Chapter Seven: Into the Lacuna

Though offworlders in the High Tzhurarkh's army were not in vast supply, their demand vastly exceeded the paltry contents of the odd cart, and it now lay ransacked, with only a few leaden sling weights, bucklers, and sword belts on its floor. Among the upwards of a hundred humans donning the uninspiring but crudely workmanlike armors of Hravak were a dozen scowling goblins, some of which argued over the few pieces of goblin manufacture that Huiln left behind, while the rest were making do, squeezing breathlessly into too-small armor shirts and painfully tight sabatons.

In the end, he followed Kuilea's advice. "You! Yes, you. And you, you, you, you….um, him….and her!….and you, and you….and you in the cart. Get your armor and follow me." He picked all the goblins he could see, following Ialuna's order to the letter, though many of the humans looked to be hardier warriors. If any were Inamu, Huiln might have risked disobeying Ialuna to learn more about what might be Khyte's birth tribe. But the humans were profanely diverse, with countless tribes and city-states that were well-represented here, only two of which Huiln recognized: three Cuvaernians and nine Drydanans, all of which were barely literate; the former produced only sordid, racist picto-novels in which neighboring tribes were deflowered, mocked or both, and the latter had neither books nor scrolls nor even a handful of runes, but only a collection of ballads that Khyte was only too glad to sing for Huiln, not once, but dozens of times.

"Look," said one of the goblins, "it's the line-cutter that took the good pieces."

"I know him," said another, coating the word 'him' with some sass, "that's Huiln, Son of Hwarn! The bank robber!"

"You lie!" shouted Huiln.

"Hello," simpered the other goblin, "I'm Serato Keplin. My brother told me how you treated his dear friend Unvyra."

"Dear friend?" said Huiln. "How gallant; the whore would blush. Lord Keplin is a master of understatement that masks his pretentiousness and vices in good taste. Great parties, excellent plating, wonderful conversation, and the very best gifts, on the one hand, but, on the other, debauchery, hangovers, gossip, and whores."

"Take that back!" growled Serato.

"In the same spirit of formal introduction," said Huiln, "I am indeed Huiln, Son of Hwarn, but more importantly, the adviser to Tzhurarkh Ialuna gon Weqana, who commands this siege. You know—the one that will cash you out."

While The Junior Keplin hadn't yet worked himself into a rage, he was nonetheless visibly piqued, and it took a few moments to compose himself. "I misspoke, Son of Hwarn."

"No, no. On Alfyria, we use elven idioms. Call me Master."

"Master?"

"Yes," said Huiln, affecting a most serious tone. "Just as here on Alfyria you would be called Junior Keplin. Or Junior for short."

"Junior?"

"Don't you want the elves to take us seriously, Junior?"

"I suppose," said Junior. "Master," he hastened to add.

Huiln turned to the others. "We'll make time for introductions later. The general requires us to report for special duty."

Another goblin said, "I would like the sound of 'special duty' better if we weren't all goblins."

When the one next to him said, "'special duty' means 'expendable' in Alfyrian," the others laughed, but when the laugh soon died out, Huiln gathered that this witticism was no lie.

"Maybe you'll like the sound of the special duty pay," Huiln said.

"How much?"

"Details, details. You're here to serve, aren't you? Gird yourselves." Having armored and armed themselves, the goblins followed Huiln and Kuilea from the emptied odd cart. Though the Kundan Cerund had massed a larger mob of sable black and violet armored knights, it was now easier to pass through the well-ordered, vigilant siege. The only Alfyrians not in position were those in the long lines now being admitted to the restaurants and cafes. Though the emanating aromas were not entirely unpleasant, the gathered elves looked less hungry than focused on their objective, as if they could see their victory.

At the spot where Huiln left Ialuna, the sidewalk canopy now anchored a tall blue tent, in which the general briefed four Tzhurarkhs and seven Kundan Cerund about the events that led to the siege. After this summary, the Tzhurarkhs reported that while many dryads were spotted within the Quront Sabata, no giants were seen. Secondly, their attempts to surround the Quront Sabata continued to be confounded; though thousands upon thousands encamped around it, there was always a gap.

"Dolts," said Ialuna. "Do you not remember your primer, Jzhauf's Geometry? Can you circle an infinite?"

"No."

"While the Quront Sabata is not infinite, if it stands and has a door in every Alfyrian city, its perimeter traverses another dimension to which even elves are blind. As it may be an unsolvable equation for us, we must use the simplest tactic: divide and conquer. Each Tzhurarkh will match a section of wall to the elves under their command. Mark the gaps, as those may be points of attack."

"Why are the goblins here?" asked a broad chested Tzhurarkh with golden hair and beard, and an enormous nose.

"That's privileged," said Ialuna.

"I'm your handpicked lieutenant!" said the Tzhurarkh.

"Yes. You have duties. Do them."

"Am I to understand that you're assigning an opportunity for distinction and honor to a goblin corps?"

"For there to be understanding, there must be instruction, which I have not given. The word you are looking for is 'guess,' as in "Am I to guess that there is..." and so forth."

"The High Tzhurarkh will hear of this," said the elf, who made a dramatic departure, all the more enhanced by his epic muscles, enormous nose, and shockingly golden hair. If there was anyone made by the gods for the purpose of storming off in a rage, it was this large nosed elf king.

