Talar: The Quest for Shadowcaster

Copyright © 2014 Frank Sherry.

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This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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ISBN: 978-1-4917-2430-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4917-2432-3 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4917-2431-6 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2014902052

iUniverse rev. date: 02/18/2014

CONTENTS

Part 1 Life After Death

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Part 2 The Plain Of The Tal

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Part 3 Destiny’s Captive

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Part 4 Warrior And Lover

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Part 5 Betrayal, Despair, Revelation, Resurrection

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Part 6 Commander Of The Clans

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Part 7 Lord Of Talar

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Part 8 Journeys In The Dreaming

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Part 9 A God’s Game

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Part 10 Call Of The Eye

Chapter 4

For Diana, an undaunted seeker—and a survivor.

Also by Frank Sherry

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The Devil’s Captain

Eternity Falls

PART ONE

LIFE AFTER DEATH

CHAPTER 1

THE KEEPER KNOWN TO HER kind as FireHeart had long been searching the various universes for one special being. That she had at last found him in the person of a mortal creature called Simon Spicer seemed to her a most satisfactory culmination of her mission.

Spice (as his few friends called him) knew nothing of the Keeper’s search. He did not even suspect her presence in his vicinity for she was an entity with no form or substance that human senses could detect. She belonged to an order of beings born in the early light of Creation whose task it was to maintain the motions of the bodies that compose the cosmos.

Because their laws prohibited contact with the worlds they sustained (lest their presence inadvertently disrupt the natural development of the worlds), the Keepers went about their duties unperceived by the other inhabitants of Creation. Unseen, unknown, aloof, immensely powerful, linked to each other by chains of collective thought, the Keepers labored harmoniously as ages of ages unrolled. Then one of their number yielded to a craving for uncertainty and hazard, delights forbidden the Keepers lest they undermine the Order’s dedication to its essential task.

Succumbing to temptation, the aberrant Keeper broke the ties of aggregate intellect that bound him to his colleagues. He changed his Keeper name, LightLover, to one of his own choosing: ShadowCaster. Then, in defiance of Keeper law, he descended upon a world called Talar—and claimed it for himself.

The Keepers moved swiftly to regain control of their rebellious comrade. From stations in space they scanned Talar in search of ShadowCaster. If they could find him, they knew they could overwhelm him with their combined will.

But ShadowCaster eluded them. Concealing his authentic self by some means that baffled his former colleagues, he sent forth emanations of his mind to play with his stolen world. He populated Talar with evil spirits and beasts. He made ruins of cities. He taught large segments of the populace to scorn their own gods—and to worship him instead.

The Keepers, unable to locate their brother, and barred from pursuing him, could only watch in anguish as ShadowCaster’s net crept over the stricken world. Meanwhile they sent one of their number, FireHeart, to seek among the galaxies for one whom they might send to Talar on their behalf.

The being they sought had to possess certain specific characteristics. Physically he (or she) had to resemble, if not completely duplicate, the denizens of Talar. He, or she, had to possess the potential to grasp quickly the techniques of minding, a species of non-oral communication. The individual sought also had to possess a highly unusual combination of psychological and corporeal traits, even if latent. These included curiosity, imagination, ferocity, a certain amount of rationality, a capacity for fear, rage, love, conceit, skepticism, forethought, and sexual passion, as well as a proclivity for self-preservation—and an efficient digestive system. The one sought also had to be of no significance to his or her own world—and had to volunteer for the mission offered. But above all else the one sought had to be dead. Recently dead, and dead from natural causes.

Thus when Keeper FireHeart, after much frustration, came upon Simon Spicer she knew she had located the object of her chase. Unfortunately, though Spice met every other criterion of her search, he was still alive. But FireHeart, observing his lifestyle and his general health concluded that, one way or another, Spice himself would soon remove this impediment. And so, unperceived, she hung around—and prepared to receive her quarry when the inevitable occurred.

Meanwhile, an oblivious Spice continued along the ever-narrowing path he had chosen as his life. Although he was only thirty-five by chronological reckoning, disappointment had aged him beyond his years. His long hair and short beard showed more gray than black. Though a tall man, he tended to slump at the shoulders—and this imparted a defeated aspect to him. He made a meager living as an instructor in history and literature at a community college in Maine. With his faded and melancholy good looks, ragged hair, and streaky beard, many of his uncritical and inexperienced students saw him as a romantic figure. They had heard murky bits and pieces of his life: that his beloved young wife had died in a plane crash years earlier, leaving him unable to love again; that he had—long ago—been a well-regarded poet, but no longer wrote poetry; that he drank heavily; that he lived in isolation, brooding in a decrepit house far off-campus. Possessed of only these few facts, it was little wonder that the impressionable among his young charges thought Spice mysterious, a character from a Gothic novel. This view of him often provided Spice with sardonic amusement.

Although his students might think him picturesque, Spice himself—in the chambers of his soul where self-knowledge resided—recognized that he was really a lonely and skeptical man, afraid of both death and life, and resentful of the happiness that others seemed to enjoy in a world that continually rejected him. In certain dark hours Spice even admitted to himself that he secretly yearned for the things that he professed to scorn: love and the esteem of his fellow beings. But he knew also that he had no talent for achieving those blessings. So he had given up further attempts to do so. Now he tried to protect himself from further hurt by sheltering behind a wall of cynicism. But there was no shelter from the regret that clung to his heart like a nest of stinging wasps.

Of late, Spice had begun to feel the frozen fingers of mortality squeezing his core—so much so that he had taken to daily booze to thaw them away. Thus he was almost, but not quite, drunk one chilly twilight in March when he went out for a walk after a supper of fried hot dogs, canned beans, and rye whisky.

