Arabesques from the Edge ofTime...& Elsewhen

By Philip Emery

Arabesques from the Edge of Time... & Elsewhen - Philip Emery

Arabesque: after the manner of Arabian design; a fantastic ornament. And now a collection of fantasy and science fiction stories and verse which twist and turn in similar fashion. From sword-&-sorcery in the style of Damon Runyon to Dickensian SF to virtual realities and vampires, sometimes in the same story, by way of spies, spell merchants, seeing-mind dogs and the occasional super strong dwarf and chain-mail bikini...
 

Following on from Philip Emery's last eBook collection 'Echoes out of Abaddon', 'Arabesques from the Edge of Time and Elsewhen showcases more of the author's sharp and insightful visions of genre fiction.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Immanion Press
• Release date: Mar 12, 2025
• ISBN: 9798230835448

Philip Emery

Phil Emery teaches creative writing in Britain. His work has been published in the UK, USA, Europe and Canada since the seventies. Published works are, "Necromantra", 2005, a radio play, "Virtual Grafix", was produced by Minute Radio Drama and a short story, "ID" is regularly broadcast on BBC radio since 2007. Other short stories appear in a variety of locations, including several of the "Rogue Blades" anthologies. In 2003 he was jointly awarded a script development grant from the PAWS Drama Fund. The play "Sirens" was performed in 2006 at Leicester and Staffordshire universities and the monologue "Identity Crisis" can be found on thegoodearreview.com website. He was nominated for the Rhysling long poem award in 2000. The novelette, "Blasphemer" came out from Damnation Press at the end of 2010, and another novel, "The Shadow Cycles" was published in the UK by Immanion Press in 2011. He lives near Stoke on Trent.

Book preview

LO!

Know, O reader, that in the years before the e-book inundated the publishing world the city of Agrabar was the sole province of the following stories. These verbal arabesques began in the seventies and the first tale, ‘Kalborbriac’, was published 1992 in the BFS magazine Mystique with an evocative illustration by Sylvia Starshine. Such are the ironies of time, O appraiser of dreams, that the second tale, ‘The Spell Merchant’, was actually published first in 1991 in the second issue of the legendary Scheherazade magazine. A third tale, ‘Two Thieves of Kem’ alighted some thirteen years later in the selfsame publication, both of these enhanced by the visual arabesques of Deidre Counihan. But hold, two unpublished tales of that same Agrabar, completing the sequence, may be found in this collection.

Another tale which was first told elsewhere is ‘Blasphemer’, originally found in the mysterious library of Damnation Press, but displaying pitiless copyedited scars. It may be discovered here healed and restored to its pristine polysyndetic glory.

Let it also be known that ‘Chronojourn’ under the guise of ‘Through the Woods’ and ‘Notes on a Ringbound Laptop’ have previously voyaged on the perilous seas of print.

Other elsewhens herein appear for the first time...

ARABESQUES FROM THE EDGE OF TIME

KALBORBRIAC

Far into the blazing East, where the lands of life ended, was fabled Agrabar. The city teetered on the edge of time itself, where the world faded into amaranthine dark and the Nightrealms of Hell began.

In Agrabar dwelt the mage Kalborbriac, about whom legends clustered like moths around a lamp in the night. It was rumoured that he had been born of human parents, his magic gained from bargains struck with demons. Others said he was a jinni, exiled from Hell for reasons unknown. And others said that he was neither.

Kalborbriac’s nature was a subject of legend because he had not walked abroad in the city in living or recorded memory. Even so no one doubted he was real or that he still lived.

For the mage dwelt in a globe of strangely misted crystal, supernatant Agrabar. Because of a darker area of mist which appeared from time to time over the centuries some said the globe resembled nothing so much as a gigantic eye with its pupil forever studying the dusky beings below. Thus were the populace spectacularly if unsettlingly assured of Kalborbriac’s entity.