"Who was that?" asked Huiln.

Ialuna answered, "The Tzhurarkh Tchirek gon Weqana. My brother."

"Brother and sister kings?"

"We're not kings. That's a decadent Nahurian invention. We're Tzhurarkhs. The High Tzhurarkh could make his hairdresser a Tzhurarkh if he wished."

"He appointed you?"

"Well, no...I don't want to talk about my cousin or my brother, Huiln. Are your goblins ready?"

"They are."

"We're leaving," said Ialuna, then immediately pushed through the tent flap and headed for the tunnel. Huiln turned, waved the goblins forward, and trotted behind her.

"We only number fourteen. We should have twenty," he said, once he had caught up. Unlike the march from The Palace of Tzhurarkhs, she had not set a grueling pace.

"By what estimate?", she retorted.

"By my native cowardice?"

Ialuna laughed. "You don't fool me. I've heard your tale."

"Yes, I have many great tales to tell, because I'm lucky, and a survivor. Thankfully, bravery is not one of my assets. If I was a little braver, I'd be dead a dozen times over."

"I heard the tale of a brave goblin. I don't care what you say," Ialuna said. "Or rather, if you persist in this false humility, you run the risk of truly aggravating me, which is not easy to do."

"Forgive me that folly, but as I would be nothing if I was false, I must persuade you of my truth. I admit that I've done many bold deeds, but the bold are more often than not cowards that waited for the opportune moment. The combination of preparation and opportunity creates confidence in the most craven."

Ialuna looked perplexed. "Are these your own ideas?"

"Half," said Huiln. "And half my reading of Luenara."

"Luenara," said Ialuna. "The goblin sage that engaged in dialogues with our elder philosopher. I met Tzupontila eighty-five years ago, though I couldn't tell you what she looked like, as other than her outright ordinariness, her only striking characteristic was that she looked so bored. As she was then in perfect health, I've always suspected that it was the boredom that killed her within the year. A penalty for being too smart to be a hedonist on Alfyria, where people live centuries and life becomes grayer than the catacombs if you can't enjoy your pleasures."

"Fine," said Huiln, "I'll become the brave goblin you believe me to be. May I from action bounce instantly into reaction, and in place of elegant plots, we'll refine our battering rams. In the spirit of being a bigger brute than our enemies, let's add to our numbers. You could give your gigantic brother the honor he craves."

"My brother is no subtle tool. He would be a liability to our mission. And if we number any more, we run the risk of being discovered," said Ialuna.

Though many Kundan Cerund arrived for the siege, there were few siege engines—no catapults, cannons, trebuchets, or even ballistae—aside from a number of battering rams, and an unusual glass horn nestled in a sling of steel wire strung between two posts, all of which were wheeled and dragged onto the theater of war by yoked tiabela. While the Quront Sabata was a venerated institution, and the High Tzhurarkh desired it intact, its doors must fall. Surmising that the glass device must be a magical battering ram, Huiln wondered what innovation was its unique contribution to the way elves waged war. The battering rams looked more than effective, each with a plate of iron hammered onto the end of forty foot hardwood columns that looked like they could collapse any door through the merest nudge of their tremendous weight. There were also a dozen smaller rams, about ten feet long and ten inches wide, made for the purpose of breaking down the Quront Sabata's interior doors.

"Ialuna," he said, "I am unfamiliar with that device."

"We call it unulenorn."

"A melter?"

"With luck, you will not see it used, except upon a giant, if those rumors are true."

Huiln decided not to take umbrage, though he was responsible for those rumors.

Having circled the Quront Sabata, they found its basement entrance curiously undefended, despite having many defenders. While every soldier stood shoulder to shoulder in unbroken ranks, when Huiln looked head on at the tunnel, a gap unfolded. As the troops trained their eyes in every direction but toward the tunnel, it seemed they did not even know it was there. Would they have denied its existence? Neither seeing the perceptual fault first hand, nor seeing its effect in others, made it easier to comprehend, and neither blinking, staring, nor snickering at the nonsensical nature of it, as Huiln started to do, dispelled the illusion.

"Didn't you study magic?" asked Huiln.

"Of course."

"Nothing that could help us here?"

"Most of my magic you would consider vain: I can banish my shadow; create a scintillating aura; animate musical instruments; and, command books to read themselves aloud. At one time I was a vain, posturing Tzhurarkh no different than the rest, and learned things to feed my laziness. While I learned useful magics, I have forgotten what had no use in the High Tzhurarkh's court. Still, I can conjure fire and water in small amounts, create illumination, speak to some animals, summon maps of places I've been, and lighten things."

"A map of the Quront Sabata sounds useful."

"It only reflects my mental map. It won't reveal the Doorway...if it exists."

That dryads had seized the Quront Sabata was evidence of a magical portal, but Huiln let Ialuna's offhand remark slide.

"Here's a thought," said Huiln. "If we pass the gap—"

Ialuna interrupted. "It's no gap. Gaps are obvious, and anyone can see them. Call it a lacuna, as they can only be noticed by those who know."

"Fine. If we pass the lacuna to enter the doorway, will either side see us?"

"Those inside may see us, but we'll pass unseen to our army, as without room in their forward vision, our images won't appear. This explains a street legend about Quront Sabata: when people vanish in its vicinity, only to reappear later, they were obscured by its many-dimensional outline."

