Bao Gahai said, very slowly, very
clearly, and with the vehemence of murderous intent:
        "Guest, if I have any more trouble from you tonight, I will
shit in my hand and rub the result from your chin to your
eyebrows."
        Guest thought about it.
        Then scritched and scratched again.
        Once.
        Twice.
        Thrice.
        While those yet awake in the cell - meaning everyone but the
slumberous Zozimus - waited for mayhem to be unleashed.
Fortunately, having scritched and scratched at the door those
three last times, Guest decided that honor had been satisfied,
and settled himself to sleep. Soon he too was snoring, only
somewhat more loudly than Zozimus. Bao Gahai stayed awake a little
longer, as if assuring herself that Guest was really asleep. Then
she too dropped off, and the lurching discords of her saw-voiced
snore began to rip the air.
        With all this snoring going on, the scholarly Sken-Pitilkin
found sleep impossible. Instead, he sat lamenting his fate. Once
he had been the commander of a great empire. Once he had ruled in
unimaginable power. In later years, he had lived quite comfortably
as a lord of dragons and master of the island of Drum, until his
peace had been disturbed when Zozimus, Zelafona and Glambrax had
sought refuge on that island, bringing killers from the
Confederation of Wizards in their wake.
        And now he was a fugitive, a renegade displaced from his
castle, accursed of the Confederation, unwelcome in his homeland
and hunted by his peers. He had sheltered as best he could on the
unhospitable earth of Tameran, doing what he must to secure his
survival - even stooping to tutoring when that proved the only way
for him to win his bread! But now he was doomed to come to a
wretched end, unless he could by his wizardry or his lawmongery
secure his release from Alozay.
        And even if he could secure his release, what then?
        Where would he go?
        And what would he do?
        So brooded Sken-Pitilkin, until his peace was shattered as
the door cracked and splintered with a bursting roar. And what a
roar! It boomed and burst like a dragon in its rages, or like one
of Pelagius Zozimus's experimental steam cookers exploding into
fragments, or like a great heap of Tang's percussive toys all
simultaneously erupting into flash and thunder.
        That roar, and the splintering of the door which accompanied
it, brought Zozimus abrupting from sleep.
        "Dragons!" cried Zozimus.
        But it was not dragons but men, as a moment's listening made
plain. For, through the shattered door there came the sounds of
murder, the killing-clash of steel, the bellows of battle.
        "The door!" said Guest, wrenching at the fractured timbers.
"The door, the door! Help me!"
        But only Morsh Bataar joined him in his onslaught on that
barrier. Without, the enemy was surely slaughtering off those of
the Witchlord's men whom they had not been able to take by
surprise and overcome by stealth. By escaping into such battle,
unarmed and unarmored, Guest Gulkan would only add his own corpse
to the slaughter heap.
        "Glut!" said Morsh, swearing. "The door holds!"
        At which there was another shattering explosion. The blast
slammed through the shattered door and dumped the would-be heroes
on their backsides.
        "Blood's grief!" said Guest, raising himself to his elbows.
"Am I alive, or what?"
        None answered, until Bao Gahai chose to answer thus:
        "Hush, child. Hush, child, and sleep."
        Sleep! To advise such was lunacy. For none could so much as
close their eyes. Surely Bao Gahai was quite deranged! As for
Guest, he had not the slightest thought of sleep. He was waiting
with the others. One and all, they were waiting for another
explosion, all sure that a third such would kill them.
        "What raises such thunder from living rock?" wondered Morsh
Bataar, not seriously expecting an answer.
        "There are oils which your anatomist can dissect out of the
living flesh of dragons," said Zozimus grimly. "Such oils, abused
for purposes of war, can conjure explosion, albeit at great
expense."
        Then none spoke further, for outside were screams of
anguished murder. The wreckage of the door shook as someone
crashed against it. There was a howl of blood-pumping fury. Iron
smashed iron. Flesh wrenched itself in agony's outcry. Then came a
groan, a guttering gasp, a death-moan.
        "Had we but weapons!" said Guest, with clench-fist
frustration.
        The ultimate weapon is the warrior, yet a warrior unweaponed
is but a poor thing, and a washerwoman with an axe can overcome
him. Surely the Witchlord's people were putting up a fight; yet,
just as surely, they must be being killed out, for without weapons
they could not prevail against their enemies.
        At last the sounds of killing diminished down to nothing.
        "Blood," said Guest.
        Contemplating his prospects.
        His father dead. He himself a prisoner, trapped on Safrak.
His enemies meaning to sell him to Khmar.
        "If die I must then now I'll die," said Guest, seizing one of
the shattered timbers of the door and wrenching. "Now! Not later!"
        His efforts provoked a wrenching scream of wood - an agony as
great as that of one of the men so lately killed. The door did not
yield, but its protest was heard by someone outside. Iron-shod
boots rang on rock, approaching the door.
        "Who's there?" cried a burly voice.
        The voice spoke Eparget!
        "Here!" shouted Guest, answering in that same Yarglat tongue.
"Here! Here! Within!"
        "Who?" said the battle-booted voice, now outside the
shattered door.
        "Why, the Weaponmaster Guest Gulkan," said that same self-
boasting young man. "Unloose me!"
        "Unloose you? Why?"
        "Unloose me, that I may fight."
