Lure of the Golden Godling
A Niall of the Far Travels story

by Gardner F. Fox

Niall came striding through the dark night, his head down and his
great chest bowed slightly before the viciously biting wind that came
sweeping in off the river and roaming the almost deserted streets of
Urgrik. Ahead of him, half hidden in the black shadows, he saw what
he assumed to be the shape of a man, lying motionless on the street
cobbles.

A late drinker, one who had imbibed too much of the strong
Kallarian wine? Or a man who carried gold in his pouch and had let it
be seen by street robbers? No matter. He, Niall, would lend the man
a helping hand, get him under a roof and into a room where he
would be safe.
And yet—

As he neared the bundled body, it seemed to Niall that whoever
lay there must be thin to the point of emaciation. For his garments
flapped wildly in the breezes, and it seemed to the Far Traveler that
little swirls of dust rose with each blast of wind and were blown away.
Intrigued, he quickened his pace, his hand going instinctively to the
hilt of his long Orravian dagger.

Then he was staring down at what lay at his booted feet, seeing
richly embroidered garments and a cloak in which golden threads
were thickly interwoven to form strange signs and sigils. What he had
supposed to be a body was no more than clumps of those garments.
Yet a living man had worn these clothes—and recently.
With a foot he dislodged a part of the cloak and found himself
staring at a bearded face, a face that was open-eyed and openmouthed, as though death had come in such a manner as to surprise
this man, whoever he might have been. As he watched, the wind
toyed with that face—and blew it away as though it had been
fashioned out of dust itself.

“Gods,” Niall whispered, awed.

He went down on a knee and put out a hand, as if by that action
he might prevent the gusts from disturbing any more of this thing that
had been human. As he did so, his fingers touched something hard
and unyielding beneath the cloak.
Niall drew back his hand. Scowling, muttering a prayer to Emalkartha who was his goddess and his love, he flung back a part of the
flapping cloak to disclose what he had touched.
His eyes saw a golden statue.

It was no more than a foot high, and had obviously been carved
by a master craftsman. It showed something amorphous, almost
shapeless, yet possessed of some strange, other-worldly power. Its
rounded eyes seemed to peer upwards at Niall, as though promising
him untold wealth and power even as a tiny voice whispered soothingly inside his brain.
Niall growled under his breath. He did not like these mysterious
manifestations of the many gods that infested his world.
“Emalkartha—aid me!” he whispered.
Almost instantly he heard faery laughter from somewhere deep
within him.

La, Niall! What is it now that so disturbs—
That voice broke off. Niall shivered as he sensed the attention of
the goddess whom he loved and who loved him.
Korython! Oh, gods of outer space!

There was a strange silence. Niall shook himself and rose to his
feet, still clutching the golden statue. One quick glance he gave it,
then he thrust it deep into the leather pouch that hung at his swordbelt.
He moved away from the bundle of clothes, shaking his huge
shoulders as though to free himself from an intolerable weight. He
cast a last glance back at the cloak and garments that lay shrunken
now, stirring this way and that in the wind.

Niall breathed deeply of the cool, clear air off Thalamar River.
Some of the wine he had imbibed at the palace with Lurlyr Manakor,
who was king in Urgrik, and with his queen, Amyrilla, faded from his

veins. He walked more soberly, more quickly, and there was a
distinct uneasiness within him.

Once he opened the pouch as though to reach into it and bring
out the golden godling, but his fingers fell away, then tightened the
pouch’s drawstrings savagely. He wanted nothing to do with gods
and goddesses—always expecting Emalkartha, of course—for he
had learned that to traffic with the gods was to traffic in misery for
himself.

And yet—he did not want to throw away that statue. It was of
solid gold, he was positive, and extremely valuable. It belonged to
someone, and Niall meant to find out to whom it belonged.
He was nearing his palace when he heard the sound of running
feet behind him. Niall grinned, and his huge hand fell to his long
Orravian dagger. Footpads in the early hours of the morning? Ah,
this he understood and was ready to meet.
He waited, waited . . . .

When those footsteps sounded from right behind him, he
whirled, his steel lifting from the scabbard. A woman was before him,
sliding to a halt, her eyes wide and her mouth open in sudden fright.
His dagger point was just touching her belly.

“Lord,” she cried. “Stab me not!”

She was beautiful, Niall saw. Dark with the loveliness of the
daughters of the southern deserts, with long, black hair flowing in the
wind, with large black eyes and with a mouth the color of a scarlet
flower, she poised there before him, palms stretched up and outward
as though to fend him off.

“What seek you?” he growled.
“The statue, lord. The golden god.”

Niall grinned. That statue in his pouch was worth a fortune. It was
of solid gold, and it was of such a shape as Niall had never seen
before. What was it that Emalkartha had called it? Koython. Yes,
that had been it.

Niall shook his head so that his golden hair swung. “Na, na. It
was I who found it. I keep it.”
The woman softened, moved a step closer. She was beautiful;
there was a passion in her eyes and face that was reflected in the
curves of her body where her clothing was pressed against it by the
breeze.

