by David Grace
"So you decided to return at last, did you?"
"I . . . ."
"No stories. Tell me just one thing: do you have the ring?"
"Yes, I. . . ."
Grantin's answer caused the tenseness to leak a bit from Greyhorn's muscles. His features softened ever so slightly and he exhaled with a low whoosh, as if he had been holding his breath.
"Well, perhaps there is hope for you yet, Grantin. I confess no small degree of amazement that you've avoided making a botch of the whole thing. But you have the ring, you say?"
Grantin nodded his head vigorously. He opened his mouth to speak, but Greyhorn continued along with hardly a pause.
"No money left, I suppose?"
"No, you see ...."
"Not surprising. I suppose one should not expect miracles. Well, we're just going to have to count that against your allowance. Very well, let's conclude the business." With surprising energy Greyhorn maneuvered his lanky frame out of the chair, turned sharply on his heel, and approached Grantin. He extended his right arm.
"Give me the ring."
Grantin shuffled his feet slightly, his earlier discomfort now all but forgotten.
"Come, come now, Grantin, I'm a busy man. I don't want to spend all day listening to your exploits in the village. A simple errand, a simple answer, a simple delivery of the object, and the matter is closed. Now, put the ring right here." Greyhorn tapped the center of his palm with his left index finger.
"Well, uncle, you see there is a problem with...."
"All right, Grantin, let's take this in order. Firstly, you met the courier?"
"Yes, but--"
"--No buts, just answer my questions. You met the courier and she gave you the ring? True or false?"
"True."
"You brought the ring back here with you, correct?"
"Yes."
"You have the ring with you at this very instant, then?"
"Yes, I do."
"Then I see no difficulty. Just put the ring in my hand and get out."
"I can put the ring in your hand, uncle, but if I do so then I can't get out"
"Grantin, have you been drinking? You know how I feel about indulgence. Here, let me smell your breath."
Grantin obligingly exhaled a large waft of air into his uncle's face. Greyhorn winced as he was enveloped in the remnants of the steak dinner, the throttleberry wine, oat gruel, and the fragrance of Dobbs's stable, but he could detect no present intoxication.
"Perhaps I expect too much of you. Could it be that you're not my nephew at all, just an addlebrained idiot who was slipped into the family over the back wall? Give me the ring!"
Grantin turned his head a bit left, then right, seeking to avoid his uncle's gaze. His fingers entwined themselves like a mass of hypertensive worms. Finally, with a shrug of resignation, he lifted his trembling arm and dropped his left hand into his uncle's waiting palm.
Greyhorn stared at the member for a moment, nonplused by Grantin's action. Then, in the dimness of the sitting room, he detected the scarlet gleam of the bloodstone and the deep golden highlights of the band where it sat fixed upon Grantin's finger.
"It . . . it won't come off," Grantin mumbled lamely as Greyhorn stared at the proffered digit. As if in a daze, Greyhorn touched the ring and gently tried to slip it from Grantin's hand. It refused to budge.
"Uncle, I've tried everything I could think of, but it won't come off. With all the tugging and pulling I'm sure my finger has swelled. Perhaps if we waited a few days...."
"A few days!" Greyhorn yelped. "A few days! A FEW DAYS!" With a fierce surge of energy Greyhorn grabbed Grantin's wrist with his left hand and the ring with his right. He pulled with all his strength. So energetic was his attack that Grantin was jerked from his feet. Both men tumbled to the floor. Greyhorn rolled himself into a sitting position and commenced a new attack.
"Give me my ring!" he screamed. Greyhorn placed both his feet against Grantin's torso and with maniacal strength strained to pull off the bloodstone. Grantin's world exploded in electric pulses of color and waves of pain. His senses reeled. Visions pulsed luridly in syncopation with the beating of his heart. With all his strength he willed himself free of Greyhorn's grasp.
Sometime later, perhaps a few seconds, perhaps minutes, the throbbing faded and the sitting room slipped back into focus. Grantin found himself sprawled on the floor, his back propped against the couch at one end of the room. Some twenty feet away, arms and legs knotted in an intricate tangle about the legs of his desk, Greyhorn lay, twitching feebly.