"Why do we wait?"

"Give the order."

Huiln looked over the eleven goblins, whose names he had learned on the walk from the odd cart. Along with Junior, there was the sullen, slate-bearded, Stahnfask; the tall, hook-nosed, and distractingly large breasted archer, Ingurdu; the cordial-to-the-point-of-smarmy Euscor; the sisters Kezak and Kortu, who braided their hair in the giant fashion, and who each had two heavy sheathes of javelins on their back; a second cousin of Huiln and Kuilea, Makarik—a relative neither knew they had—who bore an uncanny resemblance to Huiln, though a head taller, built like an ox, and the friendliest soul Huiln had ever met; the former chef Guveddon; and, the expatriates Gylin, Dreska, and Kondu, all of whom fled the reach of goblin kings. He did not inquire what crimes sent them through the Abyss to call this strange, cold, world home. Judging by his own experience of Alfyria, they had suffered since their arrival, as there were no doubt only a handful of savory meals made on the Elven World in any given day, and more than likely all were served at the Nahruian restaurant in Kuln. He needed their help no matter their offense—unless they were traitors or highwaymen. Next time he would be more discriminating.

"Junior!" he shouted, then smiled as he turned to Ialuna. "Have you met Junior?"

"What an unusual name," said Ialuna.

"To show you there are no hard feelings, Junior," said Huiln, "you get the honor of taking point. Are you ready?"

"Yes," said Junior, unsheathing his sword with a shaking hand.

"And the rest of you?" asked Huiln.

When the others assented with a yes or a grunt, Huiln ordered their group two abreast so that the fourteen of them were two columns, seven deep. Makarik walked next to Junior, Huiln took up the rear, and Ialuna was in the rank ahead of him, with Kezak and Kortu on their right flanks.

As they entered the tunnel, the din of the besieging army dropped off remarkably, so that they sounded blocks away. And as the tunnel descended, they were cut off from the light of the Abyss, and immersed in quiet near-darkness. Something had crushed the ensconced lights, and the green ichor, now dimmed, spattered on the walls and floors in shadowy spills not unlike blood.

Initially, Junior and Makarik set a timid pace, but the gentle slope lulled their fears, and soon the goblins were trotting. "Faster!" called out Ialuna, and the goblins obliged. Huiln bridled, less at her undermining the command she had given him than due to his fear that the dryads would not leave the tunnel unguarded.

Khyte had dragged Huiln into many unnecessary fights, so the goblin was no stranger to violence. While his life was more at risk in those smaller scale battles, Huiln had never felt smaller and more afraid than in the vast tableau of carnage of the War for Wywynanoir. Of the many unstoppable forces on that battleground, from the hulking giants, to the immensely strong dryad steeds, the kiuvathi, to the lightning coat of Otoka the Wise, none were so clamorous and fearsome as the cwamtu, the dryads' devastating wooden artillery, that hurtled fire-hardened clay balls with terrific force. Huiln would never forget the harrowingly shrill whistle, nor the chilling splash through flesh, as if bodies were mud waiting to be scattered by the cwamtu. So that when the harrowing whistle roared in the tunnel, Huiln hit the ground before Junior and Makarik splashed the rest of them with gore. Torn to chunks by the projectile, their heads and arms hit the ground before the rest of them.

"Charge!" His own blood-curdling cry clamored in Huiln's ringing ears, and the others faces' were uncomprehending; Ialuna lay insensate, her face red with blood.

Huiln charged through the reeling goblins towards the source of the blast. If they reloaded, another rank would die. Finding his sword hand empty, he clutched his kite shield straps with both hands, tucked his head and bull-rushed the dryad weapon. In the split second before his blind impact, Ialuna screamed, "charge, half-wits, charge!" Wood splintered as he recoiled, his bent shield screeched, and he collapsed over a dryad, the room whirling around them as green blood streamed into her vegetal hair. Arrows cleaved dryads' eyes and mouths, and javelins pierced dryads' chests. As his head pounded, he closed his eyes, and when he opened them, Ialuna stood in the thick of the dryads, slashing with her sword and hammering with her shield's edge in a freewheeling style that trusted to her armor. When the dryads warily attempted to surround her, Stahnfask and Dreska stood at her back, wielding swords and shields as well.

Kezak and Kortu helped Huiln to his feet; the sisters and Ingurdu could no longer risk shots, as they were loath to hit their compatriots. Seeing the cwamtu in pieces, the emboldened Huiln rushed again, bowling over a dryad surrounding Ialuna. The break in the dryad circle gave Ialuna the opening she needed, so that her lashing shield brained its target against the tunnel wall.

Huiln landed on top of his foe, raised the shield two-handed, and slammed it on the dryad's helm, snapping helm and head with a sound like a massive nutcracker, and his shield's metal rim tore, splintering the wood. He dropped his mangled shield and looked for another target, thinking his gauntlets would work just as well, only to find the battle over.

Huiln worried that with only eight dryads stationed, there were undoubtedly reinforcements nearby. He grabbed the knob of the door Cyhari opened, but found it locked.

"We must open this door," he said.

Kuilea said, "Not that door. This one." She indicated an unbroken sheet of stone that would not look like a door at all if it was not set inside a door frame, an impression enhanced by its lack of knob or lock.

