Ibsen-Iktus: mountainous area of Tameran, south of Babaroth, east of Locontareth, west of Swelaway Sea and far to the north of Favanosin. This impoverished upthrust of impenetrable rocks lies beyond the borders of the Witchlord's realm, for Lord Onosh lays no claim of conquest on these snow-strewn heights.
So it was that in the spring of his 17th year, shortly after his 16th birthday, the young Weaponmaster Guest Gulkan found himself airwrecked in the mountains with the wizards Pelagius Zozimus and Hostaja Sken-Pitilkin, with the dralkosh Zelafona and her dwarf-son Glambrax, with the gray-bearded warrior Thodric Jarl and with Jarl's compatriot Rolf Thelemite.
The light of day was beginning to fail as the wanderers approached the building which they had earlier spied from afar. To walk was a labor, and on the last stages of their climb they were forced to pause after each and every step.
As has been said, the valley of their airwrecking ran from east to west, and the building to which the aeronauts were bent was set high on the northern slopes. This formidable behemoth of a building had a frontage which was all of half a thousand paces in length, and its height, by Sken-Pitilkin's estimate, was upwards of two hundred paces. As they closed with the building, the travelers saw that its windowless frontage was covered with huge ceramic tiles, each the height of a man.
In the freshness of their first creation, these tiles must have been glorious with color, but now they were suncracked and weatherstained, and some had fallen away altogether to reveal the stolid gray stone which lay beneath the decorations.
"I'm tired and cold," said Thodric Jarl, who by this time was in a very bad temper. "Let's get inside."
Jarl's temper was bad because to move – or even just to breathe – was to be stabbed by knives.
"You look," said Guest, "very much as if you were in pain."
"I am," said Jarl, who saw no point in denying it. "I've broken a couple of ribs."
Jarl's speech was curt, as usual, his accents hard – but in truth he felt as tender as a ripe tomato enduring a sledgehammer's playful tap. He felt as if he might burst into tears at any moment.
Chronic pain will tax the courage of the bravest. To resolve on one's death – ah, this is easy, at least when one is sufficiently enraged. Anger solves the problem. One decides for death, one charges one's enemies – and all decision is gone, for there is no way out. Jarl had done as much in the past, surviving more through luck than anything else.
But to make a mountainscape trek with a set of broken ribs puts far greater demands upon character. When one's ribs are broken, every step demands a new decision. The rigors of this choice, with its constant demands on his courage, had brought Jarl to the very edge of emotional collapse.
"Are you ribs badly broken?" said Rolf.
A useless question, for how could Jarl know the answer?
Perhaps his bones were merely cracked, in which case pain would be the worst of the consequences. Or perhaps the bones had splintered in places to sharpened knives, in which case Jarl might abruptly get spiked through the lung, and die of internal bleeding.
"They hurt like hell," said Jarl shortly, and stumped toward the single centrally placed gateway which pierced the building's tiled facade.
"We'll know the truth of his breakages soon enough," said Guest. "If he starts coughing blood we can count one lung as good as gone for certain."
Then Guest Gulkan and Rolf Thelemite fell in behind Thodric Jarl, watching him intently to see if he would start coughing up his heart's blood, which gave a certain interest to the proceedings which would otherwise have been lacking.
"Boys," said the witch Zelafona, with a click of her tongue which summarized volumes of disapproval.
Then she handed Sken-Pitilkin his country crook, which he received gratefully, for he had never before had more need of its support.
Inside the pierced gateway, a set of windchimes hung from the roof. Though there was no wind, these chimes tinkled regardless, and this tinkling was the loudest exterior sound which the airadventurers had heard since first air-crashing in this upland valley. Led by Jarl, the exhausted air adventurers passed through the gateway into a broad courtyard. A woman was making her way across this yard with a bucket of water.
"Ho there, fench oddock!" said Guest.
Challenged thus, the old woman turned to stare, then dropped her bucket of water. As it crashed and spilt, she fled.
"Very bright," said Sken-Pitilkin, observing the old woman's skirt-clutching retreat. "Suppose you follow her and see where she goes."
"No need," said Guest, "for I think the master of the place is upon us."
Indeed, venturing toward the air adventurers from a small side door was an elderly and decidedly shaggy-haired gentleman who appeared to be of Yarglat race. Accordingly, Guest Gulkan hailed the ancient in Eparget, and was pleased to receive an answer in his native tongue.
"Greetings," said the ancient, with the greatest of all imaginable courtesy, politely overlooking the dusty and disheveled appearance of his uninvited guests, and overlooking as well the fact that all were splattered with the vomit which had come cartwheeling from Guest Gulkan's mouth during the airship's maiden voyage.
Then the Yarglat-born ruler of the valley's dominant building said to Sken-Pitilkin: "And to you, greetings. It has been a long time, Torsen."
"Torsen?" said Sken-Pitilkin in astonishment. "You call me Torsen?"
"That is your name, is it not?" said the ancient.
"Why," said Hostaja Torsen Sken-Pitilkin, "it is one of them.
But – why, if you know that – "
Then Sken-Pitilkin lapsed into the High Speech of wizards, and the ancient replied in turn. The elf-armored Pelagius Zozimus soon joined the conversation, adding to Sken-Pitilkin's tale of aeronautical adventuring, and the three would have been in discourse all night had not Jarl demanded that they stop talking in gibberish.
"Who and what is this?" said Jarl, gesturing at their shaggyhaired Yarglat host.
Jarl gestured in a hand which was perilously close to being a fist.
"This dignitary," said Sken-Pitilkin, indicating the old man,
"is the abbot of Qonsajara, Qonsajara being the monastery in which we now stand."
"A priest, is he?" said Jarl.
"In a manner of speaking," said Sken-Pitilkin. "His name is Ontario Nol. He is a wizard of the order of Itch – a wizard of the winds."
"A wizard!" said Jarl. "And what thinks he of the Rovac?"
"He thinks them dangerous," said Sken-Pitilkin, "therefore demands that you do him the courtesy of surrendering your sword while you enjoy his hospitality."
"That I will do, then," said Jarl.
With that, Jarl drew his sword. An odd gesture, this. For a blade is not surrendered naked – rather, it is more properly yielded by unbuckling the swordbelt which sustains its scabbard.
Ontario Nol's eyes widened marginally, for he knew the murderous appetites of the Rovac.
With his sword drawn to the full length of its murder, Jarl hacked at the head of Ontario Nol. But the wizard had been given an eyeblink or more to prepare himself for attack, and an eyeblink was sufficient.
"Ja-bree!" screamed Nol, flinging wide his hands as Jarl struck down.
A wizard-wind whirlwind caught Jarl in a wind-slam funnel- spout. Trapped in a wind-whipping whirlspill, Jarl was spun first deasil then widdershins.
"Cha!" shouted Nol.
And Jarl was released from the grip of the wizard-win.
Pirouette by pirouette, the warrior spun to the nearest wall, which slammed him in the face, rebuffing his ballet with puritanical retort.
"Bravo!" said Guest, applauding vigorously as Thodric Jarl slid down that wall, staining its stones with a snail-track of blood from his vigorously bleeding nose.
"Blood!" said Rolf Thelemite excitedly. "See! Blood, blood!
The ribs have pierced his lungs! He's done for, now!"
But that was not the case.
On close examination, it appeared that Thodric Jarl had suffered no more than a chipped tooth and a bloody nose. He had not even been knocked out. Nevertheless, it must be admitted that this was most definitely not the most auspicious of introductions.