The deck under me changed to that of a small swifter of the Inner Sea of Turismond. Spray-glittering, the bronze bound ram of a powerful swifter smashed splintering into our beam, flinging the broken bodies of oarsmen aside, wrecking us in blood and horror.
The background lurched and I saw Seg Segutorio drop his great Lohvian longbow and clutch futilely at the long black-fletched arrow through his throat. I saw Inch’s head fly from his shoulders under the lethal sweep of a Saxon-pattern axe. I saw Turko ripped into bloody fragments by a black-furred many-armed monstrosity. I saw Mevancy’s bindles ping harmlessly from plate armor and a swarm of flung darts shred her body. I saw Hap Loder trampled beneath the iron hooves of a stampeding herd of Voves. I saw — I saw...
My friends and family paraded before me, destroyed in many gruesome ways. The physical pains attacked my body as though I was being stuck through by a thousand red-hot lances, as though my flesh was being plucked from me by a thousand white-hot pincers. I shook uncontrollably.
But — but the physical pains were as nothing to the mental agony. I saw my children dismembered. My mind writhed and coiled and I lurched desperately close to complete insanity.
I saw Delia. I saw Delia...
“No!” I screamed, foaming. “No!”
Ghostly blackness descended, blackness drilled through by darting scarlet streaks, each shaking me, each driving me closer to the brink of despair. Some tiny portion of my mind told me that I could not sustain this terror. Told me that I must give in, relax all my willpower, surrender myself to the ultimate darkness.
In the roaring maelstrom I felt something move against me. I looked down, dazed, uncomprehending. Something pressed against my naked chest. Vaguely I made out Tiri’s pale body squeezed against me. I felt her arms clasping tightly around my neck, her finger nails digging into my flesh. I felt her smooth bare back under my hands.
Even then no real comprehension hit me. The pain continued.
Delia — My Delia had been — This softly firm body in my grasp was not that of Delia. It did not fit properly, did not mold with me, was not the same. No, of course not! This was young Tiri. This was not Delia, Delia of Delphond, Delia of the Blue Mountains. No. This trembling form was Tiri’s, and she was sobbing and shaking and the flowers draped us and light returned to the world and I could see again in reality. The grisly phantasms receded, dwindled and vanished.
Hands gripped me, held me, steadied me.
A soft yellow cloth was passed over my streaming body.
The flowers were removed, light from the flame died and the samphron oil lamps beamed their mellow radiance.
I just about fell rather than descended from the altar after Tiri.
A pure white gown was flung about her. That gown was no whiter than her face. The tears were wiped from her eyes. She would not look at me. Assisted by her handmaids she was led away. I stood there like a loon, completely drained of emotion. I could still feel the hellish agony of the red-hot lances piercing my flesh, an echo of pain, as though poison seeped through me. That was nothing, now.
Delia! I had seen and I had believed and I had welcomed insanity as a refuge.
San Paynor did not smile. His thin grave face regarded me, his head a little to one side, calculating. His eyes were those of a mystic. The sudden sweet waft of flowers enveloped us.
“In the name of Cymbaro the Just, I thank you, Drajak the Sudden.”
“Is it over?”
“It is.”
“Thank Opaz for that.”
“Ah, yes. Opaz. Of Opaz we have heard. There is much in common between Cymbaro and Opaz.”
With the suddenness of a rashoon of the Eye of the World my knees gave way. I would have fallen had not Logan on one side and Duven on the other caught me under the armpits and supported me.
“You must go to the Ibserrail Chamber for a time.” He was talking about a room where the spirit might find resuscitation. I hung in the priests’ grip.
“Willingly,” I said. “And then I’d like to visit the Baths of the Nine.”
They draped a cloak about me and led my tottering feet off to the Ibserrail Chamber. Every now and then my teeth chattered and I could not stop them. That was one experience I would never, ever, voluntarily undergo again.
Just suppose—
Delia...
They told me that Tiri, having had the knowledge of the keys vouchsafed her, must now go to a place — whose name and location they would not reveal — where she would learn to use the keys to unlock the mysticism born within her. I lay back in the warm scented water, grunted, and got on with trying to forget what had just taken place. Since my dip in the Sacred Pool my memory was such that I did not forget things, although, thankfully, some of the more horrendous evils that have tormented me I have managed if not to forget completely then to push to one side.