The city also boasted two eminent poets: one young, the other old. The latter bore the name Santhrul and the title of Court Versemaker to the Caliph of Agrabar. Bald-pated and sour-lipped was Santhrul, but his powers of imagery and metre were magnificent.

Although proficient in the requisite social skills of court, Antris’ arrogance would not allow him to poison his rival. Instead he toiled long into night after night, struggling with his verse. Yet though his technique rose to formidable heights his efforts fell before the bitter stabs of irony with which Santhrul infused his work, maintaining that irony held the only meaning in an otherwise cruelly meaningless universe. Finally conceding defeat, Antris went one evening to the ante-chamber of Rukhor Arkemandraz the Court Magician.

Eventually the magician’s rotund bulk appeared.

Well? he wheezed. Come now, state your business. The versemaker Antris is it not? I’ve never had any use for poetry, too ephemeral, waste of the imagination. Magic on the other hand... I see you disagree, but I have no time to argue, thaumaturgy is a hectic profession. If you wish to consult me, it must be as I work.

So saying, the magician ushered Antris into his workroom and amid the clanking of crucibles and the clinking of vials the latter explained the reason for his visit. He wished Arkemandraz to redouble his sense of irony. Then, in the ambitious courtier’s own words, the Caliph could no longer deny Antris’ artistic superiority over that old faker Santhrul.

Can you not perform such a simple task? wheedled Antris.

I cannot, replied the magician who continued to manipulate convolvulating tubes and swan-necked bottles. The poet took out a purse but Arkemandraz waved it away. It is not a question of payment. I simply have no spell or potion that is suitable.

Well, if you have so little skill, I shall seek the aid of one with greater powers! Antris looked demonstratively skyward. Though perhaps you might assist me with a minor problem.

It is said in Agrabar that night is Hell reaching out and covering the world with a promise of the world’s end.

The evening had darkened into such a time when Antris left Arkemandraz’s rooms and rushed eagerly through a city made uneasily quiet by Hell’s promise. He passed beneath arches, ascended and descended stairways, paced along wide straight and narrow twisting bluestoned streets, ran by tenements and domed halls and tall slim towers. Arriving breathless at the street Arkemandraz had specified, he stopped.

All the way Antris had carefully nursed the bulging pouch that the magician had thrust at him before ushering him out. Now he reached into it with excited fingers. He drew out a hollow glass ball. Sealed inside was a green scaly lizard, two membranous growths pulsing nervously upon its back.

Still gasping air, Antris regarded the creature with puzzlement. Was this Arkemandraz’s solution to the ‘minor problem’ of travelling high above Agrabar’s highest tower to reach Kalborbriac’s levitated dwelling? He looked up. The ‘eye’ shimmered at night, giving Agrabar a perpetually full second moon. Continuing to comply with the magician’s instructions the poet let the glass ball drop from his grasp. It cracked open on impact with the ground. Apart from its pulsing growths the lizard was motionless, indolently pondering its release.

Not so much as a cloud of foul-smelling vapour, Antris observed with disgust, but no sooner was this said than he realised that the ball’s former occupant was rapidly growing! The poet leapt back. Then he leapt back again. And again. When the lizard stopped expanding it filled most of thestreet. The growths on its back now stretched out into translucent wings patterned with jagged blue-green veins.

The dragon snorted.

Eyeing its liberator with twin otherworldly pools (as Antris would have put it), the beast lowered its elongated neck to the ground and summoning all his courage the young versemaker tentatively bestrode it. Hands clasped squarrose hide, wings stirred, and the dragon was in flight.

Soon Antris, body shivering and head swimming with vertigo, was circling Kalborbriac’s shimmering home. It was then that he realised there was no portal, majestic or otherwise, or any other obvious means of entry. He resolved to scrutinise the smooth crystal surface.

Hover closer, O dragon.

The dragon hesitated, moved closer, brushed the ‘eye’ with a wing, jerked back. Perhaps the nearness of Hell, the sheer supernatural dark looming over both city and ‘eye’, disquieted it? Anger levered itself through Antris’ vertigo.

