Byron In Exile
Frederick Fucking Chopin
- Joined
- May 3, 2002
- Posts
- 66,591
Horus raises his right fist to shoulder level, swings it forward and down, striking the stone, which shatters. He retrieves the arrow and hands it to Dilwit.
“I am Horus,” he states.
Dilwit regards the arrow, the gravel, the chunks of marble.
“Thou art indeed Horus,” he agrees. “What may I do for thee?”
“D'donori has always been justly famous for its scriers. Those of Liglamenti have oft been exceeding good. Therefore, I would consult with your chief scrier, as I’ve several questions I’d have answered.”
“This would be old Freydag,” says Dilwit, flicking rock dust from his red and green kilt. “He is indeed one of the great ones, but…”
“But what?” asks Horus, already reading Dilwit’s thought, but waiting politely, nevertheless.
“He is, Great Horus, a mighty reader of entrails, and none but those of the human sort will serve him. Now, we seldom keep prisoners, as this can run into some expense—and volunteers are even harder to come by, for things such as this.”
“Could not Freydag be persuaded to make do with the entrails of some animal, for this one occasion?”
Horus reads again and sighs.
“Of course, Great Horus. But he will not guarantee the same level of reception as he would with better components.”
“I wonder why this should be?”
“I cannot answer this, Most Potent Horus, being no scrier myself—though my mother and sister both had the Sight—but of all scriers, I know scatologists to be the queerest sort. Take Freydag, now. He’s quite nearsighted, he says, and this means—”
“Furnish him with the necessary components, and advise me when he is ready to entertain my questions!” says Horus.
“Yes, Puissant Horus. I will organize a raiding party immediately, as I can see thou art anxious.”
“Most anxious.”
“… And I’ve a neighbor could use a lesson in observing boundaries!”
Dilwit springs upon his throne, and reaching upward takes down the long gol-horn which hangs above it. Three times does he place it to his lips and blow until his cheeks bulge and redden and his eyes start forth from beneath the pelt of his brows. Then does he replace the horn, sway, and collapse upon his ducal seat.
“My chieftains will attend me momently,” he gasps.
Momently, there comes the sound of hoofbeats, and three kilted warriors, mounted upon the unicornlike golindi, come riding, riding, riding, into and about the chamber, staying only when Dilwit raises his hand and cries out, “A raid! A raid, my hearties! Upon Uiskeagh the Red. Half a dozen captives I’ll have of him, ere the mist lightens with tomorrow’s dawn!”
“Captives, did you say, Lord?” calls out the one in black and tan.
“You heard me right.”
“Before tomorrow’s dawn!” A spear is raised.
Two more flash high.
“Before tomorrow's dawn!”
“Aye!”
And they circle the chamber and depart. The following dawn, Horus is awakened and conducted to the room where six naked men lie, hands and ankles bound together behind their backs, their bodies covered with gashes and welts. This chamber is small, cold, lighted by four torches; its one window opens upon a wall of fog. Many sheets of that monthly journal the Ligla Times are spread upon the floor, covering it fully. Leaning against the window sill, a short, age-tonsured man, pink-faced, hollow-cheeked and squinting, sharpens several brief blades with a whetting bar. He wears a white apron and a half-furnished smile. His pale eyes move upon Horus and he nods several times.
“I understand thou hast some questions,” he says, pausing to gasp between several words.
“You understand correctly. I've three.”
“Only three, Holy Horus? That means one set of entrails will doubtless do for all. Surely, a god as wise as thyself could think of more questions. Since we have the necessary materials it is a shame to waste them. It's been so long…”
“Three, nevertheless, are all the questions I have for the entrail-oracle."
“Very well, then,” sighs Freydag. “In that case, we shall use his,” and he indicates with his blade one gray-bearded man whose dark eyes are fixed upon his own. “Boltag is the name.”
“You know him?”
“He is a distant cousin of mine. Also, he is the Lord Uiskeagh's chief scrier—a charlatan, of course. It is good fortune that has finally delivered him into my hands.”
The one called Boltag spits upon the Times obituary section when this is spoken. “Thou art the fraud, oh mighty misreader of innards!” says he.
“Liar!” cries Freydag, scrambling to his side and seizing him by the beard. “This ends thy infamous career!” and he slits the other’s belly. Reaching in, he draws forth a handful of entrails and spreads them upon the floor. Boltag cries, moans, lies still. Freydag slashes along the bending length of the intestines, spreading their contents with his fingers. He crouches low and leans far forward. “Now, what be thy questions, son of Osiris?” he inquires.
“First,” says Horus, “where may I find the Prince Who Was A Thousand? Second, who is the emissary of Anubis? Third, where is he now?”
