I have not decided.
I have not decided whether that strand of Poseidon's net caught me for good or ill, whether that one scrap of dream (I dare not call it memory) makes me weaker or stronger: better to know the source of the Pains, perhaps; better to know the reason for this emptiness in my chest, certainly – but what I know, I know only the half of.
And there lies the danger, does it not?
If ignorance is bliss and knowledge power, what has the King of Seas sent me? Half a truth, at best; half a memory, at worst; there is no help for it. I have seen what I have seen; a crack has opened, and I could not stop that black tatter from tearing free if I wanted to – and forgive me everyone everywhere – I do not want to!
"Do you want to mark our trail?" Silverwind grabbed the Amnesian Hero's arm and started to tug him down the passage, toward the dark mouth of a distant intersection. "Get away from that conjunction! Didn't you see how they torch up?"
The Thrasson, still unable to speak, scowled and peered over his shoulder. The conjunction appeared almost the same on this side as on the other: a black square, so flat and featureless it looked more like a painting than a doorway. Without any visible support, it hung motionless in the ash cloud, the only thing in the labyrinth that the howling wind seemed incapable of swaying. The iron-walled passages beyond the window remained cloaked beneath a veil of inky darkness; the monster of the labyrinth – or the Lady of Pain herself – could have been standing on the other side, and the Amnesian Hero would not have known it.
As the Thrasson studied the conjunction, the black ribbon flapping from the amphora's cracked neck finally came loose. He snatched at the scrap and missed, then tried again when the swirling ash wind changed direction and whipped the rag around his head. The tatter dodged his fingers as though it were alive, circling him two more times before it finally sailed past Silverwind. It floated about half the distance to the intersection and became caught in another whirlwind.
Hoping to catch the ribbon before it vanished altogether, the Amnesian Hero squeezed past his companions and went after it. He had no idea what to do even if he caught the scrap, but he knew miserly Poseidon would seize any excuse to withhold the promised payment. When the Thrasson returned to Arborea, he was determined that he would be able to report that the Lady of Pain had received the entire contents of the amphora.
As the Amnesian Hero clumped forward, he was relieved to see a black stripe flashing amidst the gray ash of the whirlwind. Then the stripe became a solid band, the band began to widen both up and down, and soon the entire swirling ash cloud had turned as black as shadow.
The whirlwind began to slow, shaping itself into the silhouette of a huge, barrel-chested giant. The Amnesian Hero's brick foot dropped like an anchor and brought him to a gape-mouthed stop. He felt as if the howling ash winds had stirred his thoughts into a muddle. He could not quite comprehend what had happened to the black tatter, or how he was going to recapture a shadow and feed it back into the amphora.
"Who wishes to pass this way?" So loud was the question that it shook tiny avalanches of ash off the passage walls.
"Aigggh!" cried Silverwind. "What has risen from the depths of your foul mind now, old fool?"
The giant took a single step forward, leaving his shadow behind and bringing himself belt-to-nose with the Amnesian Hero. The brute was as broad as the passage, with a pair of lice-ridden lion skins girding his loins and an iron club the size of a galley oar in his hand. His legs were big as trees, his skin as coarse as pumice stone, and his hairy belly so huge it bulged over the Thrasson's head like a billowing sail.
"Who wishes to travel the road of Periphetes?"
Coated as it was with ash, the Amnesian Hero's throat was much too dry to shape an answer-but he knew better than to think any answer would satisfy the giant. He had fought enough of the brutes to realize that Periphetes was about to demand a toll, and that the toll would be one they would not care to pay.
The Thrasson slammed the hilt of his sword into Periphetes's kneecap, then deftly leaned aside as the giant brought down a great palm to slap the irritation. Before the hand could rise again, the Amnesian Hero touched his blade to the middle knuckle, using just enough strength to inflict an admonishing prick and pin the great appendage in placemen of renown did not fell even the greediest of giants without first warning them to behave.
Periphetes lowered his head to peer over his enormous belly, showing a huge moon-shaped face with a grimy thatch of beard and a cavernous pug-nose. When the giant found his hand pinned to his own kneecap, he poised his great club over the Thrasson's head.
"Don't make me smash you, little man."
The Thrasson wagged a free finger at Periphetes, then gently pushed his sword forward. The star-forged blade sliced through the giant's thick hide until it drew blood, illustrating just how easily it could pierce hand and knee alike. The giant bellowed, but wisely refrained from bringing his club down.
"Stand… aside." Tessali's voice betrayed his pain, but somehow he found the strength to speak loudly enough to attract the giant's attention. "That sword… slices… steel."
"Is that so?"
Periphetes's face was too huge to conceal the flash of cunning that shot across it. His eyes darted from Tessali, who still sat astride Silverwind's back, to the Amnesian Hero and back again. When the giant's huge club began to move in the elf's direction, the Thrasson knew instantly that his adversary was hoping to make hostages of his three companions. He ducked between Periphetes's legs and rocked his sword across the back of the giant's hand. An index finger as thick as a lance shaft popped free and, trailing a cascade of dark blood, dropped into the ash.
Periphetes roared, and the club reversed direction.
The Amnesian Hero darted behind the giant's thigh, at the same time drawing his blade along inside his foe's huge knee. The star-forged steel sliced deep through tendon and sinew. Had the Thrasson not been crippled by a brick foot, he would have continued to dance around Periphetes, reducing the giant's leg to little more than a bloody post of bone. As it was, however, the Amnesian Hero had to settle for a single, vicious strike to the back of the knee.