Grantin shook his head once, twice, to clear it of the vestiges of the disorientation which had descended upon him. Greyhorn's movements he now discerned to be more organized. Bit by bit his uncle disengaged himself from the desk.
"What happened?" Grantin wheezed.
Greyhorn staggered to his feet like a man possessed. In the dimness of the parlor his eyes seemed to glow. He advanced upon Grantin.
"Uncle, it wasn't my fault," Grantin pleaded. "I didn't do anything, really. Uncle, get hold of yourself, now. You don't want to do something that you'll regret later. Uncle, uncle ...."
Cringing, Grantin raised his hands to protect his face, the ring pointed outward. As Greyhorn approached he noticed that the bloodstone seemed to glisten with a phosphorescent fire. The ring's bloody glimmer sent notes of alarm through the wizard's sinews. Mustering the last particle of his self-control, he managed to bring his body to a halt two feet from Grantin's cowering form. So great was the power of the bloodstone that further attempts to pry it from the finger would be suicidal. Greyhorn closed his eyes and wheezed ten long, deep breaths before allowing himself to speak.
"All right, Grantin," he said at last, "you can get up now. It's obvious that we're going to have to think our way out of this problem."
Hesitantly Grantin struggled to his feet.
"Don't worry, uncle, I'm sure that with perhaps some cold water and lots of soap we can get it off. If worse comes to worst, I can saw through the band and pry it away from my finger."
"The first blade that tries to scratch that ring will destroy itself and the arm that wields it. Perhaps, however, an appropriate elixir might, through the force of my power, insert itself between the ring and your flesh. Failing that, there are other, less tidy, but nevertheless dependable alternatives." A death's-head grin split Greyhorn's face as he contemplated the latter possibility.
"What do you mean, 'other alternatives'?"
"The possibility of a mild solution of liquefier cannot be overlooked. Skillful injections would rubberize the bones and joints of the affected digit. With a minimum tearing of flesh perhaps the item might be removed."
Grantin's face went slack and white.
"And, if that doesn't work, there is one final alternative which is guaranteed to solve the problem."
Grantin stared expectantly, now even afraid to breathe. Greyhorn caressed the knuckle and index finger and studied the ring.
"What alternative?" Grantin whispered.
"The answer is, of course, quite simple and direct. If we cannot remove the ring from the finger then we must remove the finger from the--"
With a shriek Grantin pulled back his band and stumbled backward against the wall. "No, no ... my finger . .. you can't--you wouldn't! There must be another way."
"Perhaps, perhaps, we shall see. Come, we will go up to the workroom. You can assist me in preparing the unguent. Who knows, it may work, and if not, what's one finger more or less?"
"But...." Grantin mumbled as Greyhorn paced toward the door.
"Come along, Grantin, come along. There's been too much dillydallying already. We'll try the unguent, but remember this: one way or another I mean to have that ring!"
Chapter Eleven
A steamy wisp of smoke curled from the beaker cupped between Greyhorn's skeletal hands. The thick gray walls of the container hid the substance from Grantin's view, but judging from the stench which emanated from the flask the material wa
s vile indeed. Grantin had been sprawled on a small stool, his legs widespread, elbows on knees and chin resting in his cupped palms, but now this latest of his uncle's concoctions brought him to a state of weary attention.
For the past three hours Greyhorn had subjected him to one horrid treatment after another. His hands had been soaked in solvent, encased in jelly, his finger poked, punctured, scratched, smeared, rubbed, chilled, and burned. Spells of amazing force had been hurled at him in Greyhorn's fevered attack upon the ring. But all to no avail. It still sat innocently upon his left hand and glittered and glowed in a most virginal appearance. In fact, it almost seemed to Grantin as though the bauble thrived upon the rigors to which it had been subjected.
Now it pulsed firmly in time with the beating of Grantin's heart. When he dared to look within the stone he thought he glimpsed shadowy images, fleeting visions of strange beings involved in disturbing acts. These phantoms became more substantial as Pyra slid from the sky. In that lazy time between twilight and full dark, scenes glowed with a life of their own and minute by minute became ever clearer and more frightening.