The road he walked along on that chill March evening was a rutted country track that cut through dense woods still mottled with patches of snow left over from the fierce Maine winter. There was no one about. Not even the rustle of a field mouse disturbed the silence. Suddenly Spice became aware of a buzzing in his head. He stopped. His heart began to gallop. He felt weak and light-headed. His eyes blurred. He decided to return to his house. But he found he was unable to move. Then he felt himself topple over backward onto the mud of the lane. Helpless, he stared up at the darkening sky. Unable even to blink his eyes, he beheld the first indifferent stars of the night. With amazement he realized that he was dying. He felt little physical pain, aside from a headache, but the regret in his heart rose into his throat, choking him with a ball of unshed tears. All at once a brilliant light—stark white—appeared in the sky above him. It enveloped him in a cone of radiance. He thought, so the bit about the bright light is true. Abruptly the full meaning of his looming end came to him. He would have no more chances to renew himself. He would never be anything more than the miserable loser he was now, at this last moment of his existence. Suddenly the ball of pain in his throat loosened. He began to cry, grieving over the wasteland of his life. Why hadn’t he found some way to become the man he might have been? Why had he refused to live?

Cradled within his luminous cocoon, he felt his body begin to rise. Slowly, inexorably, he ascended toward what he now saw was the pulsating source of the light: a sphere of intense whiteness like a beating heart of pure energy. Terror seized him. He thought, Judgment Day, Divine Wrath. Dreading what awaited him, he entered that heart of whiteness beating above him—and he passed through it into another realm.

He found himself standing, his paralysis apparently cured, in a silent park of emerald lawns, flowering bushes, and trees gentle with green leaves. Pink and yellow blossoms peeped here and there. The warm air smelled of recent rain. A soft light lay over this exquisite place that Spice assumed was the afterworld. He stared about him, fear now subdued by astonishment.

Educated to doubt, Spice had always shrunk from any contemplation of life after death. To him this was a subject that no amount of rational thinking could resolve. Thus he had always avoided the matter or (more often) ridiculed it as a manifestation of primitive yearning after immortality. But here he stood, surely dead, and just as surely in some place after his death. This was not a state of affairs that he could ignore or scoff at, even had he felt like doing so. In fact, as he gazed about the remarkable garden, he felt decidedly humble—and disagreeably open, raw, and vulnerable to whatever might come his way. Moreover he was struck by a physical incongruity: although he was dead, his consciousness and his body apparently remained connected to each other—or was this impression due to the fact that he could not imagine himself in any other way? In any case he continued to perceive himself as a corporeal being although his body—still clad in the jeans and leather jacket he had donned for his fatal walk that evening—seemed to him somewhat less cumbersome than it had in life. Unsure of what might lie ahead or how to conduct himself, Spice began to make his way cautiously through the seemingly empty park. Was this place heaven? This was a question that he would have regarded as preposterous only a few minutes earlier—counting in Earth time. Given his changed situation, however, it was now anything but preposterous. He suspected he would soon have to deal with many ideas and conceptions that he would formerly have dismissed as inane. So the question remained: had he arrived in heaven? If so, would he be re-united with Karen, the wife of his youth whose memory remained as vivid as ever in his heart? Would she still love him? Was it possible? Happiness again? Did he dare to hope? Then a very different question surfaced in his mind, one that carried with it a load of primitive dread: Could it be that this lovely garden was not heaven after all, but hell? Would this account for the ostensible lack of life? Surely, if this was heaven, these garden paths should be teeming with the blessed departed. But here there was only empty silence. The more Spice considered his situation, the more likely it seemed that he had been condemned to a hell of eternal loneliness in mocking beauty. After all, he had done little in his life to deserve paradise. Before he could absorb the import of this realization, however, he beheld a woman. His heart leaped. Karen? Then he saw that it was not she, but another, a creature of unearthly beauty. She was seated on a wooden bench beneath a blooming cherry tree. Pink petals from the tree lay about her sandaled feet and festooned her black hair. She wore a simple ankle-length white gown, belted at the waist with a thin sash of gold. She seemed neither young nor old. Spice stood watching her, enchanted by her serene loveliness. She lifted her head and observed Spice with dark eyes that seemed to recognize him, to know all that he had been and might have been. Spice sensed in her what he could only describe as goodness—a synthesis of patience, concern, intelligence, forgiveness, and gentleness. She was he was sure, holy. This was a word he would have spurned heretofore, but no other seemed to fit. Was she an angel? It occurred to him that if she was an angel—and what else could she be?—then he was not in hell, for no creature of such perfect sanctity could ever exist in hell. And so, he told himself with relief, somehow he must have found his way to heaven.

Now Spice seemed to hear this seraphic being speak to him: Greetings, Simon Spicer. Her voice was clear and melodic in his ear. Of course it could be nothing less; she was an angel after all. Cautiously he approached. He halted before her. Yes, she was certainly an angel—another conception that he would have scorned only a short time earlier but now felt constrained to embrace. He bowed his head. For some reason he seemed unable to find his voice to reply to her greeting. He was unsure how to behave. Should he kneel and pray? Confess his sins? The angel said, I understand your perplexity. Come, rest here near me and I will explain what has happened. She gestured toward another bench at right angles to her own. Spice took the seat, keeping his eyes fixed on her gently smiling face. The angel said, You are dead in your world. He nodded. He had surmised as much. But this business of still feeling connected to his body was disconcerting. He wanted to ask her about it but found himself incapable of uttering the question, as if the angel’s splendid presence had rendered him boyishly tongue-tied. His speechlessness proved no hindrance, however, for when she spoke again, it seemed as if she had been able to plumb what was in his mind without any words from him. She said, You are still in your body, and you are in a place I have prepared for you. I brought you here bodily at the moment your life ceased on your Earth. Her explanation only bewildered him further. Dead and still in his body? In a place prepared for him? Had he been resurrected then?

