Meanwhile, new writing appeared on the wall. The man explains himself: there was a deadly chimera gnat on your collar that the spit swept off before it could bite your neck. He saved your life.
“I'm glad I asked!” Dale said. Over the years of his travels and combat, he had learned caution; not everything was as it first seemed.
Burgundy returned to the platform. He had caught on that the washout was more of a warning than a punishment. “Where did I go wrong?” he asked. “I answered honestly.”
You did, but it was a bad answer. You should have been more cautious.
“Got it. Thank you.”
That was it. They had been given a demonstration of the requirements. Honesty and caution. Also, the power of the sages’ defense. Dale was impressed.
They resumed climbing the stairway. There were no further challenges.
They came to the top of the scroll. It was level, the parchment coiled tightly enough so as to provide them footing. Above them, the larger scroll floated. That had to be where the sages were. How were they to reach it?
“Maybe the supports are invisible,” Burgundy said.
“Maybe so,” Dale agreed. “Then we could climb them.”
They walked around the top of the tower scroll, but found no invisible bars or wires. There was, however, a pile of tangled cords. They checked these and discovered that they were actually a rope ladder. Aha!
“I'll hurl it up to hang on the bottom of the scroll,” Dale said. “Then we can climb it.”
“Yes,” Burgundy said nervously. “And hope it doesn't drop us halfway there. It's a long way to the ground.”
It was indeed. “Honesty and caution,” Dale reminded him.
“Got it.”
They straightened out the ladder, which did seem to be long enough. Then, Dale hurled it up toward the horizontal scroll, uncertain how it could catch. But it did catch, maybe on an invisible hook. Dale tugged at it and found it firm. The bottom anchored similarly at the edge of the tower. If this was a challenge to see whether they could figure out how to proceed, they were passing it.
“We may get another question halfway up,” Dale said. “I think this one won't be a token demonstration. If either of us misses, we're both dead.”
“Got it,” the dwarf repeated grimly.
“Then follow me.” Dale put his hands on two rungs and started climbing with his feet. Burgundy followed, again struggling but managing.
In a moment, they were out over the ground between the scroll towers. “Don't look down,” Dale advised Burgundy.
“My eyes are closed.”
When they were about halfway to the big scroll, Dale grabbed for the next rung, and missed. Surprised, he looked. The rung was there, but when he tried again, his hand passed through it. It was illusion.
“Hey!” the dwarf exclaimed below him. “Where's the rung?”
“I think we are at another test,” Dale said. “There was a rung when I passed that section, and now there's no rung ahead of me.”
“So what do we do?”
“We inquire.” He took a breath. “Oh, spirit of the ladder, what do you wish of us?”
A bodiless voice responded. “If a man who wasn't there calls you a coward because you retreated before an enemy force, as you did not, how do you respond?”
Burgundy answered first. “I tell him—” Then he paused, remembering caution. Calling the man a liar would not be productive. “That maybe he misunderstood the report, because we did not retreat.”
There was no response. Dale realized this was because only one of them had answered. He took his turn. “I explain that his information is incorrect. We stood our ground, and the enemy thought the better of it and backed off.”
“And if he then calls you a liar and threatens you with his sword?”
Dale was angry at the implication, but maintained his caution. “If he refuses to heed the truth, then he is the liar. If he is a liar, he may be a coward himself, trying to transfer his guilt to me. He is bluffing. I will push on past him, knowing that he lacks the gumption to attack me, because he knows I will smite him if given cause.”
Then he put his hand back on the phantom rung, and it was solid. He forged on up the ladder.
“I'm with Dale,” the dwarf said, and followed, his rung also back. Then, under his breath, he said “I'm glad he didn't ask me what I'd do about a beautiful woman who called me an ugly little monster and wouldn't let me touch her.”
Dale smiled. That woman would get a thorough reaming in dreamland.
They reached the scroll and climbed onto its lower edge. There was a platform leading into a chamber with a door on the far wall. A man was there, facing the door. Dale recognized him: the arrogant Lord Leofrickus of Forthwind, whom he had encountered on the way here. “Hello, Lord Leo,” he said.
The man turned. He was in ceremonial garb, with tight, black trousers and an encompassing, silver coat that reached to his knees. Every button shone. “Oh, so you made it, peon. You and your runty, discolored friend.”
Burgundy opened his mouth, but closed it from caution, remaining silent.
“So nice to see you again,” Dale said with careful irony.
“Just stay out of my way. The sages will soon make short work of you. Your kind doesn't belong here.”
“How so?” Dale kept his voice neutral, though the Upper Sultrian Royal was exactly the sort that they had encountered in the question on the ladder. Did he represent another test of their patience?
“Don't you know the first thing about the sages, you moron? They share their information only at a price. Any supplicant must enter a hypnotic state where he will relive one of his worst acts. If he is pure of spirit and good of heart he will remain sane after the vision and will be granted safe passage. If he is naturally vain, evil, malignant, or whatever, he will become insane, haunted by his atrocities for the rest of his miserable life. So you can see that you two oafs should scramble back down the ladder right now; at least you'll save whatever there is of your dull minds.”