After all he had been through that afternoon, Grantin was surprised to find that Greyhorn's latest potion was still able to raise in him a new knot of fear.
"No, uncle, not again," Grantin whined.
"None of your complaints, Grantin, I don't like this any more than you do. It's all your own fault anyway. I'm the one who should be upset. Haven't I spent half the day trying to save your stupid finger? Haven't I exhausted myself with spells and incantations? Haven't I emptied my larder of supplies of many coppers in value all in your behalf? You should get down on your knees and thank me for my kindness and generosity in going to all this extra trouble in your behalf, so stop your whining!"
"Yes, uncle, but at least could you tell me what this one is supposed to do?"
"It's supposed to get the ring off your finger, idiot!" Greyhorn replied as he advanced an ominous step or two closer to Grantin's seated form. "Here, Grantin, hold this under your nose and breathe deeply, then hold your breath while I pronounce the spell."
Trembling, Grantin accepted the cup, but the stench was so vile that he held it at arm's length.
"I said breathe deeply...."
"I know, uncle, but I could breathe deeply with greater peace of mind if I knew what this was supposed to do. Couldn't you just give me a little hint?"
"All right, if you're going to be a baby about it. This is a unique substance of my own devising, a combination of the sorrel stasis incantation and a soup of boiled mummy plant."
"Mummy plant! Isn't that the one they use to shrink corpses so that your loved ones can be carried in your pocket?"
"Full strength, yes, it is sometimes used for that purpose, but this is a much milder batch. A lungful of my compound will only reduce you to about four feet in height, three at the most. While you're shrinking I will pronounce a spell which will keep the ring the same size. Naturally, the finger of someone three or four feet tall is much smaller than that of someone six feet in height, and so if the ring remains the same size we should be able to remove it easily."
"Well, uncle, don't get me wrong. I'm not complaining, and of course I have complete faith in your abilities, but will you be able to expand me again once you've removed it?"
Greyhorn hesitated a moment before answering, then turned a somewhat distracted gaze to the ceiling. At last he replied in a roundabout fashion.
"Well, I suppose something or other could be done if you want to be picky about it. I'm sure that I can bring you back to more or less your previous size."
Grantin sucked in his breath, then, tasting the harsh fumes of the mummy plant, tried to halt his breathing, choked, and coughed. The spasm jerked Grantin's arms. The beaker slipped from his hands and crashed to the workroom's stone floor. As the liquid contacted the granite blocks it foamed and exuded a sudden cloud of dense white smoke. In an instant an acrid fog enveloped the room. Hacking and coughing, both half an inch shorter, Grantin and Greyhorn fled the laboratory.
Wheezing, the men staggered down the hall, finally coming to rest at the massive oval window at the end of the corridor. There they sucked in great drafts of cool air until, at last, the spasms subsided.
"Cursed . . . why am I cursed with the likes of you?" Greyhorn wheezed. "Now, with victory almost within my grasp, you bungle everything."
As inconspicuously as possible Grantin attempted to retreat from the window and slink back down the hallway toward his room.
"Where do you think you're going? Come back here-- come back here with my ring!"
"Uncle, you're tired and upset. You should rest. I'll go and fix us some dinner, then you should take a nap. When morning comes you'll be fresh and able to think more clearly. Perhaps there is a solution that we haven't considered."
Still weakened from the potion's noxious fumes, Greyhorn hesitated a moment, then leaned wearily back against the wall and nodded his assent. The wizard trudged down the front stairs and into his study while Grantin made his way to the rear first-floor kitchen and prepared a light meal.
After dinner he cajoled Greyhorn into reclining on the parlor couch, whereupon the wizard fell into a deep sleep. Now Grantin had only a few hours to make his plans and, if necessary, flee. First he must scour the library for some reference, some hint to the nature of this strange ring. Possibly in some dusty volume was recounted a spell which could free him from its weight.
Grantin first checked the common references: A Thousand and One Spells for All Occasions; Hancough's Compendium of Useful Chants; The Wizard's Guide to Advanced Magic--all to no avail.
