by David Grace
In all directions arose pinnacles, chimneys, towers, cones, and rocky protrusions. Their colors varied as widely as their shapes; mug green, deep purple, gray, black, rust red, and sandy ocher. Between these nests of stone lay a labyrinth of passages, tunnels, and trails. Grantin and Chom contemplated the barrier with sinking hearts.
"How wide do you think that is?" Grantin asked.
"Look again at the map and see if it gives a clue."
Grantin slipped off his pack and removed a cylindrical roll of stiff paper. Carefully he spread it on the ground, using a small stone at each corner to hold it flat.
"As far as I can tell we're about here," he said, indicating a point at the western edge of Grenitch Wood a fourth of the way from its northern border. "Could this be the Twisted Reef? The map is not exactly to scale, but it must be at least a three miles wide. What do you think?"
"Once lost in there we could wander forever. Could we find our way by reference to the sun or stars?"
"I don't suppose we have much choice, do we? Let's get started, then, while the sun's still high enough to follow."
Chom seemed not to hear Grantin's remarks. Instead he concentrated on the reef. When Grantin started to walk forward, Chom's lower arm gently grabbed his wrist.
"Wait--it is not what it seems. I detect subtle magic beyond. There are more than natural forces to contend with there. I suspect the Weirdlands were deliberately created by the Gogols as a barrier to keep their people from escaping into Grenitch Wood and through the mountain passes beyond. Let us make a test." From the side pocket of his tunic Chom brought forth a small hank of translucent string. "Tie this to your belt," he directed.
Grantin quickly secured the line, then struck off into the pinnacles. He found the going surprisingly easy and penetrated the first hundred yards without difficulty. Though he endeavored to keep the sun always in front of him, occasionally it would slip behind a tower. Then he would be forced to circle the obstacle in order to get it back in sight. Often the sun appeared in an unexpected quadrant of the sky, opposite from the point where Grantin had expected it. Whenever this happened he reluctantly turned from his planned course and headed again in Pyra's direction.
Without warning he was yanked to a stop. Had the thread run out already? Carefully Grantin turned around and backtracked along the string, winding it as he went. To his amazement he discovered a zigzag, twisted course, one which in fact crossed itself several times from different directions. It was a trail that might have been left by a blind, drunken snake. Carefully Grantin retraced his steps until at last with a sigh of relief he emerged from the edge of the reef to see Chom standing twenty yards ahead of him.
"It is impossible," he reported when he returned. "I ran in circles. We would starve to death before we reached the other side. I had better look at the map again." Grantin again laid out the parchment and tried to detect an alternative course. "This shading might indicate the boundary of the Twisted Reef. There, to the north, along the length of the reef seems to run the Shrinking Monster Gulch. What do you think?"
"It is no worse than sitting here."
Grantin and Chom paced northward along the ragged edge where the meadow joined the reef. From within the rock labyrinth sounds erupted, as if the stone pillars captured faint noises and amplified them. As they neared the northern edge of the reef, the scratching clatter of a group of Rex lizards trotting across stony ground could be heard. A few times Grantin even thought he heard garbled human voices. Once he detected the muffled words ". . . up ahead." Yon Diggery and his band had reached the pinnacles.
Grantin and Chom accelerated their pace. Shortly a ravine barred their way. The gulch appeared to be forty or fifty feet deep with steep but not unclimbable sides. At the bottom the ground was smooth and broken by a trickle of muddy water. The edge of the gorge merged precipitously with the northern boundary of the reef. Remaining in the lead, Chom moved toward the border of the pinnacles.
"We can make twice as much time by following the gorge," Grantin hissed.
"The bandits are mounted and have the advantage over us on flat ground. If we stay to the edge of the reef they will have to abandon their Rexes and come on foot. It is our only chance if we want to avoid a fight."
The clatter of the lizards' claws now sounded clearly from the near distance. With no time for further discussion Grantin jogged past Chom and entered the twisted reef. Standing sideways, facing the ravine, they inched along, careful not to pass more than two or three feet from its edge for fear of becoming hopelessly lost.