The blade bit deep, then was nearly torn from the Thrasson's hands as Periphetes's leg jerked away. Knowing the giant would have to pivot backward to counterattack, the Thrasson ducked under the brute and assaulted the other leg with a vicious spinning slash. He heard the telltale pop of a separating tendon, then dived away before his foe's iron club could arc down to smash his skull.
The Amnesian Hero did not land upon the ground so much as he sank into a powdery bed of ash. His mouth filled with a sharp, metallic taste, then he found himself choking and sucking more dross into his swollen throat with each convulsion. Half-swimming and half-pushing, he raised himself out of the bitter stuff and spun toward Periphetes – or at least toward the place where he assumed the giant to be. So thickly did ash fill the air that no longer could the Thrasson see his foe.
Still choking for breath, the Amnesian Hero clumped out of the billowing ash cloud and found himself looking at Periphetes's flank. The giant was flve paces away, kneeling on his savaged legs, holding his club high and sneering at the Thrasson. There was no time to dodge. The Amnesian Hero flipped his sword into a high block and held it with both hands, trying to pivot aside on his brick foot.
The blow landed with a tremendous clang.
Any other weapon would have shattered, but the Thrasson's star-forged blade held true. He felt his arms buckle beneath the impact, then his knees started to go, and he saw the iron club sliding past on the edge of his sword.
He could not let himself fall. If he fell, he would not have the strength to rise again until he could breathe, and by the time he cleared his throat, Periphetes would be striking again. The Amnesian Hero threw all his weight against the great bludgeon, at the same time circling his sword out from under it.
The giant's club landed in the soft ash, raising another gray cloud. The Thrasson hurled himself into the billowing dross, bringing his sword down in the place where he imagined Periphetes's wrist to be lying.
The blade hit with a sharp jolt, then continued to slice downward until it sank into the soft ash. A thick, coppery smell filled the Thrasson's nostrils, and he glimpsed the red stump of a log-sized wrist rising through the grayness of the cloud.
A great, racking cough boiled out of the depths of the Amnesian Hero's lungs, forcing a plume of spewing ash from his swollen throat. Ignoring his body's demand to stop for air, he pounded through the gray cloud and found Periphetes kneeling in the ash. The giant was clutching the stump of his wrist to his chest, a position that left his armpit well-protected against a flank attack.
With a quick kill out of the question, the Amnesian Hero flipped his sword around to try for the next best thing. Periphetes, stunned by the loss of his hand, did not turn to look until the blade was already slipping between his massive ribs. The Thrasson pushed into the stroke with all his strength, driving the weapon hilt-deep and stirring it around to enlarge the wound.
A long, breathy groan slipped from Periphetes's mouth. Then, almost in resignation, the giant lowered his elbow and smashed his attacker away from his flank. As the Thrasson flew through the air, his sword came free, and a single gout of frothy red blood shot from the wound. The Amnesian Hero hit the ashen wall without much force, then picked himself up and scrambled away as his foe's anguished gasps began to ramble down the passage.
Once he was safely out of reach, the Amnesian Hero dropped to his knees. His vision began to darken. He used his hand to clean the ash from his mouth and throat, but even then he could hardly suck down any air. His breath came fast and shallow and wheezy. He began to suffer a dry cough that dislodged no dross and added greatly to his misery, racking his chest with spasms as anguishing as they were uncontrollable.
As terrible as his agony was, the Thrasson knew Periphetes was suffering worse. Dying of a punctured lung was both a slow and painful way to pass to the next stage, and, if the Amnesian Hero had possessed the strength, he would gladly have spared the giant such a miserable death.
Silverwind padded up beside the Amnesian Hero, still holding Jayk in his arms. The Thrasson was alarmed to see a tiny trickle of blood mnning from the tiefling's nose.
"Truly, you are my path out of the mazes," said the bariaur. "No matter what wickedness my mind contrives to block the way, you will defeat it."
"Well… done." Tessali cringed as the giant let out a particularly loud and anguished moan. "Though… a more… merciful… death…"
The Amnesian Hero replied with a long string of hacking coughs, then followed it with a strangled rasp nearly as pitiable as that of the giant.
Silverwind's bushy eyebrows rose in alarm. "What's wrong? Are you injured?"
The Thrasson shook his head, then clutched at his throat.
"Something is lodged?"
Again, the Amnesian Hero shook his head. He curled his hand as though holding a cup, then raised it to his lips and tipped his chin back.
"Of course, you are thirsty!" Silverwind was relieved. "I imagine I have something in my saddlebags to take care of that."
Tessali began to fumble with the straps, but the Amnesian Hero was in no mood to wait for the clumsy fingers of the wounded elf. He sheathed his sword, then tore the knots free with his own hands. Inside, he found a bulging waterskin. The Thrasson grabbed the bag and jerked the stopper from its mouth, then tipped his head back and began to pour. The fluid that gushed out, red and warm and thick, was not water.
Wine, sweet wine. Fever Vision
The wine, warm and bland to the ash-coated tongue of the Amnesian Hero, muddied the dross in his mouth. He spat the slurry out and drank again. This time he tasted the ambrosia instead of the ash; the drink was plum-sweet and rich with cinnamon, a honeyed nectar to soothe the rawness in his gullet. He drew a long rasping breath, and the darkness retreated from his vision. He soaked his parched throat with another gulp, then smiled as a certain exhilarating warmth filled his belly.