"It can wait," said Huiln. "As reinforcements are likely in earshot, we should evade or hide in the Quront Sabata, and try for the Doorway later."

"You would lead them on a merry chase?" asked Ialuna. "So that they station here twice as many dryads and two cwamtu? Two of us are already dead. How many more?"

"If we descend now, every one of us. From Kuilea's description, the stairwell is uninterrupted aside from a single guarded landing not far from the catacombs. Once we set foot to the stairs we could be attacked from above and below, without the possibility of falling back."

"Which we knew before we started. Every delay increases the likelihood we die in vain." She paused. "You were right. I see the cowardice now."

That was an unkind cut, Huiln thought, after he did so much. Though her argument had already persuaded him, it stung, coming as it was from the mouth that shaped that ugly insult. "You're in command."

"I am,' she said. "Make yourself useful and find the key."

"I doubt they had one," said Huiln. Inspecting the frame, he found a knife blade thrust between the door and the jamb to prop it ajar. "They forced the door—and it's still open."

Huiln and Stahnfask pried at the counterweighted door, but because it leaned heavily into the frame, nearly even with the jambs, and left no fingerholds, they could not gain purchase. Huiln used the knife as a lever, carefully, for if the blade broke, it would wedge the gap, and make the door a nearly impassible barrier. When Huiln pried the door half an inch, Stahnfask seized the edge with his fingertips, and with the great corded muscles in his forearms, held fast, until Huiln also found his grip, and the two then pulled it free.

Having propped the door with two dryad spears, they descended. With Junior and Makarik's demise, they were now eleven: eleven goblins and one elf. But that was twelve, he told himself, and counted again. This time he counted twelve: ten goblins, and one elf. But that is eleven, he told himself. Then he counted one by one, and arrived again at eleven. But did he count himself? He couldn't remember. Starting with himself, he arrived at thirteen, and laughed wearily. Perhaps, he half-joked to himself, his many dips into the Spider-God's illusions had doubled himself, so that the 'I' that was counting and the 'me' that was counted were now separate individuals. Had his head taken a blow in one of his falls? Perhaps when he wrestled Cyhari, or his head rattled the canopy. Did it matter if they were eleven or twelve, he asked himself? While he didn't expect an answer, the dark god whispered, who was caught in my web?, and Huiln shook. He checked again, not settling for a head count, but scanning their faces instead. Where was Kuilea?

There she was, scowling disgruntledly a few steps behind him. "This is a dark journey," his sister said. "I don't mean our descent through this pitch-black stairwell to the gray catacombs. I mean deathly." By then, they had descended only three flights, and much more cautiously than the sprinting pace Ialuna imagined.

"Where were you during the fight?" Huiln asked.

"It wasn't much of a fight," said Kuilea. "You had it handled."

"That's not like you. You like fighting, and never miss a chance to upstage your brother."

"This isn't the best audience for that kind of comedy," she said. "It's funnier to watch you sweat away your self-esteem under the shadow of her snob-sized nose."

"You're imagining things."

"No one could accuse you of putting your loves on pedestals, as you go exclusively for those already residing on daises, as if you're stocking a case of pretenders and princesses."

"Ialuna isn't a princess, she's a Tzhurarkh," said Huiln indignantly.

"The distinction would be lost on any other goblin here," she said, "much as if you said bacon wasn't a pig, or a stone wasn't rock."

"What are you after?" accused Huiln. "Why are you vexing me?"

"I'm after my brother," she said, frowning, "and I know you. You won't leave this ridiculous quest unless you think it's ridiculous. Since you don't care what others think, even your own sister, I can't just tell you it's ridiculous; you must arrive at that conclusion on your own."

"Is everything all right?" interrupted Ialuna.

"All right, all wrong, what's the difference day to day?" griped Huiln.

"Forgive my eavesdropping," said the elven Tzhurarkh. "Though I can't understand your rapid Nahurian mutter, you seem to be talking yourself in circles. If it helps, I apologize; as my adviser and lieutenant, you have made good decisions. If you had not acted as you did, another volley from the dryad weaponeers would have struck more of us dead."

"Don't apologize," said Huiln. "My decisions were rooted in fear, and my actions in terror. When I told you I was a coward, you should have believed me."

Having rounded the fifteenth flight, the already dark stairwell dimmed as the catacombs' deathly gray bled in from below, and the chilled air made their breath spill out a brighter gray.

"Fine, you're a coward," said Ialuna, jetting out fangs of cold gray vapor in her anger. "Do you want to know a secret? The best Tzhurarkhs, and I'd wager the best kings of Nahure and thanes of Hravak—all are cowards. When bitten by fear, few would have the presence of mind to charge toward a cwamtu."

"I was in no danger," persisted Huiln, "cwamtu take a minute to load."

"Dryad spears and knives don't, and there were plenty of those. Your stubbornness is no longer amusing. I'm restoring your command, and will permit neither your refusal nor your gratitude."

At the first landing, boot prints in the dust and other subtle signs indicated that a small force recently vacated it. When Kezak found half of a broken dryad javelin, both sisters took turns examining the craftsmanship.

"There were eight dryads here," said Kuilea.

"Did they go up or down?" asked Kortu.

"If they went up, where did they go?" asked Stahnfrask. "They were not the ones we killed, unless they dragged that heavy weapon upstairs."

"No," said Huiln. "It was taken up, piece by piece, then assembled above."