Answering his unvoiced questions, the angel said, "I have not resurrected you Simon Spicer but I have removed you to another time and space. Here you have not died, and thus your physical being—free of the laws of your world—continues as before. Should you return to your world, you must return to lifelessness as well. Here, however, you may live on, and for all anyone knows on your world, you have simply vanished."

His old skepticism stirring, Spice wondered if he was hallucinating all this: his death, the cone of light, the garden, the angel, all of it. And yet she seemed as real as his own body.

Again apparently reading his mind, the angel assured him that he was neither hallucinating nor dreaming, but in a kind of parallel world. Intuitively Spice knew she was telling the truth, that she was incapable of falsity. All right, he was in a parallel world. But exactly what was a parallel world? What did all this mean?

In her melodic human voice, the angel once again responded to his unspoken query. You will soon know all you need to know. Begin with this: I am one of those whose task it is to sustain the worlds, to see to their motions, and to keep open the portals of what you call Space. How we do this is beyond your comprehension. Suffice it to say that the worlds depend on us. But we are forbidden to make contact with them lest unanticipated evil ensue. Thus we sustain the worlds from afar. You may think of us as angels, but we are known to ourselves as the Order of the Keepers, the Firstborn of Creation.

With this the angel-woman became a column of pale fire twenty meters high. Spice recoiled in terror. Immediately the blaze evaporated and once again he beheld the angel-woman’s smile. He understood that he had just been granted a glimpse of the Keeper in her true form. The sight would burn in his memory forever. Gravely the Keeper said, I have searched long for you, Simon Spicer, for we need you to carry out a task for us, a thing that only you can accomplish.

Spice reeled in amazement. Surely there was some mistake here. What could these Keepers of worlds and parallel universes possibly require of an alcoholic, failed poet?

The Keeper said, Don’t debase yourself. You are more than you know. We have chosen you to serve Creation. Spice thought, Creation? What have I to do with Creation, or its Keepers?

Creation is the mystery that requires all of us to trust it. Thus you must trust that it demands of you only what you are capable of accomplishing. You may terminate your presence among us at any time simply by expressing a wish to return to your own world. Spice thought, where I will be dead on a dirt road in Maine.

She took his hand in her soft human-but-not-human hand. She began to tell him more of the Keepers.

Like all the beings of Creation, they possessed free will and therefore knew temptation. For a Keeper the great temptation is to seize a world and play with it by setting in motion events whose outcome cannot be foreseen but which are contrary to the natural inclinations of that world and its people. For a Keeper, whose powers are only circumscribed by responsibility, there is an addictive excitement in letting loose those powers to create uncertainty. Her words evoked in Spice an image of a gambler’s fascination with the next roll of the dice or turn of a card.

Ignoring his thought this time, the angel-Keeper told of her fallen brother who now called himself ShadowCaster, told how he had seized the world known as Talar, how he had spread fear and strife there, all the while concealing his essence from the probing, if distant, eyes of the Keepers. Concluding, the angel-Keeper said, "We cannot permit our aberrant brother to lay waste this small and primitive world. Therefore, we have decided to use an agent from outside, one that the aberrant will not immediately recognize as such, one who will be able—thanks to certain physical and mental attributes—to insinuate himself into this world, locate the aberrant ShadowCaster, and render him helpless. We need you, Simon Spicer, to act as our agent."

Breathless with shock, Spice could only stare at her. Of all the astounding things he had seen and heard since his arrival in this afterworld, or parallel universe, or whatever it was, this last—this proposal that he should go to some alien planet to fetch a fallen Keeper to justice—was the most astonishing—and the most terrifying. He could only gape at the absurdity of it. It was ludicrous to suggest that he could confront a Keeper, even a fallen one. He pictured the pillar of fire he’d been shown earlier, pictured the chaos rife in this place Talar: a self-proclaimed deity hiding his essence—whatever that was—and projecting his will and mind abroad, conjuring demons and beasts everywhere. It would require more than a second-rate deceased poet to overcome such a being. It was absurd to think otherwise. Absurd.

She said, In Talar you will discover unsuspected powers in yourself. He managed a laugh at this. Did she suppose he could transform himself into a comic book superhero?

Not at all. But we did not choose you to fail. You possess a unique combination of qualities that will serve you well in Talar. She then spoke of Spice’s rare, though as yet undeveloped, aptitude for minding, which she described as part inner speech and part reading of thought—a talent that would greatly facilitate his ability to communicate with the inhabitants of Talar. She mentioned the fact that his physical resemblance to the various peoples of the planet would allow them to recognize him as a rational being like themselves, while his beard and blue eyes, unknown in that world, would engender an awe that he would find useful. Shall I tell you more? Your Earth strength will serve you well in the lesser gravity of Talar. The oxygen-rich atmosphere there will confer an endurance on you that will seem remarkable by Earth standards. Your human eyes will operate over the entire spectrum of Talarian color and radiation, allowing you to see, even at night, what is invisible to the creatures of Talar. Your ears will detect sounds beyond the limit of anything you can now imagine. You will have psychological advantages as well. As a stranger in a strange world, you will be focused as never before. Aware that your life on Earth is done, you will live only for your mission. You will benefit from a cunning bred into the human hunter over eons. You will bring to Talar at least a small knowledge of human technology, mostly unknown to the people there. You will also bring with you an instinct for survival as well as curiosity and imagination. This combination will allow you to sniff out threats, make effective plans, and solve problems as they arise. And there is one more attribute you will bring with you, one whose value cannot be estimated in advance: human ferocity.

Spice remained skeptical. Even if he assumed that he could somehow become the ferocious paragon described and find his way to this ShadowCaster, what of it? That incredibly powerful being would still make short work of him.

You will not confront ShadowCaster unarmed. I shall first implant this device in you. She stretched forth her hand. In her palm reposed what looked like a one-inch cube of glass.

