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The four men—Lords Wilson and Williams, Hokela the assassin, and the Drifter—set out at first light for the Black Mountains, which separated Lubyland, to the north, from the feared Plains of Elzareth, the half toxic swamp, half rocky, barren wasteland that for over five thousand years had separated Lubyland, the ancient center of Ryth the Black's power, from the Omega Lands, where the Omega lords had for millennia pursued the study and mastery of Black power and waged endless warfare on the territories to the east.
In ages past, the Plains of Elzareth were religiously avoided by all men simply on the grounds that the land itself was aggressively poisonous, and if a single misstep didn't kill, simply breathing Elzareth's air may well do the job. In the past fifty years, however, since the Omega conquest of the New Nation of Lubyland, to enter the Plains meant near certain death, as they now were overrun with Omega squadrons shuttling to and fro between the vast territory of Lubyland and their native Omega Lands. Before this time, some hardy merchants would brave the eastern parts of the Plains to bring goods between Lubyland and Tuaisosopo, and the ones that succeeded gained much wealth; but the present four travelers comprised at least one-third of all the men alive and under the age of 150 years that had set foot in Lubyland.
Wilson and Williams deferred to the Drifter's opinion on what route to take to the Pit of Shada, but it matched theirs anyway: They must go through the Plains, because the only other route lay through the Zastudil Forest, which belonged to the Hathons and was even worse.
“What happens if we run into an Omega squadron?” Wilson asked the Drifter that first morning.
“I don't know,” said the Drifter. “I don't think we'll all die, but I can't see how we wouldn't. Let's hope it simply doesn't happen, shall we?”
“Aren't you supposed to know these kinds of things, Drifter?” Wilson asked.
“Vast is the ocean that lies between knowing what I need to know and knowing everything,” the Drifter retorted. “You've encountered Omega squadrons before and lived. Eleven years ago you, Lord Williams and six Knights defeated an entire squadron. I'm in good company, I think.”
“I've never encountered an Omega squadron carrying the Navanor bloody Icon before, so forgive me if I'm a tad bit jumpy about the prospect. And please,” Wilson concluded, “whatever you do, don't remind me that I'm going out of my way to cross the Plains of Elzareth and climb the Black Mountains so I can unleash the Stars know how many levels of hell on, I don't know, at least eight or ten innocent people.”
“On the sunny side of this debate,” Williams piped up, “I might point out that, should the Omega kill us and take the Icon, they likely will do precisely what we plan to do with it.”
“Makes me wonder what I'm doing having any part of this,” Wilson said. “You can get killed plenty good without our help,” he said to the Drifter. “I can just never resist an opportunity to face death and cheat fate.”
“He sought us out,” said Williams. “The Creator has his reasons for doing works beyond men's fathoming.”
Wilson sighed. “We were spared from the Massacre, like it or not,” he said with a heavy tone to his voice. “I never expected it would be for this. Let's go.”
For five days they rode almost due north, just a tinge northwest, through the Gerson Forest and over the Northern Hills of Tuaisosopo. They stayed the night in the last Tuaisosopoa village they came to, Areiasom, a cluster of about 300 people about 25 mamoyres from the outreaches of the Plains. The Lubyans carried a fair amount of gold, but the Drifter carried much more, and he paid for an inn for the night and a full load of supplies; they had picked up a pack horse in the city of Biamiapo shortly after leaving the forest. Though the Lubyans had been traveling all over Arcoa for many years, they were not known in Areiasom, so close to the Plains. The presence of four obvious warriors headed north caused no small stir in the village, but the Drifter, showing himself a marvelous liar, explained that they merely planned to follow the River of the Crying Dead into Randle El and then Cotchery, having received reports of undesirable turmoil in Dilfer. Thus, over the next several years, the rumor, false but believable, spread through much of Tuiasosopo that the Dilfers were yet again on the verge of civil war.