"Or perhaps they built it on Alfyria?" said Ialuna.

"Unlikely," said Huiln, "unless there is no craft or art to making those weapons. Stahnfrask is right—these were not the goblins we killed. If they heard our battle, we can surmise they went below to support the guards stationed at the Doorway." Talk of battle, the thought of more cwamtu, and the cold, stale air of the subterranean stairwell, made Huiln's heartbeat trip faster.

"There were no guards on the Doorway," said Kuilea.

"When you arrived," said Huiln, "but after you passed through, the dryads and giants likely received reinforcements, bolstered their defenses, and positioned their armies. We can't make assumptions about their numbers or whether they brought cwamtu. Stahnfask, take the lead. Everyone else, single file."

"Single file?" asked Stahnfask, shaking his head.

"That was an order," said Ialuna. Huiln glared, and she turned away.

"Yes, Stahnfask," said Huiln. "When our ranks are doubled, we incur more casualties from the cwamtu."

"So Stanhfask goes first," said the other goblin, who then spat on the ground. "Single file makes us more vulnerable to hand weapons and arrows. When we march shoulder to shoulder, we can shield lock." Though it came from a lump that referred to himself in the third person, this was a cogent stratagem, and Huiln had no answer other than the obvious one.

"I've made my decision," said Huiln. "Don't fear. Your armor is goblin-made."

"And if you see a cwamtu," snickered Kuilea, "do as my bull-headed brother does and charge. While you don't stand a chance against loaded cwamtu, neither can a wooden contrivance withstand a big, dumb, goblin."

"Are you calling me dumb?" asked Stahnfask. "Are you?" he shouted.

Kuilea laughed, "no, of course not. You've never charged a cwamtu. I was slighting my big, dumb, brother, not any other big, dumb, goblin." Perhaps it was that Kuilea's low blows released the tension they all felt, as the others joined in her infectious, easy, laughter.

"You think you're smart," said Stahnfask. "I know you're laughing at me. Since there's no shortage of big, dumb, goblins, find someone else to go first. I'll take my chances going back up the stairs."

Although Stahnfask shouted at Kuilea, this was a challenge to Huiln's authority—or, as Stahnfask wasn't bowing to Huiln's authority, to Ialuna's. If this challenge was allowed, they would not only lose Stahnfask's fighting strength, but his departure might embolden other discontented goblins, so that their group would disband, and their mission end in capture or death.

When Kuilea called Huiln 'big,' it was a fair assessment; compared to most goblins, he was tall and densely muscular. Not only had he lived an active life, climbing mountains, fighting in Khyte's battles, and traveling the Five Worlds, but in his youth, he trained with swords until he could hold a blade in each hand at shoulder height for ten minutes. Though he couldn't dream of such a feat now, a blade still felt like part of his body, and he retained enough vigor that he rarely noticed the weight of armor. That said, the thought of staring down Stahnfask, a bruiser that massed half again Huiln's weight, shattered his physical confidence. A fair fight would be as unlikely as boxing a giant.

In such a situation, only one move had any authority, the one brothers learned from sisters on every world; Huiln had Kuilea to thank for imparting the lesson to him when he was an insufferable goblin lad. As Huiln drew nearer, he stared imperiously into Stahnfask's eyes, then kicked him, as hard as he could, in the stones. Plated boots struck plated mail skirts and set the landing shivering as if cymbals were struck. The others winced in unison and stepped back from the horrific sound, as if they had just heard the last whimper of the universe. But it was only Stahnfask, who seemed to cave in as he doubled up and writhed on the landing.

Kuilea followed up Huiln's kick with a coarse shout: "Get up!" For the first time since her arrival, Huiln was grateful for his sister. Between charging the cwamtu and kicking this oaf, Huiln had screwed up what little courage he had, and Kuilea, who knew her brother's strength, was happy to take it from there. "Get up!" she screamed, grabbed Stahnfask's visor through the eye-slit, and pulled, so that he had to lurch to his feet or be choked by his helmet strap. When Stahnfask struggled to stand while pressing his legs together to protect the pained and tender area, he fell against the stairwell wall and his helmet strap snapped, so that Kuilea stumbled back holding his helmet. When she tossed it groin level, so that he might get pummeled again by his own helmet, he caught it—barely—by reflex.

"Get going!" Kuilea yelled, stretching it into a roaring scream, and Stahnfask limped toward the stairwell to lead their descent. They descended into a deeper darkness than the flights they were leaving, and soon learned the cause, when the ensconced elven lights appeared with less frequency, and were often not maintained and dead black.

Ialuna beckoned fire to her fingertips with an invitation to an all but forgotten Alfyrian god, translated literally as the Sleeping Fire. The light of her invocation was paler than the green lights above, but it was enough by which to walk. "Why the long face?" Ialuna asked Huiln. "One would think you got kicked in the stones, not Stahnfask."

"He didn't deserve that," said Huiln. "though I wished it upon him, and made it come to pass. Am I a villain?"

"Of his story? Oh yes," Ialuna said coolly. "But that would-be traitor is not living a hero's tale. And with dryads, giants, and traitor elves above and below, we can't have the group disbanding. So I approve of your villainy more than the desertion that would have gotten us all killed."

"Don't you want to know what I think?" asked Kuilea.