Hover closer, O scabrid coward.

The dragon began squirming bewilderedly in the air.

Obey me, bastard hybrid of magic and stupidity!

The desperate curse injected a surge of panic and it twisted suddenly. The poet felt his grip pulled free. Falling, his last sight was of the stars and the dragon’s underbelly.

Then both disappeared.

Antris found himself panting with shock in a chamber suffused with hazy light. Ceiling and floor were smooth solid mist and overlapping hangings formed the walls. There were designs on these, shapes of colours so bright or deep as to be almost painful to look at. So strange were the colours that Antris almost failed to realise that the shapes formed prospects. There were architectures, seas, mountains, plains, forests, fields of growing things, and swarming places and desolations so alien that none of those words described them. There were dawns and evenings and dazzling noons and black midnights, suns and moons and stars.

There was no doubt in Antris’ stunned mind that he was now within Kalborbriac’s dwelling.

Perhaps his desire to enter or his nearness had mystically triggered some spell of admittance? But this was of little concern now. He tore his eyes away from the tapestries.

In the centre of the chamber was a dais and on this a luxurious chair as exotic as the hangings. On one of the arms, perhaps originally from one of the worlds depicted on the walls, no taller than a hand-length, crouched a goblin-thing. For a moment it continued busily dusting the chair with its leathern wings. Then it stopped and stared curiously at the versemaker.

Could this be? No. The chair was far too large for one thing. Surely this was only a familiar, a bizarre caretaker conjured by the mage. But then where...? Antris wondered if the goblin-thing could speak, could perhaps answer enquiries on the whereabouts of Kalborbriac? He stepped forward but the goblin-thing fluttered into the air. Antris lunged but the creature danced out of reach. Antris, discovering that a floor of smooth mist is slippery, fell, glared at the goblin-thing, and began to curse.

Then one of the wall-hangings behind the dais lifted slowly to one side, like a languorous shrug.

Beyond was a brilliant swirling mass of indistinct shapes and colours. From out of this polychromic chaos appeared an unusually tall and slender manin flowing robes. His face was strangely ancient. Although the skin was smooth and unwithered there were centuries in the eyes. They were like small copies of the crystal dwelling: the whites strangely misted, the pupils darker spots of mist.

Gliding forward (literally), he mounted the dais and sat upon the chair. The goblin-thing fluttered to his side, adoration glowing on its leathern face. The manseemed not to notice it, nor, amazingly, the sprawled poet just left of the dais. The only awareness or expression on his weirdly aged face was a wisp of puzzlement.

Antris felt his hopes slipping. This was the great mage-in-the-sky, the solid core of all the legends, all the generations of awe and speculation?

The man inclined forward and gazed down. Where he gazed, the misty floor cleared (a dark pupil had doubtless appeared on the underside of the globe) and far below the intricate winding, stabbing architecture of Agrabar could be seen.

Strange... he eventually murmured.

The word itself was oddly accented but understood by the versemaker, as were those that followed.

Strange, he repeated. I felt... perceived... something magical... near this ‘eye’... But I dispatched a spell to draw it within... So where...?

Antris felt relieved at this proof of the man’s power. He had sensed Arkemandraz’s dragon and casually, if mistakenly, plucked its rider into his dwelling. In his voice was a frail suggestion of curiosity, like a memory of an echo from the limit of the universe. He had anticipated finding a wonder within the chamber and obviously anything as unmagical as a sprawled poet was beneath notice.

A piqued Antris spluttered to his feet.

You, you are the mage Kalbrobriac, O respected sir?

Noticing him, the man’s features began struggling to life. It was like watching a cobweb tremble.

Kalborbriac...? So many worlds... So many years... It may be that I was once named so, he mused, stroking his chin. What do you wish of this... Kalborbriac?

Antris erupted into rapid exhortation, offering the mage lifelong gratitude and a thousand magnificent poems in his honour if he would bestow on the courtier a greater sense of irony. The mage lifted a hand and Antris found his tongue immobile.

