A second Toal appeared.

Gathrid had thought Daubendiek a swift and wild thing already pressed to its limit, but again it intensified its assault.

Now he received intimations of the weapon's own uncertainties. It was expending its ephemeral energy prodigally. It was confident no longer.

But the Toal's defenses were weakening. It withdrew more rapidly, trying to keep its blade from being beaten back into it. Again and again Daubendiek probed deep enough to sear the Dead Captain's armor. Occasionally little chunks flicked away.

Two more Toal arrived. Like statues they sat watching.

Why did they not interfere? Would they let their fellow be destroyed?

Daubendiek pushed past the Toal's blade, sliced armor, for an instant lightly caressed the dead flesh within.

At one time, long ago, that would have been the battle. But the Sword was too weak to do more than sip.

A shock unlike any Gathrid had ever experienced coursed through his arm and body. Daubendiek surged triumphantly. He wanted to reject the feeling, to put it away from him, as a monk might the orgasmic experience it resembled. Yet he also lusted for it, as would the monk. He sensed its narcotic quality.

From the Toal came the first sound he had heard one make, a low, distant moan. Its fellows, now four strong, jerked as if stung, but did not interfere. Their heads turned toward Kacalief.

Gathrid knew he had to take control. He could not let Daubendiek rule him completely. He would become an observer riding an automaton existing solely as a device by which the blade could kill.

But how to do it? And when? Fighting the Sword would be suicidal with the Nieroda-fate drawing near.

He inserted himself into the fight by feigning a stumble. The Toal immediately sprang to the attack.

Gathrid retreated toward Rogala, fighting Daubendiek more than the Toal, making himself appear clumsy with weariness. The Dead Captain tried to bring the battle to him.

More Toal arrived.

Gathrid gave Daubendiek its head. The Sword screamed, instantly drove past its opponent and pinked the Toal through its armor. So sudden did it strike that the Toal was, for an instant, stunned into immobility.

In that instant Daubendiek delivered the killing blow.

Gathrid screamed. And screamed. And screamed. For the Dead Captain.

For, after a moment of renewed pleasure, he had become one with the thing whose unnatural life Daubendiek was devouring. The entire experiences of one Obers Lek-loves, hatreds, losses, joys, fears, hopes and the silent despair of being possessed-flickered across his consciousness. He relived the totality of Lek's life. The child and man became part of him while his vampire blade nursed the teat of a soul.

That was terrible enough. But following exposure to the man came immersion in the thing that possessed his body. It was a thing so evil and alien that Daubendiek itself was repelled. The blade sprang back. It glowed. Steam and noisome smoke trailed from the wound it had rent.

Gathrid watched the Toal collapse. It began burning as it fell. A tower of black srnoke rose above the clearing, its top taking on hints of the shape of a terrible face. From the remaining Toal came what sounded like a chorus of sighs.

Gathrid wasted no time. In spite of, or perhaps because of, the horror worming through his brain, his reason seized control. The other Toal would not wait long. Nieroda was near. In his weary, bemused state he could not hope to survive. That he had done so till now was a miracle.

He had to run again.

Daubendiek agreed, though it groaned its reluctance to leave a fight. Gathrid whirled to flee.

Rogala seemed trapped in some interior universe of fear and pain. He, too, had gotten a taste of the thing that had possessed the Dead Captain. Gathrid considered abandoning dwarf and sword-if the latter would permit it-before he realized just how much he needed both. Rogala knew the caverns. They were his only hope. And Daubendiek he needed for protection.

Shoving Rogala ahead of him, he ran for darkness.

As he plunged into the cave, he glanced back. His gaze crossed that of Nevenka Nieroda. That cold, cold feeling hit him again, and he knew the horrors had only just begun.

Caverns These caverns run for miles," Rogala said. A sourceless glow lighted their way. The dwarf was evasive when Gathrid asked about it. Rogala was evasive about everything. He either knew no answers or just hated questions. He ignored or sidestepped every query. Gathrid had a thousand.

The dwarf continued, "I know most of them."

He did seem to know where he was going.

"Whenever an inappropriate Candidate stumbled onto us, we had to move," Rogala said. "Furniture and all. That damned coffin weighs a ton. But that's all over now, Suchara be praised. The time has come. The blood will flow again. What's the matter?"

"Did you hear something?" Rogala had remarkably acute senses when he bothered to pay attention.

"No." The dwarf listened intently. "I don't hear anything."

"Maybe I didn't either, then. I thought something was behind us." Gathrid now wore Daubendiek scabbarded down his back. It no longer fed him false courage. He was just a confused, frightened boy pretending self-assurance. He prayed Rogala would not sense his growing dependence.

The dwarf, bad company as he was, kept the youth from dwelling on his family's fate. Yet Gathrid could not force Anyeck out of mind completely. Poor spoiled child... .

Oh, but his leg ached. He wanted so badly to rest.

Rogala's grim eyes probed the darkness behind him. "I don't think they're down here. They could be following upstairs. Don't worry. We'll shake them."

Later, Gathrid asked, "Why did you pick me?"

"Daubendiek chose." It was the same answer to the same question asked the dozenth time. There were many more that Rogala simply refused to hear. How long ago had he been chosen? Plauen seemed to have suspected something. Had the blade drawn him to it? Had it drawn the Mindak to Kacalief ?

Rogala would not talk.

"Why me?" Gathrid demanded.

"The will of Suchara."

That was all he could get.

About who or what Suchara might be the dwarf remained determinedly vague. Gathrid did learn that Suchara was female, probably creatrix of the Sword and possibly a goddess. She had something to do with seas, or overseas, and was bloodthirsty.

Though Suchara was mentioned in the legends of Tur-eck Aarant, she was even more vague there.

Gathrid was bewildered by all the mystery.

The dwarf did not make the ideal traveling companion. He would not talk for conversation's sake.

He spoke only to give instructions or to ask about the world to which he had awakened. His few waste words were complaints about his own lot. "The curse," as he sometimes muttered.

With every minute and hour that passed Gathrid felt more empathy for Tureck Aarant. Aarant had had to endure the dwarf for more than a year.

Time lost meaning. Gathrid kept track by sleeps. Those were not pleasant. Though he collapsed in exhaustion when the dwarf permitted a break, he never slept the sleep of the innocent. His dreams were nightmares in which some formless, shadowy evil stole after him, always seeking a chance to devour his soul. He could not identify the stalker.

Sometimes he thought the dreams symbolic of his association with the Sword, or with the puppet master Theis Rogala, or with the mysterious Suchara. As often, he suspected his subconscious was reacting to being hunted by Nevenka Nieroda.

Whatever, it cost him invaluable rest. He became nervous and irritable. He engaged in growling matches with Rogala. The dwarf began watching him closely, obviously puzzled.