Behind them Grantin and Chom heard the voices of Yon Diggery's men. "They can't be far ahead of us; let's run them down," Diggery's Lieutenant, Dukey, shouted as he urged his mount down the trail into the gulch.
Grantin and Chom peeked around the edge of a jutting chimney to watch Dukey descend into the gulch. The bandit rode the lizard at full speed, yet his progress seemed slower than expected. As his eyes focused on Dukey's form Grantin's perspective pitched and changed. The farther the bandit progressed, the deeper the ravine became. Whether the gulch was hundreds of times deeper than it appeared or the rider shrank by degrees as he descended Grantin could not tell. It soon became obvious, however, that though he might ride for days Dukey still would not reach the bottom. The reason for the barrier's name was now clear.
Sounds issued from the eastern edge of the reef: clicks, snaps, and thuds as Yon Diggery and his remaining men entered the labyrinth on foot. With a new urgency Grantin and Chom resumed their frenzied sidelong flight.
At the end of the seventh hour they reached the western edge of the reef. From the sounds of the pursuit Yon Diggery was no more than five or ten minutes behind. To the southwest a trail stretched away from the reef across a meadow and into a twinkling yellow-red field beyond, the Mirror Scarp. What could it be? Fields of mica-covered boulders, plains of silvered rock --another labyrinth in which they would be hopelessly lost, if not cooked by Pyra's reflected light? Directly ahead and to the northeast a second trail cut across the rolling meadow which a half mile in the distance ascended a gentle, forested slope to terminate at a thousand-yard-high rocky ridge.
"That must be Domino Grove," Grantin panted. "To the right is the gorge, to the left the scarp. At least in front of us the view is nice. If I am going to die I prefer it be under as pleasant circumstances as possible."
Chom made no reply but docilely followed the human's lead. Here, too, the perspective was deceiving. The ground became marshy and the travelers were limited to a narrow rocky ledge which crossed the swamp. Tall pea-green trees grew in copses at the edge of the trail.
Slowly the character of the land continued to change. The clumps of swamp grass grew taller. The stalky trees became more common. By nightfall Chom and Grantin found themselves in a thick forest. In the gloom of night further travel became impossible. The bushes and trees screened them from their pursuers. At last they straggled to a halt. Grantin pronounced an impromptu spell of protection. In theory, if anyone crossed an imaginary circle a thousand yards in diameter they would be warned by a keening in Grantin's ears.
By now the packs were almost empty, and Chom waded into a nearby pool to catch their dinner. Demonstrating exquisite coordination, the four-armed native tossed eight plump fish upon the bank. Chom was willing to eat them raw, but Grantin met that suggestion with a groan. At last Chom agreed that the thickness of the underbrush would hide a small fire, provided Grantin could find fuel in the swampy country.
After a few minutes' search the human discovered a peculiar variety of twisted shrub which solved the problem. He returned to their campsite carrying several of the plants, which he piled in a mound in the center of the clearing.
"What are those?" Chom asked him.
"I found them sprouting from the green-stemmed trees. I think they're a parasite. No leaves, no root system. They snap off at a touch, but they're hard and springy and seem thin enough to burn."
Chom examined the plants as closely as possible in
the poor light. Their appearance suggested the work of a demented basket weaver. Each was spherical, about two feet in diameter, and composed of flat, shiny black strips. These ribbons twisted and intertwined with great complexity like a tangled skein of yam. Still, none of the strips could be seen to split or converge. Each branch seemed to be constructed of one continuous tangled piece.
Chom wondered how they grew. Did they bend and turn upon themselves in response to some genetic code, or was each one patterned as uniquely as a snowflake?
Grantin struck a lucifer and thrust the flaming twig beneath the pile. He stood back to see if the shrubs would catch. The result was astonishing. At first the ribbons resisted the fire; then, instead of bursting into flame, they swelled like slowly inflating balloons. As Grantin and Chom watched, the stems nearest the flames began to bulge, followed by those more distant.