Early in the morning of 36 Spring the four men crossed the River of the Crying Dead on a crude wooden raft they fashioned themselves, every bridge across the river having been destroyed at least 40 years in the past. The unnatural heat of the Plains stretched across the river, seeping into the bones of those who crossed it, and the full humid 40 degree heat pushed down on them as they stepped off their raft and onto the Plains. They brought the pack horse across with them, but none of them really expected the horse to last more than half the distance. The Plains of Elzareth were devoid of almost all animal life for a reason.
Everyone knew what lay in store: Five brutal days through the wasted Plains, with the heat filling their lungs on every breath and the toxic air sapping their strength. They had to move as quickly as humanly possible; they had to escape the Plains before the Plains overcame them. It was only a matter of time. In the Plains of Elzareth, time was your mortal enemy, and you had to fight your own body to drag out strength enough to keep moving and moving fast.
The Drifter led the way and chose a zigzagging path that struck the Lubyans as most curious. Wilson asked him what he meant by his apparent madness, and the Drifter told him that this was the fastest possible route through the Plains without stumbling into a toxic pit or across a patch of gas so noxious it might at once slay them.
By the morning of the third day the travelers were struggling under the weight of the Plains. “'Heavy,' Williams noted between panting, is the word to describe these Plains. Everything about this places presses down upon you like the weight of a dead warhorse fallen upon you. It squeezes the life out of you.” The pack horse didn't get up that morning. When the men arose, the horse lay still on the ground, its eyes half-open, and it could manage only a weak neigh. Williams used an arrow to end the poor horse's suffering and left it to add to the already large collection of bones that lay strewn all over the wasteland. Each man took a pack upon him stuffed full of food and water for the final three days.
The Lubyan lords and the Drifter were soaked through with sweat—it was impossible to tell whether Hokela was sweating, under his black garb—in the late evening of that third day when the Drifter suddenly halted. “Omegas,” he said quietly.
Williams peered into the distance, seeing nothing moving. “How far off?” he asked.
“They'll be within range to see us in two minutes, maybe less,” said the Drifter.
“And it didn't come to you that they were this close until just now?” Wilson exclaimed.
“That's correct, giant.” The Drifter grunted in dissatisfaction. “There are two groups of them, spread two mamoyres apart. We won't be able to move around them. There isn't time.”
“We can outrun 'em,” said Wilson. “Maybe even run in between them. Even carrying these packs, Omegas are slow. But for the Stars' sakes, I'm already tired enough to collapse.”
“We can't run,” said the Drifter. “It will exhaust us.”
“Hokela?” Wilson said to the assassin. “Can you do anything?”
“If there is no Redec with them, we may be able to hide,” said the masked assassin.
“There is no Redec,” said the Drifter.
“Thank the Creator,” breathed Williams.
“Get behind me,” said Hokela. “Wilson, crouch. Stay very still.” The three men lined up behind Hokela, Wilson in the rear on one knee.
“An Illusionist,” said the Drifter. “I understand now.”
“He's an assassin,” said Wilson. “You couldn't guess?”
“I don't do very much guessing. Either I know something or I don't.” The Drifter shrugged. “Whatever you're going to do, Hokela,” he said to the assassin, “do it now. Here they come.”
No sight in all the world churned Wilson's stomach into a knot like Omegas. Even from one knee he could see out beyond his compatriots, and that familiar old seething rage roiled within him as they began to appear over the horizon, barely visible though the light mists that covered much of the Plains. The Drifter was right: There were two battalions, and they stood perfectly between them, one a mamoyre or less to their left, the other the same distance to their right.
Frozen like statues the men stood as the heavy tromping of Omega boots echoed ever louder across the Plains. Each Omega battalion was perfectly organized, five Omegas wide standing shoulder to shoulder, in twenty-five ranks, and in the back, a head taller than the grunts, the Omega captain.
They walked on two legs and carried their crude weapons with two arms, but there the similarities between Omegas and men mostly ended. The Omegas were short, only about two moyres in height, and shaped like a ball or an orange, spherical, with huge guts and chests carried by stubby legs as thick as oak trunks, carrying arms thicker than most any man's. Each hand bore three short, thick fingers like plump sausages. The Omegas' heads were sized just a little too large for their bodies; they had little slits from which peered red eyes; and their skin, sometimes partially covered with crude clothing and sometimes not, was occasionally the dead tan color of dirt long parted from last rain and baked into clay, but most often an Omega's skin was a drab, sickly pale gray color that made one think of a corpse not recently slain. There existed few uglier sights in Alcoa.