A bit of crystal?

It is much more than that. This crystal, as you call it, will make available to you a range of psychokinetic capabilities impossible on Earth. It is a power that you alone among your kind can bear. I crafted it specifically for you and for conditions on Talar. Thus it will become activated only when you arrive in that world. Even then it will take some time for you to learn to use it properly. But once fully functional in your body, this instrument will enable you to challenge ShadowCaster on near-equal terms.

Spice plucked the crystal cube from her hand. He weighed it in his own palm. A fragile weapon to pit against a titan of evil. Despite all the Keeper’s confidence, Spice couldn’t help thinking that his chances against this ShadowCaster, crystal or no crystal were nil.

Retrieving the crystal, the Keeper said, This instrument is much more than a weapon. It is the means by which you will render our aberrant brother helpless when you locate him. The crystal, you see, contains a fragment of the force that binds all Keepers to each other. If you, bearing the crystal within your own body, can merely touch the Fallen One in the physical form that houses his Keeper-essence, he will be subject once again to the collective will of our Order. This is your task: find ShadowCaster in his lair—and touch him.

Spice thought, In other words, I’m to be a process-server.

She ignored the jibe. There is no right or wrong way for you to conduct yourself on Talar. Act. Do what seems best to you. Trust that the way will appear. Use the Aberrant’s own evil against him. Although he hides himself from us, he sends his will and intellect far afield in many bodily guises in order to play with his stolen world. He feeds on risk. Thus we expect he will make sport of you. He will taunt you as our agent, and enjoy the amusement you will seem to offer him. More than likely, he will project his intellect in a variety of realistic physical forms to test you. He will view you as a challenger in a game that he is bound to win. But he will underestimate you. Meanwhile, if you follow your instincts, you will be acclimating and fully absorbing the crystal. You will also be learning to play his game. Then, when you are ready, you will penetrate his lair and take him.

Stunned, Spice shook his head in disbelief. The Keeper said, You will have one great advantage over your adversary: He knows nothing of the crystal you will be carrying within you. He will never suspect that a mere touch from you will suffice to bring him under our control again. Sooner or later he will grow careless.

Unable to eradicate the skeptical grin on his face, Spice thought, I should live so long. It’s all too absurd.

You will encounter difficulties and dangers. I shall try to prepare you for them by implanting in you a basic understanding of Talar, its language and its people. Unhappily this information will be incomplete, for it is only the by-product of our unobtrusive scanning. I do not say that you will succeed, Simon Spicer—for you will have to face the hazards of Talar alone. Your judgment and your choices will decide your fate. We will watch and hope for your success, but we shall not interfere.

And there it is, thought Spice, the mission, the choice. All he had to do was to make his way through a strange world that no doubt contained any number of monstrous perils. He then had to find the lair of an immensely powerful and intelligent being who was not only evil but also possessed the ability to delude and destroy. Finally, after playing unexplained games with this adversary, he was to defeat him with a touch. Absurd. Of course, if he refused the task offered, he would be dead immediately on that country lane in Maine. Whatever choice he made, it seemed to him he would end up as the only being in all the cosmos to find death in two different worlds.

The Keeper said, "But perhaps you will find a new life.

Spice thought, Yes, a chance to live again, and correct the unlived past. Suddenly he found himself able to speak aloud. I’ll go to Talar.

The Keeper rose. She smiled. I hope that we shall meet again, Simon Spicer. Until then I tell you this: Trust. That is all we can know of Creation.

She was gone. Spice called after her. Will I ever see Karen again? But there was no reply. Now alone in the garden—never so alone—he lay down on the grass to rest. What now? Soon he began to drift into sleep. He let himself fall, knowing that he would wake in Talar.

CHAPTER 2

TWO SUNS RODE OVERHEAD IN a cloudless pale-blue sky. One of the suns was a large red orb, the size of Earth’s full moon but the color of blood. The other was much smaller, a white-hot dwarf star hanging in the sky slightly higher and to the right of the red giant.

Spice groaned as he came to himself. He knew he could only be in the world called Talar. Looking away from the suns, he tried to orient himself. As far as he could tell, he was lying on his back on a stretch of powdery sand that was not only as fine and soft as talcum, but also a vivid orange in color. Warily, alert for any sign of danger (although he wasn’t sure he could even recognize a threat in this alien environment, let alone defend himself against it), Spice struggled to his feet. Immediately he sank into the powder up to his shins. He brushed orange dust from his garments. He found some odd reassurance in the fact that he was still clad in the jeans, black leather jacket, and battered running shoes that he’d been wearing at the time of his collapse in Maine. The clothes reminded him of a more comprehensible reality—now left behind for this world of dual suns and orange dust. Shielding his eyes against the light, Spice peered about to obtain some useful picture of his situation. And now he beheld, perhaps a half-mile away, a dark-blue, glassy sheet of water that spread out as far as his eye could see. Its apparently motionless surface mirrored the two suns. Spice could only conclude that he had arrived on the shore of some vast sea or lake, and that the powdery sand on which he stood formed part of a beach that stretched away, empty and bleak, in both directions for many miles. Behind this endless flat strand rose dunes composed of the orange powder. Tufts of sparse grass of a peculiar bluish color, as well as an occasional orange-colored boulder crowned the dunes. He heard no sound at all, and detected no movement, not even a puff of wind on the sand. Despite the presence of the two suns, he found the air rich and cool. Bracing. He recalled the Keeper’s remark that he would benefit from the oxygen-rich air of Talar—and this certainly seemed the case for he felt unusually strong and well.

