Chapter-2-3

⁠—⁠—⁠— III ⁠—⁠—⁠—

Had Guin made a hasty decision to attempt to escape the sandstorm, had he misjudged his shelter even slightly, then surely he and all the power of fate that carried him would have fallen before the might of the sandy tempest. But Guin—creature of mystery that he was, with no memory of his life before the day he appeared in the Roodwood beneath Stafolos Keep—possessed an uncanny instinct for survival that so far had steered him true through every peril he encountered.

It did not fail him now. The instant he felt the touch of the sandstorm’s assault at his back, he leapt from his horse and, jerking powerfully on the reins, pulled the beast down beside him so that its body shielded him against the wind. Then he curled up like an infant, drawing up his knees and wrapping both arms protectively around his head.

A hail of sand and pebbles hurtled down upon him, making dry slapping sounds as they bounced off the cloak that shrouded his massive frame. Above the racket, Guin could just make out the mournful whinnying of the horse… and then all was lost in a fury of noise as the storm rushed over them.

The keening howl of the wind transformed into a sound like rolling thunder. Guin closed his eyes and kept his hands up for protection. Then the noise of thunder became a high, ripping scream, and Guin felt as if impossibly giant, violent hands had snatched him up from his shelter and were tossing him about. Suddenly he had the eerie sensation that he had been cast into a white void, a vacuum of space in the midst of the storm. He could hear strange sounds in the wind—whimpering and sobbing—and the light against his tightly closed eyelids changed from a perfect blackness to a blaze of white.

Ferocious nature had made the whole of the desert its domain, and it lusted for destruction. The cyclone swept up all before it in its million fists and shook earth, sand, and solid rock until all were broken, fragmented like porcelain dolls tossed in an iron box. The ricocheting of stone against stone and sand against sand mixed with the crackling sound of the cyclone’s takings being sucked into the vacuum at its center.

Even the beast-god Cirenos himself would not have survived long in that storm without injury. The black tentacles of the maelstrom swirled high into the cloud-filled sky, and again and again the cyclone struck at the earth with a hammer of air, transforming the vast desert into a boiling storm-sea. It was as if Zortho, the great, blind, Doal-spawned serpent of the underworld, had fallen into a black rage and burst up through the foundations of the world, the span of his giant body seething with a craving for destruction that sent him writhing and twisting across the tortured earth. Nospherus bowed its cursed body before the wrath of Doal. The ground shivered with every breath and trembled at every cry of rage.

A dense wall of seething air, saturated with sand and rock, rose higher and higher into the skies and stained them black as pitch. The cyclone sucked the sand upwards and threw it at the heavens, along with the hapless yidoh, sand leeches, and mouths-of-the-desert that had sought refuge by tunneling underground. In its wake the whirling tempest left a series of broad crevasses filled with savagely pitted holes, like graveyards robbed of all their corpses and left open to the sky; yet each gaping pit was exposed for mere instants before the roiling rivers of sand that flowed behind the vortex came in a landslide from three sides to fill it. This storm was an explosive power of the kind that made men believe that the end of the world—Armageddon—was coming. No strength, no knowledge, no amount of preparation could protect a mere mortal from the direct assault of that power.

The sandstorm raged for a twist that seemed to last an eternity. It was a storm of rare proportions, a true great cyclone, visible from as far away as the guardroom at Alvon Keep on the other side of the Kes River. There, the keep-lord Count Ricard stood on the watchtower, fretting about the well being of the expeditionary army, and he could not be persuaded to leave. He had seen the reports coming from the signal fires: earlier that day, further down the Kes, desert wormwood, a plant known to grow only in the deep interior of Nospherus, had been seen falling in the cultivated fields of the homesteaders near Tauride Castle.

Count Ricard paced back and forth. This storm is the work of Doal and none other. Nospherus was the demons’ land, forgotten by the gods, and all its charity toward man had been spent. The storm was proof enough of that. Even above Alvon the sky was gray, and the earth shook and thudded as though Gloch’s mares of legend were galloping back and forth across the distant desert.

By the time that the cyclone disappeared off into the hills in the northeast and the wind quieted to a sorrowful moan, the sun had long since set.

Guin dreamed.

