Nijidith River: a flux of filth which flows out from Stench
Caves and down to Lake Kak, that singularly unpristine body of
water on the shores of which stands the city of Obooloo, capital
of the Izdimir Empire.

                                                 * * *

        Guest Gulkan dragged his father from the river. It was him!
It was him! Guest smoothed his hand over the steep slope of his
father's forehead, feeling beneath his fingers the corrugations of
the deep ridges gouged in the bone of that forehead, ridges which
ran from hairline to eyebrows. He was too devastated to weep.
        As Guest sat there on the banks of the Nijidith river,
kneeling beside his father's corpse, that corpse opened its eyes.
        "Wah!" said Guest, taking very much by surprise.
        "So you too are dead," said Lord Onosh.
        Guest thought about it a moment, then declared that, in his
considered opinion, neither of them was dead, as unlikely as that
might seem.
        "I think you wrong," said Lord Onosh. "I thing the pair of us
certainly dead, for where could this be if it is not in hell?"
        Now the Witchlord was being perfectly reasonable when he
delivered himself of this opinion, for in all truth the landscape
in which the two Yarglat barbarians were marooned did look very
much like one of the uncouth outlands of hell.
        Guest conceded as much.
        "Yet," said Guest, "I believe us to be alive."
        "Then all I can say," said his father, "is that it would be
much more convenient if we were dead."
        To this gloomy sentiment, Guest voiced no opposition. For
survival was sheer depression in such a brutalized landscape, and
all the Weaponmaster really wanted to do was to collapse. He was
ragged with lack of sleep, his throat was sore, his belly was
griping, and he was so severely bruised that to move was to
inflict upon himself a savagery of suffering.
        Yet, being disciplined in the necessities of war, both
Witchlord and Weaponmaster did get themselves moving, and shambled
along the riverbank, heading downstream until they saw what looked
to be a surviving hut atop an unwashed knoll.
        "The hut," said Guest, pointing it out.
        "Huhn," grunted his father.
        And no debate more complicated than that, the two bent their
footsteps toward the hut, where they found a peasant family
engaged in taking a meal.
        There were eight or nine peasants - it was hard to count them
exactly, since three or four of the smallest were sitting under an
outside table at the feet of their elders - and one of these was a
young woman who was breastfeeding a piglet. This scene of
indulgence reminded Guest of another young woman - perhaps the
very same one - whom he had seen performing a similar action while
he was on his way to the Stench Caves.
        "Hello," said Guest, trying to smile, and doing his best to
look more like a man and less like a zombie.
        He was greeted with blank incomprehension.
        "Speak you the Galish Trading Tongue?" said Guest, voicing
the question in that language.
        The same mute, uncomprehending stares were echoed back to him
by way of reply.
        "Toxteth?" said Guest. "Galsh Ebrek. Wen Endex. Understand?"
        In educated company, the names of places often rouse a
response where other vocabulary fails, but none of these peasants
was geographer enough to have heard of any place so foreign as Wen
Endex.
        "Never mind," said Lord Onosh. "We don't have to talk to
them. We can take what we want."
        "Can we?" said Guest, casting hungry eyes on the chickens
which were grucking around under upturned baskets of loose-woven
cane. "We have no swords, and I for one am in no mood for war."
        "Never mind," said Lord Onosh.
        Then the Witchlord took off his boot, pulled the cornucopia
from his foot, and wrung out the cornucopia as best he could. None
of the peasants reacted to the sight of this device, so Guest
presumed they did not realize its import.
        Having thus readied the cornucopia, Lord Onosh reached out
and took a handful of soy beans from a cast iron bowl which sat in
the middle of the peasants' table. None of the peasants made any
move to stop him, for he was bigger and brawnier than they were.
Indeed, from the paralysed steadfastness of their silence, Guest
deduced that they thought both Witchlord and Weaponmaster to be
ghouls or demons, and not creatures to be challenged or otherwise
trifled with.
        Having seized a handful of soy beans, Lord Onosh let them
fall into the cornucopia, then upended the thing.
        A dribble of soy beans spilt from the cornucopia's crumpled
green cone. Then, with a rustling hiss, a cascade of beans slewed
forth, piling up around the Witchlord's feet. Suddenly, Lord Onosh
began to laugh. Despite his fatigue, his hunger, his unappeased
thirst, he was enraptured by the sheer childish pleasure of
working a miracle. Such was his engrossment in this task that he
walked right round the hut, spilling out a track of soy beans.
        "Enough!" said Guest.