Unless his senses were deceived, Spice told himself, this sector of Talar was devoid of life. Nevertheless he meant to keep his wits about him. The last thing he needed was to be surprised by some native or animal. He thought: Okay, I’m here. Now what? In truth he had no idea how to proceed in this world whose nature he knew only in the most superficial way despite the information supposedly implanted by the Keeper. Thus he might as well just plunge ahead. Hadn’t the Keeper said as much? Act. Trust. Well, why not? What choice did he have in any case? Still, he couldn’t help feeling scared. He wished he had a slug of Smirnoff to steady him. He also wished the Keeper had provided him with a map. Better yet, he wished she had furnished him with a weapon, preferably one more visible and intimidating than the crystal supposedly planted within him—whose effects, so far at least, were negligible. Right now a pistol would ease his sense of vulnerability even though he’d never fired a gun in his life. Yes, a handy handgun would be a comfort.

On impulse he made his way through the orange powder down to the edge of the water, curious to compare it to earthen water. Reaching the rim of the lake, or sea, he knelt and sniffed at this Talarian liquid. He detected a faint odor of petroleum. Cautiously he tasted it—and immediately spat it onto the sand. It was greasy with droplets of oil. In his mind he named this large body of water The Oily Sea.

He stood up and looked about again. Where to now? The deserted beach stretched away for miles. The Oily Sea remained all but motionless. He decided to climb one of the dunes and take a look at what might lie inland.

Despite the poor footing in the deep powder, he climbed his chosen dune with ease, a gratifying indication that his Earth-gravity muscles might indeed achieve outstanding feats in Talar. Reaching the lip of the dune, he beheld a landscape as bizarre as it was beautiful.

Before him lay a treeless plain. Short grass of a striking light-blue color rolled away to the horizon. Circles of orange-red ground, each a hundred yards or more in diameter, were also visible, creating a blue and orange piebald effect on the rolling grassland. He also spotted scattered outcrops of the orange rock characteristic of this part of Talar. Under the fire of the suns, the grassy plain seemed to radiate with pulsing color. A patina of red and golden light overlaid the jagged blue and deep orange of the landscape. The combination made for a glorious sight.

As he looked down onto this scene, Spice realized that he was seeing it with remarkable clarity. He recalled what the Keeper had told him: in Talar his senses would serve him more keenly than they ever had on Earth. Here was the first evidence of that. He tried to detect some sound out there on the land. But the plain seemed as empty and silent as the beach behind him. He decided his best course was to explore further. Cautiously he descended the dune. Reaching the blue grass, he began to walk, conscious of the suns beating down over his head. He soon got used to the foreshortened dual shadows they produced. The grass was dry and tough beneath the soles of his running shoes. The orange ground, unlike the powdery beach behind him, was gritty and full of yellow, orange, and white pebbles. He walked on. The plain appeared to stretch endlessly before him. He thought: I have to just go on and see what happens.

CHAPTER 3

IN ANOTHER REGION OF THE Plain—far from where Spice was toiling toward his destiny—a caravan protected by a hundred youthful spearmen and accompanied by a train of long-haired pack animals (known as hola) as well as dozens of slaves, had just come to its customary mid-day Halt. In accordance with traditional practice the guards of the cavalcade, together with the slaves and the hola beasts, had formed themselves into a defensive circle around a spacious pavilion made of a luxurious red fabric reserved for high-ranking personages of Talar. Within the tent reposed two such notables: the Lady GemStar and the Lady WhiteEye. Both women belonged to the Council of Queens, the female caste that ruled the fierce nomad clans known collectively as the Talatu People.

Like all their kind the two women were spectacularly beautiful—with golden eyes, the firm bronze flesh of athletes, and hair long and thick and black as coal stones. In truth such bodily splendor was essential to the success of the mission on which they were now embarked—for Lady GemStar and Lady WhiteEye were traversing the Great Plain in order to display themselves in ritual Dancing to the Far Clans of their people—those Talatu bands that wandered the remote regions on the left bank of the holy River Tal. The rite was to take place at the oasis of Talatu Wells. There, for the first time in her brief career as an Exalted Dancer, GemStar—the younger of the two Queens and the newest addition to the Talatu ruling sorority—was to exhibit herself as a Principal Dancer. The event would be her first away from the sheltered precincts of the Red Pavilions, the capital of the far-flung Talatu people. The Dancing at Talatu Wells was always a most important festival for it took place before the most widely-scattered of the clans, and thus those most in need of exaltation and ignition of desire. It had been a great honor for GemStar to be chosen—along with WhiteEye—for these crucial ceremonies. For that reason she knew she had to perform at her best. But so far that realization had only bred doubt in her heart about her capacity to fulfill her role. Thus she welcomed the caravan’s mid-day Halt as a chance to gather confidence from WhiteEye about the Dancings ahead.

In accordance with the usage prescribed for the Halt, the two Queens sent away their servants. Once alone in their grand tent, they began their observance of the Halt by drinking deeply of water drawn from the holy River Tal. Then, without breaking the fast they had commenced two days earlier at the outset of their journey, they donned thin cloaks, and lay down side by side on a sleeping platform. Here, for the remainder of the Halt, they would rest, meditate on the mysteries of the Dancing, and take counsel with each other.

As the two Queens sank into the tranquility of the Halt, the only sound that penetrated to them was the occasional snorting of the hola tethered outside their pavilion. As custom decreed, the Talatu spearmen, like their Queens, were also taking advantage of the Halt to meditate—on the warrior’s code known as the Talatu Way.

Meanwhile the slaves—all simple Digger folk who, of course, lacked the ability to meditate—had withdrawn into their quarters, for they knew better than to disturb the Halt with their chattering.