The Omegas came near to the four men, now, and still took no notice of them. The distance between them was now not much more than two throws of a stone by a strong man, and the Omegas marched on in their straight line, driven by their captains, a battalion on each side. Their steps were very heavy, and they grunted as they marched, creating a noise that could be heard afar off. Most Omegas—save for the feared death squads—were not much at all for stealth. They were by nature noisy and cantankerous creatures.
Wilson, in the back, watched with his companions as the Omegas marched past, oblivious to their presence, and truth be told, it was all he could do not to grab for his double-sword and rush out after them. His right arm actually quivered from the effort of holding himself still. To him no creature in Alcoa nor any hell that might exist beneath it evoked such furious hatred. He wanted them to die; he wanted to kill every one of them, spill all the blood of every Omega in Arcoa with his own hands. And just in front of where he crouched, Williams stood thinking much the same thing.
Finally the noise of the Omega battalions faded behind them. “That was the hardest thing I've done in years,” Wilson said as he stood up, still staring after the Omegas as they faded into the distance. “To see one of those and not kill it is like a dying man seeing an oasis and not drinking from it.”
“Speaking of which,” said the Drifter, “This is no picnic spot. We must be moving.”
“Agreed,” said Wilson, and at once they marched on, drinking water from their canteens as they walked.
“How do you do what you did back there?” the Drifter inquired of Hokela a half hour removed from the Omegas.
“That is no concern of yours,” the assassin said curtly.
“Ah,” said the Drifter, “Illusionists are famed for their secretiveness. And some wonder why they are so widely distrusted.”
“Trust is a fool's game,” said the shrouded man.
“Can't argue,” said the Drifter after a moment's thought. “You're Lubyans,” he said. “And you've seen about a hundred winters, I would hazard. Maybe a little less, but certainly you remember the Massacre and the fall.”
“We remember,” said Williams. The Drifter went from there and launched into hours of engaging the lords in conversation about every manner of Lubyan history and culture and tradition; an hour, two hours went by, and no matter how much Wilson and Williams tried to stick to short answers, pause for long stretches and otherwise try their best to convey to the Drifter their lack of desire to discuss the subject, on and on he talked.
“Drifter,” Wilson finally said when the sun was nearly gone, “we're in the Plains of Elzareth, my lungs are about 60% full of whatever horrible sludge we're breathing, I'm sweaty and we all smell foul and we're all exhausted, and I'm beginning to become agitated. Drop this subject. We don't want to talk about it.” It wasn't so much that Wilson couldn't stand any more; to the contrary, he long ago came to grips with what happened. He forced himself to face it, talk about it, be honest with himself about it. It nearly drove him mad. But he could see that Williams, an exceptionally patient man, was near the end of his patience now. He could tell it because Williams' body was tense, stiff, like a spring stretched to just short of its breaking point. Williams was always stiff, walked perfectly upright, back totally straight, but there was a subtle difference to his gait and the way he carried himself now, that only Wilson, who had traveled the world with him for fifty years, could detect. Williams was near the point to explode. It had been a decade or more since last Wilson saw him wound up this tightly. Wilson had suffered much in the Massacre, but Williams had suffered much, much more. Wilson saw he had to shut the Drifter up now.
The Drifter made a moment's eye contact with Wilson, made as though to argue, but bit his lip and let it drop. “I apologize, Lord Williams,” he said, as though Williams and not Wilson had spoken to him. Somehow, he knew Wilson's intents. “I was insensitive to push you so far.”
“Let us speak no further of it tonight,” said the Lubyan.
“He holds the Stars in his right hand, and the Void follows after him,” quoted the Drifter. “He is the smith's hammer, Arcoa the blade to be forged. Who among men can stand before him? Who will not tremble and fall?”
“You know the Legend,” Williams said, eyeballing him.
“I know several Legends,” said the Drifter. “The Lubyan legend is prominent among them. They say Brozen the White himself is the author.”