Hours later, Grantin turned the last page in Puffin's Quaint Spells I Have Known and Used without finding so much as a single useful passage.
Beyond the library windows night surrounded the manor in purple black. Grantin's single lamp glowed feebly, and as the charge slowly ebbed away it flickered with an almost hypnotic rhythm. Overcome by the day's events, Grantin slumped forward, head on his hands, the bloodstone pressing hard against the center of his forehead. Reluctantly he surrendered to Morpheus's blandishments, all the while promising himself that he would only rest for an hour or two and then awaken refreshed to finish his search or, if necessary, flee into the woods.
Chapter Twelve
A strangeness pervaded the scene, but Grantin had to concentrate to determine the nature of its peculiarity. It seemed as though images approached from a great distance, danced in front of him, and then roared past him and disappeared. With a start Grantin realized that a colored fog shrouded these scenes until they were quite close to him. The visions themselves were composed predominantly of reds and oranges, yellows and tans, but the fog that surrounded them, without actually touching them, was itself a pale pearly green.
Each succeeding vision persisted for a longer time. Grantin began to catch fragments of entire scenes, all of a uniquely frightening nature: dungeons, cells, humans, Ajaj, and Fanists in chains, storms, blood, and torture. In spite of his revulsion Grantin stared fixedly at each picture, trying to drink in all of its details before it flickered away. More and more he thought he discerned a common link between all of them--in each vision he detected the hint if not the actual presence of a bloodstone such as that affixed to his own left hand. Grantin was intrigued by one apparition in particular, one that he realized he had been watching for some time. This picture filled his entire field of vision. Grantin avidly watched the events silently unfold.
A small, chunky, baldheaded man, childlike in size but bearing the grizzled face of age, tramped down a gray-walled corridor. Bandy legs moved piston-like beneath the folds of his wizard's gown. In a few paces the magician reached a wooden door broken in the middle by a small barred window. The portal was flung open by his touch. The room beyond was brightly lit by several glow-pods. The chamber was circular. Down its center was a line of floor-to-ceiling bars spaced only a few inches apart. Imprisoned in the right half of the room was a four-armed c
reature, a Fanist of a clan unknown to Grantin. The native's hairless, pebble-gray hide did not yet bear the network of wrinkles and seams which distinguished the elders of the tribes. This native was young, barely into adulthood, although even after five hundred years of cohabitation humans were unsure what his age would be as man reckons time.
The wizard's mouth worked angrily and he shouted in silent frustration at the impassive Fanist. An instant later bolts of red and green leaped from the wizard's fingertips, passed through the bars, and discharged themselves into the native's flesh. The Fanist writhed in agony but refused to answer the wizard's questions. Another bolt struck him, and, as the Fanist crumpled to the floor, the scene began to fade. In the last instant before the vision failed Grantin saw, or sensed, affixed beneath the tough flap of skin which covered the native's forehead a glowing milky blue jewel set there in an indentation of the skull itself.
With a snap, like a spark of static electricity, the scene pulsed brightly, then went dark. Grantin awakened to find himself still sprawled in the library, with dawn beginning to tint the far horizon. Soon Greyhorn would be stirring, looking for Grantin. With him he would bring his knife.
Chapter Thirteen
Grantin raced from wall to wall, shelf to shelf, searching for a book, any book, which might provide a clue which would save him from his alternatives of amputation or penniless flight. In desperation he yanked volume two of the Ajaj history from the bottom shelf and as fast as his eyes were able began to read.
The first human city, Integrity, was established on the banks of the Resurrection River two miles east of the site where the Lillith had first landed. Under Amis Hartford's direction the colonists pooled their efforts to construct the first rude settlement while the Ajaj withdrew to the pinnacles on the far bank of the river. Crops were planted and the first year's harvest was....
No, no--that was no help at all! Grantin madly flipped the pages forward, reading a line here, a fragment there. , The sun was now halfway above the horizon. Grantin turned the pages in a mad dash for some clue to the nature of the bloodstone.