As her limbs and mind yielded to the quiet, GemStar experienced a need to reveal to WhiteEye her doubts about the Dancings ahead. I fear that the Far Clans may not accept me. WhiteEye rolled onto her back, letting her sleep-cloak fall open to reveal her lush body. She gave a slow smile. GemStar saw that WhiteEye was already working into her display pattern for the ceremonies ahead. She was allowing GemStar to discern the mode she intended to adopt for the Dancing: slow, liquid, sensual. GemStar’s own style would be to whip herself rapturously into a sexual storm before the gathered warriors and their stolid women, losing herself in her own beauty and the wild motions of her body. Languidly, WhiteEye murmured a response to the younger Queen’s misgivings. "The wandering folk will embrace you joyfully, O Lovely One. They have heard much of you, our new Exalted Dancer, a warrior-woman herself, whose fire and tempestuous nature are sure to arouse desire in all, young and old, warrior and clan girl alike. When you show yourself before them, O Lovely One, the clans will behold in you an Exalted Dancer of such raging Talatu beauty that they will gasp with the bliss of it

Perhaps they will expect too much. Perhaps I will disappoint them. In her heart GemStar didn’t believe this for a moment, but she still craved WhiteEye’s reassurance.

WhiteEye reached over and touched GemStar’s cheek with a fingertip. The Far Clans will thank LifeGiver when you appear, my gem. You are more than they could ever envision. Believe me, they will know, as we all do, that you are an extraordinary being, even among the Exalted Dancers. Now you must let your mind drift in the Halt. She closed her eyes.

GemStar felt much heartened by the older Queen’s words. Extraordinary. Yes, she knew she was extraordinary. She’d been hearing as much ever since the emissaries of the Queens found her, barely out of childhood, among her own clansmen, and took her to join the Queens at the Red Pavilions. There she’d learned that she was not only to become a Queen herself, and an Exalted Dancer, but perhaps, in time, a Mage-woman as well, for she was not only splendid to the eye and unusually-skillful in the use of the Talatu long lance, she also possessed dreaming qualities. Her dreams had meaning. So far her dreaming had told little, but WhiteEye—her dear guide and friend—believed that her dreams were increasing in significance. You will be a mage one day, WhiteEye had predicted. Just let the power grow in you. GemStar intended to do just that.

Now contemplating the Dancing to come at the Talatu Wells, she envisioned herself in display before the warriors. Like WhiteEye, she too was beginning to sense the excitement of the Dancing building within her. This was the way of it for an Exalted Dancer. The trance came over one in stages, little by little, until it filled one’s body with its power and drove one irresistibly to the acts of the Dancing. Although by far the youngest and most inexperienced of the Queens, GemStar knew better than most Exalted Dancers the stages of her own trance. Thus she was aware that, for her, the process was just starting. She felt it now as a swelling within her. But it would soon become a storm of passion that would take control of her.

Twisting about to rest on her elbow, GemStar looked down at WhiteEye deep in her own dreams. GemStar thought how dazzling the older Queen was, with her heavy breasts and rounded hips. How different in form she was from GemStar herself—and yet how she excited the clans with the measured movements of her voluptuous body! How sad, too, thought GemStar, that the festival at Talatu Wells was to be the last Dancing for WhiteEye. In the future the older Queen was to remain at the Red Pavilions where she would teach and advise, but no longer dance. It is a time that comes for all of us WhiteEye had explained calmly when GemStar had expressed dismay at the decision of the Council.

GemStar lay flat on the sleeping platform again. She stared at the small torch left burning at the far end of the royal tent. She tried to imagine what life would be like if she could no longer dance, but she could not envision such an eventuality. For her the Talatu Way, and the Way of the Queens, was life itself. She gloried in her beauty and in the power it conferred on her to move the clans. But she also recognized the responsibility that such dominion placed on her. The future of the Talatu people, she knew, depended on the ability of the Queens to rouse the sexuality of the clans at the various Dancings. Could any Talatu Queen desire more than this joyous obligation? Sometimes, however, she felt in awe of her own status. How had she, a mere clan girl not so long ago, grown so great? Would her sister Queens discover one day that she was less than she seemed, except when the rapture of the Dance seized her? But it was not for her to judge herself. Her task was to dance, and dream, and learn the Talatu Way. Thus she uttered thanks at every rising of the suns that LifeGiver had chosen her to wear the red of an Exalted Dancer, especially in these troubled times. It was a privilege to be entrusted—as all the Queens now were—with the defense of the Way against the onslaught of the evil ShadowCaster.

She shuddered, thinking of the Enemy and the horrors he had imposed on Talar. There was, of course, his first crime: the seduction of the once-magnificent Night-people to his cause, turning them into Dura Vazid, bodiless beings committed to the malignity of their Master. Following that first iniquity ShadowCaster had established a headquarters of evil, his Iron Fortress, at some secret site near the great cataract of the Tal, where the river fell in a white wall of water from the mysterious Highlands. By so doing he had cut off the Upper Tal and made it impossible for Talatu pilgrims to visit the ancient holy places of LifeGiver in that region. Mocking LifeGiver, he had created vicious brutes from his own will, the shadowcreepers and the nightflyers, which he claimed he had made in the image of the Lie-giver. These predatory beasts had slaughtered so many of the wild hola of the Plain that several Talatu hunting clans had turned to raiding the domesticated Digger herds for sustenance. Yes, the Evil One had done much harm. Nor had he yet finished with his malice. Intent on filling all of Talar with his worshippers and his inventions, ShadowCaster was now attempting to corrupt the Talatu themselves, and he had met with some ominous successes—for a handful of nondescript Talatu traitors had renounced LifeGiver in favor of ShadowCaster. Though few so far, these misguided rebels against the true god of Talar had declared their intent to bring down the Queens and destroy the Talatu Way. As if to underscore his adherence to his Master in the Iron Fortress, the leader of the Talatu rebels had given himself the insolent name QueenSlayer. But the rebels would fail, thought GemStar, as ShadowCaster himself, for all his terrifying power, would fail. LifeGiver was the eternal Lord of Talar, and the Queens were his instruments. Somehow—probably by means not yet apparent—the Queens and the loyal clans would win the struggle against the Malevolent Intruder. Of that GemStar was sure, and she was ready to give her life—as Exalted Dancer or as Warrior-Queen—to prove it.