“The Legend foretold swift destruction,” said Williams, “but never did we imagine it would come as it did, in a single night, our land utterly destroyed in but a few days.”
“And just so,” Wilson continued, “It isn't going to be centuries' wait for Ruuben to appear. It will be any moment now.”
“I believe you are right,” said the Drifter. “I don't know you are, mind, but I believe you are.”
“Ugh,” Wilson grunted. “It's time to stop.”
“Right here is a fine place for it,” said the Drifter.
What passed for sleep on the Plains of Elzareth was a long series of five minute naps interspersed with constantly waking on account of the general lack of comfort. The ground was hard, the air heavy and foul of smell and taste, and the complete, dead silence heightened all a man's senses. For no more than five hours they lay on the ground and tried to sleep, and they rose well before morning light when they discovered all four of them were quite awake. And somehow they got through the fourth day, though none of them remembered it well at all. Those fourth and fifth days were one foot in front of the other, and then the next step, and then the next step, on without end. Always the Drifter led the way, but he too was breathing heavily and sweating profusely all through the day and night.
The water ran out by noon the fifth day, but they were thankful that they saw no further Omega squadrons. At the sixth hour of the day, with the sun high overhead, they at last crossed out of the Plains of Elzareth and into the foothills of the Black Mountains. From there the Drifter led them for another two hours to a small lake of fresh water, untainted by the foulness of both the Plains and the mountains that lay beyond, and there they stopped, drank, and rested all through that night.
Less than two days' journey more through the mountains brought them to the peak that overlooked the Pit of Shada. “Omegas can be anywhere in these mountains,” Wilson said as the four were walking a slim, rugged path that wound up the mountain. “And death squads. We've eluded them before a time or two.”
“An Omega squadron passes by just three mamoyres to our west as we speak,” said the Drifter. “I don't believe any further Omegas will cross our path tonight, though.”
“This is the first we've entered Lubyland for ten years, at least,” said Wilson.
“Twelve,” said Williams. “Nothing remains of what we once knew.” His side pocket, near his sword, bulged; he carried the Navanor Icon.
“Are you sure,” Wilson said to his old friend, “and this will be the last time I ask, so are you very sure, that we're going about doing the right thing?”
“Of course not,” said Williams. “But if we're not, we'll die before we reach the Pit and that will be that. What is written must come to pass, one way or another.”
“The Icon must be broken,” said the Drifter, out ahead of them a few moyres. “For only then can war, chaos, famine and death engulf this entire land. And only then can we reach an age free of Black power and the vanguards of darkness.”
“Well, at least you put it pleasantly,” said Wilson. “'So, what are you about?' 'Oh, we're just about bringing down pestilence and destruction to you and your family, is all.'”
“I don't write the mail,” said the Drifter. “I just deliver it. You know what's written.”
“I think you do write the mail, Drifter,” said Williams.
“Come again?”
“Or at least, your previous iterations did. I know some of the tales regarding the Drifter. A man true to his name, wandering Arcoa with knowledge no mortal should have, and reborn once in ten generations. It is said, by some very old sources, that the Drifter of the time of the War penned one or more of the major Legends.”
“I sincerely know nothing about that, Lord Williams,” said the Drifter dismissively.
“One thing I have never read, though,” Williams added, “is that the Drifter may not lie.”
“Are you leading us to bloody deaths, Drifter?” said Wilson.
“I could be. Are you going to turn back? Or turn aside? Go, if you wish. Take the Icon with you. It's yours.”
Wilson grimaced. “Sooner toss it into the Pit myself than carry it around all my years, or worse, leave it somewhere.”
“What will be done will be done,” said Williams.
“Everything's always inevitable with you,” said Wilson.
“There are forces at work in Arcoa much higher than ourselves.”
“True statement,” interjected the Drifter. “And look – it's time. You are Lubyans; have you ever been to this place before?”