Freydag mumbles and prods at the steaming stuff upon the floor. Boltag moans once again and stirs.
Horus attempts to read the thoughts of the scrier, but they tumble about so that finally it is as if he were staring out the room’s one window. Then Freydag speaks:
“In the Citadel of Marachek,” he says, “at Midworlds’ Center, there shalt thou meet with one who can take thee into the presence thou seekest.”
“… Strangely,” mutters Boltag, gesturing with his head, “thou hast read that part aright. But thy failing vision—was clouded—by that bit of mesentery thou hast erroneously mixed—into things…” With a mighty effort Boltag rolls nearer, gasps, “And thou—dost not tell—Great Horus—that he will meet with mighty peril—and, ultimately—failure…”
“Silence!” cries Freydag. “I did not call thee in for a consultation!”
“They are my innards! I will not have them misread by a poseur!”
“The next two answers are not yet come clear, dear Horus,” says Freydag, slashing at another length of entrail.
“False seer!” sobs Boltag. "Marachek will also lead him to the emissary of Anubis—whose name is spelt out in my blood—there—on the editorial page! That name—being—Wakim…”
“Oh false!” cries Freydag, slashing further.
“Hold!” says Horus, his hand falling upon the man’s shoulder. “Your colleague speaks truly in one respect, for I know his present name to be Wakim.”
Freydag pauses, considers the editorial page.
“Amen,” he agrees. “Even an amateur may suffer an occasional flash of insight”
“… So it seems I am destined to meet with Wakim after all, if I go to the place called Marachek—and go there I must. But as to my second question: Beyond the name of Wakim, I wish to know his true identity. Who was he before Lord Anubis renamed him and sent him forth from the House of the Dead?”
Freydag moves his head nearer the floor, stirs the stuff before him, hacks at another length.
“This thing, Glorious Horus, is hidden from me. The oracle will not reveal it—“
“Dotard…!” gasps Boltag. “… It is there, so—plain— to see…”
Horus reaches after the gutless seer’s dying thought, and the hackles rise upon his neck as he pursues it. But no fearsome name is framed within his mind, for the other has expired.
Horus covers his eyes and shudders, as a thing so very near to the edge of comprehension suddenly fades away and is gone.
When Horus lowers his hand, Freydag is standing once more and smiling down upon his cousin’s corpse.
“Mountebank!” he says, sniffing, and wipes his hands upon his apron.
A strange, small, beastly shadow stirs upon the wall.
“I am Horus,” he states.
Dilwit regards the arrow, the gravel, the chunks of marble.
“Thou art indeed Horus,” he agrees. “What may I do for thee?”
“D'donori has always been justly famous for its scriers. Those of Liglamenti have oft been exceeding good. Therefore, I would consult with your chief scrier, as I’ve several questions I’d have answered.”
“This would be old Freydag,” says Dilwit, flicking rock dust from his red and green kilt. “He is indeed one of the great ones, but…”
“But what?” asks Horus, already reading Dilwit’s thought, but waiting politely, nevertheless.
“He is, Great Horus, a mighty reader of entrails, and none but those of the human sort will serve him. Now, we seldom keep prisoners, as this can run into some expense—and volunteers are even harder to come by, for things such as this.”
“Could not Freydag be persuaded to make do with the entrails of some animal, for this one occasion?”
Horus reads again and sighs.
“Of course, Great Horus. But he will not guarantee the same level of reception as he would with better components.”
“I wonder why this should be?”
“I cannot answer this, Most Potent Horus, being no scrier myself—though my mother and sister both had the Sight—but of all scriers, I know scatologists to be the queerest sort. Take Freydag, now. He’s quite nearsighted, he says, and this means—”
“Furnish him with the necessary components, and advise me when he is ready to entertain my questions!” says Horus.
“Yes, Puissant Horus. I will organize a raiding party immediately, as I can see thou art anxious.”
“Most anxious.”
“… And I’ve a neighbor could use a lesson in observing boundaries!”
Dilwit springs upon his throne, and reaching upward takes down the long gol-horn which hangs above it. Three times does he place it to his lips and blow until his cheeks bulge and redden and his eyes start forth from beneath the pelt of his brows. Then does he replace the horn, sway, and collapse upon his ducal seat.
“My chieftains will attend me momently,” he gasps.
Momently, there comes the sound of hoofbeats, and three kilted warriors, mounted upon the unicornlike golindi, come riding, riding, riding, into and about the chamber, staying only when Dilwit raises his hand and cries out, “A raid! A raid, my hearties! Upon Uiskeagh the Red. Half a dozen captives I’ll have of him, ere the mist lightens with tomorrow’s dawn!”