When at last I felt as though I could face getting on with life once more I eased out of the water, donned a long yellow toweling robe and wandered off to the saloon.
Oh, yes, by Vox. I was still the same Dray Prescot as ever was. I could still wrap the brave old scarlet breechclout about me and go swinging about Kregen in deeds of derring-do wielding a great Krozair longsword — at least, I hoped I was.
But a fellow knows when he’s been through something more than usually warm.
In the saloon Sans Paynor, Logan and Duven joined me. Also the priestess who had assisted Paynor with Tiri came in, looking serene. She was Sana Lally. At least, that was what she was called now. I learned she had been the Vadni L’Lallistafuros. When we settled down to a delightful repast served by attentive acolytes, I brought up the intriguing subject of these double capital-lettered names. They weren’t exactly embarrassed by the remark as reserved. Eventually, by piecing bits of information gathered there and later, I now know that just about all the great families had the double capital letter. Some still used the form; some did not. Some said it was necessary for the dignity of their house, others that the form was old fashioned and cumbersome. In one vague sense it was somewhat like using a simple v for von.
I might have guessed, by Krun! Young Tiri was, of course and naturally, really T’Tirivenswatha.
“The fashion of use comes and goes,” explained Paynor, and he smiled upon Sana Lally.
They talked upon inconsequential subjects for a time. I saw this small talk was designed to soothe me and ease me back into the real world from the nightmares that had nearly driven me insane.
Presently Logan chanced on the subject of the spate of horrible murders of young girls.
Sana Lally, a smooth-featured woman with a generous mouth, drew her eyebrows down, and lines appeared around that curved mouth.
“It is disgusting. If the City Guard do not find the killer soon, who knows what will happen?”
“The answer is plain enough.” Duven’s words ripped out like the sleeting hail of crossbow bolts. His intense face was drawn, hollowed, the eyes feverish. “Dokerty. It has to be.”
“I do agree with that summation,” murmured Logan.
Paynor nodded. “They practice revolting rites, it is true. But they take place in the privacy of their temples.” He passed a hand across his brow. “Why kill young girls out in the street?”
“Because they are decadent and should be put down!” blazed Duven.
Lally sighed. “If only they could be.”
They went on discussing the murders for a time, and it was noticeable that they ate very little. Presently I ventured to change the topic of discussion.
“You are religious, and have access to arcane knowledge. Your libraries must be extensive, your records comprehensive. Also, you know far more of Oxonium and Tolindrin than do I.” I paused, not for effect — I swear! — but to take a sip of the excellent wine they had served. “I have seen a — thing — that puzzles and horrifies me.” I went on to describe the red-robed manic monstrosity. I finished: “However, I doubt if this thing is murdering these girls.”
They sat without moving, without talking, frozen. I could have tossed a freeze spell among them.
I gave my lips a tongue swipe. “If I have offended you, I apologize—”
“No, Drajak the Sudden. You have earned your nickname. It is just that...” here Paynor held a napkin to his lips.
“This thing — these things — are known.” Logan looked distressed. He took a gulp of wine. “Perhaps, San Paynor, we could show Drajak the records?”
We all looked at the priest. He deliberated with himself for some time. Eventually, very somberly, he said: “You have seen an ibmanzy, Drajak, you are certain sure?”
“If an ibmanzy is a monstrous maniacal thing clawing people—”
“Quite. Very well. Come.”
We went through the halls to a library. I say a library, for there were clearly other, ordinary libraries. Getting into this one behind its solid iron door was a rigmarole of keys held by Paynor, of bolts and bars, of literally opening up a most secure safe deposit.
Inside—! I knew that my comrade Wizards and Witch of Loh would give a very great deal to spend a few months of the Maiden with the Many Smiles in here, diligently perusing the arcane lore stored in hundreds of scrolls and enormous bronze-bound books.
“This is what we call our Black Library. It is not for those of feeble mind.”
“I believe it.”
Logan climbed the ladder to bring down the tomes indicated by Paynor. The priests together opened the vast pages and the leather binding creaked, dust and paper dust flew in a cloud. The page was smoothed out. Paynor pointed a finger, and, by Vox, that thin finger trembled.
