Songs of the Dying Earth

“Then I shall tell you,” continued Umbassario. “If you were to enter the hollow tree in which she lives, you would find a golden loom, upon which your witch is weaving a tapestry of the Magic Valley of Ariventa.” He paused. “The tapestry is hers, but the loom is Graebe’s, made from the bones of a golden creature he killed in the netherworld. Your witch does not want you to perform a heroic deed to prove yourself worthy of her. She wants you to eliminate a creature that only seeks what belongs to him. And if she was as helpless as you seem to believe, he would long since have obtained it.”

“If he is Graebe the Inevitable, why has he not?” asked Pelmundo.

“Because he is drawn to souls like a moth to flame, and she has none.”

“You must not say such things about her,” admonished Pelmundo.

“Is your love of life so fleeting that you dare say such things to me in my own cave?” demanded Umbassario. “Did you not just see what happened to my favorite snake?”

“I meant no offense,” said Pelmundo quickly. Then his spirit stiffened. “But I will have the golden witch, and if that means I must slay your creature, then I will do so.”

“Despite what I have told you?” said the magician.

“I must,” replied Pelmundo. “She is everything I have ever wished for, everything I have ever dreamed of.”

“Be careful what you wish for,” said Umbassario with a secret smile, “and of what invades your dreams.”

“I am sorry it has come to this,” said Pelmundo. “I do not wish us to be enemies.”

“We shall never be enemies, son of Riloh,” the magician assured him. “We shall just not be friends.” A final smile. “Do what you must do, if you can—and remember, you have been warned.”

“Warned?” said Pelmundo, frowning. “But you have told me nothing about Graebe the Inevitable.”

“I was not talking about Graebe,” replied Umbassario.

Pelmundo turned and left the cave, and began climbing down over the rocky outcroppings. When he was finally on level ground, he considered going to a lesser mage, but he knew that if Graebe was truly Umbassario’s creature, only a magician of equal power could supply him with the charms and spells he needed.

“Then I shall have to defeat you as I have defeated all other foes,” muttered Pelmundo, staring off toward Modavna Moor, which separated Maloth from the Old Forest. “Be on your guard, monster, for Pelmundo, son of Riloh, is on your trail.”

And so saying, he began his march around the village and into the foreboding darkness of Modavna Moor. The mud seemed to grab his foot with each step, and to hold it tight, as if to say, “Foolish man, did you think to run from Graebe the Inevitable?”

Suddenly he saw a Twk-man mounted on a dragonfly. The dragonfly circled his head twice, then perched lightly on a leaf.

“You are far from your stomping grounds, Watchman,” said the Twk-man. “Are you lost?”

“No,” answered Pelmundo.

“Then beware lest you be found,” said the Twk-man, “for Graebe the Inevitable is abroad this day.”

“You have seen him?” said Pelmundo. “Is he near?”

“If he were near, I would be elsewhere,” said the Twk-man. “Endlessly he searches, both for his loom and the witch who took it.”

“Then you have nothing to fear,” said Pelmundo.

“I have a life and a soul, and I wish to keep them both,” said the Twk-man. “You would do well to preserve yours while you still can.”

“But you tell me he wants Lith.”

“He searches for her,” corrected the Twk-man. “But he sucks the souls of whatever crosses his path.”

“Fly ahead, Twk-man,” said Pelmundo, “and tell him that his fate is approaching him inexorably.”

“Approach Graebe the Inevitable?” gasped the Twk-man, clearly shocked.

“Then fly away—but know that after today there will be no more cause for fear or alarm.”

The Twk-man tapped his dragonfly, and circled Pelmundo twice more. “I have never seen such suicidal madness before,” he announced. “I must burn it in my memory, for surely no one will ever go searching for Graebe again.”

“Not after I slay him, they won’t,” promised Pelmundo.

“It is very odd,” said the Twk-man. “You do not look like a man who wishes to race into the gaping maw of his death.”

“Or his destiny,” said Pelmundo, visions of Lith’s undulating golden body dancing in his mind.

“She must have promised you much, Watchman,” said the Twk-man.

“She?” repeated Pelmundo.

“Did you really think that you were the first?” said the Twk-man with a laugh. Then he was gone, and Pelmundo was alone once more.

“Father,” said Pelmundo softly, “I pledge the coming battle to you, for after I have slain the Umbassario’s nightmare creature my triumph shall be written up in song and story, and the day will come when as Chief Curator you file it in a place of honor in the Great Archive of Zhule.” Then, looking forward, he said in a steady voice: “Creature, beware, for your doom is approaching you!”

Deeper and deeper into the moor he went, the mud grabbing at his feet, his sweat cascading down his body. “Here I am, creature,” he said again and again. “You have but to show yourself.” But there was no sign of Graebe the Inevitable.

Pelmundo trod through the moor for an hour, then another, with no sign of any other living thing.

“The Twk-man was wrong,” he said aloud. “There is no monster abroad today. I must find the wherewithal to pay a mage for a spell to draw him to me, for without him there can be no ultimate reward from the golden witch.”

He plodded ahead, and finally reached the edge of the moor. The trees were less closely clustered now, and narrow rays of sunlight finally penetrated through the dense foliage. Birds chirped, crickets sang, even the frogs seemed at peace with their surroundings.

And then, suddenly, there was silence—an almost tangible silence. Pelmundo lay his hand on the hilt of his sword and peered ahead, but could see nothing—no shape, no movement, nothing at all.

He looked to the right and the left. Not a thing. His hand moved to his medallion, which he touched for luck and moved slightly to cover his heart.“Fear not, beasts of the moor,” he said at last. “My quarry has fled.”

“But your inevitable doom has found you,” growled an inhuman voice from behind him.

Pelmundo whirled around and found himself face to face with a creature out of his worst nightmares. The bullet-shaped head boasted coalblack eyes slit like a cat’s at high noon, nostrils that were uniquely shaped for sniffing out souls, gross misshapen lips whose only function was to suck the souls from its prey. It was shaggy, covered with coarse black hair. Its hands had but a single function: to grab souls and hold them up to its mouth. Its feet served but one purpose: to carry it to its prey, on dry land, on mud, even on water.

“I am Graebe the Inevitable,” it growled, stepping forward as Pelmundo retreated step by step, the mud feeling like more of Graebe’s hands, grasping at his ankles, holding tight to his feet.

“No,” said Pelmundo. “You are my tribute to Lith, the golden witch.” “She has taken what does not belong to her,” said Graebe. “Now she tempts you with what does not belong to you.”

“I have nothing against you, monster,” said Pelmundo, “but you stand between me and my heart’s desire, and I must slay you.”

“Your heart has nothing to do with the desire you feel,” said Graebe contemptuously. Suddenly, the creature smiled. “This is a most fortuitous meeting. I have not dined all day.”

Pelmundo tried to step back as Graebe the Inevitable approached him, but his feet were mired in the mud, and he knew he would not be able to fight on a firm terrain of his own choosing. He withdrew his sword, grasping the hilt with both hands, holding it upright before him, prepared to slash in any direction—