“To you it means nothing, lord.” Her eyes widened. “Seek you
money for it? Then come. Come with me and you shall be rewarded.”
There was a deviltry in Niall at the moment. Go with her? Why
not? His life had been rather stale of late, with little for him to do as
High Commander of the armies of Urgrik, with peace everywhere on
the borders.

He slid his dagger back into its sheath, hooked an arm about the
slender waist of this woman, drew her in against him. She was soft
and warm, curving against him.

“Lead on, little one. Who am I to resist an appeal such as yours?”
She smiled up at him temptingly, her hand lifting to caress his
face. “Come, lord. Be Thayya’s companion for the evening.”
Her soft hand caught his, drew him with her at a trot. They
moved down the deserted avenues, past shuttered houses and
locked doors, their footfalls sounding softly in the night. Once when
Niall would have halted to question her, she pressed her body to his,
putting her arms about him and lifting her mouth for his kiss.
Niall kissed her. He would not have been a man if he had refused
that caress. But inside him something stirred with suspicion. What
was so valuable about the golden god to cause this woman to offer
him great wealth in exchange for it? Of course, she might be leading
him into a trap. He half suspected this to be the case.

Yet there was a recklessness in Niall this night. He almost hoped
that there would be a trap. His muscles needed exercise, and even
the merest promise of a battle was all he wanted.
“We waste time,” she murmured against his lips. “There is gold
waiting. Much gold. All yours, lord—in exchange for the statue.”
He turned her, hugging her softness to him as he did so, and
half-carried her as they ran along the avenue. They came at last to an
oaken door barred with iron, into the lock of which Thayya slid a
key.

The door opened inward, into a large room lighted with a few

fitfully burning candles. There was a big table there, on which rested
velvet bags bulging with their contents. Thayya slipped away from
Niall and moved toward the table to undo the drawstrings of one of
those bags.

As Niall watched, she tilted the bag, and golden ruplets and
durakins fell out on the tabletop. Astonishment held the Far Traveler
motionless. There was a fortune in that velvet sack. If the others held
the same amount of golden coins, he was staring at a vast fortune.
“All yours, ” smiled the woman. “In exchange for the golden
statue.”

Niall grinned. Nothing was worth all that gold. Nothing!
Be not tempted, Niall! On your life!
Ha! That would be Emalkartha again, warning him as she had
warned him so often in the past. Himself, he cared nothing for all that
gold. He had more than enough riches. Yet the woman seemed so
anxious, so eager . . . .
Slowly, he shook his head. “I think not. I have—taken a fancy to
the little godling. I mean to keep it.”
Fury blazed in the black eyes of the woman. Then that fury faded
before her will. She came closer to Niall, again pressed her softness
against him.

“All that gold—and me,” she breathed.
The goddess stirred angrily within Niall. Emalkartha was a jealous woman, goddess though she might be. Slowly, the High Commander shook his head.
“I’ll keep the statue,” he growled.
Thayya stepped back, her mouth opening. She screamed, and as
she did, a door opened off to one side. Men with swords and daggers
in their hands came pouring into the room. Thayya stepped to one
side to give them room, pointing at Niall.
“Slay him!” she ordered.

Niall bellowed with delight. His great sword came up into his
hand and he swung it like a scythe. A head toppled from a neck, and
then Blood-drinker was burying its keen blade into a shoulder, half
severing it.

The Far Traveler moved like a cat. He was half across the room
even as he was freeing his blade from bleeding flesh, lifting it to swing
again, and then again. At each stroke of that shining steel, blood
spurted. Heads were cloven, arms were sheared. Only now and
again did he use his blade as a shield to deflect the blows that were
aimed at him.

Niall was in his glory, with the ring of steel in his ears and the sight
of armed men coming at him. For this he had been born, to fight—
and to fight even harder against such odds.
He heard Thayya urging on the men amid whispered prayers to
whatever gods she worshipped. She was backing slowly toward the
door, eyes big with terror, as she saw how Niall fought.
Niall wanted to reach her, to take her with him to answer questions.
But the mercenaries who fought him seemed to detect what it
was he wanted. They flung themselves before him; they gave up
their lives to protect the woman.

Thayya moved toward the doorway and slipped through it,
closing and bolting the door behind her. Niall growled low in his
throat, hurled himself even more savagely at the men who still faced
him.

They went down before his blade until he was the only thing
standing in the room. As the last man fell, Niall shook himself and
lowered his sword. He moved toward the thick door that blocked the
path deeper into the building. It was barred, bolted.
Niall shrugged. The woman was long gone. He turned and eyed
the velvet bags that held the golden coins. He lifted one of the bags,
hefted it. It was heavy with gold. He chuckled and twisted his fingers
around the drawstrings.

This sack he would take with him, as reward for having overcome
the ruffians Thayya had called up against him. He whistled as he
moved out of the building doorway and set off down the street. The
evening had turned out to be more exciting than he had thought it to
be when he had left the palace.

