After their initial grief over losing the members of their village to the grayness in the desert, Zyrn sent a rider south. He hoped that when the rider reaches the temple he’ll be able to convince someone to come and deal with this. The rider was none too happy about the fact that the only temple close was that of Dmon-Li. After all, their priests were none too helpful to the ordinary man.
The day following Zyrn’s return to the village, he along with several others returns to the gray area. He makes sure to keep his distance, the memory of his friend’s death within the grayness still very much on his mind. When they finally reach the border of the gray area, Zyrn has the feeling it didn’t take him nearly as long to reach it as it did last time.
Only one of those who accompanied him this time had been with him last time. Kabu, one of the ones who are seeing the grayness for the first time, sits there on his horse with eyes wide and mouth open. It seems as if the grayness extends all the way to the horizon. “I can’t believe this,” he says.
“Believe it,” asserts Zyrn. “Don’t go near it or it may kill you.”
“Why are we here?” another asks.
Coming to a stop well back from the edge of the grayness, Zyrn removes a bundle from behind his saddle. Laying it on the ground, he unrolls the cloth to reveal six Parvati longswords. Picking up one of the swords acquired during their initial scavenging expedition, he begins walking toward the edge of the grayness.
“The last time I was here…” he explains then stops and glances back to where the others remain with the horses. “It’s safe enough to come a little closer,” he assures them.
“If it’s all the same,” Kabu says, “we’ll stay right here.”
Sighing with a shake of his head, Zyrn resumes his trek to the edge of the grayness. “As I was saying,” he begins again, this time raising his voice so the others can hear him better, “the last time I was here, I saw it expand.”
Stopping three feet from the edge of the shimmering grayness, he eyes it warily. Grasping the hilt of the sword, he holds it point downward. Raising the hilt as high as he can, he thrusts it into the ground. The blade sinks half a foot before coming to a stop. Making sure it is securely in the ground, he then turns back and hurries to rejoin the others.
“What I want to do is see how fast it is growing,” he explains as he reaches the others. “By placing these swords along its edge every fifty feet or so, we’ll get a good idea of what it’s doing.”
“Why?” asks one of the men as Zyrn takes another sword.
Zyrn stops and looks the man in the eye. “I don’t want to wake up one night to find it at our village,” he says. “Or worse yet, not waking up because it is encompassing our village.”
Striding off to the right of the spot where he placed the first sword, he goes approximately fifty feet from where the first blade is in the ground before coming to a stop. Trying to place the sword exactly the same distance from the edge of the grayness as the other, he thrusts it into the ground. Again making sure the sword will remain standing upright, he returns for another.
Again and again he takes the swords and thrusts them into the ground at the edge of the grayness. When all six swords are firmly fixed into the ground, he stands back and looks at them.
“Now what?” asks one of the men.
Gesturing to the swords he says, “Look at where the swords stand.”
After they look for a few seconds one of them asks, “So?”
“Can’t you see?” he asks. “They do not mark the edge of a circle.”
Taking another look the men see what he is trying to explain. Instead of a smooth circular line, the swords mark areas that extend further out than others.
“It isn’t growing consistently,” Zyrn summarizes. “Rather different areas are pushing out at different rates.”
“Guess your time at the School paid off,” Kabu says.
“The High Lord Magus would know what to do,” he explains. “Though by the time word reached him it might be too late for our village.”
“What now?” asks one of the men.
“Now we wait,” he says. “Learn as much as we can about it so when the priest gets here we can give him some idea of what he’s facing.”
“Look!” one of the men says as he points to the first sword Zyrn placed in the ground. Already the edge of the grayness has reached the blade and is creeping past. Glancing to the others, they see that the grayness in those areas has not moved forward at all.
“Let’s return home and come back tomorrow,” he says. “Then we will know how fast it is spreading.”
Mounting their horses, they turn around and race back to their village.
Day after day they return, Zyrn continues bringing six swords to mark the new edge of the grayness. Though it is spreading, it isn’t spreading very fast. As near as Zyrn can figure, the grayness is advancing around six feet per day. Some areas advance faster while others not so much. Overall, it is keeping a somewhat consistent shape. Should one area advance six or more feet one day, the next day it may only advance a foot or two allowing the rest to catch up.
The mood of the village is gradually worsening. Talk is beginning to spread that they are cursed because they stole from the dead, that the gods are angry with them. Some believe the grayness is their punishment.
After the third day, others from various villages in the area can be seen as they too keep an eye on the advancing carpet of gray. Zyrn confers with other learned men from the different villages but this is beyond them. Still no word from the rider he sent to the south, he can only watch and wait.
By the fifth day, no one bothers coming out with Zyrn. Talk of the area being cursed by the gods and other such nonsense has kept anyone else from even thinking about going out there.