And for truth, they had at that moment crested the peak, and were now looking down into the Pit of Shada. It wasn't exactly a volcano, or at least, wasn't known as such, but it was said to be a centerpiece of the Black power of Ryth the Black, the arch-sorcerer of Sarcim, and a place to which Omega lords, the Redecs and, occasionally, Estes, gave attendance, either believing it to be a place to confer great Black power or actually knowing it to be so. Thin, wispy sheets of black smoke rose here and there from the Pit, and according to the legends, to take that smoke into your nostrils would cause your skin to crumble from your bones where you stood.
“Whatever you do, don't get near that black smoke,” said Williams. He had read about the Pit; he had read pretty near everything, when you got down to it.
“Come on,” said the Drifter. “Time is shorter than you might imagine.” He didn't quite hurry toward the edge of the Pit, but he didn't dilly-dally about it, either. Two thousand moyres and more they stood above the grounds of Arcoa, where the clouds were an ever-present fog and, contrary to the stifling heat of the Plains of Elzareth, a pervasive cold chilled regardless of how many layers you might be wearing. The Pit loomed in the center of their vision like a black hole torn in the canvas of the fine painting, so black as to be invisible, an infinite darkness that dominated most of what they could see from its lip; it was half a mamoyre in circumference.
Into that blackness Wilson peered. “It's like standing at the end of the world. It must just be the trip here, but I feel ill.” He continued staring, blinked. “I can't see a thing down there. It's like my eyes just stop functioning as soon as I look. I feel like a blind man.”
“I feel it too,” said Williams. “The illness in my body, weakness in my bones. It's the Black power emanating from this place, I think.” His left hand was inside his hip pouch, holding onto the Navanor Icon. He almost whispered, “Endless source of power for Ryth the Black himself.”
At that Wilson spit into the Pit. “Are you insane!?” the Drifter cried.
Wilson gave him a look, reared back his head and spit again. “I spit in the face of Ryth of the Black and all those who would follow after him. Disgusting mongrels.” A third time he spit into the black emptiness below. “We're standing in my homeland, Drifter. I bled more than once to defend her. And all the world knows or cares about Lubyland is this! As far as anybody cares, we're just the people of Ryth, not to be trusted, not to be befriended. Lubyland and everyone of Lubyland is just a Rythling. Just mindless slaves to Black power.” He sighed out his frustration.
“You've never been to the Pit of Shada,” said the Drifter.
“And I'll never again return here.”
“Enough,” said the Drifter. “Lord Williams, shall I do the honors?”
“No,” said the stern older man. He looked at Wilson. “This was our decision, or at least, it's my mind and you're agreeing to it. Is your heart settled on this?”
Wilson looked back at his friend, and for many seconds did not respond. Finally the giant nodded, very slowly. “Let's do it. May Ruuben save us all.”
Williams stepped up to the very lip of the gaping crater and brought that mythical Navanor Icon out into the open air. “It's heavy,” he remarked to no one in particular as he held it before his face and gazed upon it. “Heavy as the thunder-rains of the Wetlands, Heavy as the snow of a Highlands blizzard. Heavy as the giant's axe, and heavy as the hooves of a thousand armored horses pounding the battlefield.” He drew a steady breath. “Heavy as the world itself is the burden Fate places upon men.” With a smooth, backhand motion, Williams flung the Navanor Icon out into the Pit.
For the first thirty seconds, nothing changed at all. The four men stood silently, ill at ease, each wondering how long they should wait before leaving this damned Pit as quickly as their feet could carry them. Then the Drifter shouted, “No!” and tackled Williams, who was standing on his right; he would have bounced off Wilson, and Hokela with his lightning reflexes would have sidestepped him effortlessly. But those two got the idea and themselves dove to the ground just before erupted from the Pit smoke so black and thick that it seemed as though the Pit itself were expanding into the heavens. The men rolled twenty moyres down the hill just a second before the smoke would have engulfed them and watched and listened as the ground around them heaved, trees came crashing down below them, and a rumbling noise like ten thousand horses filled their ears, drowning out all else. On and on the smoke poured, and they couldn't see the skies at all or the mountains on the far side of the Pit for the thick blackness of the smoke.
“Wilson!” the Drifter screamed, straining in his effort to be heard out of the rumbling. “Williams! Hokela! Get up! Run! Now!”
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