He wondered again where the golden statue had come from, and
what it might be.

As he turned into the small palace that was his home in Urgrik, he
saw the gleam of candlelight in an upstairs window. When he had left
earlier this evening, he had left no tapir lit. He drew his sword and
moved up the stone staircase silently.

He came into his bedroom and saw a woman stretched out lazily
on his bed, clad in rags that left her long, lovely legs bare, that
hugged her body tightly at hip and breast.
Niall stood grinning in the doorway. “Lylthia!” he all but yelled
as he moved toward her.

She scowled at him. “You would have gone with that tart, if she
had proven more friendly!”

Niall laughed, sheathing Blood-drinker and moving toward the
bed. “Would I, now? You know as well as I do that she offered
herself to me and I denied her.”

Lylthia sneered, but there was laughter in her voice as she said,
“Ha! The only reason you denied her was that you were hoping for a
fight.”

His big hands reached for her and she fought him, but only
halfheartedly. He kissed her soft mouth, crushing her in his arms,
until after a time she returned his kisses and lay against him contentedly.
“We have no time to be making love,” she murmured, stroking
his jaw with soft fingertips.

“All the time in the world. I have nothing else to occupy me.”
She pinched him. “Do you think I came here as Lylthia only to let
you caress me? Korython has spoken to the gods, asking their help.
That’s the only reason I’m on your bed.”

“Korython can wait. I can’t.”

Lylthia wriggled closer, stroking him, but she muttered, “We
have to be away from Urgrik at once. No, stop that! I’m serious. The
gods have sent me to help you.”

Niall grinned. “And I thank the gods. Now the best way you can
help me is . . . .”

“You’re impossible,” she whispered, but she did not move
away.

Long afterward, as they lay side by side, with Niall holding
Lylthia close to him, she murmured, “We really should be on our
way. Already the darkness has lessened.”

“Mmmmm. Where are we going?”

“Northward, beyond the Uryllian Mountains.”

Niall blinked. “There is nothing north of those mountains—
except for the Dead Lands, that is.”

“We are going to the Dead Lands, Niall. Once—many ages
ago—those lands were alive and flourishing. Korython was worshipped in those lands. His shrine—what’s left of it, that is—is there,
and it is to that shrine we must go.”

Niall kissed her soft lips. “Stay here. Be my love. It’s a long ride
northward of the Uryllian Mountains.”

“That’s why we must start now, without delay.” She rose up to
peer down into his eyes. “Or have you forgotten Thayya?”
He shrugged. “A mere woman. What can she do?”
“She serves Xollabar.”

Niall scowled. “Another god? Pah! Can’t you gods settle your
own affairs without dragging us into your quarrels?”
Lylthia kissed him. “What would the gods be, without worshippers? Besides, if it weren’t for the quarrels between the gods, you
might not see me so often.”

“There is that,” he nodded. “But—”
Her lips silenced his. After a time, she murmured, “Are you
ready to listen? I have a tale to tell you of a man named Sosalion,
who lived when the Dead Lands were young, and who worshiped 
Korython with a great love.

“Sosalion was a poor man who made his living by making
swords. He was a great swordmaker, the finest in the land. But others
were not as fortunate as he. He knew many poor people, people who
were in need. He begged Korython to help them—and one night as
he prayed, Korython appeared to him.
“Korython would help him to aid those poor people by leaving a
golden statue of himself. That statue would grant all the wishes
which Sosalion would make to it.”

Lylthia slid from the bed to pick up the leather pouch which Niall
carried at his swordbelt. She brought out the statue and placed it on
a nearby table. Niall propped himself on an elbow and eyed it.
Lylthia said slowly, “If you make a wish to the god, your wish will
be granted.”

Niall grinned. “Come back to bed.”
Lylthia stamped her foot. “Be serious! Can you imagine what
might happen if this statue were to fall into the wrong hands?”
“The man—if he was a man—from whom I took this statue had
been turned into dust. Possession of the statue didn’t do him much
good.”

The girl sighed. “It was Xollabar,who turned Gruffon the priest
into dust. Xollabar—whom Thayya serves. Xollabar wants that
statue. With it in his possession, he can force Korython to serve him.
And—Xollabar is evil. Evil!”

Niall sat on the edge of the bed. “All right. So Korython gave
Sosalion this statue.”

“And for the rest of his life, Sosalion used the power of the statue
wisely. Always he asked favors for others, never for himself. And the
god granted those requests.

“When Sosalion died, the statue disappeared. It was never seen
again for thousands of years. And then Gruffon came upon it. How, I
am not sure. But Gruffon used it selfishly, to acquire wealth and
power for himself.

“He came at last into Urgrik, and here he intended to take power
over the king, Lurlyr Manakor, to possess himself of his kingdom. It
was then that Xollabar struck—wanting the statue for himself.”
Niall sighed. “I found it instead of Thayya. And now Xollabar will
be after me.”