"I already know. We all do. Everyone in Quront Sabata does," said Huiln.

"So I was enjoying myself more than you. Jealous much?"

"If only Khyte knew how you changed when he leaves the room," said Huiln. "He would sleep easier knowing what you're made of."

"And don't you ever tell him," his sister smiled, but menace was in her eyes.

"Eutinuk kaqorra nenorri il dremek kulenda."

"Apropos," said Ialuna.

"What did you say, Huiln?" asked Kuilea.

"It's just a nonsense verse in a book of Uenarakian poems," said Huiln.

"Was that an insult?" she said, and when Huiln was not forthcoming, she looked expectantly to Ialuna.

"No. One translation is 'even a strong woman wishes herself a maid in men's eyes."

Kuilea snorted. "Has Huiln told you how much I hate giants?"

"Save that story for another day. We're nearing bottom." They now passed a second landing, every bit as deserted as the first, which also had a number of boot prints and ring-shaped impressions in the dust from the butts of spears.

Huiln regretted wishing for Kuilea, if his wish had indeed conveyed her to Alfyria. Her helpfulness wasn't enough, when her bad attitude spread with syphilitic speed, and she caricatured his worst faults with a performance writ so large that it would seem a burlesque if it was not unintended. He should have prayed for the company of books. With luck he could read a dozen before his capture if he fled this vain mission, as they were still in the subbasement of a massive library.

Still, Huiln was thankful Ialuna skewed the translation, though he would have preferred that she let it lie. A more literal rendition would be 'even a murderess wishes herself a damsel in her lover's eyes.'"

Always spin, Son of the Spider.

"I'm Son of Hwarn!" said Huiln, and when Ialuna, Kezak, Kortu, and Ingurdu looked his way, he averted his eyes. Since the harrowing vision of the Spider God's web, he had rejected his expanding inward vision, and riveted his sight to the material world, but Lyspera, not one to be denied, cast her shade on Huiln's surroundings until he now thought of the worlds of sense and memory as more woven shadows.

Faith slays the fears fixed in my web.

What did Lyspera want, he wondered. For what purpose did the Spider God drive Huiln to three worlds, seeking peace but finding war, and now finding evil in his own character?

Your fears glisten on my webs, Son of the Spider. Kill them or fall.

"Son of Hwarn!", he hissed, but the fierceness of Huiln's whisper still turned Ialuna's head.

Are you so eager to lose my favor? All things die, but I was saving you for later.

When they had passed by the last black stone of the Quront Sabata's subbasement, the bleak catacombs emanated a dismally dim gray that drenched them in its baleful light. Even their raiment and skin seemed different nuances of gray, as if some macabre underworld artist had repainted them from a palette of gray variations, each with its own melancholy name and pallor, such as The Grayness of Drawn Shutters, The Grayness of Ash, The Grayness of the Dead, The Grayness of Joy Wished Away, and The Grayness of Love Forgotten.

I could forgive you, Son of Hwarn, but who can take your place in the web? I grow hungry. That one is not even a goblin.

Lyspera's voice had grown thicker and more desperate; the air shimmered, the walls of the catacomb shivered, and the faces of his companions flickered, as if she was about to slough the skin from reality in her haste to swallow her meal whole.

Ialuna said, "Did your head roll away when you kicked Stahnfask's stones? At least point a finger to give us a direction."

"No," said Huiln, his voice shaking. When Ialuna's jaw set, he said, "not you."

"Whoever it is you're talking to can wait. Your commander wants a word."

"I'm sorry, Tzhurarkh," said Huiln.

"Do we huddle together or split into groups? While we want to cover as much ground as possible, we shouldn't risk more than three groups, since we are only eleven."

"Only eleven?" said Huiln. "I counted twelve."

"The math is easy, Huiln. We started with thirteen, and lost Makarik and Junior in battle."

"No, we started with fourteen. The eleven I recruited, plus you, Kuilea, and myself."

"Who?"

"What are you asking? Should I name them all?"

"No, you said eleven goblins, you, me, and some other name I didn't know."

"My sister? Kuilea?"

"Huiln, take off your helmet," said Ialuna. "Were you brained in one of your falls?"

"She's the reason we're here!"

"You suggested this fated-expedition when I wanted to destroy the Doorway."

Huiln spun all the way around. There was Stahnfask, standing apart and sulking; there was hook-nosed Ingurdu and her protruding bosom; the greasy Euscor, and the sisters Kezak and Kortu, had clumps of javelins on their backs; and there were the generally useless Guveddon, Gylin, Dreska, and Kondu.

"Where's my sister?" he asked.

"She's my first stop on my way to your mother's," said Gylin, snickering, but when Huiln drew menacingly close, the other goblin shrieked, "I'm joking, Huiln, I'm joking!"

"I'll kill them all," he growled. While Huiln's vague threat could be taken as an oath to slay every last dryad, in truth he offered the lives of Ialuna and the goblin troop to the capricious, chimerical Spider God in the desperate hope that she would count it a worshipful sacrifice. Huiln would butcher them all to bring Kuilea back from the spider's dark cache. He knew it was a futile gesture. If the Spider God chose not to steep his memory in oblivion, she wished him to beg, which he couldn't do without an unblotted memory of his sister. Moreover, the Spider God was the Author of All Death, and Huiln could not offer deaths the Spider God already owned. As Death is certain, even for long-lived Alfyrians, the lives of all in the Five Worlds were on credit. While it might amuse the Spider God to collect on her playthings' debts early, she craved more for Huiln to be humbled, to know that she owned his life, death, and soul.