He had lost consciousness in the violence of the storm, buffeted and tossed by the mighty winds. He was at the mercy of the cyclone, but even as his body succumbed, his spirit journeyed in the dream world, knowing not whether the things he saw were revelations from some higher being or mere empty illusion, the hallucinations at the edge of death.

All he knew was that there, in the midst of the storm and the ground-shaking stampede of Gloch’s mares, he could hear a voice—horribly clear though from incredibly afar—calling his name:

Guin… Guin…

At first, he thought it was nothing more than the whine of the wind playing tricks on his ears.

Guin… Guin…

The voice grew stronger and more distinct. It crept into the void of his mind and circled like a moth around a lantern flame. Guin tried to answer.

Who are you? Why do you call me?

Guin… Guin… Guin!

Yes, I am Guin! I am here! WHO ARE YOU?

Guin…

The voice drew nearer, and then receded back into the distance. At times it seemed to mock him. At other moments, it seemed suddenly full of rage; it would thunder and become terrible and imperious. Only one thing about the voice did not change, and of this Guin was absolutely certain: it was that of a young woman.

But whether it was one woman who called to him, or many women, one after the other, he could not tell. It seemed to him that the speaker knew something of great importance that she sought to tell him. He knew that if he could just find out what that something was, if he could understand the message that was offered and yet withheld, then all would be made well, and he would be enveloped in a divine light of mercy and forgiveness.

I…

Guin tried vainly to move his mouth and scream aloud. He wanted to get the attention of the unknown speaker, to win her favor.

I know you! You are connected to me… I… was searching for you. There is something I must ask… something you must tell me! Why am I like this… why have I become…

Why have I

Why have

Why…

Guin was perplexed. He wanted to ask why he had become something, but what? What was the question he had to ask her? Why couldn’t he remember?

I am

I am

I…

All around him was abruptly quiet. He was in a cavern, dark and deep, a hollow place from which radiated a vast network of caves and passages. Guin’s thoughts echoed around him, racing down tunnels and bouncing off hard, stone walls, multiplying into infinity. “Stop playing games and show yourself!” he shouted in anger. He could sense that the one he sought was somewhere in these caves.

Show yourself

Show

Show…

The echo-voice sounded like that of a priest, reading the divine oracles at the temple of Jarn.

Guin looked around. Neither torch nor lantern lit the cave, but it was not completely dark, for the surface of the stone itself was luminescent, and wherever he stepped, his feet left glowing prints behind him. He felt certain that this place was somewhere that he knew—that he had known. He had been here before, perhaps many times. The floor and ceiling with their many protruding stalactites and stalagmites, and the damp, dark passages that gaped on all sides, beckoning to him, were all terribly familiar; he felt nostalgic.

What was this place?

Guin tried to remember, but it seemed that the hands of his memory were bound so fast that he could not even reach toward understanding; he could not even remember what it was he knew he didn’t know. He clutched the hilt of his beloved sword, still hanging at his waist, and drew it with a flourish. The depth of trust and security that he felt when he ran his hand along the supple steel of its blade surprised him and gave him a new confidence. “With this,” he said to the cave walls, “I will meet any plan, any challenge you have laid for me. Do what you will, I care not.”

He sheathed the weapon again, making certain that it was loose in its scabbard so that he would be able to draw it in an instant if necessary. Then he set out to explore the caves, seeking to find whatever it was that he must find, wherever it was that he must go.

Suddenly his entire body felt leaden with fatigue. The gloom that afflicts the traveler on a tremendous journey clouded his heart, and the feel of the thick, humid air seemed to slow his every movement. He drew his sword again and peered around warily, steeling his thoughts to cut through the torpor that threatened to fill his limbs and strand him here.

The branching side passages of the cave had seemed innumerable at first, but on closer examination he found that there were only four main passages leading away from where he stood. He was at a crossroads of sorts. All the other openings dead-ended quickly, or fed into one of the four larger tunnels. These alone lay open, one in each direction, like dark, toothless mouths waiting to devour him.

He thought to himself for a while about which path to take. He felt strangely hesitant about choosing any of them; he wanted to know what lay inside them before he made his choice, yet he knew that that would be impossible. Somehow he understood that the moment he learned what lay down a passage, it would change into something entirely different.