There was silence. Only an occasional flicker of Kalborbriac’s index finger against his chin proved him more than a contemplative statue. Antris could do nothing but wait, now and then scowling at the goblin-thing.

Presently uneasy thoughts began to drift across his mind. What would be his fate if the mage decided to refuse his gratitude and even (insanity!) his poems? Might he enslave Antris? Perhaps transform him into another goblin-pet? Or simply murmur a word and dismiss him from existence? Or would he glide back through one of the hangings, leaving the versemaker to die and rot in the chamber, his bones regularly dusted by the goblin-caretaker’s leathern wings?

Antris swallowed hard. He had allowed ambition to usurp his sense. Albeit not so imaginative or satisfying, it would have been safer to poison old Santhrul to become Agrabar’s pre-eminent poet.

To divert his mind he studied the tapestries. He now realised they were mystical portals into the worlds they rendered, or rather to other ‘eyes’ above those worlds. Doubtless each ‘eye’ had its own set of tapestry-portals, the whole forming a network of lands over which the mage roamed witnessing wonders such as cities teetering on the edges of Hells. Wonders beyond count. Wonders which had ultimately misted not only his eyes but his mind?

Musing thus, Antris noticed rather than bade his hand inch toward one of the hangings. Yet he never drew it back and peered beyond.

Kalborbriac had begun to move.

The mage’s head turned, and his dark-misted pupils alighted on the goblin-thing. As if a command had been given it flew over and perched its leathern feet on Antris’s right shoulder. Scrambling down the arm it placed a thimble-sized vial in Antris’s hand, then jumped away. Seemingly the mage had chosen to grant his visitor’s reguest! Antris carefully raised the vial, gulped the drop, exalted. Already he felt himself beginning to savour many unappreciated ironies of his past life.

Then another thought uneasily entered his mind.

He tried to speak but his voice was still spellbound. As Kalborbriac stood and glided toward one of the hangings he made a flowing gesture and hazy light was instantly replaced by night. Again the stars were above Antris, the ‘eye’ beside, Agrabar below him. And again he was falling.

Plummeting, no longer silenced, Antris began to laugh. There had been no malice in Kalborbriac’s act. After all, how many centuries must it have been since his bedazzled mind had given a bedimmed thought to anything as mundane as gravity?

From somewhere above echoed the ironic sound of dragonwings.

THE SPELL MERCHANT

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The tales of Agrabar spoke of its soaringly high towers and splendid mansions, but little mention was made of the bazar in the tradepeople’s quarter. There were many legends of the god-mage Kalborbriac who dwelt high above the city in a globe of strangely misted crystal, but few of Nazlar Arkemandraz the spell merchant. Brother of Rukhor who was ensorceller to the Caliph of Agrabar, Nazlar kept a shop in one of the less clamorous market streets. Here he sold a selection of grimoires, curse-scrolls, divinatory utensils, and other magical apparatus.

One such item the Emir Jarhad Al Kasheed brandished in his shaking fist when he paid his second visit to the shop.

By the basilisk’s eye! he ranted. It is over one parasang from my estate to this lice-ridden bazar! Over one parasang I have had to travel to return this useless device! He held a long, narrow cone of smooth, burnished bone. The circular base was covered by a hinged lid.

Kasheed addressed both Nazlar and his young apprentice. They were a bizarre triad of shapes. The Emir was tall, even without the turban he wore, and spare. Nazlar was short and almost as corpulent as his brother Rukhor. The boy was smallest of all, with an appropriately mischievous face and a supple, narrow build like a weasel. Thus he had come to be named ‘Weasel’.

I paid handsomely for this Spirit Cone, Kasheed continued, so that the spirit within might guard my grounds from trespassers at night. As he spoke he made to open the vessel.

Nazlar interrupted, nervously wiping the sweat from his flawlessly bald pate. It is dangerous to release the ghost without first reading the spell of obedience graven on the cone!