When silence answered Huiln's reluctant promise, and when Kuilea's erasure from catacombs and memories endured, he questioned whether his sister was ever there or if he had been talking to himself. Surely he did not imagine Ialuna's questioning of Kuilea, he told himself, nor the line of inquiry that led to their plan to destroy the Doorway.

The Doorway. It was now very near. With luck, they could finish their mission.

But Huiln would not destroy it; he would pass through the Doorway to assure himself Kuilea yet lived. His only hope was that the Spider God's whimsical sense of measure whisked Kuilea to where she started, in the Councilor-Generals' army, though he could not help thinking she was likely banished from Alfyria without any destination to receive her, and either stuck to the dark god's webs, or erased from the Five Worlds.

After staring into space for an uncomfortably long time, "the Doorway," was all he said.

"Where we'll find your battle," said Ingurdu.

"So that we won't suffer a war," retorted Ialuna.

"Not 'we,'" said Ingurdu. "Only elves."

"They won't stop with Alfyria," Huiln said. "My father is a captive in this war."

In the catacombs, each junction branched left or right, then slanted to the next intersection, so that their path traced a series of diamonds. Huiln couldn't help thinking that to the Spider God's many eyes, they walked a web of alternate routes inset in ancient stone. It was as if the ancients communed with Huiln, sympathizing with the pain of causality, that mesh of free will and divine direction. In small chambers adjoining some of the passageways, there were recent signs of discovery—dust disturbed by boot prints, and tiny circles made by the butts of dryad spears.

The ancients' catacomb web next emptied into a lengthy passageway, the end of which vanished into the omnipresent gray, and from which a half dozen routes jutted like the spokes of a wheel; in the middle of this catacomb hub stood six dryads and two Huiln recognized as giant cannibal-cultists, garbed in black robes embroidered with a red runic pattern of the Abyss.

"Huiln..." Ialuna warned.

"Yes," said Huiln, "I know." Turning his head slightly, and talking as low as he could, but as loud as he dared, he said: "If either of those two get enough head room we're dead. Don't let them duck in the side chambers, and if they do, don't follow"

"Moreover," said Ialuna, "they're sorcerers, wearing our size like a change of clothes."

"Come closer!" called one of the dryads.

"That's uncommonly nice of you," said Huiln. "I expected you to say 'come no nearer.'"

When they walked halfway, the dryad called, "Stop!"

"Forget I said anything."

"Spears!" shouted the dryad, and when the other dryads leveled their spears at the goblins, the cultists stepped into the room on the left.

"Whatever you do," muttered Huiln, "don't go in that room."

"On the contrary," whispered Ialuna, "Something in there is worth seeing. Something they don't want us to see."

"Drop your weapons," commanded the dryad, "and it will go better for you."

"Better than what? Tell me about option number two," said Huiln.

"Drop your weapons!" shouted the dryad.

"Forgive me for saying so, but what if you have bad taste? We've only just met, so why should I trust that you know what's better for me? Tell me the alternative, and I'll make up my own mind."

"Drop your weapons," fumed the dryad, "or die!"

"That's better. Now this moment has poetry and game, as you're acknowledging my choice and waiting for my move."

Ialuna's voice seemed strung three octaves higher. "What are you doing?"

"It's better to talk than let javelins and arrows be our dialogue, and blades underscore the points of the deadly argument. Wouldn't you agree?" Huiln asked the dryads. They were now less than twenty feet apart.

"Then you'll drop your weapons?"

"What do I gain by cooperating?" asked Huiln. "And since our force is as strong as yours, could I suggest a third alternative?"

The dryad smiled, but did not laugh. "We are thousands."

"Not at the moment."

"At the moment, we have two giants."

"They've stepped away."

"They're in earshot."

"If you whistle for them, and they become giant, they'll turn the corridor into an abattoir of crushed corpses."

"They're also deadly sorcerers!"

"While I tremble to hear that," said Huiln, "sorcery is only a weapon, and all of us are armed. Since dead is dead, your sorcerers are no more deadly than our archers and swordsmen."

"But you will be more dead, for if we die, our trees still live. If you die, you are forever dead." This was apparently high wit to dryads, for Huiln saw something he had rarely seen before: dryad laughter. The dryads seemed so amused that their deaths were meaningless, while their enemies flirted with mortal peril, that they laughed in unison, ranging from vegetal wheezing to cracking, creaking cackles. The fascinatingly musical but unflattering titters echoed in the catacombs, enraging Huiln in his apprehension of their sardonic pity and mirthful apprehension of the schadenfreude that underscored every non-dryad death, the more so because he had been winning the exchange of banter.

Understanding that anything which lived one life was a badly-told joke to the dryads, Huiln envied the way dryads escaped death. Lyspera would never engulf these dryad seeds when their time had come, for theirs was a copied intelligence, little more than a letter mailed to a friend, while the true mind remained in Ielnarona's woods. And, as dryads only retained the memories of seeds that successfully returned to surrender their essence to the tree, their egos were spared not only ignominious failures but all memories of violent death, preserving a continuity of victory in the centuries-old dryad minds.