A thought came to him and he fished in the pocket of his waistband and withdrew a single coin. He would toss it in the air, and take the passage closest to where it landed. But when he looked closer at the coin, he froze.

The profile on the face of the small copper coin was that of a leopard-headed man. It was himself! But something was different. It took him a moment to realize what it was, but then he saw: above the relief of the leopard-furred head with open mouth and staring eyes was the shining crown of a king.

The crown was resplendent with many jewels and graced with a complex pattern of engraving. Surely it was the proud and noble symbol of the king of a mighty nation, steeped in tradition, glorious and strong.

What’s this?

Guin’s hand trembled slightly. He held the coin up and peered at it for a long while. After a time he saw that around his miniature portrait there were runic letters inscribed in a circle.

“Proclaimed High King in the name of Janos, the Two-Faced God”… High King…?

Guin hurriedly turned the coin over. On the reverse side was another bust in relief, this one not of Guin, but of a woman. Her face was young and beautiful. Her hair was elegantly arranged above her head, and her small chin was turned slightly away. She was slender—her exquisite features spoke of a noble bloodline—but in the turn of her chin Guin saw stubbornness, a hardness of spirit. A royal crown sat above her braided hair, too, of the same design as Guin’s but smaller. There were words below the relief.

“King Guin’s Queen by the Guidance of Jarn”… King Guin’s… queen? Guin gasped. Queen? Who is this woman? What does this all mean?

Guin stared at the strange coin that seemed to foretell his future rise to the throne, and his future queen, wondering when and how it had gotten into his pocket. He decided to save it and ponder its mysteries later, and he looked for another coin to throw. This time his fingers found the familiar shape of a raan tenthpiece, in common circulation throughout the Middle Country. Somewhat relieved, he flicked the second coin into the air with a quick snap of his thumb.

The coin arced high above his head then fell to his right, between him and the second opening to the right of where he stood.

“Very well,” Guin muttered. He picked up the coin. Straightening his garb and gear, and sheathing his sword, he marched into the passage with long, incautious strides. For a moment as he went he considered whether or not he should mark his passing on the cave wall so that he would be able to find his way back, but soon decided that, since he had no idea where here was anyway, nor why he was here, there was little reason to do so.

As long as I go straight and keep going, I will arrive somewhere, he thought to himself, slowing down to navigate over the suddenly slippery rock floor. Everything still felt so familiar, yet this was an unsettling place nonetheless, a strange, malign subterranean road.

At times the tunnel he walked resembled the dark passage that brings us into life, and at others, the lightless realm between this world and the next, that we all must travel on the way to the Judgment, where the value of our lives and our souls is weighed on Jarn’s scales. From time to time he saw pale lights in the distance, and he would stop, expecting them to be will o’ the wisps, or the glimmering souls of the dead; then they would disappear once more, leaving nothing behind but silence.

Guin did not look back. He knew not to. Somehow, he knew that if he looked and saw the place from which he had come, he would have done something wrong that he could not take back.

The hair on the back of Guin’s neck bristled, and it seemed that some sense beyond the ordinary five was telling him which tunnels held the true path, and which were false ways that led to danger. As he walked, the air behind him became thicker and darker, denying him a way back.

Suddenly he heard a voice laughing evilly behind him, like a desert hyena or a simperwolf. But he did not turn around to look.

The other voice that he had heard earlier, calling his name, had ceased completely. He took the paths that he felt to be right and willed himself not to think about what might happen were he to choose incorrectly. Those who were led by fate and not chance, those who, all the while believing there was only chance, invariably did what must be done and chose the right course— ironically, only such ones were of any use to destiny. Fate and chance, the two faces of a single head, illuminated the world; to which of them a man reached out determined whether he was to be a helmsman or a galley slave.

Enfolded and protected by the cavern darkness, Guin felt oddly safe. He was awake, but not awake, he was born yet unborn, and in this was strange calm and physical repletion.