        At which his father brought the cornucopia to the vertical.
It made a terminal grockling sound as it swallowed anything that
was left inside it, then was silent. Empty.
        At all this, the peasants sat and stared, for these
shenanigans were totally beyond their experience, and they had no
repertoire of reaction which was adequate to the occasion. Then a
full-grown pig came porking up the slope to the hut, and began to
trough its way through the spilt soy beans, eating with a sanguine
confidence which persuaded the peasants to follow suit.
        As the peasants started in on the soy beans - tentatively at
first, as if fearing that what was undenied to a pig might yet be
denied to them - Witchlord and Weaponmaster seated themselves at
the table and helped themselves to long and greedy draughts of
potable water. As if realizing that their guests might be human
beings, and humans beings sorely beset by adversity, the oldest of
the female peasants - a venerable materfamilias with a face seamed
like a gray mudswamp in a time of drought - began to fuss around
them. Before she was through, a pair of straw sandals had been
procured for Guest's sore feet, and the food on the table had been
supplemented by a bowl of boiled potatoes and a plate of raw
mushrooms.
        Comforted by this attention, both Witchlord and Weaponmaster
began to start to feel human again. They ate prodigiously, downing
handfuls of soy beans. Working away at the munchiness of those
beans, Guest found they brought back memories of Dalar ken Halvar,
where he had often eaten the same provender.
        The peasants relaxed, chattering away to each other in their
own language. Listening to these gray-skinned Janjuladoola people
talking in the Janjuladoola tongue, the two Yarglat barbarians
were painfully reminded of the fact that they were marooned on a
foreign continent where they spoke not a word of the dominant
language, and where they were unlikely to run into more than an
occasional smattering of people who spoke their own native
Eparget.
        Consequently, there was absolutely no point in whoring off
into the hinterland in the hope of somehow finding a way off the
continent by land or sea. They did not know the language; they had
no money; and they would draw undue attention to themselves if
they went around routinely performing miracles with the
cornucopia.
        There remained to them but one sensible course of action: to
follow the Nijidith to Obooloo, which city could reasonably be
expected to have been disordered by flood, and in that city to
venture to Achaptipop, the great rock which sustained the
Sanctuary of the Bondsmans Guild. If they could only win
admission to that Bank, then the Circle of the Partnership Banks
would take them to Dalar ken Halvar, where Guest's wife Penelope
was surely waiting for his return, and then on to Alozay, where
Lord Onosh had his kingdom.
        "If," said Guest, as they discussed this, "your kingdom has
not been somehow subverted or overthrown in your absence."
        "I doubt very much that it has been," said Lord Onosh. "For
Sod was as hostage on Alozay, and Bao Gahai was in charge of his
custody."
        Guest thought this a less than adequate guarantee of the
security of his father's kingdom, but did not dispute with him.
Nor did he dispute with his father when Lord Onosh retained the
cornucopia - seeming to think it his own property. While Guest was
greatly displeased at his father's presumption, he thought that
now was not the time for a confrontation over the matter, so held
his tongue on the journey to Obooloo.
        Witchlord and Weaponmaster traveled cautiously, taking time
to rest, sleep and scavenge in accordance with their requirements,
and so it was dawn on a summer's day when they finally entered the
city of Obooloo.
        That city was beset by a dreadful desolation. The whole city
was one reeking morass of urine, and nobody moved in the streets.
One might have thought the population dead, but for constant and
unnerving wailing which arose from ten thousand buildings. It was
the wailing of sinners beseeching the gods for mercy.
        For the people of Obooloo knew nothing of Guest's discovery
of the cornucopia and his use of it. All they knew was that the
gods had pissed on their city, filling the Nijidith with a torrent
of filth which had caused Lake Kak to rise and storm the city with
sundering pollution. Now, in dread, the people of Obooloo tried to
stave off a repeat performance, or to advert the imminent end of
the world which so many of them feared.
        So Witchlord and Weaponmaster proceeded without opposition
into the heart of the city, guided by the great rock Achaptipop,
which landmarked the way when they were confused by the backstreet
bafflings of this alien urbanization. But their progress toward
Achaptipop took them inevitably closer to the Temple of Blood, and
when Guest realized he was in the presence of that building -
which was unmistakable, since there was no other great building
immediately south of Achaptipop - he drew his father's attention
to the fact.
        "You're not thinking of going in there, are you?" said Lord
Onosh.