“Captives, did you say, Lord?” calls out the one in black and tan.
“You heard me right.”
“Before tomorrow’s dawn!” A spear is raised.
Two more flash high.
“Before tomorrow's dawn!”
“Aye!”
And they circle the chamber and depart. The following dawn, Horus is awakened and conducted to the room where six naked men lie, hands and ankles bound together behind their backs, their bodies covered with gashes and welts. This chamber is small, cold, lighted by four torches; its one window opens upon a wall of fog. Many sheets of that monthly journal the Ligla Times are spread upon the floor, covering it fully. Leaning against the window sill, a short, age-tonsured man, pink-faced, hollow-cheeked and squinting, sharpens several brief blades with a whetting bar. He wears a white apron and a half-furnished smile. His pale eyes move upon Horus and he nods several times.
“I understand thou hast some questions,” he says, pausing to gasp between several words.
“You understand correctly. I've three.”
“Only three, Holy Horus? That means one set of entrails will doubtless do for all. Surely, a god as wise as thyself could think of more questions. Since we have the necessary materials it is a shame to waste them. It's been so long…”
“Three, nevertheless, are all the questions I have for the entrail-oracle."
“Very well, then,” sighs Freydag. “In that case, we shall use his,” and he indicates with his blade one gray-bearded man whose dark eyes are fixed upon his own. “Boltag is the name.”
“You know him?”
“He is a distant cousin of mine. Also, he is the Lord Uiskeagh's chief scrier—a charlatan, of course. It is good fortune that has finally delivered him into my hands.”
The one called Boltag spits upon the Times obituary section when this is spoken. “Thou art the fraud, oh mighty misreader of innards!” says he.
“Liar!” cries Freydag, scrambling to his side and seizing him by the beard. “This ends thy infamous career!” and he slits the other’s belly. Reaching in, he draws forth a handful of entrails and spreads them upon the floor. Boltag cries, moans, lies still. Freydag slashes along the bending length of the intestines, spreading their contents with his fingers. He crouches low and leans far forward. “Now, what be thy questions, son of Osiris?” he inquires.
“First,” says Horus, “where may I find the Prince Who Was A Thousand? Second, who is the emissary of Anubis? Third, where is he now?”
Freydag mumbles and prods at the steaming stuff upon the floor. Boltag moans once again and stirs.
Horus attempts to read the thoughts of the scrier, but they tumble about so that finally it is as if he were staring out the room’s one window. Then Freydag speaks:
“In the Citadel of Marachek,” he says, “at Midworlds’ Center, there shalt thou meet with one who can take thee into the presence thou seekest.”
“… Strangely,” mutters Boltag, gesturing with his head, “thou hast read that part aright. But thy failing vision—was clouded—by that bit of mesentery thou hast erroneously mixed—into things…” With a mighty effort Boltag rolls nearer, gasps, “And thou—dost not tell—Great Horus—that he will meet with mighty peril—and, ultimately—failure…”
“Silence!” cries Freydag. “I did not call thee in for a consultation!”
“They are my innards! I will not have them misread by a poseur!”
“The next two answers are not yet come clear, dear Horus,” says Freydag, slashing at another length of entrail.
“False seer!” sobs Boltag. "Marachek will also lead him to the emissary of Anubis—whose name is spelt out in my blood—there—on the editorial page! That name—being—Wakim…”
“Oh false!” cries Freydag, slashing further.
“Hold!” says Horus, his hand falling upon the man’s shoulder. “Your colleague speaks truly in one respect, for I know his present name to be Wakim.”
Freydag pauses, considers the editorial page.
“Amen,” he agrees. “Even an amateur may suffer an occasional flash of insight”
“… So it seems I am destined to meet with Wakim after all, if I go to the place called Marachek—and go there I must. But as to my second question: Beyond the name of Wakim, I wish to know his true identity. Who was he before Lord Anubis renamed him and sent him forth from the House of the Dead?”
Freydag moves his head nearer the floor, stirs the stuff before him, hacks at another length.
“This thing, Glorious Horus, is hidden from me. The oracle will not reveal it—“
“Dotard…!” gasps Boltag. “… It is there, so—plain— to see…”
Horus reaches after the gutless seer’s dying thought, and the hackles rise upon his neck as he pursues it. But no fearsome name is framed within his mind, for the other has expired.
Horus covers his eyes and shudders, as a thing so very near to the edge of comprehension suddenly fades away and is gone.
When Horus lowers his hand, Freydag is standing once more and smiling down upon his cousin’s corpse.
“Mountebank!” he says, sniffing, and wipes his hands upon his apron.
A strange, small, beastly shadow stirs upon the wall.