“Ah! Now you understand the need for haste, why we must
return the statue to Korython."

Niall grumbled but rose to his feet, reaching for his clothing. He
had learned that what Lylthia told him was always true. He began to
dress, with Lylthia nodding her approval.

2

Dawn was breaking in the east, beyond the Kalbarthian Mountains as they rode along the narrow road which twisted northward
from Urgrik past the Malagon Forests. Niall sat the saddle of his big
grey stallion while Lylthia moved easily to the cantering stride of a
black mare.

Once or twice, Niall twisted to look behind him at the rooftops
and towers of Urgrik. There was little to see, for in this early dawn
hour, men and women were merely stirring from their beds. No one
had seen them leave the city, there had been no lurker in the
shadows to carry word to Thayya.

Behind them a brown stallion came at the canter, with wine-bags
and food-sacks hastily assembled by Niall bouncing to its hoofbeats.
Together with those necessary items the horse carried a powerful
horn bow and a quiver filled with war-arrows. Niall meant to be well
armed on this ride.

They went swiftly, easily along the dirt path. The dust they stirred
up settled after them within moments, so that anyone watching from
Urgrik would scarcely see it. Even with this, Niall was troubled.

“How can we hide from a god?” he asked Lylthia as they rode.

“We can’t. But Xollabar has his limits, too, you know. He is not
one of the Primary Gods, but rather one like Korython, with certain
limited powers.”

Niall grunted. “If I’m helping the gods, the gods ought to be
helping me. ”

Lylthia smiled. “Are you sure they are not helping, Niall? We are
riding toward the Dead Lands, and we are alive and well.”
Niall sniffed deeply of the cool air blowing off the mountains far
ahead. That air put new life into his veins; it exhilarated him. His

hand touched his sword and he thought to himself that he might be
ready for whatever it was Xollabar might choose to hurl at him.
All that day they rode, pausing only beside a little stream to eat
their meat and bread and drink a little of the wine. Several times Niall
would leave the stream to cross to a high hill from which to scan the
land over which they had traveled. He saw nothing but the waving
grasses and hard brown earth, and rocks.

“We seem to be safe enough,” he grinned at Lylthia as they
mounted up again.

To his surprise, she shook her head. “Not yet, my lover. Xollabar
is searching for us. I can feel it. Ride on, faster!”

They galloped now, the horses running easily, seemingly without
effort. This was a wild, almost uninhabited land through which they
went. Far off the tracks of the caravans that moved from city to city,
only a few wild men or hermits dwelt here. The sky overhead seemed
bigger than it was in the city, it stretched from horizon to horizon.
Toward nightfall, they encamped on the slope of a low hill
bordering a southern edge of the Uyllian Mountains. As he was
about to lower himself from the saddle, Niall stood in the stirrups for
a last glance backward.

Instantly he froze.

Lylthia noticed his tension and asked, “What is it?”

“Yonder, something black and cone-like comes!”

His arm swung her up so that she could put a foot in his stirrup
and stare where he directed her. His arm that was about her sensed
the rigidity of her muscles.

Niall could see the thing more clearly now as it swirled across the
grasslands, coming closer. It was much like an ordinary dust-devil
when the wind whips up dry dust and swirls it around and around,
moving it across the ground. Yet this thing was of an ebony blackness and it exuded evil, an evil so intense Niall could feel his hairs
ride up at the back of his neck.

It came on, but more slowly now, as though it were aware that it
had been seen. It was cautious, was that moving darkness, yet still it
advanced.

Niall growled, “Let me shoot an arrow at it.”

Lylthia dropped to the ground as Niall lowered himself. He
moved toward the brown stallion and lifted off his horn bow. Muscles bulged as he strung it; then he lifted an arrow from the quiver still
tied to the stallion.

The bow bent. The arrow flew toward the oncoming blackness. It
touched that blackness, flared upward, and fell to the earth as a heap
of dust. The swirling darkness came on, faster now. Soon it would be
upon them.

Lylthia smiled faintly and said, “Select another arrow.”
As it came from the quiver, she leaned forward, put her fingers to
the arrowhead, whispered softly. Niall saw the arrowhead glow
whitely, then fade out to its normal color.

He put the arrow to the bowstring, drew back the great horn
bow. Fast flew that arrow, so swiftly that it seemed almost to disappear. Then he saw it again, just as it drove deep into the darkness.
From far off, there was a high-pitched scream, a cry of mortal
agony. Instantly the dust devil—or whatever it was, thought Niall
—disappeared, collapsing into nothingness.

Lylthia laughed softly. “Xollabar will not like that. It stung him
badly. He will be more careful from now on.”
Niall growled low in his throat. He did not like the gods—excepting always for Emalkartha who was also Lylthia—for he knew their
ways were capricious, with little regard for human desires, and what
the gods wanted, they took.