Kasheed flipped open the lid. The apprentice swore under his breath. Nothing happened. Empty! the Emir remarked pointedly. I followed your instructions and took the cone to the edge of my gardens, read the spell of obedience to bind the spirit to my will, and the cursed thing was empty! He thrust the cone into Nazlar’s plump hands.

The spell merchant peered into it. Indeed.

What do you intend doing about it?

I believe I detect a hairline crack in the bone. Only a minute fracture, but none-the-less sufficient to allow the ghost exit. It has doubtless returned whence it came: that is to say, to the Nightrealms. Unfortunately, this was the last of my present stock of Spirit Cones. But this receptacle can easily be repaired, and I shall personally secure for it a fresh inhabitant.

Even Jarhad Al Kasheed was impressed by this. From Hell?

The journey will take one, perhaps two weeks. If the Emir could return in three?

I shall, but take care merchant, do not fail me.

The threat in the Emir’s voice remained after his departure. It settled over the shop and mingled with the dust on the shelves. Kasheed had a reputation for busying his cousin the Caliph’s torturers with those who had failed him. The spell merchant gave his apprentice an instruction and the boy sped out of the shop and down the street. Soon he returned.

Well, Weasel? How many caravans are now present in the city? questioned Nazlar.

Four, O master. The preparations of three are complete and they will leave tomorrow.

Do any take the northern route?

One, belonging to a caravaneer named Sallakheen.

The spell merchant scowled. Old Sallakheen? I knew him when he was a buyer and seller of slaves in the bazar. A wily old hyena. Well, it cannot be helped. Go back and reserve places on his train while I purchase supplies for the journey. Tonight you can steal two camels for us.

The apprentice grinned and dodged back into the street.

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Sallakheen’s train crept out of Agrabar shortly after dawn. The appointed time of departure had been set for sunrise, but several tavern and flesh houses had to be searched before the caravaneer could be found. By evening the highest towers of the city had vanished below the horizon, and Sallakheen was sober. By noon of the second day even Kalborbriac’s Eye, the god-mage’s fabulous spherical dwelling in the sky, was lost from view.

The northern trade-route was the oldest way to and from Agrabar. It travelled through the desert parallel to the nighted edge of the world for six days before curling west toward the city of Kaphra. On the fifth day we pass the Promontory of Transgression, said Nazlar to his apprentice. "Or rather the rest of the caravan passes. The words jerked out to the ungainly rhythm of his camel. They seemed to lurch from the animal’s hump into the spell merchant’s belly and up through his chins. Weasel grinned at the sight. His master, judging it safer to keep both hands on the camel’s reins than attempt a cuff of rebuke, ignored the affront.

Sallakheen drew up between them. He was a leathery grey-haired rake. He had not washed since the train left the city and his sweat, unlike Nazlar’s, was undiluted by perfumes. Leaving us before Kaphra, my old friend? We’ll play some card or dice before you go, eh?

The spell merchant did not reply, still concentrating on keeping atop his camel, but the caravaneer refused to be offended. He dropped back, grinning with his remaining teeth.

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After making camp on the fourth night Sallakheen invited Nazlar to a gaming party in his tent. The game was to be Three-Die Corryven, rarely played so far east. By midnight only three players remained: the caravaneer, the spell merchant, and a Kaphran spice trader called Phaz. Nazlar’s apprentice sat at a distance, restlessly watching the proceedings.

The spice trader’s earnings from his dealings in Agrabar were almost gone, evenly divided between the other two players. A sour, thickset man with a nervous face, Phaz’s remaining money was staked on his next throw. He clutched the three cubes anxiously, reluctant to let them fall. After licking dry lips he made them. As the last die came to rest his expression soured even more. He quit the tent muttering an insincere good-night. Sallakheen, who had made the winning throw, nodded an indifferent acknowledgment as he raked in his pot.