In the late afternoon of the fifth day, he again goes out and marks the edge of the shimmering gray area. Four rings of swords now stand within its boundary, every ring marking a different day. Zyrn shakes his head, worried over where this might lead if nothing is done to curb its growth. But what can be done about it?
On his way back home, he tries to think about what could possibly halt the spreading of the grayness. Halfway back to his village, he encounters a score of people from his village coming his way. Among them are the ones who have been most vocal about the gray sand being a punishment of the gods.
As he approaches them, he takes note of Khalim, the only young man to have survived the ill-fated second expedition to the battlefield. That is if you can call having lost his mind and constantly gibbering incoherently surviving. Nothing they’ve attempted has done anything to restore his mind back to him.
A feeling of dread comes over Zyrn when he sees Khalim’s arms are bound behind him. The grim set of the men’s faces does nothing to alleviate the feeling. Kicking his horse faster, he rushes to meet the approaching group.
“What are you doing with him?” he asks, gesturing to Khalim.
“We go to appease the gods,” replies Maki, the one who has most fervently purported the theory of the gods being angry.
“Khalim has brought this doom upon us,” another states. “Had he died with the others, the grayness would not be seeking him.”
“Is that what you think?” asks Zyrn in disbelief.
“Yes,” asserts Maki. “Only his death at the hands of the grayness will appease the gods.”
“You are wrong!” Zyrn exclaims. “He is blameless for this!” Bringing his horse before Maki he says, “I will not allow you to do this.”
“Stand aside Zyrn,” Maki says. The others with him are unsure of themselves, but Maki glances back and hardens their resolve. “We do this for the survival of our village.”
Another of the men says, “You yourself said that if the grayness isn’t stopped, it will come to the village and destroy us all.”
“We will satisfy the gods with our piety and devotion,” Jatta asserts. Jatta, one of the elders of the village, is hardly someone Zyrn would believe to be party to something like this.
“All you will do is kill an innocent man!” he yells. “Will the blood of an innocent appease the gods? Do not fool yourself into a course of action that will damn you for all eternity.” He meets the eyes of each of them and sees his words are having little effect. Fear, fear of the unknown has robbed them of their senses.
Knowing he will be unable to sway them with words, he reaches out and takes hold of Khalim’s arm. Just before he pulled the mad young man onto his horse, he hears a whisk of a sword leaving its sheath.
“Take your hands off him,” Maki says. The point of his sword is but inches away from Zyrn’s throat.
Zyrn’s gaze bores into that of Maki’s. Releasing Khalim’s arm, he stares at the men before him.
“Go home Zyrn,” says Jatta.
“Let us do what must be done to save our village,” Maki tells him. Still holding his sword, the threat of bodily harm hangs between the two men should Zyrn continue in his attempt to stop them.
“Don’t do this,” he again pleads with them.
Ignoring his plea, they begin moving again. Walking around Zyrn’s horse, they head out toward the grayness.
Zyrn watches them go, a tear in his eye. What madness! Khalim will die because they are afraid. Turning his horse toward his village, he races across the desert. If he can get there in time, he might be able to convince others to go with him to rescue Khalim.
When his village comes into view, Zyrn knows he will not be too late if they can return quickly. Wailing comes to him as he draws closer. He finds the family of Khalim grief stricken.
As he approaches the outlying buildings, the people take note of his arrival. None are able to meet his eyes.
“Maki plans to sacrifice Khalim!” he cries out to a group of men standing together. “We must stop him. If we leave now we may be able to get there in time!” None of the men make a move or even raise their eyes to look at him. Then Zyrn understands, they all made the decision to sacrifice Khalim and are too ashamed to meet his eyes.
Off to one side he sees Khalim’s father. Riding over to him he says, “Surely you will seek to save the life of your son?”
With downcast eyes Khalim’s father replies, “I have three other children Zyrn. We have to think what is best for the village.”
“How can you say that?” he yells. “Khalim’s death will not stop the approach of the grayness. All it will accomplish is the death of an innocent man.” The father remains quiet, eyes downcast in shame.
Looking around at the assembled villagers, men and women he’s known all his life, he cries out, “Will no one come with me?” Not one person answers. He sits there on his horse in disbelief, amazed at the lengths good people will go when fear rules them. Saddened by what his village has become, he slowly passes among those he thought he knew until he comes to his home. Dismounting, he leaves his horse out front and enters through his front door.
Despondent, he sits alone and grieves.
Hours later, Maki and the others return without Khalim. There is little rejoicing as they make their way through the buildings, faces peer out from windows but none come to greet them. When they reach the lane outside his home, Zyrn remains within and simply stares at them through the window as they go by.
A few glance his way but when they see him staring, quickly lower their eyes to the ground. “Fools!” whispers Zyrn to himself. When they at last move out of his line of sight, he heads off to bed.