“Thank you,” Dale said with perfect sincerity. “This is valuable information.”
“As I said, your kind doesn't belong here. You are best off to accept your lowly place and not aspire to unreasonable heights.”
“We will consider your advice carefully,” Dale said.
The door opened. A monk appeared, wearing a modest brown robe. “Ah, there's my turn,” Lord Leofrickus said, and marched through without even asking the monk. The man quietly closed the door behind him.
“Phew!” Burgundy said. “I almost exploded, holding back my outrage. What an ass!”
Dale nodded. “If his kind is what the sages want, we are, indeed, doomed.”
“I spend a lot of time dreaming, as you know. But I do know the difference between a dream and reality. That man is living in a dream.”
“We all do, to an extent,” Dale agreed. “And yes, most of us know the distinction. But we really don't know what the sages are like. They could be like Leofrickus.”
“If they are, we are doomed.”
The door opened again. The monk stood there.
“You or me?” Dale asked the dwarf.
“You next. If you go crazy, I'll know there's no hope for me, and will follow Lord Frick-Ass's advice and get out of here.”
“I hope to see you again soon,” Dale said. He bowed his head briefly to the monk, who silently returned the gesture of respect. “I am ready, if you will be so kind as to conduct me to my interview.”
The monk nodded, and they walked into the next chamber.
The sages were seated around the room, facing the center where Dale stood. They did not speak aloud. All were shrouded in voluminous, gray capes with hoods so that he could not see their faces.
He heard a moan. There to the side, lying on a pallet, was Lord Leofrickus, hunched in a fetal position, weeping. “Mother, mother, forgive me!” he cried. He seemed to have lost his sanity.
Dale hardly cared about
the arrogant man, who surely deserved to suffer. But why did he remain here, instead of being secluded in a private cell to suffer in peace?
Why else? To show Dale the penalty for failure. This was no child's game. He could still back off.
Except that he still saw no better way to pursue his mission than to go to Alfen Gulfadex. He faced the capes.
Welcome, traveler. What can we do for you?
Oh. They were speaking in his mind.
“I am glad to meet you at last,” Dale said politely. “I wish to obtain safe passage to Alfen Gulfadex for myself and my companion.”
You choose a difficult manner to travel there.
“We have become separated, and our mission is important. I must travel in the manner that avails me.”
One of the cloaked figures lifted a hand and pushed back the hood to reveal the head. Lo, it was a beautiful woman! Her hair was a brilliant, pale yellow shroud that framed her face like an ornate picture frame. That face was so perfect in its contour and symmetry that he found it difficult to gaze directly at it. The eyes mirrored the hair, large, yellow orbs that were hypnotic in their compelling focus.
For the moment, Dale was taken aback. He was not sure what he had expected of the sages, but certainly it was not any female, even a less lovely one.
“Please,” he said candidly. “I will not be able to assimilate what you say to me if I am gazing at your rapturous beauty. I was not prepared for such a view.”
You may not select my aspect. I will show you what I choose. She stood, and began to open the front of her cape.
“I apologize!” Dale said quickly. “I merely meant that I am ill equipped to process such phenomenal pulchritude. You risk wasting your own time by distracting me.”
The sage paused, then drew her cape back together. Then, she sat back down, and drew her hood up to conceal her hair and face. It seemed that she accepted his apology.
Another sage pushed back her hood. This one had deep red hair, almost the color of blood, and a face that was different in detail but every bit as lovely as the first. Her red eyes fixed on him. You do not wish to gaze upon our features?
“I am married,” Dale said desperately. “Your features threaten to alienate me from my wife. I'm sure this is not your intention.”
Aptly put. She drew her hood back to put her face in the shade.
A third sage opened her hood. This one's hair was lustrous brown, and her eyes matched. She was, if anything, even lovelier than the other two. And if the price of our cooperation is your cooperation in bed?
He realized that they were teasing him. “Please, lustrous ladies. It would be another form of insanity from which I might never escape. I acknowledge your power, and beg you to spare me.”
The third sage closed her hood. You must understand the severity of the vision you will suffer. You could be in torment for the rest of your life. Not even one of us could extract you from it. Her eyes flicked briefly toward the suffering Upper Sultrian.
“I believe it,” Dale said. “Yet, if this is the price of your assistance, I must risk it. I will accept whatever happens, because there are more important things at stake than my sanity.”
Such as?
“Such as the salvation of our world.”
May we verify this in your mind?
“Yes.” As if he had a choice.
Then, their minds entered his, with a curious twisting evocation that was both frightening and unutterably pleasant. The lines of their exploration slid into his most private places, laying him mentally bare. It was like penetrating a woman, only the women were penetrating him. They could do whatever they desired with him, and he lacked both the power and the will to deny them.
Then, their passionate threads withdrew, leaving him both relieved and heartbroken. It is true.
“Thank you,” he said, finding himself intact again.
A fourth sage opened her hood. Her hair was as black as midnight, with tiny stars sparkling in its recesses. Your case seems worthy. Have you any questions?
“Nothing of substance. Only curiosity.”