"Well," said Grantin after a moment, "it looks as though--" A piercing howl interrupted him, and both turned back to the fire. The strips had filled to bursting, and now thin streams of gas hissed from their lower reaches. A jumping spark ignited one of the plumes, and instantly it blazed with an orange-white glow. Soon tongues of fire adorned the bottom strips. Their heat caused the upper stems to swell. Grantin leaped forward and removed the bulk of the bushes before they turned the camp into an oven. "I wonder how it works," Grantin asked, fascinated with the display.
'The branches seem to be composed of long, pliable fibers," Chom suggested, "giving the stems strength lengthwise but no lateral support. With a little pressure they inflate, and when the fibers can stretch no farther the gas forces itself out at the weakest point. Obviously the fumes are flammable. Not the sort of thing we would want to throw into a raging fire."
"It would probably go off like a bomb," Grantin agreed. "We should cut some short pieces and seal the ends. You never know when an explosive might come in handy." The bush now burning easily, Grantin set the fish on its upper surface and let them bake. Even Chom admitted the benefits of cooking, although he disconcerted Grantin by consuming not just the flesh but additionally the head, bones, skin, and tail.
Slowly the lantern bush, as Grantin named it, burned out and the camp was plunged into pitch-black night. To the south a mournful howl arose from the forest depths, a sound which Grantin hoped would keep Yon Diggery and his men close to their own camp a mile or two behind.
At first light Grantin collapsed his spell of surveillance and he and Chom sped down the trail. The character of the land continued to change. The trees grew denser and more uniform in shape; the ground began to slope upward, as if they were climbing the edge of a long, gentle valley. The forest was now composed almost entirely of tall, stalk-like trees. The trunks had turned from pea green to sickly yellow and were of a uniform two-foot diameter. The surface of the stalks was covered with a horny, scaled hide unbroken by limbs or branches. Some fifty feet above the ground the treetops sported an egg-shaped crown colored an unattractive shade of greenish gray.
"It resembles a giant asparagus," Grantin said. Vines and creepers seemed to favor the strange trees. With increasing frequency thick strands spanned the upper level of the forest until they gradually formed a canopy which filtered out the sun.
Bit by bit Chom slowed their pace, carefully threading a trail through the midmorning gloom. At noon they reached a small brook. As Grantin bent over to fill his water bottle a missile whizzed over his crouched body.
"Down!" Both dived to the earth. They waited tensely but, except for a slight rustling in the underbrush, nothing could be heard.
After a few minutes Grantin rose and dodged through the brush to the point where the object had hit the ground. There were no rocks in sight, but upon searching a bit he discovered a round, mustard-yellow pod beneath a clump of ferns. About the size and weight of a small melon, it was covered with irregular spikes and barbs. In a moment Chom joined him and studied the object.
"It looks like a seedpod," he said, lifting it gingerly. "Perhaps the plants launch them somehow."
Grantin looked up at the bulging treetops. "If a tree full of these fell on us, we'd be killed. We should leave here as fast as possible."
Grantin and Chom set off once more. A few minutes later another pod sailed across their path. They could hear snappings in the underbrush along the edges of the trail. As the ground sloped more steeply the forest noises became louder and more constant. Spike melons became a familiar sight.
"What do you think?" Grantin whispered to Chom as they picked their way around a large grassy mound. "Men or animals?"
"The bandits," Chom answered.
"I'm afraid you're right," said Grantin, letting out his breath. Another pod whistled through the air and glanced off Chom's pack. "And their aim is getting better." The travelers increased their pace.
"Do you notice anything different?" Chom asked Grantin a few minutes later.
"No--yes, the sun is brighter." Grantin studied the forest canopy. "The vines ... they're thinning out."
"And the pods are riper," Chom added. "They are huge now."
The pods in fact were dark and dangling from loose strands at the treetops. The crowns themselves were swollen.
Another missile flew at them from the bushes. With the loss of the vines Grantin and Chom were now able to see flashes of the men who flanked them, fifty yards to either side of the trail. Apparently Yon Diggery was afraid of using magic against anyone who had vanquished Shenar. Instead he intended to harry them with the missiles until, panicked to the point of exhaustion, they became easy prey for knives, clubs, and crossbow bolts. His strategy was working. Grantin's makeshift spells might be sufficient to eliminate one or two of the bandits but not all of them. Chom's magic was mostly that of the practical variety. The Fanists had never developed spells for self-defense.