The following morning, he again takes six swords and readies to return to the grayness. Jatta makes to approach him while he’s securing the bundle behind his saddle and stops when he sees Zyrn shake his head. Swinging up into the saddle, he turns his back on his longtime friend and rides out of the village without a word.
Out at the fringe of the gray area he finds the dead body of Khalim. Lying next to one of the swords he placed there the day before, his body shimmers with the grayness that has continued to advance. What a waste!
Dismounting a dozen yards from the fringe, he removes his bundle and begins marking the boundary once more. When he’s done, he takes his horse by the reins and begins walking back home. Not in any hurry to return there, he wonders if he can even live among people who are capable of such an act.
No matter what may happen, his home will never be the same. Not after something like this. Deep in his thoughts, he fails to see the approaching riders before they’re almost upon him.
“Zyrn!” one of the riders cries. It’s the man whom he had sent for the priest, and riding at his side is the priest himself. Wearing the robes of a priest of Dmon-Li, the man looks at him rather haughtily.
“Thank goodness you came Father,” Zyrn says as the priest approaches.
“Yes, yes, yes,” the priest says rather impatiently. “This young man here was most insistent about some sort of problem. He harangued us until the temple gave in and sent me.” Looking as if he feels this is going to be a complete waste of time and is only doing it because he has to, he adds, “So where is this ‘thing’?”
Swinging into the saddle, Zyrn turns his horse back toward where he’s been marking the fringe and says, “It’s this way, about a mile.”
Sighing, the priest says, “Lead on. Let’s get this over with.”
Kicking his horse into a fast trot, Zyrn leads the priest and the rider back to the grayness. When it comes into view, he says, “There it is.”
At first it looks nothing more than the haze you would see from the heat rising off the ground. “Is this some sort of joke?” he priest asks, not amused.
Zyrn remains quiet as they continue to close the distance. Soon the rows of swords he has placed there over the past few days become visible where they are sticking out of the ground. He turns back to the priest and says, “I used the swords to mark the edge. It’s growing.”
The priest finally realizes the shimmer is not due to the heat as he at first thought. “What is it?” he asks, a nervous catch to his voice.
“I don’t know,” replies Zyrn. “But it’s deadly. Whatever it touches, dies.”
Then the priest gasps when he sees the body of Khalim lying within the shimmering field of gray.
“That’s Khalim,” explains Zyrn. “Last night, several men from my village brought him out here as a sacrifice thinking it would appease the gods.”
“Why did they do that?” the priest asks.
Launching into the tale, Zyrn relates everything to the priest. From the first scavenging expedition, the second ill-fated one when all but Khalim had fallen to the grayness, and ending at the senseless sacrifice of Khalim.
Dismounting, the priest advances toward the carpet of gray. “Don’t get too close,” warns Zyrn, “it can advance pretty fast at times.”
Nodding, the priest continues to draw closer to the fringe until he stands three yards away. Reaching down, he picks up a scorpion that was crawling across the dirt and tosses it into the shimmering gray. He watches as the scorpion lands within the grayness, takes two steps then stops. Its body gradually grows to be the same color as the grayness.
“Fascinating,” he says.
“Is there anything you can do about it?” Zyrn asks.
The priest waves away the question. Summoning the magic of his god, he sends it out to the grayness in an attempt to discover what it is.
Zyrn watches as the priest closes his eyes and concentrates. At first nothing happens. Then a ripple seems to roll across the surface of the deadly grayness toward the priest, like a wave across the surface of a placid pond.
“Uh,” begins Zyrn in warning to the priest as the wave rolls toward him. Backing up, he and the other man put some distance between themselves and the priest.
Then all of a sudden, the priest cries out as the grayness surges outwards. His cry is cut short as he and his horse become completely enveloped by the mass of shimmering gray.
Zyrn turns and runs as the grayness continues to sweep forward. Another horse cries in pain and fear as the gray comes in contact with its hoof. Glancing backward, he sees the horse stumble then collapse as the wave of gray seems to wash over it.
“Run!” he yells as the gray continues to sweep toward them. Running for their lives, Zyrn and the other man race across the sand. Glancing back to see how close it is, he slows then comes to a stop when he discovers it is no longer advancing toward them.
“Lord help us,” he says as he sees the edge of the grayness now over a hundred yards further out from where it had been this morning. The body of the horse and the priest are now just lumps far within it.
“What are we to do now?” the man asks him.
Shaking his head in reply, Zyrn remains silent. It had reacted to the magic of the priest. He and others have been in as close proximity to it before and it had never reacted as it did just now. Could it be alive? If so he has no idea what that could mean.
He stands there thinking for several minutes as he contemplates the situation. The sound of the man leading the remaining horse over to him snaps him out of his reverie. “We better get back home,” Zyrn says.
Climbing into the saddle, he reaches down and helps the man to swing onto the horse behind him. Riding double, they begin the trek back to the village.