The game paused and the caravaneer’s slave girl appeared with a skin of warmed and scented wine. Magdel wore garments of beaded silk, mostly diaphanous. They displayed an improbable length of leg and a svelte waist. Her features were coldly beautiful, her skin smooth and flawless. Nazlar asked where Sallakheen had acquired her but he merely chuckled and patted the rug by his side. Magdel knelt and the game continued.

The caravaneer had doubtless chosen Corryven because of his skill at the game which entailed estimating the odds of throwing a desired combination. But Nazlar was an enthusiastic gambler and skilled at many varieties of board, card, and dice. Despite the handicap of not being able to cheat at such a game he had managed to keep level with his host. Now his pile of winnings grew steadily bigger while Sallakheen’s shrank. The latter became quieter but maintained his good-humoured simper. Finally only one pile lay on the carpet. The spell merchant motioned his apprentice to come and carry away the night’s spoil, but Sallakheen held up a hand.

Wait, Nazlar. What would you say to one more throw?

And how would you pay for it?

The old caravaneer paused, taking a mouthful of wine. Against your winnings I will stake Magdel.

The slave girl’s face remained as impassive as it had throughout the evening. Weasel smirked brazenly. The spell merchant looked hard at the thrall, thoughtfully tugging on his earring. Finally he said: Against my better judgment I accept the wager.

Sallakheen threw first. The green die came to rest showing five dots, the red three, and the blue an image of a skull. A moderate score, he shrugged. Nazlar threw. His apprentice craned forward to see the result. The green die showed three dots and both red and blue rolled onto skulls.

An unusual combination, remarked the caravaneer.

But the better one, said the spell merchant.

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Within his tent Magdel’s new master scanned her document of ownership. She knelt unconcernedly by his bed. Shortly he gestured to Weasel for a small braided satchel into which he placed the paper. It seemed to the boy that his master also took something from the bag before handing it back.

I think you had better sleep with our camels tonight, O disrespectful one. May it remove that smirk from your face!

The apprentice grinned from Nazlar to Magdel and back, scooped up his blankets, and dodged the kick intended to speed his exit.

The camels were tethered just outside the tent. Weasel had no objection to spending the night with them. They had gentler dispositions than the spell merchant. He tossed his blankets down and lay looking at the dark sky. Ah, well, one day he’d be a merchant in magics. It would be his turn to grow, if not rich, at least comfortably off. Yes, and fat. He pulled the blankets and the pleasant thoughts tight around himself and began falling asleep.

A sound from the tent stopped his descent. It was not a loud issue but its very strangeness aroused the boy. It was a kind of alien translation of pain. Weasel rushed to the tent flap and peered inside. Nazlar was standing naked. Scratch marks scored his chest and huge belly. A trembling hand wiped glistening moisture from brow to the top of his skull. There was no sign of Magdel.

Then Weasel noticed beaded silk garments tangled on the floor with pillows and blankets. Beneath these, top part exposed, lay the corpse of some form of animal. Its lifeless eyes stared without pupil or iris. The muzzle gaped, lined with vicious canines. The claws were equally menacing. A thin silvery dagger was buried in its throat. Its body was mostly covered in thick dark fur, but there were bald areas through which Weasel recognized Magdel’s smooth tanned skin.

Come inside the tent boy! Quickly! Before you’re seen! Nazlar’s whisper was controlled even though his body continued trembling. Yes, it is her, he chuckled nervously. A were-beast. Ha, I know that treacherous scorpion Sallakheen of old. I suspected some form of trickery which is why I slipped the dagger from my satchel earlier. Weasel looked puzzled. It’s simple enough, boy! Sallakheen is no fool, yet tonight he continued to gamble when it was obvious I was the better player. Then finally he makes a ridiculous bet with his slave girl...

And seems almost happy when he loses! interjected the apprentice. Nazlar aimed a vexed stare at the boy, then continued.

In the morning our mutilated bodies are found in our tent but Magdel and my winnings are not. Sallakheen says he won last night and has the money to prove it. His were-beast, having returned to him and to her human form, says nothing. And they bury us. An ingenious plan. I’m sure Sallakheen must have used it before; he was never that good a gambler.