Relaxed on the sleeping platform, she closed her eyes. No, ShadowCaster would not prevail. Moreover, she would triumph in the Dancing at Talatu Wells.

As the caravan settled deeper into the calm of the Halt, a Digger slave in the retinue of the Lady GemStar, the one called HandWise of Sandy Burrow, felt a growing tension in his limbs—for he was about to take an action that might bring him freedom or—more likely—death.

More than any other servant of the Exalted Dancer, HandWise had found favor in the eyes of his mistress. Whenever she wished to hear tales of Old Talar, or felt curiosity about Digger life and customs, (which she usually found amusing) or just wished to have a trusted Digger at hand, she would summon HandWise to her tent. She also enjoyed mocking him, saying time and again to his face how extraordinarily ugly he was.

Although, like all Talatu Queens, the Lady GemStar possessed a natural streak of cruelty, she was in fact (as HandWise had learned over time) less harsh than most of her sisters. She seldom punished slaves physically for being slow or stupid (though in several instances HandWise had seen her sufficiently enraged to wield a stick on a bare back). But ordinarily, derision rather than gross cruelty shaped Lady GemStar’s behavior toward slaves who irritated her. Still, despite her relatively mild demeanor, (she had never struck him) HandWise could never stem the resentment that flooded him whenever Lady GemStar referred to him as my Digger troll—for HandWise considered himself an especially handsome specimen of the Digger male.

Half the height of his muscular mistress, HandWise was hairless, with pale gray skin, a prominent abdomen, spindly legs and arms, and wide eyes adapted to life in tunnels and burrows—where all free Diggers made their homes. He also took pride in a pair of outsized footclaws, characteristic of mature Digger males, which measured a Talatu hand’s span in length. His claws not only attracted Digger females in season, and served as formidable weapons when needed, they also made Digger males redoubtable excavators and tunnelers. Hence the name Digger. As with all Diggers, slave or free, HandWise’s attire consisted only of a white loincloth wrapped about his middle. All in all, HandWise thought himself a fine fellow, and bridled at the meat-eating Talatu who called him ugly.

But it wasn’t his touch of vanity that truly set HandWise apart from other less-spirited Diggers in service to the Talatu Queens; it was his refusal to reconcile himself to bondage—for HandWise regarded his capture as a fluke, the result of a mistake he had never made before and certainly would never make again. Every time he reflected on it, which was often, he cursed himself for a dolt.

In brief he had left Sandy Burrow early one morning to follow the trail of a Great White Worm, a species that had grown scarce on the Plain of the Tal. Stupidly he had gone out without a companion to keep watch while he studied the worm spoor. Engrossed in picking out signs left by the beast, he had not noticed a party of Talatu hola-hunters sneaking up behind him as he knelt over a smear of mucus shed from the skin of his quarry. Thus, caught foolishly unaware when the meat-eaters hurled their nets over him, HandWise, his footclaws entangled in the web, could offer little resistance to his captors. Soon thereafter he had found himself a bondservant in the heavily guarded domicile of the Lady GemStar at the Red Pavilions. In that capital of the Talatu Queens, HandWise also found that he hated his thralldom, that he longed with all his heart for Sandy Burrow and the freedom of the Plain, and that his soul was suffocating among the meat-eaters. As time crept on, he also came to realize that—whatever it took in the way of guile and daring—he had to try to escape his servitude or die.

Accordingly, when word had reached the slave quarters at the Red Pavilions that the Exalted Dancers, Lady GemStar and Lady WhiteEye, intended to cross the Plain by caravan in order to conduct one of their incomprehensible Dancing Ceremonies, HandWise had recognized an opportunity to reclaim his Digger liberty. He had then devised a plan of escape to be implemented as soon as the Exalted Dancers’ caravan reached any region of the Plain that he recognized from his days as a worm-tracker. (He reckoned that the caravan would pass near several such places along its projected route.) Of course HandWise knew that, no matter how clever his scheme, the odds were long against a successful flight to freedom. Lady GemStar would send her warriors to pursue him. The evil ones of night, the Dura Vazid, and ShadowCaster’s predators would hunt him. The chances were that he would fall under a Talatu spear, lose his soul to a vaz, or make a meal for a ravenous beast. Still he had to take the risk, for he was sick to death of servitude. Nor would he admit that his scheme was entirely hopeless—for he had based it not only on his familiarity with the geography of the Plain, but also on his hard-won knowledge of Talatu customs and superstitions, as well as his (admittedly) less-than-perfect understanding of the Dura Vazid Night-people. As for ShadowCaster’s beasts, he would have to rely on his tracking skills to slip past them.

Essentially HandWise’s plan called for him to act when the caravan of the Queens stopped for the daily ritual of the Halt in some area that he recognized. Then, while Lady GemStar and Lady WhiteEye meditated together, and their warriors did the same, HandWise, with all the boldness at his command, would simply march past the guards onto the Plain. Given the stupidity of those meat-eating warriors, plus their contempt for any Digger, he anticipated no trouble accomplishing this first step. Once on the Plain, however, he would have to move quickly away from the caravan, and search out a place to hide from Talatu pursuers—for he had no doubt that the Lady GemStar would discover his defection after completion of the Halt, and that in a rage she would order a squad of spearmen to bring her ugly Digger troll back for punishment. But HandWise’s plan included a strategy to thwart such hunters: He would hide himself in one of the ruinous old shrines that the Night-people had built on the Plain before they had become Dura Vazid in service to ShadowCaster. HandWise was counting on the fact that no Talatu, not even ShadowCaster’s rebels, would ever enter one of these decayed structures, for all Talatu believed (in their wooden-headed way) that these desolate holy places housed the ghosts of the Night-people, and that any who entered their cursed precincts (even Digger fugitives) would perish in agony. But HandWise also knew, from his worm-tracker days, that no Dura Vazid actually inhabited these ruins—or at least he had never encountered any. Thus he felt sure that if he could get into one of these fallen-in shrines before any Talatu caught up with him, he could shelter there safely until the suns set and the Eye rose. Only then, according to his plan, would he continue his journey, this time by night, across the Plain, over the River Tal, and finally on to Sandy Burrow.