This is the path we walk, he thought. Most of our souls will only partly awaken. Even the ones called sages are nothing more than tired men blinking their drowsy eyes in the gloom. We are born sleeping, and we walk in a deep dream throughout our lives. Our heads rise slowly, only to settle back on our pillows—life is just a brief tossing and turning that barely disturbs our slumber. Then we return to sleep, an eternal sleep from which we will never awaken. Who is truly awake? Who rules the border between reality and dream? Who rolls the die of chance and weaves the fabric of our fate? The gods? What are gods; where are they? Why have they chosen me? Who am I? For what have I lifted my head from its ancient slumber?

Who am I…?

Guin swallowed. Rounding a shallow bend, he saw that the endless dark path before him had led him to a secret at last. Not far ahead, now, a pale uncertain form of light broke the shadows. Facing this light, Guin put his hand on the hilt of his sword and began to run, careful to watch his step. Now the darkness seemed to resist his advance; heavy and cloying, it clung about his neck and dragged at his straining limbs.

That light!

The pale bluish-white light seemed to emanate from a body lying directly across his path up ahead. There was a step down, and the tunnel widened to a room. Guin kept a firm grip on his sword and, slowing, carefully approached.

When he finally got close enough to see the source of the light for what it was, he stopped abruptly and a low growl spilled from his mouth: “What is this?”

The thing Guin looked down upon was strange indeed. It appeared to be an enormous, palely glowing infant almost as large as Guin himself. It had no arms or legs and was curled up like a caterpillar, a great lump of flesh with a giant head and giant torso.

Then—it turned to look at him!

“Hrrgah!”

For all his courage, Guin could not contain a yelp of surprise, and he leapt back. The infant had but a single giant eye in the middle of its swollen head, and the moment it opened this eye to gaze upon him a tremendous blazing brilliance surrounded Guin and filled the chamber. The walls glowed like flowing lava, as bright as if the leopard-man stood in the crater of an erupting volcano.

Find your own path…

In the middle of that explosion of light, Guin heard a new voice entirely different from the ones before. It was a man’s voice, sounding far away, yet strong, deeply resonant. After a moment Guin surmised that it was coming from the mouth of the limbless baby before him, though he knew the words did not originate in any throat, lungs, or lips, but in a higher organ without form.

You must walk your own path, meet your own fate. Crush crown and chains alike. Three will guide you, women all…

“Three women?” Guin shouted.

One will show you your fate… One will show you your crown… And one will show you yourself.

“Who are these women? No—who am I! Why do I look the way I do? Am I under some mage’s spell? Tell me, how is a man who does not even know his own past supposed to find the true path to his future?”

You will find it… the resonant voice’s answer rang harsh and cold in Guin’s ears. For you are not a man.

“Not a… what?!” Guin howled. He was filled with frustrated rage, and another powerful emotion that he did not understand: he was afraid.

“If I am not a man, what am I? A mere beast? A monster? Tell me—if I am not a man, then why was I given a man’s life? Why am I here?”

Heed, the voice answered, you are not a man… yet. Find your path, find the three, become who you were meant to be.

“How will I find them? Where must I go?”

You must walk the true path.

“How do I know which way that is? How do I know which women are the three?”

Guin… Guin!

It was the young woman’s voice that had called to him in the storm.

Guin jumped in surprise, then whirled around to see a woman’s silhouette, black and featureless in the incandescence of the cavern. She was reaching a hand out towards him. She was trying to give him something.

“Is she one of the three?” Guin shouted and charged towards her. The silhouette faltered, apparently frightened. She turned lightly and began to run away from him.

“Wait!” Guin ran with long strides, quickly closing the distance between them.

With his powerful hands he grabbed the woman. She screamed and tried to pull away. The soft feel of her shoulders and her slender neck made the blood rise to Guin’s face. “Is this her? Will she give me my fate, my crown, or my own self? Will she bring me from this purgatory into the world of men?”

Sharply Guin pulled the woman toward him. Her long swirling hair flowed across her face, concealing her features. The brilliance surrounding them filled her, turning her locks into threads of gleaming light, so that try as he might he could not be certain of their true color. Guin pushed aside the hair that wrapped around his fingers and turned her face towards his. Then he screamed.

“You!”

Everything tumbled into darkness. All light faded, all the world crumbled, all reality dissolved. Guin fell headfirst into a bottomless void, his mind filled with her shining smile.