Still! As he looked around him now he saw nothing but open sky
and great mountains, with a stretch of grassland below them reaching far away toward the distant river. The air was cool and clean, and
it felt good to be alive. His eyes studied Lylthia as she bent above a
little fire she had made. She was putting on steaks for their meal,
humming softly to herself.

He enjoyed these interludes when he and the goddess in human
form were together. He sighed. If he had to do battle with some god
to have her come to him like this—why, then, he welcomed that
fight.

He reached out and pulled her upward to him, putting his arms

about her and holding her softness to his body. Her green eyes
looked up at him, filled with sudden laughter.

“So, then. You think you have driven away Xollabar, do you?
And that he will run back to his own worlds and leave you alone?”
“I care not for Xollabar. It’s only you I care about.”

Lylthia nestled against him, hugging him. This was a nice sentiment; she liked this devotion of Niall. Yet he must not become too
complacent.

“There are other dangers ahead—”
He kissed her, interrupting her words, and Lylthia found that she
did not care to warn him any longer. His kiss and his strong arms did
things to her human body that she enjoyed very much. Pah! Time
enough to worry about Xollabar when the evil god made his next
attempt at them.

She even forgot about the cooking steaks.
Yet later, after they had eaten and were lying together on a thick
blanket, she stirred in his arms and whispered, “There are dangerous days before us, Niall. This isn’t the easy trip you seem to think
it.”

“We drove away Xollabar.”

“But only for a little while. He will be back. Aye, and others from
Urgrik.”

Niall turned his head. “Others?”

“Have you forgotten Thayya and those men who serve her?
They will be coming after us. Indeed, they may be ahead of us by
now.”

“Let them come. They are human, they can die by my sword’s
bite.” He shook himself. “It’s only the gods that worry me.”
Lylthia shook her head. She was worried and vaguely troubled,
for she knew the powers of Xollabar. But as Niall’s arm tightened
about her, she told herself to enjoy this moment. Time enough
tomorrow and the next day to brood about the dangers that lay
ahead.

An hour after the sun lifted above the Baklanian Desert far to the
east, they were on the way, picking a path along a boulder-strewn
way that led upward, always upward, toward the heights of the
Uryllian Mountains.

The higher they climbed, the colder grew the winds. Those winds
swirled out of the far north, sweeping across fields of snow and ice
and carrying the cold with them. Niall drew his fur parka tighter and
saw to it that Lylthia wore the one he had brought for her.
Between slabs of granite and stone they made their way, seeking
a path leading between huge boulders and jutting rocks, steadily
riding higher. The wind howled now, whistling at times, and its fury
grew so great that the horses and riders kept their heads low against
i t s f o r c e .

It grew harder to breathe. The windy blasts whipped the air away
from them; sometimes they had to turn their heads in order to gulp at
air. Many times they stopped in the lee of some great rock to rest the
horses, and occasionally Niall walked ahead to guide them over a
narrow path, on one side of which the stone wall fell away to a drop
of more than two thousand feet.

In time, they came to a narrow pass between two great rock
outcroppings. They rode together into that pass and then drew rein.
Before them was a valley of green grass and magnificent trees,
through which little rivulets of water ran. It lay below them—primordial, as though it dated back to the very beginnings of their world.
“The glen of the gods,” whispered Lylthia. “I thought it had
died—along with the Dead Lands—ages ago.”

Niall glanced at her. “The glen of the gods?”

“Here it was that the gods came to play and romp, long and long
ago. It is a wild, sweet place, with air that has the bite of frost in it, yet
with all the warmth of the summer sun. It is protected by the rocks
and the high mountains so that heat gathers here and remains even
in the coldest times of winter.”

Niall grinned. “Then let’s camp there awhile.”

Lylthia frowned, glancing about her. “I’m not sure we ought. See
the high hills on all sides? It is a natural hollow. We could be trapped
down there.”

He hooted. ‘By whom? You worry overmuch, my love.”

She shrugged, let him lead the way, following after. Yet her eyes
went this way and that, very warily, as if she sought to learn whether
any other living thing besides themselves were here in this remote
spot.

They moved down a gentle incline. As Niall studied the valley, he
told himself that he had never seen a fairer land. The lower he went
toward its grasslands, the warmer the air became, so that he
loosened the fur garment he wore.

His eyes saw the prints of animal feet here and there. This would
be a good place for a man to come, to hunt and live for a time without
caring about other men or their affairs. He turned in the saddle to say
something of this to Lylthia and saw her shivering.
“Here there is everything a man needs,” he told her.
Her green eyes slid toward him. “Here also is deadly danger. I
can almost smell it.” She shook herself. “Yet I am tired. It may be as
you say. We shall rest a while.”

Neither of them saw the cloud that came slowly across the skies.
A small white cloud it was, yet it grew in size as it neared the hidden
valley.

Niall was stripping the saddle off the horses when Lylthia cried
out, pointing. He swung about, stared where her finger aimed.
“A cloud, no more,” he growled.