"As we have everything to lose," said Huiln, "you can expect us to fight harder."

"As we have nothing to lose, we'll match your fury."

"And we return to our impasse," said Huiln. "On what middle ground could we all survive? Wouldn't you like the honor of passing on your memories to your unborn sisters?"

"I am almost persuaded," said the dryad, "though I have no will of my own."

"That's absurd," said Huiln.

"Everything I am is instilled at birth; not only my form, which you see as adult though I am only a few of your years old, but my mind, intelligence, and will, are copied from the ideals of my tree."

"Other than being different shades of green, you don't look like a tree," said Huiln. "And having embraced a dryad, I know you are warm-blooded, which your trees are not. Though you do not believe it, because your life is an echo of your parent's, and all of your sisters are mirror images of you, your duplicated life is your own. Or did my dryad lover's tree anticipate our embrace, and fabricate her tenderness through speculation? Or are dryads voyeurs copying lovers from other worlds?"

"A Nahurian? That is what is absurd," scoffed the dryad.

"It was your liege, Inglefras, when she was the guest of Merculo, King of Kreona."

"We know who you are," she said. "Huiln, Son of Hwarn. Consider yourself in our care, and your life in no danger. If they do not put down their weapons, however, the same cannot be said for your companions."

"In the storybook of my adventures, I would shout my defiance, but that is grossly impolite when you have just promised me my life. Very considerate, but not what I would call a shrewd move at the bargaining table. Why make me repeat myself? What is our cooperation worth? What else do you have that I want?"

"Why not a prisoner exchange?" said the dryad. "In that chamber, our giants stand guard over captives we took storming Quront Sabata. Come with us and one goes free."

"Library patrons are of no concern," lied Huiln, who was indeed sympathetic to the bookish, "and to liberate Treikondant Cerund so they could attend their own executions seems cruel; the High Tzhurarkh believes them rebels."

Ialuna added, "there will be no exchange."

"Wait, my Tzhurarkh" said Huiln. "There is one possible prisoner of interest. Is Cyhari gon-Azuri gont-Czebele within that chamber?"

"Why is she so important?" retorted Ialuna.

"Please," said Huiln. "Let them answer."

"If she is," said the dryad, "you would trade yourself for her release?"

"Maybe," said Huiln. "I won't say without seeing her first."

When the dryad nodded and gestured, another entered the chamber to return with Cyhari, whose hands were tied behind her back. The elf was bedraggled, with tattered cloak, scuffed armor, and her mask cracked in half, so it covered only her brow and nose, revealing a split lower lip, and a chin stained with blood.

"Did you have to tie her hands?" asked Huiln. "Couldn't you see her thumb was broken?" Turning his head to Cyhari, he added, "sorry about that."

"Cyhari," said Ialuna. "You know my adviser?"

"Your adviser!" spat Cyhari. "He's a traitor!"

"Said the pot to the kettle," said Huiln. "While loyal to few, I'm a traitor to none."

"My terms stand," said the dryad, "though I can't promise safe passage, as it isn't mine to give."

"I can't say that's fair, though your warning is generous," said Huiln. "Once I'm satisfied that's Cyhari, Inglefras can have me."

"You were arguing only a moment ago. Don't you know her voice?"

"I wouldn't presume to know that shifty character."

"Do you swear?"

"All the time," said Huiln. "In the wrong company, I'm a foul-mouthed bandit."

"I'm losing my patience," said the dryad, pressing her spear point to Cyhari's throat.

Huiln laughed. "Please do. I hate her. While she has answers I want, I can live without them." Huiln drew his sword. "And when you make a promise, own it." At the subtle stretching sound of arrows nocking on taut bows, and more noisome swords scraping free from their sheaths, Huiln ordered, "Try not to hit the spy."

"Fine, then. Inspect her if you wish." The dryad's strident tone said to Huiln that she was too invested in this moment to believe herself an ephemeral copy of a deathless tree. When she pushed Cyhari forward, the elf walked towards the goblins. While Cyhari trembled and swayed, her bloodied mouth curled in a snarl.

"You forgot to say 'at your leisure,'" said Huiln.

"That you do not have, though you will soon have a surfeit."

When Cyhari came near, Huiln planned to seize her and flee. While Huiln knew this was a bad plan, their primary mission was now a joke to him. Not only did he no longer care how many dryads and giants invaded Alfyria, he was willing to postpone his departure from Alfyria, or even be captured and brought to Inglefras, if he could first lay his hands on treacherous Cyhari for five minutes. While he would take small satisfaction in unraveling the elf's motives for involving him in Alfyrian intrigue, he hoped to disentangle a stray thread from her tale, while concealing it from the others—the location of the Doorways.

However, it was not to be.

While Huiln was educated and observant, and in most ways his erudition had fortified his intelligence and not torn it down, the clamor of his constantly scheming word-fed intelligence was known to talk over his instincts, so that which he had not trained or prepared himself to expect would pass by. In this case, the troublesome detail was Ialuna's surprised recognition of Cyhari before the latter was impaled on the former's sword. Cyhari hacked bloody gobs on Ialuna's breastplate, slid off the sword to the ground, clutched the gaping wound, and screamed "Pechare! Help me!" Then she wept broken, wracking, sobs, closed her eyes, and a violet stream bubbled from her nose and mouth into the growing pool of elf blood.