Alan Foster - Krull

"Comes of living alone with a large appetite," the cyclops informed them all.

"I smelled out the gooseberry bushes," Titch added.

"Prince of nostrils, emperor of odors. I will crown you myself, boy." Ergo's voice was unnaturally subdued. He was unable to take his eyes from the dream become reality. "A small house you say? And what do you think a small person lives in, foolish cyclops? How deceiving you two were! I never would have imagined you were leaving me behind to mope while you and the boy were off arranging my assassination."

Titch frowned. "Assassination?"

«

Ergo rose slowly. "Do you not think I'm going to eat myself to death this very night? Hah? A supreme end, fit only for a king or master chef. How can I thank you both? Mere words will not suffice."

Titch smiled shyly. "If you don't die, sir, I'd still like a puppy." But Ergo was beyond hearing. At last he would be one with the upper crust. He worshipfully approached the trifle. Never was there a pastry so inaptly named.

"Look at its beauty," he murmured. "Rell, you are not a cook. You are an architect of the kitchen for all that you use flour instead of cement and berries instead of wood. Look at its lines, its color, its beauty."

Torquil stepped forward and held out a large spoon. "Look at its insides."

Ergo turned to him, held up both hands. "No! Not yet. This moment must be made to last, for all that my stomach is threatening me. Let me hug and kiss it a little. Let me run my fingers over its lovely skin."

Off to one side Oswyn shook his head sadly, whispered to Kegan. "You'd think the man was going to make love to it instead of eat it." Kegan withheld comment.

Ergo strolled slowly around the trifle. When he did not speak again, Titch moved to follow him. . . and followed until he'd circled the trifle completely.

"He's gone! Has he turned himself into a puppy again?"

As if in response, Ergo's head ripped through the top of the trifle, his face awash in gooseberry juice and bits of pulp and pastry.

"Not gone, but going, for I am preparing to turn myself into a glutton. And if I should die before this night is done, write this for my epitaph: 'Here lies Ergo, who died with his lips on a gooseberry. His friends were true and his desserts were just!' " He vanished back into the trifle's depths.

Oswyn took a step toward the monumental pastry. "Do you think he'd object to my snatching a bite or two?"

"Nay," said Kegan confidentally, "he owes us more than that after that leathery supper. Even if he turns himself into a horse he'll have trouble finishing this little tart."

Time passed as sections of pastry disappeared down hungry throats. One by one the revelers fell away from the trifle, sated and content. Not surprisingly, Ergo was the last to concede. He fell through an opening that had been made in the crust, staggered over to a nearby clump of thick grass,

and collapsed. His long, drawn-out moan echoed through the forest. Titch and Rell walked over to join him.

Their presence did nothing to quell the throbbing beneath his hands. "Ohhhh. .. where is that wise man? I need his ministrations now!"

Titch pursed his lips as he studied his friend. "I fear you have gone beyond Ynyr's abilities."

"I fear I've gone beyond living," Ergo groaned pitifully. "It was that last gooseberry."

There was no sympathy in Rell's reply: "That last gooseberry weighed five pounds."

Ergo twisted painfully on the grass. "Torturer! You had to remind me, as if I was ignorant of the fact at the time. A thousand torments consume you both!"

Rell looked knowingly down at Titch. "Spoken like a true friend, wouldn't you say?" Titch nodded solemnly.

Ergo's distress was good for at least an hour's clever commentary from his companions. Then the joke began to weary. Lulled by the steady sound of Ergo's moans, one by one they drifted off into contented sleep.

Only Colwyn remained awake, leaning against his tree, staring up at the mountain. Only Colwyn—and the girl Vella. She sat nearby, watching him with preternatural intensity.

Ynyr saw the light before he saw the opening. It was a pale glow, so faint it seemed no more than a reflection of the moonlight from the rocks, but as he drew nearer he saw that it had nothing to do with the moon. The light came from inside the mountain, illuminating the wide, oval opening like the mouth of a monster lit from the throat. The image was upsetting and he discarded it.

The climb had been harder than he expected. Now he paused to gather his strength before entering the cave. Inside he would need all the energy he could muster, and more. The inhabitant of this solitary place would not be impressed by shouts. It would take more than big words and sonorous phrases for him to succeed here. It would take the right words.

Carefully he edged inward along the right-hand wall. The rock was cool to his touch. It was reassuring to have something solid to lean against in such a place, where nightmares became real and death was something you could taste in the back of your mouth.

Ahead the cavern was draped with white; thin ropes fashioned from cream, a milky maze whose appearance was deceptively soft. The softness was as deceptive as the elasticity. Each thin cable was stronger than steel.

Ynyr slowed, reluctant to leave the comparative safety of the entrance. His gaze traveled to the center of the immense spiderweb, fastening on the solid white mass at its core.

"I seek the widow of the web!" His voice echoed through the silken chamber. A faint scuttling sound made him retreat a couple of steps. It stopped and he resumed his approach. A pair of pale cables quivered, then stilled.

As soon as the last echo of his cry vanished into the far reaches of the cavern, he was gifted with a stark reply: "Enter here and die!"

That was hardly encouraging, but then he had no reason to expect anything else. "I call the widow of the web!"

This time no response was forthcoming. He would have to force an audience. Carefully he chose the driest-looking cables and started out across them, aiming for the silken mass at the center of the web. It was hard to balance on the two unsteady cables and his physical skills were not what they used to be.

He was halfway across the web when a cable off to his left twitched. It was not connected to the ones he was slowly and patiently traversing. He forced himself to look up and across the web.

There it was: the white death. Drawn by his movements, the crystal spider had emerged from its ceiling hidey-hole, anxious to see what might have stumbled into its lair. It was bigger than a cow and transparent as old glass. The apparition would have shocked a normal man into insensibility.

Ynyr was sufficiently startled to lose his balance. He tumbled backward, flailing at the silk. This action only excited the crystalline arachnid. It moved rapidly now, turning toward the disturbance in the web, flashing glassy palps and dripping clear poison from fangs of dark diamond.

"Lyssa!" Ynyr shouted. No time left for subtlty or surprise. His fate would be decided in a few seconds. Even as he called out to her he was fumbling for the dagger at his waist. The spider's poison would paralyze without killing. He did not want to die slowly, sucked dry like an orange.

"Lyssa!"

The voice that had replied to his own when he'd first entered had been sharp and forceful. Now uncertainty bred hesitation. "Who speaks that name? Answer me!"

"It is Ynyr!" The spider was close now, nightmarishly close. No man should have to bear such a sight nor anticipate such a death. Far better to perish beneath the hooves of the Slayers' mounts or by one's own hand. He hefted the dagger, positioned it over his heart.

The voice came again. "I give you the sand in the hourglass."