Yet he continued to eye it, as did the woman, and as he did, tiny
prickles of worry ran down his spine. Ah, but it was only a cloud. Not
a black storm cloud but a tiny one, all white and—yes! It seemed
almost to glow. But that was probably because it was catching the
rays of the sun.

“All-Father,” Lylthia was whispering, “hear my plea! There is
danger here, where we are, in the playground of the gods! Xollabar
comes. I can feel it! Sense it!”
The white cloud grew in size even as it seemed to sweep down
toward them. Niall felt his skin crawl. No normal cloud would act in
such a way.

Pale white lightnings suddenly stabbed downward.

Lylthia screamed and threw herself flat. In an instant, Niall followed her example. All about them those pale white streaks of
lightning were stabbing, stabbing. They sizzled as they drove
groundward and he could smell ozone.

Everywhere those lightnings were stabbing, as though the cloud
were blinded and could not see its target. Soon enough, those bolts
would hit him or Lylthia. Frantically his eyes searched the grasslands.
There was nowhere to hide. Oh, there was a cave or two, here
and there in the cliff walls, but to reach them one would have to run
across the grass, and the lightnings would be sure to find anyone
stupid enough to do that.

Yet, to remain here meant that they would die!
“And Xollabar will get the golden statue,” he muttered.
“Great Father God, aid us! Hear my plea! Grant us the relief of
your powers!” Lylthia begged.

Niall was staring upward, his teeth clenched, his body braced
against the shock of a lightning bolt. It was he who saw the redness
falling from far above.

“Look! High in the sky—above the cloud!” he called.
A sob tore its way from Lylthia’s throat. “The All-Father has
heard me. He grants my wish!”
Lightnings hit the ground a few feet from where he lay, and Niall
growled. He rasped out an oath and sprang upward, lifting out his
sword.

“Fool!” Lylthia screamed. “Drop the blade!”

He let go of it, but as it started to fall, a bolt of that pale golden
energy hit it. Blood-drinker seemed bathed in an aureate splendor.
For a few moments it hung there in the air, held by a great force.
Then the golden lightnings fell away and the sword plummeted to
the ground.

Lylthia lifted an arm, rising from the ground to join him. “See
there, in the sky!” <Yes> 

The redness that Niall had seen was rain. He knew that now, as it
fell upon the cloud. Vast hissings rose, just as hissings rise from
white-hot iron plunged into water. The red rain was falling upon the
white cloud and through it, covering it everywhere.
Faintly, from so far away that Niall could not be sure he heard
correctly, came a great scream. That scream tore at his nerves, for in
it was great anguish and desolation.
Beside him, Lylthia laughed softly. “Xollabar suffers! Aye, that
red rain stings him! Perhaps now he will not attempt to stop us on our
way into the Dead Lands.”
Niall grunted. If he knew anything about gods, Xollabar would
be even more angry. And Niall did not care to confront angry gods.

3.

For two days they remained in the glen of the gods, swimming in
the tiny lake it boasted, feasting on the hares that Niall shot with his
war-arrows. Gone was the cloud, gone was Xollabar. Warm was the
breeze, pleasant was the sight of green grass and bluish water.
Even Lylthia lost a little of her worry and joined him in his swims,
in his walks that explored all the corners of the valley. From time to
time she would walk off by herself and stand, as though listening to
something faint and far away. Niall never bothered her at those
moments; he assumed she was communicating with the gods and
goddesses she knew, or perhaps with the All-Father himself.
He was content to have her with him and to be alive.

“I suppose we ought to be moving on,” he said one morning
after they had eaten. He said it hopefully, almost asking that Lylthia
would murmur that there was no hurry.

She disappointed him. “Xollabar is an angry god now, Niall. He
has hidden himself away in his worlds and he plans your destruction.” She sighed. “I wish I knew his thoughts.”
“No need to worry about him any more. The All-Father has
pulled his fangs.”

Lylthia shook her head. “You don’t know Xollabar. He is plotting something . . . . something. I wish I knew what it is. But we must
be getting on toward the Dead Lands. Once we turn over his statue
to Korython we will have defeated him. But until then . . . .”

She shrugged. Niall did not have to look at her to know that she
was badly worried.

They moved out of the glen of the gods by the middle of the day,
climbing higher and higher into the mountains that surrounded it
The winds blew with the chill of the polar regions in their every
touch, and once again the riders wore their fur-lined robes.
The horses plodded on, heads down. Niall and Lylthia swayed in
their saddles. The steady motion of their mounts, combined with the
cold, rendered them only half-awake. They had no eyes for the path
they traveled; they let their stallions pick it for them.
It was Niall who cried out first, straightening in the saddle and
loosening his furred cape to stare around him at the flat, rocky
landscape where they stood.

Gone were the mountains, gone was the cold. Instead, they were
in a hazy, reddish world, where the air seemed thick to the nostrils,
where there was no sun in the sky, no clouds, nothing but this pale
redness.

“Where are we, in the All-Father’s name?’
Lylthia whispered, “It cannot be!”

