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hree Great Swords； or any of the other things you need to know to fight this war。 Oh； merciful Usires。 Oh； dear。〃 He patted at his thin red hair again。 〃Forgive me。 Sometimes it is hard to remember that I am merely the doorkeeper of the Ransomer； and that the burden is not mine to bear； but God's。 Ah； but it is hard right now。〃
Tiamak stared。 His fellow Scrollbearer looked as though he had been visited by vengeful spirits。 The Wrannaman moved closer to Strangyeard。
〃Is that all？〃 Josua seemed disappointed。 〃Are you certain that the things he knows cannot help us？〃
〃I am not certain of anything but pain； Prince Josua；〃 the archivist said quietly but with surprising firmness。 〃But I truly think it unlikely； and I know for certain that to force anything more from that man would be cruel beyond belief； and not just to him。〃
〃Not just to him？〃 Isgrimnur said。 〃What does that mean？〃
〃Enough； please。〃 Strangyeard seemed almost angry…something Tiamak had not imagined possible。 〃I have told you what you needed to know。 Now I would like to leave。〃
Josua was taken aback。 〃Of course； Father Strangyeard。〃
The priest nodded。 〃May God watch over us all。〃
Tiamak followed Strangyeard out through the tent door。 〃Is there something I can do？〃 he asked。 〃Perhaps just walk with you？〃
The archivist hesitated； then nodded。 〃Yes。 That would be kind。〃
Camaris was gone from the spot where he had stood； Tiamak looked for him； but saw no sign。
When they had traveled some way down the hill； Strangyeard spoke in a musing voice。 〃I understand now。。。 why a man would wish to drink himself into oblivion。 I find it tempting myself at this moment。〃
Tiamak raised an eyebrow but said nothing。
〃Perhaps drunkenness and sleep are the only ways God has given us to forget；〃 Strangyeard continued。 〃And sometimes forgetting is the only cure for pain。〃
Tiamak considered。 〃In a way； Camaris was as one asleep for two score years。〃
〃And we awakened him。〃 Strangyeard smiled sadly。 〃Or； I should say； God allowed us to awaken him。 Perhaps there is a reason for all this。 Perhaps there will be some result beside sorrow after all。〃
He did not； the Wrannaman thought； sound as though he believed it。
Guthwulf paused and let the air wash over him； trying to decide which of the passageways led upward…for it was upward that the sword…song was leading him。 His nostrils twitched； sniffing for the faintest indication from the damp tunnel air as to which way he should go。 His fingers traveled back and forth along the stone walls on either side； questing like eyeless crabs。
Disembodied； alien speech washed over him once more； words that he did not hear so much as feel。 He shook his head； trying to drive them from his brain。 They were ghosts； he knew； but he had learned that they could not harm him； could not touch him。 The cluttering voices only interfered with what he truly wanted to hear。 They were not real。 The sword was real； and it was calling。
He had first felt the pull return several days before。
As he awakened into the confusion of blind solitude； as he had so many times； a thread of pelling melody had followed him up out of sleep into his waking blackness。 It was more than just another of his pitiful dreams： this was a powerful feeling； frightful and yet fortably familiar； a song without words or melody that rang in his head and wrapped him with tendrils of longing。 It tugged at him so strongly that he scrambled clumsily to his feet； eager as a young swain called by his beloved。 The sword！ It was back； it was near！
Only as the last clinging remnants of his slumbers left him did he remember that the sword was not alone。
It was never alone。 It belonged to Elias； his once…friend； now bitter enemy。 Much as Guthwulf ached to be near it； to bask in its song as he would the warmth of a fire； he knew he would have to approach cautiously。 Miserable as his current life was； he preferred it to what Elias would do to him if he was captured…or worse； what Elias would let that serpent Pryrates do to him。
It never occurred to him that it would be even better simply to leave the sword alone。 The song of it was like the splash of a stream to a traveler dying of thirst。 It drew him； and he had no choice but to follow its call。
Still； some animal cunning remained。 As he felt his way through the well…learned tunnels； he knew he needed not only to find Elias and the sword； but also to approach them in such a way so as to avoid discovery and capture； as he had managed once before to spy on the king from a shelf of rock above the foundry floor。 To this end； he followed the sword's pelling summons but remained at as great a distance as he could； like a hawk circling its master on a long trace。 But trying to resist the plete pull was maddening。 The first day he followed the sword； Guthwulf forgot pletely to go to the spot where the woman regularly left food for him。 By the second day…which； to the blind Earl of Utanyeat； was whatever came between one sleep and the next…the sword's call beating within him like a second heartbeat had almost dissolved the memory that such a spot even existed。 He ate what crawling things his groping hands encountered； and drank from any moving trickle of water he could find。 He had learned in his first weeks in the tunnels what happened when he drank from standing pools。
Now； after three sleeps full of sword…dreams； he had wandered far beyond any of the passageways familiar to him。 The stones he felt beneath his hands had never met his touch before； the tunnels themselves； but for the always…present phantom voices and the equally constant pull of the Great Sword； seemed pletely alien。
He had some small idea of how long he had been searching for the sword this time； and； in a rare moment of clear thinking； he wondered what the king was doing down in the hidden places beneath the castle for such a long time。
A moment later； a wild； glorious thought came to him。