        "Fight?" said the warrior without. "Fight? Fighting is the
least and last of things we need. I'll not let you out if fighting
is your creed."
        "You bloodpoxed box of sheep shit!" roared Guest. "Unloose
me, or I'll rip your brains out!"
        And he tore at the ragged door, though still it held.
Outside, the war-booted warrior laughed uproariously, encouraging
Guest yet further in his fury. Then there were shouts, their
import indistinguishable to the prisoners in the cell.
        "It's Guest, my lord!" said the war-booted warrior.
        Tramping footsteps echoed from stone to stone.
        Then:
        "Guest?"
        It was Lord Onosh, the Witchlord himself, deep-voiced, with a
note of bloodstained victory in the triumph of his voice.
        "It's him," said Bao Gahai. "And me."
        "Love of the gods!" said the Witchlord Onosh, speaking
fervently. "I thought the pair of you perished!"
        "And I likewise thought you dead," said Guest, speaking from
the cell-murk. "How live you?"
        "Through the grace of weapons," said Lord Onosh. "A key! A
key! Who's got the key? You - a key for this cell. What? What's
that you say? How in the five hells would I know! Well, look for
it, man! Don't just stand there! Strolth! Hurry yourself, you son
of a gaplax! Or will it take cold iron in your arse to move you?"
        This last was said at a full-pitched roar, suggesting that
the object of the Witchlord's wrath had almost hurried out of
earshot, gone to look for the key to the cell of imprisonment.
        "Weapons," said Guest, when no further outburst followed.
"Whence came weapons? We had none."
        "We had many," said Lord Onosh, by way of contradiction.
        "Where?" said Guest.
        "In the treasure chests," said Lord Onosh, levering at door
timbers with his broadbladed battle-sword. "We brought ten chests
of treasure to Safrak. Ten chests of iron and steel."
        "But," said Guest, bewildered, "those chests held gold, and
diamonds. They were checked! I saw the Bankers check them!"
        "Checked once, and not again," said Lord Onosh, wood giving
way before the cunning leverage of his steel. "Deep water took the
greater part of the treasure, and we replaced that greater part
with steel made for war. Here, you, pass me the lamp. Guest - take
this!"
        A breach having been opened in the door, a lamp was passed
inside the cell.It showed weary faces, the ashes of incinerated
herbs, the sad remains of a charcoaled Book of Verbs, the
blackened fibers of a handkerchief, and much scattered rust.
        A little more wood-wrenching, and a gap large enough for
escape had been wrenched in the door. The prisoners accordingly
made their exit.
        "Why, my son," said Lord Onosh. "You're naked below the knee,
and most of the way above it!"
        "It is the fashion," said Guest.
        "Not if I have anything to do with it," said Lord Onosh. "Ho!
You! The key! You have it? No? Then - come here! Your clothes,
man. Your clothes beneath the navel!"
        Thus Guest gained borrowed clothes, though they were far too
small for him, and he split several seams in the process of making
himself decent.
        "So," said Lord Onosh. "I have my son. Right. Now we can
fight to the docks, and be gone."
        "Be gone!" said Guest, in dismay.
        "Yes," said Lord Onosh. "What else?"
        "I thought us surely to fight for Alozay," said Guest.
        "There are too many of them," said Lord Onosh. "They are too
strong. The best we can hope for is to escape. If the boats which
brought us to the island are still at the docks, we - "
        But then the Witchlord broke off, hearing renewed shouting in
the distance.
        "Ho, men!" cried Lord Onosh. "War!"
        And, nothing more needing saying, the Witchlord went pounding
toward the outcry.
        "A sword!" cried Guest. "A sword! A sword! My kingdom for a
sword!"
        As the young Weaponmaster at that stage possessed no kingdom,
this advertisement attracted no swords to his possession. But
someone thrust a small reaping sickle into his hands, and, seeing
that this was all the armament he was likely to instantly procure,
the Weaponmaster Guest gave chase to his father.
        Guest caught his father at the head of a stairway which led
downward. Weaponmaster grabbed Witchlord.
        "Father," said Guest.
        "My son," said the Witchlord.
        "These stairs," said Guest, "they go upwards. Upstairs
there's a demon, it can make you a wizard, there's a Great God in
the temple, the Temple of Blood, Obooloo, that's what the demon
said, and the Great God's a prisoner."
        Lord Onosh looked at his son in astonishment.
        "What are you on about?" said Lord Onosh.
        "My lord," said Sken-Pitilkin, alarmed to hear Guest babbling
about demons and Great Gods. "You son was ill when he was last on
Alozay. He had a fever, and hallucinations from the fever. He - "
        "It's true!" said Guest.
        Then discourse came to an end, for a squad of Alozay's
resident Guardians came storming up the stairs. Those mercenary
warriors were outnumbered by the Witchlord's men, but they
attacked savagely regardless. All was briefly a whirl of battle,
and when it was over -
        "Guest!" said Lord Onosh, looking around. "Where are you?"
        "The boy has gone upstairs," said Sken-Pitilkin.
        "Then he is quite mad," said Lord Onosh.
        And, as the Weaponmaster Guest Gulkan went upwards toward
Safrak's Hall of Time, the Witchlord led his forces downwards -
abandoning Guest to the uncertainties of whatever fate awaited
him.