Something in her voice made Niall look at her more closely, so
that he saw something of the awe and terror within her. She was
shaking, her hands trembling so much they could scarcely hold the
reins of her mount.

“What is it? Where are we?” he demanded.

“How could it have happened?” she wailed. “How could I have
slept and not been aware? The horses walked where they saw easier
going—and Xollabar opened the way for them!”

She lifted her hands to move the fallen black hair from before her
eyes. Her face was strained, a mask of disbelief and fear.
Niall growled and put his hand to his swordhilt, but the girl shook
her head. “Steel will not avail us here. Nothing will! Look around
you. What do you see?”

“An empty land. Just rocks and pebbles.”

“Aye! A lost world. A world belonging to Xollabar. He has
trapped us neatly. And I slept!”

Niall growled, looking to left and right yet seeing nothing but this
flat, dead land. “We have mistaken the path, that’s all. We can find
our way out as we found our way in.”

“Look around you! Do you see mountains? Anything at all but
rocks? No, no, Niall. We have crossed the voids between the worlds
—aided by Xollabar. He has us now.”

“What can he do?”

Laughter boomed from somewhere. It was all about them, echoing from the air, from the ground. Niall lifted out his sword, realizing
as he did so how inadequate it was.

“Put down the statue,” the new voice bellowed. “Put down the
statue! Put it down and live. Keep it—and die!”

“We keep it,” Niall snarled.

Silence descended around them, a silence so intense it seemed
to hurt their ears. Niall looked at Lylthia, who stared around her as if
seeking inspiration from the air. Twice her mouth opened, as though
she would speak, but each time she frowned and shook her head.
“You are foolish, my Niall,” she said suddenly. “Give Xollabar
the golden statue. After all, what good is it to you? Besides, you were
about to return it to Korython, anyhow.”

“But—”

Lylthia smiled at him, a reassuring smile. But her eyes were not
smiling: They were hard and cold. Even as he watched, she rose in
her stirrups and bugled a call into the red-tinted air.
“A bargain, Xollabar! The statue—for our lives!”

There was a silence; then Niall heard a gigantic chuckle. “What
care I for your lives? Take them, with my blessing. Only leave the
statue!”

Lylthia nodded, smiling faintly. She stretched out her hand toward Niall. “Give me the statue, darling. I have traded it for our
lives.”

“But you are a goddess. Xollabar could not kill you.”

“He could kill you. And I will not have that happen. No, don’t
argue. Let me have the statue.”

Niall grumbled under his breath, but he took the statue out of his
belt-pouch and handed it to Lylthia. He watched as the girl stepped
out of her saddle to the ground. She knelt and put the statue on the
pebbles.

“There, now. It is done.” She lifted her head and called, “Xollabar! We have fulfilled our part of the bargain. Fulfill yours!”
Almost instantly, Niall found himself sitting astride his mount on
the southerly slope of one of the Uryllian Mountains. The air was
cold here, but not as cold as the air high up there on the peaks, past
which he and Lylthia had come.

He turned in the saddle, seeing the other two horses—but no
Lylthia. Fear touched him, freezing his heart. Had Xollabar betrayed
them? Had he—kept the girl? Anger gripped Niall, made him groan
and curse.

“Xollabar!” he bellowed. “If you harm her I shall follow you
through all your hells and kill you!”

Be not alarmed, Niall. Carry on—as though I were with you!
His rage slowly faded. He did not know where Lylthia was, but it
did not matter, now that the calmness of her thought-voice told him
she was well. Niall straightened in the saddle, staring down at the

distant Dead Lands that he could see faint and far away. It was
several days’ travel to those lands, but he would go there, if it was
what Lylthia wanted.

“She knows better than I how to deal with gods,” he growled.
With a lighter heart, he toed the stallion downward along the
narrow path before him. It was still annoying him that he must go
alone, but he knew that Lylthia—in her other-self role as Emalkartha—would be keeping an eye on him.
Niall rode easily, studying the far lands into which he was moving. Long and long ago, they had been fertile, those far reaches of
barren ground. There had lived a race of men called the Granagors,
reddish of skin and very warlike. The Granagors had worshipped
Korython, and had built a magnificent temple to his name.
Sosalion, to whom Korython had given the statue, had been a
Granagor.

Over the ages since the Granagors had flourished here, what had
happened to that golden statue? Niall reflected on that as he swayed
in the high-peaked saddle, as his eyes went back and forth along the
path he rode. He scowled, telling himself as he rode that he would be
wise to forget these quarrels between the gods.

Still, if he did that, he would not see so much of Lylthia.
Ha! Where was Lylthia now? She had left him, of course. She
was watching over him, he knew that; yet it seemed to him, from
what he knew of her as Emalkartha, that she would also be watching
over that golden statue.

When he was almost down off the mountainside, he made out a
dust trail off to the west. Riders were galloping there, moving swiftly,
with loose reins and jabbing spurs. Niall scowled. Could there be
others on their way to the ruined temple of Korython?
Ah, but—why?