He's lost the sword。 He's lost it down here somewhere； and it's just sitting； waiting for whoever finds it！ Waiting for me！ Me！
He did not even realize that he was slavering in his dusty beard。 The thought of having the sword all to himself…to touch； to listen to； to love and to worship…was so horrifyingly pleasurable that he took a few steps and then fell to the floor； where he lay quivering until darkness took his remaining senses。
After he had regained his wits； Guthwulf rose and wandered； then slept once more。 Now he was awake again； and standing before the branching of two tunnels； trying to decide which one was most likely to lead him upward。 He knew； somehow； that the sword was above him； just as a mole beneath the ground knows which way to dig to reach the surface。 In other lucid moments he had worried that perhaps he was grown so sensitive to the sword's song that it was leading him upward to the king's very throne room； where he would be caught and slaughtered just as a mole would be if it dug its way up into the kennels。
But even though he had been moving steadily upward； he had started very deep。 He felt sure the rise had not been anything so great as he feared。 He was also certain that in his roundabout way he was moving ever outward； away from the core of the castle。 No； the beautiful； terrifying thing that drew him； the living； singing blade； must be somewhere here beneath the earth； coffined in rock just as he was。 And when he found it； he would not be lonely any more。 He only had to decide which of these tunnels to follow。。。。
Guthwulf raised his hands and reflexively rubbed at his blind eyes。 He felt very weak。 When was the last time he had eaten？ What if the woman gave up on him and stopped putting out food？ It had been so nice to eat real food。。。。
But if I find the sword； if I have it all to myself； he gloated； I won't care about any of that。
He cocked his head。 There was a scratching noise just beyond him somewhere； as though something were trapped inside the stone。 He had heard that noise before…in fact； he heard it ever more frequently of late…but it was nothing to do with what he sought。
The scratching ended； and still he stood in painful indecision before the forking tunnels。 Even when he put down stones for markers； it was so easy to bee lost； but he was certain that one of these passages led upward to the heart of the song…the crooning； sucking； soul…drowning melody of the Great Sword。 He did not want to go the wrong way and spend another endless time trying to find his way back。 He was weak with hunger； numb with weariness。
He might have stood for an hour or a day。 At last； beginning as gently as a dust devil； a wind came tugging at his hair； a puff of breeze from the right…hand turning。 Then； a moment later； a flurry of somethings welled up out of the tunnel and floated past him…the spirits that haunted the dark nether…roads。 Their voices echoed in his skull； dim and somehow hopeless。
。。。 The Pool。 We must seek him at the Pool。 He will know what to do 。。。
Sorrow。 They have called down the final sorrow 。。。
As the twittering things blew past； blind Guthwulf slowly smiled。 Whatever they were； spirits of the dead or bleak products of his own madness； they always came to him out of the depths； from the deepest； oldest parts of the labyrinth。 They came from below。。。 and he wished to climb。
He turned and shuffled into the left…hand tunnel。
The remains of Naglimund's massive gate had been plugged with rubble； but since it was lower than the surrounding wall and the piles of broken stone offered purchase for climbing feet； it seemed to Count Eolair the logical place for an assault to begin。 He had been surprised when the Sithi had concentrated themselves before a blank and undamaged stretch of wall。
He left Maegwin and the contingent of anxious mortal warriors under Isorn's mand； then crept up the snowy hillside to join Jiriki and Likimeya in the shell of a broken building a few hundred ells from Naglimund's out…wall。 Likimeya gave him a cursory glance； but Jiriki nodded。
〃It is almost time；〃 the Sitha said。 〃We have called for the m'yon rashi…the strikers。〃
Eolair stared at the contingent of Sithi before the wall。 They had stopped singing； but had not moved away。 He wondered why they should risk the arrows of the Norns when whatever their singing was intended for seemed finished。 〃Strikers？ Do you mean battering rams？〃
Jiriki shook his head； smiling faintly。 〃We have no history of such things； Count Eolair。 I imagine we could devise such an engine； but we decided to fall back on what we know instead。〃 His look darkened。 〃Or rather； what we learned from the Tinukeda'ya。〃 He gestured。 〃Look； the m'yon rashi e。〃
A quartet of Sithi were approaching the wall。 Although he did not recognize them； Eolair thought they looked no different than the hundreds of other Peaceful Ones camped in Naglimund's shadow。 All were slender and golden…skinned。 Like most of their fellows； no two seemed quite alike in the color of either their armor or the hair that streamed from beneath their helms； the m'yon rashi gleamed against the snow like misplaced tropical birds。 The only difference the count could see between these and any other of Jiriki's people was that each bore a dark staff long as a walking…stick。 These staffs were of the same odd gray…black stuff as Jiriki's sword Indreju； each was knobbed with a globe of some blue crystalline stone。
Jiriki turned from the Hernystirman and called out an order。 His mother rose from her crouch and added words of her own。 A contingent of Sithi archers moved up until they surrounded the group near the walls。 The bowmen nocked arrows and drew； then froze in place； eyes scanning the empty walls。
The leader of the m'yon rashi； a female Sitha with grass…green hair and armor of a slightly deeper green； lifted her stick and slowly swung it toward the wall as if she forced it against the flowing current of a river。 When the blue gem struck； all the m'yon rashi chanted a single loud syllable。 Eolair felt a tremor in his bones； as though a tremendous we