        To Lord Onosh, the Temple of Blood was the place where he had
been sorely wounded, then captured. To Lord Onosh, the Temple of
Blood was the scene of one of the worst traumas of his life. But
to Guest, the fighting in the Temple had been but a trifling
incident. After all, what was a swordpoint brawl to a hero who has
faced the Great Mink in a gladiatorial arena, who has dared the
wrath of two therapists, and who has escaped alive from the very
mouth of a murkbeast?
        "If you're in such a great big hurry to get home," said
Guest, "then go ahead. If that's what you want, I'll dare the
temple on my own."
        Whereupon his father produced the cornucopia, spat in it, and
declared himself armed for the expedition. Carrying the cornucopia
upright, the Witchlord then headed toward the Temple of Blood,
declaring that any opposition would see the entire city digested
by the outflux of his saliva.
        Guest Gulkan thought his father's spittle to be but a poor
weapon with which to defy the strength of a Temple, let alone the
undiluted might of an entire city, but it was the best weapon they
had. Their swords had been lost in the Stench Caves of Logthok
Norgos, and since that loss they had met nobody from whom they
could beg, borrow or steal any replacements. In particular,
soldiers were so short on the ground that it was possible that
perhaps the army had committed suicide en masse as an act of
contrition for presumed offences against the gods.
        With Lord Onosh bearing the cornucopia, Witchlord and
Weaponmaster won their way to the Temple of Blood, and, entering
by the unguarded southern gate, found the interior of that sacred
place to be eerily silent.
        They found their way to the central courtyard which held the
Burning Pit, which was today very much an unburning pit - for it
was full of squelched ashes. Amidst those ashes, Guest saw a
ribcage, a cracked skull and a thighbone. Turning his face from
these grim tokens of piety, he looked up - and realized that the
southern face of the great rock Achaptipop was covered with
crawling figures. Like so many spiders, dozens of penitents were
scaling the face of the cliff, as they always do when the city of
Obooloo has suffered some great misfortune.
        Those human spiders were climbing without ropes, and, even as
Guest watched, one slipped and fell. In utter silence. Guest
listened, but heard no scream, no sound of impact - nothing but
the unending wail of ten thousand mourners and the hoarse
gutturals of a distant shout which might have been entirely
unrelated to the fallen climber.
        "Come," said the Witchlord, leading the way into the tunnel
which exited from the courtyard's eastern side.
        Guest followed, splashing through rank puddles of his own
urine, which further soaked the ruinous wads of his straw sandals.
In such manner, Guest ventured the fumbling darkness till he saw
ahead the green glow of the demon Ungular Scarth.
        Witchlord and Weaponmaster found that the octagonal chamber
which housed the demon was still graced with a metal grille which
allowed one to walk across the pool of liquid filth which
dominated that room.
        When that pool had been temporarily drained so a ring of
ever-ice could be recovered from the floor of the chamber, a small
portion of the metal grille had been removed to admit a man, but
this portion had been replaced, and the once-drained pool had been
flooded again. It occurred to Guest that maybe Anaconda Stogirov,
the notorious High Priestess of the Temple of Blood, had arranged
for the chamber to be flooded with liquid filth as a way of
demeaning the untouchable demon which dominated the room with its
green icelight.
        "Greetings," said Guest Gulkan.
        "And to you, greetings," said Ungular Scarth. "I see you have
the knife. Is it Anaconda's knife, or did you take it from the
Mutilator?"
        "I took it from the Mutilator," said Guest.
        "And you have the cornucopia," said Scarth, speaking to the
Witchlord. "So! That explains the misfortune which has beset
Obooloo!"
        "One would have thought you would have guessed that much
already," said Lord Onosh.
        "I should have," admitted Scarth. "But I am as other people
are. When legend speaks of the cornucopia, it speaks of the
generation of silver, of gold, of wealth beyond imagining. It says
nothing of pissing."
        "That is the difference between legend and life," said Guest.
        "Yes," said the demon. "And there is a further difference.
The people of legend have more sense than the people of life. Why
are you wearing those gutter-tread sandals when your father has
boots?"
        "Am I to kill my father for his boots?" said Guest.
        "It may well be that you will end by killing your father,"
said Scarth, "but I was not talking of murder. The cornucopia,
man! If the boots are folded, they will fit!"
        Then Guest felt properly foolish, for he knew his father's
feet to be a match for his own.
        "Never mind that," said Guest, unbuckling the sheath which
held the Mutilator's hooked knife. "We'll see about boots later."
        With that, Guest Gulkan withdrew the Mutilator's blade from
its sheath.
        And wondered.