Nor did he worry that Talatu warriors might seek him during the period of darkness—for if the meat-eaters dreaded the Night-people Dura Vazid in their ancient temples by day, they dreaded those same Dura Vazid even more on the Plain by night. For that reason Talatu caravans invariably huddled within well-lit defensive camps at night—for the meat-eaters believed that, in order to do mischief to physical beings such as themselves, the Dura Vazid had to return to a physical form—at least temporarily. That is, they had to put on the body, as the Talatu phrase went. The meat-eaters also supposed that the Night-people felt themselves vulnerable when in the body—and so avoided any large groupings of physical beings such as a Talatu night-camp. So, in his escape plan, HandWise had reckoned that as long as he could find a ruined shrine in which to hide by day, he would have little to fear from Lady GemStar’s pursuing troopers—although he would still have to deal with night-wandering vaz and the nocturnal beasts that thronged the Plain.

Of course, he had recognized from the beginning that his escape plan, though plausible in theory, left much in the hands of LifeGiver. For example, he estimated that—assuming he succeeded in locating a ruin in which to hide from the initial Talatu pursuit—he would still need two nights of strenuous travel to reach Sandy Burrow. This meant that he would have to find a second daytime shelter along the way—in addition to evading the perils of the Plain for two nights. Yes, a difficult path lay before him, but he would follow it home—or perish in the attempt. And now, HandWise told himself, with the caravan at Halt in a part of the Plain that he recalled (though vaguely) from his former life, the time had come to put his plan and his courage to the test, and to reclaim the liberty that was the birthright of every Digger.

With his heart beating wildly, but his mind focused on what he had to do, HandWise went to his billet in the slave tent. He found the diminutive club and the provisions he had concealed there—and wrapped them in an old sleeping cloth that he tied around his ample waist. The other slaves, taking advantage of the Halt to catch up on sleep, paid no attention to him. No doubt, HandWise thought, these torpid Diggers, made hopeless by long bondage, preferred to see nothing and know nothing of his movements lest they suffer for his crime. Someday, he told himself, he would try, one way or another, to restore these lost souls to their Digger dignity. But for now he had to make haste.

Carrying his small burden, HandWise went out into the white light of the suns at their zenith. A profound silence lay over the caravan as every guardsman lay prostrate in observance of the Halt. HandWise wondered what these thickheaded warriors thought about in their ritual meditations. A disgusting haunch of roasted hola? The glory of bloody battles? Certainly not LifeGiver, or ShadowCaster, or their own constricted existence. These Talatu were capricious children, after all, incapable of any form of abstract contemplation. But this was not the occasion to dwell on the shortcomings of Talatu fighting men. This was the time to act.

Assuming a bold demeanor (which did little to alleviate the shaking of his knees), HandWise strode out to the furthest post on the perimeter of the Halt. Here two burly spear-carrying guards knelt, each with his handsome head bowed to the pebbly ground. HandWise intended to walk right past them as if on an errand for his Mistress. All the spearmen in the caravan knew him as the favorite Digger of the Lady GemStar, and thus were unlikely to interrupt their devotions to stop him. If they did however, he would tell them, in the blustering way of self-important servants, that the Exalted Dancer had sent him to look for her pet hola pup which had wandered off just over that dune ahead.

In the event, the guardsmen merely glanced at him as he passed over the perimeter. Typical thick-minded meat-eaters, HandWise thought, they can’t imagine a mere Digger having the courage to free himself from the benevolence of the Talatu Way.

Making sure to evidence no suspicious haste, HandWise climbed the dune that rose before him. At the top he paused and permitted himself a look back. All remained as before: still and silent, the warriors all prostrated, the red pavilion of the Exalted Dancers motionless. HandWise felt sure that only when the caravan was well out in the Plain again after the Halt, would the Lady GemStar send for him to attend her. How she would erupt when she discovered her ugly troll gone! At first she would refuse to believe that he had fled from her. She would have the caravan ransacked, the other slaves questioned under the rod—but the slaves would tell her nothing because they knew nothing except that he had taken some of his possessions from his billet. Only after questioning the guards would she realize that her little HandWise had escaped. Then would her rage mount to the sky! She would have the careless spearmen dismissed from her service in disgrace. Vowing to rain torments down on her little HandWise, she would send a search party to find him and bring him back. Oh how he wished he could be there to enjoy the commotion! But as he stood on the apex of this dune, he reminded himself that his best course now was to choose a direction—and go as fast as his legs would carry him—away from Lady GemStar.

All at once, as he gazed out over the Plain stretched before him, he realized—with a thrill of exultation—that he was actually more than vaguely familiar with this region. In fact as a youthful worm-tracker, brimming with courage and enterprise, he had often traversed this very segment of the Plain on the trail of one of the great white worms. Unless his memory was playing him false (and he was almost certain it was not), an abandoned shrine of the Night-people lay not too distant from where he stood at this moment. He could surely reach it and take shelter before nightfall. Any Talatu searchers, even if they managed to pick up his trail in this stony ground, would have little time to catch up with him before having to return to the safety of their caravan’s night-camp. And even if they did overtake him hiding in his ruin, they would never dare to enter—provided of course that the ancient shrine still stood, and that