The spell merchant’s thick lips slimmed into a self-congratulatory smile. Weasel was impressed in spite of himself.

A sound came from outside. Nazlar put a finger to his lips as they thickened once more. The sound came again, this time recognizable as a camel snort. Master and apprentice breathed in relief. I think it best we depart before morning, said the former, in case Sallakheen has more tricks of this sort."

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After several hours travelling the spell merchant paused to study the stars. Thereby ascertaining its direction, he turned east, toward the Nightrealms of Hell. Now he walked, leading his camel, and instructed his apprentice to do the same.

Soon the night became somehow both darker and clearer, and the stars were gone from the sky. Suddenly Weasel became aware that the desert on either side has disappeared, leaving only a strip of ground flanked by two black chasms. A wind blew, bringing with it a half-familiar sound, a jangling cadence. Often it was heard in Agrabar at night, when, it was thought, the Nightrealms reached out over the world. It was said to be the sound of spider bards plucking cobweb lyres in Hell’s dusty necropoleis. As Nazlar and Weasel proceeded it grew louder.

Magdel’s transformed body was fastened to the apprentice’s camel. The spell merchant entertained ideas of adding her to his shop’s range of wares. Knowledgeable in such things, he explained that if the silver dagger was pulled from her throat she would probably return to life. Weasel’s many anxious checks to confirm the dagger’s inherence had postponed his asking if this was Hell.

Now he did.

This is the Promontory of Transgression,replied his master, a projection of the lands of life into eternity. Here the world transgresses into the Nightrealms. This both is and is not Hell. Weasel did not understand. He shivered.

Presently the Promontory split into three narrower ridges which splayed away into the distance. The spell merchant unhesitatingly moved onto the middle ridge. Weasel followed apprehensively. The strait was so narrow that by turning his head he could look from the abyss on one side to the gulf on the other. To his relief it soon began widening until it was as broad as the undivided Promontory had been. Presently the ache in Weasel’s calves told him the path was sloping upward, but before the ache or the gradient became acute the Promontory ended.

It ended without warning. If Nazlar had not stopped, his apprentice might well have plunged over the brink. Pausing for a moment the spell merchant let out a heavy puff of satisfaction. Then he turned, handed the reins of his camel to Weasel, and walked off the edge.

The boy let go of the camels and darted forward. The spell merchant was standing on the first step of a graved stone stairway that descended into blackness. Weasel’s mouth fell open, and his master threw back his head and laughed. Get the Spirit Cone and follow me.

More used to being the player, not the victim of such tricks, the mischievous apprentice resolved to even the score at the first opportunity. He lifted a bag from Nazlar’s camel, took out the cone, and started to climb down the steps. Nazlar had already vanished into the darkness below. Weasel called for him to wait and despite the precarious narrowness of the stairway hurried after him. For the moment the score was forgotten.

The boy’s haste was, however, short-lived. The unnaturally clear murk of the Promontory of Transgression quickly thickened to the point where even the next step could not be seen. For all he knew the stairway simply ended where he stood. To move might be to fall helplessly down the eternally hungry throat of Hell. As he procrastinated Nazlar’s voice bellowed from below, cursing Weasel to hurry. The apprentice muttered to himself that it was all very well for the spell merchant. He was probably already irrevocably damned and it was only a matter of time before the Nightrealms claimed him forever. Still, Nazlar’s curses reassured Weasel that the stairway continued, even though unseen. He swallowed hard and stuck a leg forward.

The spell merchant was standing on the first step of a graved stone stairway that descended into blackness. Weasel’s mouth fell open, and his master threw back his head and laughed. Get the Spirit Cone and follow me.

More used to being the player, not the victim of such tricks, the mischievous apprentice resolved to even the score at the first opportunity. He lifted a bag from Nazlar’s camel, took out the cone, and started to climb down the steps. Nazlar had already vanished into the darkness below. Weasel called for him to wait and despite the precarious narrowness of the stairway hurried after him.