David Wise - Tales of Ravenloft

Yet abd-al-Mamat lived through his punishment and screamed for help from his guards, from his people, and from Fate. But no one answered, and he screamed until the means for him to scream were finally ripped from his ragged form.

At last all that was left was the skull of abd-al-Mamat, its lidless eyes still sharp, alive and silent within their bony housing. Then the steel wind carried off the remains of abd-al-Mamat, still twitching and alive. The wind of swords retreated into the desert and was never seen again.

And this, too, would be another suitable end for the tale, for the vizier of judgment was himself judged, they say, and found wanting, and punished by the harsh ways of the desert, and one could claim that the balance of good and evil was restored.

But alas! Such is not to be, for there is still more.

The time since the vizier's iron rule has not been kind to the people of abd-al-Mamat. Malbus, the ram-horned abomination, began to hunt the people again as animals, dragging them back to his Burning Citadel for his dark amusements. The Sand Singers lured off their men and women to nameless deaths. And the jackal-headed priests of the Rotting Gods struck at will, claiming the eyes of their captives. The people were leaderless and alone.

And, with none to rule it well, the city of Abd-al-Mamat fell apart. The walls crumbled and the fountains ran dry. The Hall of Judgment became a mere shell, housing those who would not leave the grandeur of their forefathers. And of the vizier's throne of tortoise shell and agate and chalcedony, there was no remnant left.

Many of those left would recall the harsh time of abd-al-Mamat and remember them as good days, at least for those who obeyed and knew the law. The fact that those recalling this were often maimed by that law was forgotten. And as time passed, these wounded remnants disappeared, leaving behind only tales and the empty shell of his castle as his testaments. So it was for a hundred years.

Then one of the sons of the sons of the sons of the vizier's followers found the first piece, there at the base of the last spur of the Lost Mountains, on the day after midsummer's eve. It was a left hand, still bloody and living as if newly severed from a thiefs arm. The hand twitched and bled, yet it did not die, and the son of the son of the son of the vizier's follower thought it a miraculous occurrence. In his home, which was in the ruined Hall of Judgment, he made a small shrine for the bleeding hand.

The next year, at the same time and place, a lower left arm appeared, also bloody and alive, as if newly severed from a human. The son of the son of the son of the vizier's follower found it and brought it to the shrine as well. The hand and arm fitted together without a seam showing and could not be pulled apart, such that they became one part. The united hand and arm were kept in the Hall of Judgment as well, and people began to return to the city to visit the shrine and view this curiosity.

Then another piece appeared in the next year, and another in the third, always a new part that seemed recently severed from its host, and always on the day after midsummer's eve. An elbow, an upper arm, a bit of shoulder, the muscles of the neck, and so on. The son of the son of the son of the vizier's follower waited for each piece and fitted the living pieces together. And the collected pieces clung to each other as if they were one, and thrived.

And word spread among the other descendants of abd-al-Mamat's followers: the sons of the sons of the sons and the daughters of the daughters of the daughters, who knew of abd-al-Mamat only from their maimed great-grandparents sighing about a past golden age. The vizier was slowly being returned to his people.

Here we come at last to the end of my tale. It is an ending only in that this is all that has occurred so far. It is said that today the body is almost complete. It is said that only the skull, with its naked, screaming eyes, is missing. And when this last item is restored, the vizier will return fully to lead his people.

And the judgments of abd-al-Mamat will begin anew.

The game brought Oliver Arkwright to walk the harrowing roads of Sithicus, just as it had propelled him on other foolish journeys throughout his twenty-odd years as a gambler. To anyone who bothered asking, Oliver bluntly cited greed as his only motivation for such risky ventures. He knew better. The money purchased food and shelter and sometimes even companionship, but he'd realized years ago that he pursued a sharp's life solely for the thrill of tempting fate.

And he'd tempted it sorely on this trip. Since crossing the border from Gundarak three days past, Oliver had seen snakes as long as boar spears and slavering wolves with eyes that glowed like embers, even in the moonless murk of the Sithican night. He dispatched these threats as he did most living obstacles that stood between him and a game — mercilessly, with a lightningquick flash of his falchion. But there were other things in the darkness as well, ghostly things that groaned and shrieked like the damned. Oliver suspected his sword would avail him little against such phantasms. Fortunately, the keenness of the gambler's curved blade was more than evenly matched by the keenness of his wits; he managed to elude the wailing creatures and even catch a few hours'sleep in dry gullies along the roadside.

Now, at last, he stood on the weatherworn threshold of his destination. It was a wayside inn very much like the myriad wayside inns Oliver had frequented in other, equally gloomy lands. The hulking two-story box slouched at the side of the road in the middle of nowhere, as if it had been traveling to someplace where it might share the company of other buildings, but lacked the resolve to finish the trek. And so it huddled on the forest's verge, defeated and forlorn. Only the inn's sign remained defiant. The miniature armor-clad knight affixed to the board clasped an embossed shield in one hand. In the other he clutched a long sword at the sky, ready to smite the very sun.

Oliver spared the knight the briefest of glances before he smiled with anticipation and strode to the door. The fatigue born of the past three days disappeared suddenly. In its place crackled a frisson of excitement.

That excitement dimmed only a little when Oliver discovered the door barred resolutely against him. When his first knock went unanswered, an uncomfortable dread began creeping up his spine. Had he come to the wrong place? He stepped back and again surveyed the sign. The knight's slate-gray armor and the badge embossed on his shield rekindled the sharp's hope — no, this was definitely the Iron Warden. And for all its forlorn appearance, the place wasn't deserted; eight tethered horses grazed to one side, and smoke curled languidly from the chimney.

His falchion drawn, Oliver closed on the portal once more. "Unless you want me to hack it down, you'd best unbar this door immediately!" He broke the answering silence by rapping on the wood with his sword's ornate pommel.

The stout door opened soundlessly on well-oiled hinges, and a large, bulbous head peered around the jamb. It was not nearly so silent as the door. "Bugger off!"

Oliver retreated a step. The bouncer's head was huge, at least twice the size of a normal man's. His mouth was a yawning, scraggle-toothed cavern, his bloodshot eyes two angry dagger slashes beneath a fiercely creased brow.

Brushing aside his initial surprise, Oliver adopted a practiced facade of road-weary impatience. "I was told a game is being played here. High stakes. One afternoon only."

The bouncer's expression remained fierce. "So? "

"So I'm here to play. "A smirk crept across Oliver's lips. "Actually, I'm here to win."

With a flourish, the sharp swept back his travelstained cloak and sheathed his blade. He then took up the small leather purse hanging at his belt. "There's an entry fee, I suppose," he said, extracting a silver coin. "Is this enough? "