        How had the demon Ungular Scarth detected the presence of that
weapon when it had been hidden from sight inside the buckle-down
sheath? Maybe ... maybe by logic alone. For, after all, Guest
would not have ventured idly into the Temple of Blood. His
presence in that Temple implied that he had secured resource
sufficient for the liberation of the Great God.
        With knife in hand, Guest Gulkan advanced upon the Great God
Jocasta, who hung silent and unchanging in the air. While Guest
advanced, his father hung well back, taking care to keep well out
of reach of the demon Ungular Scarth. For Lord Onosh did not trust
the demon further than he could throw it.
        While Lord Onosh had profound reservations about the demon
and the Great God it served, Guest Gulkan had none such. He smiled
upon the Great God, which presented the same aspect to the world
as it had done when Guest had seen it first. It was a doughnut the
size of a man's head, floating in the air within two shells of
light - a dull red inner shell of its own production, and a sharp-
burning outer shell of blue which constituted its imprisonment.
        "Hail, Jocasta," said Guest, with due formality.
        The Great God made no reply, and the demon Ungular Scarth did
not speak on its behalf.
        Then Guest applied the blue-green bead at the end of the
Mutilator's hooked knife to the surface of the blue-burning shell
which imprisoned the Great God.
        As the knife touched the force field, it began to vibrate,
setting Guest's teeth on edge. He had expected the knife to slice
apart the transparent shell, but instead it twisted wickedly and
skidded across the surface.
        "More strength!" said Scarth.
        "More!" said Guest. "I am using strength enough to open a
coconut!"
        "More," affirmed Scarth. "Use your muscle!"
        Then Guest gritted his teeth and applied his full strength to
the task. His hands, his arms, his entire body shook with
vibratory energy. A thin line of white fire appeared, and widened
to a slit.
        "I've done it!" said Guest.
        And withdrew the knife.
        The slit promptly healed itself.
        "The force field is self-sustaining," said Ungular Scarth.
"Self-sustaining, self-healing."
        "Now you tell me!" said Guest.
        "Try again," said the demon.
        "Again!" said Guest, who was sweating heavily, and who could
feel his forearms shaking with the effort of his exertions.
        "Are you a weakling?" sneered the demon.
        "Am I weak?" said Guest, with an ill temper. "Well, yes, I
am, because I have suffered in the dungeons of the Mutilator, and
suffered in the Stench Caves, and suffered from bedless wandering
since, and I am in no mood to be trifled with!"
        "I do not call the liberation of gods a matter of trifling,"
said Scarth, softly. "Look! The Great God is ready!"
        At which Guest saw that the red glow of the Great God's self-
protective force field was dying away. Where there had been two
spheres of light, now only one remained: the outer sphere of
imprisoning blue. Guest realized that the Great God was preparing
to exit, was preparing to escape.
        "Your strength, now," said Ungular Scarth. "Use your strength,
and liberate a god!"
        Thus encouraged, Guest scraped the ruinous mess of his straw
sandals from his feet, and braced his bare feet against the
rigidity of the metal grille. Then, with all the brutality at his
command, Guest hacked a great slice through the blue-burning skin
of the force field. Before the slit could heal, the Great God
pushed its way to liberty, birthing itself with a sound like a
breaking harpstring.
        "Ha!" said Guest, his face alight with a grin of triumph.
"So! You are free! Well, here I am!"
        There he was, indeed, and the Great God Jocasta was duly
conscious of the fact. Liquid fire ran through Guest Gulkan's
veins. Images swirled through his head in a dementing turmoil. He
felt dizzy, and almost dropped the knife he was holding. A hand
which was not his own forced that knife to the challenge, but the
hand was his own, his own hand but not his own to control, and his
head was turning, his body was turning, he was turning on his
father, the knife was poised to kill -
        Then Guest found tongue enough to cry and yelled:
        "Run!"
        Lord Onosh took the hint, and fled.
        Then Guest Gulkan, hopelessly possessed by the Great God
Jocasta, was puppeted into the pursuit of his father.
        With his son in hot pursuit, Lord Onosh raced into the
central courtyard, slipped in a puddle of urine and went down. And
before he could rise, his son was upon him.
        Guest felt his own hand wrench at his father's hair. Felt his
own strength smash his father's face to the reeking urine. Felt
his knotted fingers haul his father's face from the splash-puddle,
then twist it, exposing to knife to the blade.
        Then - compelled by the Great God Jocasta, which had him in
firm possession - Guest Gulkan raised his knife for the
slaughtering of his father.