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.
"…Thus the Gogols were forced to retreat far to the west and to halt their attacks on the newly established Hartford villages."
Wait a moment! How did the Hartfords force the Gogols into retreat? Grantin flipped back to the preceding page and read the ensuing paragraphs with great interest.
… Edgar of Ilium, the first of the great Hartford magicians. By rumor Edgar's grandfather was a learned colonist of the tribe known as geologists. That ancestor passed down special knowledge to his heirs. Edgar himself refused to reveal the nature of the device by which he hurled energy bolts at the attacking Gogols and so saved the Hartfords from domination and slavery. It was commonly believed, however, that Edgar through the use of his grandfather's teachings discovered a rock or crystal which amplified the power of his spells. Edgar would neither deny nor confirm the rumor but always contended that the power he used was too awesome and too frightening for normal men, that the uninitiated would likely be driven mad by contact with his device or the use of his spells.
It is known that Edgar wore a large ring with a crudely cut red stone affixed in its center. Some have speculated that this gem, or powerstone, was the seat of his magic. This hypothesis, however, was never able to be tested. It is rumored that on one occasion Edgar was waylaid by renegades and when they attempted to remove the ring from his hand they were all struck dead by its power. To this story, as to most of the others told about him, Edgar gave a sly smile and a shy wink but no further response other than his oft-repeated dictum that the power he used was more the power of death than of life and that anyone who chanced to possess his secret would probably die of contact with it.
The answer to this riddle will likely never be known, as, a few moments after Edgar's death, the stone clouded, fragmented, and crumbled to powder, pouring from its socket like red sand. In spite of the passing of Edgar, the Hartfords remained safe from the Gogol menace due to the more recent advances in wizardry by Englehardt and Emriss, students of the great magician. Thus the Gogols were forced to retreat far to the west and to halt their attacks on the newly established Hartford villages.
Nothing, there was nothing here! Perhaps elsewhere, other wizards, someone might be able to tell him how to rid himself of the powerstone which must, judging from his tortured dreams, soon drive him mad. Grantin slammed the book closed, stood up, and walked to the far comer of the library. He opened the great window and leaned on the sill, watching Pyra ascend above the horizon.
There before him lay the Eris Forest, and beyond, low rolling hills. In the far distance was the hint of the Guardian Mountains which separated the realm of the Hartfords from that of the Gogols. Was a mere finger worth a flight into such rugged country? Grantin looked down at his hand. He bent back the index finger, hiding it, and examined the result. Certainly men had lived with worse deformities. Perhaps Greyhorn could be put off, delayed, or convinced to consult other wizards more knowledgeable than he.
A scrape sounded on the stone floor behind him. Grantin turned and spied his uncle approaching him stealthily. The wizard's left hand was extended, fingers open as if ready to grasp a moving object. In his right hand he clutched a long, gleaming knife.
"Uncle, please don't. There must be another way. Can't we talk this over?"
Greyhorn made no reply but continued to advance on his nephew. Before Greyhorn's appearance Grantin had all but resigned himself to the loss of his finger. Now, with the blade only a few feet away, his fear of its amputation became overwhelming. In desperation Grantin raised his right and left arms and swung each of them in counter-rotating circles in front of him. From his lips issued a broken stream of chants and incantations remembered from his occasional attempts at scholarship. The spell had unexpected results. Instead of freezing Greyhorn's body into immobility, a great sphere of ball lightning was emitted from one of Grantin's whirling arms. This flickering missile raced to the ceiling, bounced off the beams, and ricocheted from wall to wall, leaving a sizzling path in its wake. Finally the sphere contacted the iron grille of the library door and exploded in a myriad of crackling fragments. The menace now gone, Grantin reappeared from under the heavy table. He spied his uncle also clambering to his feet.
"You idiot! That ring contains a bloodstone! Its magic is that of a hundred wizards. One wrong word and you could kill us both. It's too dangerous for you to have. Don't you know it will drive you mad unless you get rid of it? Your days are numbered."
Greyhorn regained his feet. Grantin saw that he still clasped the butcher knife. Highlights of the morning sun twinkled brightly on the polished surface of its blade. Grantin became almost hypnotized by the flickering gleams. Involuntarily he retreated into the corner of the room up against the sill of the window.
"Stay back! Stay back, uncle! I don't care what you say, I don't want to lose my finger."
"You don't want to lose your finger!" Greyhorn yelled as he crept closer to his nephew. "What do I care what you want? That ring is mine, by God, and I'm going to take it if I have to cut off your whole arm!"
Grantin pushed himself up onto the window ledge and wondered if he could survive a jump. No-too high, too many rocks beneath him. Greyhorn was now only three or four feet away and still advancing. Without conscious plan Grantin shouted a keep-away spell which he had learned as a child, a simple incantation which slightly thickened the air around the person who pronounced it and hence tended to deflect an advancing individual to one side or the other. But Grantin had not reckoned with the forces of the powerstone. Instead of Greyhorn being kept from Grantin, it was Grantin who was removed from Greyhorn.
With a sensation of being grabbed by a giant fist, Grantin felt walls of force enclose his body, yank him through the window, and propel him out across the sky. Tumbling, his body flew through space, gaining height and speed with each passing yard. Greyhorn's castle became a gray wall, a house, a distant toy structure, a spot on the horizon, then was gone. Below Grantin the landscape blurred and ran into a smeared impression of greens and browns. Villages, rivers, lakes, cities, all slid by. In the distance, Grantin saw the rapidly approaching towers of the Guardian Mountains, gigantic structures which seemed to soar even above the great height at which he now flew. Tumbling out of control, in the spell's icy grip, Grantin flew onward straight at the heart of the rearing granite crags.