Grantin and Chom struggled up the hill, hoping to outdistance their pursuers. Yon Diggery seemed willing to pace his quarry until they dropped. A few hundred yards farther Grantin was forced to rest. His breath tearing at his throat, he leaned back against an asparagus tree. Under his weight it began to wobble. With a clatter, the ripest pods rained down around him. He and Chom struggled up the slope away from the swaying tree.'' A few feet farther on Chom reached out and pushed another of the growths. It wobbled back and forth as if balancing on a narrow base. He prodded a third. It, too, leaned ominously.
Grantin and Chom looked down the hill and saw that the bandits were now growing bolder. They had tightened their lines and were clearly visible as they moved through the underbrush. Chom once more studied the top-heavy trees.
"Grantin, I have an idea. Take everything from your pack that you do not absolutely need and drop it on the trail. Do it as fast as you can. We must get to the ridge. Plundering our supplies may delay them for a minute or two."
Chom led them off at a slow trot, the best speed they could maintain against the grade. A quarter mile or so ahead rose the brow of the hill. Down below two of Yon Diggery's band, Luke and Spicer, pawed through the provisions and made a hurried report to their chief. Chom continued to set a grueling pace. Now a hundred yards to go. From down the slope came sounds of pursuit, and Chom urged Grantin onward. With a last surge of effort, gasping and sweating, they gained the top.
"Grantin, take this stem bomb we made last night. Put it against the trunk of that tree--and hurry."
Grantin wedged the double-bent piece of lantern bush beneath the shallow roots of an asparagus tree at the top of the hill. An instant later Chom rushed up, clutching dried leaves, twigs, and branches. These he heaped around the stem while Grantin struck a lucifer and set the materials ablaze.
"Now back," Chom commanded. For a heart-stopping fifteen seconds nothing happened. Yon Diggery's men could be heard scrambling up the hillside, only thirty or forty yards from the top. Exhausted, Grantin and Chom stood back from the edge, their eyes transfixed by the fire at the base of the tree. They had almost given up hope when the sealed six-inch piece of lantern stem erupted in a ringin
g explosion. The trunk shattered. The asparagus tree leaned backward and toppled down the slope. As it fell it careened into three other trees. In a slow-motion chain reaction each one fell against another and another and another. As each toppled backward others broke loose until, like gigantic dominoes, they created a path of destruction which raged down the grade. Their hard, barbed fruit sprayed like shrapnel in all directions. Even Chom was startled by the violence of the reaction. In less than a minute the slope was littered with the fallen trees. Of Yon Diggery and his men no trace was visible.
Chom studied the scene critically and offered a comment. "This may be their normal means of reproduction. As the fruit ripens the trunks grow hollow. The trees secrete a substance which kills the vines which normally steady them. Eventually they fall, spreading the pods. The new crop is fertilized by the decaying trunks. As they grow the vines reappear and tether them until the next generation of pods ripens and the cycle repeats. An ingenious if dramatic form of propagation."
"Just the same, I'm glad they're behind us. It looks as though we've reached the edge of the Weirdlands."
Following Grantin's gesture, Chom turned from the littered slope and looked to the west. Ahead the land dipped gently to a lush grassy plain. In the far distance was the glint of sunlight on water.
"The trees always fall downward and so have never been able to escape the valley," Chom said, studying the vista. "We will rest here and have lunch, then set off across the grasslands before nightfall."
Late that afternoon Grantin and Chom sheltered themselves in a copse of ironwood trees deep within the Gogol kingdom. A few leagues behind them, sap-stained, his skin scraped, Rupert struggled from a crevice between two fallen asparagus trees. Blood spilled freely from his gashed right arm, which now made a set with the smashed fingers of his left hand. As he emerged from the tangle of logs he spied Yon Diggery sitting on the ground, his back perched against a splintered stump. A large freely bleeding, purple-black bruise adorned his forehead. Like the Gogol deacon his body displayed the cuts, abrasions, and scrapes occasioned by the avalanche of trees and pods.