“This?”
I looked. “Aye. That.”
There it was, on the page, drawn and illuminated in bold colors. Red robes flapping, crazed eyes bursting from its head, arms stretched aloft with raking claws, the body shown in more detail than I’d appreciated. The pictured representation showed the ribs breaking through the skin, as though some superhuman force within was bursting its way out from the fragile human body.
“That!”
They told me that everything had its spirit, its ib, and the ibma was the materialization of the ib. Aeons ago researchers had discovered ways of uniting a human with her or his ib. In the nature of things there were evil spirits within the spirit world. They waited their chance to emerge into our world. Interfering with the balance one with another could, in certain circumstances, open the doorway within a human body for the ib to emerge. No doubt in the beginning the researchers were motivated by genuine desires to improve mankind.
“But, of course,” said Paynor, “there were those who saw ends suited to their own dark purposes. A human being taken over by this horrific force, sometimes willingly, sometimes under duress, becomes more than human. Not superhuman, but an ibmanzy, the embodiment of evil breaking from a human body.”
I saw something in these words, then, and I trembled.
“Tiri? When we were bonded, and you gave Tiri the knowledge of the keys—?”
Paynor drew himself up. “Yes, Drajak. The risk was there. An ibmanzy might have seized Tiri had we failed. Had you failed.”
To think of that! Young Tiri, turned into a bloated screaming monster from hell, her lissom body being literally torn apart from within. She — rather the ibmanzy thing she had become — would have clawed and ripped and destroyed everyone until somehow or other it could in its turn be destroyed.
“I am glad you didn’t tell me this before.”
“These things are secret, hidden. There have been no ibmanzies for many seasons.”
Duven in his brittle way said: “Let me show you this.” He turned pages, helped by Logan. The picture they showed me was just as dreadful as the first. The thing wore a green robe. Another page and a picture of an ibmanzy wearing a brown robe.
Lally wrinkled up her mouth. “Yes. Even an adherent of Cymbaro once fell into evil ways.”
“The reason I asked you to look at these others, Drajak, is obvious.” Duven trembled in the intensity of his purpose.
Slowly, I said: “The red robed ibmanzy. The red robes of Dokerty.”
“As Mabal and Matol rise each morning.”
No one spoke for a space.
San Paynor did not so much heave up a sigh as let out a small breath of profound regret at the follies of humanity. “If what we now suspect is true, then we can look forward only to awful dangers. What insane fool would wish to meddle with these spirits of darkness?”
Duven’s mouth curled in contempt. “I can name you the top hierarchy of those blintzes of Dokerty-lovers. Any one of them or all of them together!”
They quizzed me more on my sighting of the ibmanzy, trying to establish the facts. Maybe, if some deluded fool of Dokerty was creating the monsters, then the murdered girls could have been torn to pieces by other ibmanzies. Now, that became a frightening possibility.
The tensions of these moments could not be sustained. I could feel the pressure on my skull. San Paynor, abruptly, said:
“Come. We will return to the saloon. A glass of wine.”
As we went out I commented: “All this vast wealth of knowledge. All these treasures of wisdom.” I shook my head. “All locked away.”
“Necessarily so.” Acid stung in Paynor’s words.
“You are studious, yourself, Drajak?” enquired Lally.
“I like to know things.”
“Some things,” began Paynor. Then he stopped himself. Weird echoes of sententious words reverberated. I did not smile. But, by Krun, if a thing was necessary, then that thing must be known.
Something trembled up from my feet, through my legs, vibrated my backbone, shook me so that I stumbled sideways. Lally grabbed me to support herself. The ground moved.
The floor, the walls, the ceiling shuddered. The grinding sullen roar that accompanied this earth movement chilled the blood. The whole world gyrated around us.
“Earthquake!” Logan’s yell was entirely unnecessary.
“Cymbaro will protect us.” Even as he spoke so calmly San Paynor tottered and fell, thrown violently off his feet.
Duven leaped to his assistance.
The whole wall fronting the room fell away in a thunderous avalanche and chunks of rubble cascaded down around our ears. A chip hit me on the thigh and a larger piece struck nastily across Duven’s skull as he shielded the san.