She smiled, and it was like soft moonlight in the shadow. Ask.
“Frankly, I expected males. Why are all of you female?” He could tell by their svelte outlines, now that he was alert to the signs, that all of them were women.
The black-haired sage frowned, and it was like a velvet curtain shrouding the glow. Our men have better things to do than dally with incidental travelers.
Oh. So this was mere scut work. “Thank you.”
You will enter the vision when you are ready.
“I'm ready now. Ready as I'll ever be.”
Dale found himself in a young version: large, muscled, with short, spiky hair on top and long hair in dreadlocks hanging down his back. He was wearing a blue and white striped tunic, several outlandish weapons, and a red phoenix feather tied into his hair. He remembered the feather as a gift from his former friend, Cycleze, to give him supernatural speed and agility in battle.
He looked around. He was in a swamp, confronting a group of his rival mercenaries, who were led by the Butternut brothers.
“You stole a hit meant for us!” Bruno Butternut accused him.
Now he saw a large slug, with his sword sticking out of its head portion, lying at his feet. He was obviously guilty, as this swamp was their working territory.
But he bluffed it out. “I go where I go, do what I do.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
Another Butternut was sneaking around behind him. That was Buddy, who did the dirty work dictated by his big brother. Dale was aware, but pretended not to be. He could handle this situation, but preferred to have a pretext to justify his response before he acted.
A hand grasped his hair, and a knife came to touch his throat. But Buddy was inexperienced, not the knife fighter Dale was. He had not broken his victim's balance, and that was mischief, as he might soon learn the hard way.
“Yeah?” Bruno asked again.
“If you're going to kill me,” Dale said evenly, “do it now, because if you don't, I'll take that knife from your lackey. Except.”
“Except what?” Bruno asked. He was the talker in his family, and he liked toying with his victims, as Dale knew and counted on.
“Except that when I do, I'm gonna rape him with it, then you, and then I'll rape your brothers and all your friends. Especially your girl.”
Bruno burst out laughing, and his gang echoed him. Including Buddy. That was the key.
Dale went berserk, but there was method in it. One hand came up to block Buddy's knife hand as Dale twisted his neck away and clear. Then his other hand cracked down on the youth's wrist, breaking it. He took the knife from the flaccid fingers and swept it across Buddy's throat. Buddy was dead while still standing, not yet aware of his passing.
Dale stopped clear of the falling corpse before the blood could spatter him, whirled, and plunged the blade into Bruno's groin. That man, too, was effectively dead before he realized it.
Then, Dale tackled the other members of the gang, slashing them before they reacted to the astonishing change in the situation. It was a battle of blood, steel, and fire, except that it was really more of a slaughter than a fight. In moments, all were dead or dying except one.
That one was Bruno's moll, Trista, a pretty girl in a red skirt who went wherever Bruno did, always ready to oblige him. She, at least, had time to appreciate the devastation around her. “Don't kill me, please!” she begged tearfully.
Dale bore her to the ground and opened his pants without dropping the bloodstained knife. He felt up under her skirt and ripped away her panties. He didn't bother to kiss her. He raped her, and she didn't resist, knowing that death was the alternative. He had always had the hots for her, but couldn't touch her because of the gang. Now he had her.
Sated, but not yet withdrawing, he brought the knife up before her face, making sure she saw it. Trista's eyes widened in terror as s
he understood his intention. He slashed her throat, and felt her tighten around him as she died. Then, at last, he withdrew and stood up, his frenzy abating.
One more detail. He dragged the bodies into a pile, then picked up Trista, ripped away her clothing, and dumped her on top, naked, her face staring at the sky, her legs widely spread. When the other members of that gang who had not been here came, they would find an ugly memorial.
He tied his leggings and walked away from the grisly pile. His job here was done.
Dale came to, horrified, begging for forgiveness, but sane.
Forgiveness for what? a new sage inquired. Her hair was gray, signifying age, but she remained outstandingly lovely.
“For my brutality. I deliberately provoked the encounter because I had a grudge against the Butternuts, so I could slaughter them. I did it just because I could. I had no conscience, no mercy. Trista especially; she would have stayed with me, become my moll, because she had little will of her own. I had especially no reason to hurt her. Yet I raped her and killed her, giving her no chance.”
Can you forgive yourself?
“No,” Dale said. “That's why it haunts me.”
What have you done about it?
“I have tried, since my conversion, to do enough good to make up for the evil I did before. I still have a long way to go. I will keep at it until I die. But I don't see how I can ever make up for that one. As I said, Trista haunts me.”
Turn around.
Were they dismissing him? So be it. Dale turned around.
There stood a woman of about his own age, unremarkable except for one thing that made his jaw drop.
It was Trista.
“But I killed you!” he said.
“No, you did not. You did not even rape me. You told me that I did not belong with a gang, and I should go far away and find a new life. Then you departed.”
“But I remember!”
“Your memory is false. Maybe it came upon you years later, a product of your guilt about many crimes you committed. But me, you spared. I knew, then, what I know now: there was always a bit of good in your core, the center of your being.”
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