He had been headed there to turn over his golden statue to the
god. But Xollabar had stolen the statue. Xollabar would not be likely
to take the statue to the old temple of his rival, surely! That made no
sense.

Niall stiffened in the saddle

Might Xollabar have some devilish scheme in mind that required
the statue to be placed where the ancient temple once stood? Would
that fact, in some manner of the gods, give him added power over
Korython? Niall wondered what had put that idea into his head.
As he galloped his big stallion, he loosened his sword Blooddrinker in its scabbard. An inner feeling told him he was going to
have to fight soon.

Niall grinned, as he always did when there was the prospect of a
good fight ahead. Let the gods quarrel among themselves; he was
always most at home when steel blades were clanging and blows
were given and received.

There were a score of riders off to his left, he saw as their paths
converged. One of them was smaller than the others. A woman? But
what woman would ride with men such as those, who seemed to be
the sweepings off some riverside dock?

Thayya! Of course. It had to be!

Niall grinned. She was a beauty, that girl. Was she also a priestess
of the god Xollabar? Was it in answer to his call that she and those
riders were racing so hard? She had tried to bribe him to give up that
golden statue. Perhaps now she was here to see Xollabar triumph
over Korython.

They came closer, closer.

69

They could see him, now. They were shouting, yanking out
swords and waving them. Niall knew that the odds were too great,
even for him, and yet he would not run from them.

Ha! Why not run—if he could make his running a weapon?
He angled his steed to one side so that it would appear that he
was seeking to escape. They would understand that. Already he
could hear their howls of exultation, and above them the shrill voice
of Thayya.

“After him! Do not let him live! It is the order of the god
Xollabar!”

They came for him as he knew they would, two men out in front,
on the faster horses. The others were strung out behind those two,
and racing hard.

Niall slowed his stallion just a little to let the two front-runners
catch up with him. As they did, he brought out Blood-drinker,
whirled the stallion and charged them. Those two men came on,
shouting exultantly.

No man in all this land was the equal of Niall of the Far Travels
with a sword in his big hand. He swung Blood-drinker once, again,
and two headless corpses rolled from their saddles.

Niall wheeled and ran again, looking back over his shoulder.
They were following after him, well strung out now. He held the big
stallion back, to let some of them catch up to him. Let them overtake
him. It was what he wanted.

He turned at last, swinging his great blade, knocking the swords
of the others aside. His point drove into a chest, lopped off an arm,
swung again to slash through a neck. As he fought, Niall bellowed
out the war-cry of his native Northumbria. Few men in this corner of
his world had ever heard that savage scream.

As though in echo to that cry, Thayya was shouting, “Kill him!
Kill him! He must not be allowed to live!”

His stallion was tired. It had come far and it had run fast this day.
Under him, Niall felt the great horse stumble as it sought to turn. Niall
grinned coldly. They would overcome him, and there was no way
one man—even as great a fighter as Niall of the Far Travels—could
persevere against thirteen or fourteen men.

Yet he battled on. Emalkartha! How they would pay! They would
die, as many as he could kill, and each of the others would bear his
blade-mark until the day he died!

A sword hit his shoulder. Another slammed against the side of his
head. Niall reeled in the saddle just as a sword stabbed at his
chest . . . . .

4

It was night. Niall lay almost lifeless on the hard rocks and felt life
flow back into him, slowly. Vaguely, he knew that he was wounded.
He was lying on his back, his eyes were open, and he was staring up
at the blackness of the heavens.

He moved and groaned. There was dried blood all over him, and
the pain of his wounds stabbed into him deeply. Under his breath he
cursed softly, trying to move. It was useless. He could scarcely turn
over.

He was thirsty, too. There was no water here in the Barren
Lands. There had been water in the skins on his stallion, but the
horse was gone, probably taken by the men who had been with
Thayya.

Niall closed his eyes and slept.

He woke to the blaze of hot sunlight on him. He gritted his teeth
and made it to his knees. Blinking, he looked around him at the
empty plain. But, no! It was not empty. There was something moving
out there.

It was coming closer.

Ah. Now he could make it out. It was his stallion, trotting toward
him. Niall grinned. He was not dead yet. Maybe he was too badly
wounded to walk, but there was a water-bag on his horse, and his
horse could carry him.

He waited until the stallion came nosing at him, then he caught at
a stirrup and using it as a crutch, got to his feet. The world swung
around him dizzily then, and he had to grab and hold on.
It took him some time, but he finally managed to get a toe in the
stirrup and claw his way upward to the saddle. He reached for the
waterskin and drank deep. The water revived him a little, and he
toed the horse, making it walk onward toward where the ruins of
Korython’s temple lay in the midst of the Barren Lands.
Where was Emalkartha? Where—Lylthia?

He was still very weak. Twice he fell asleep to the swaying motion
of his stallion; once, he almost fell from the saddle. He grinned wryly,
telling himself that he was not strong enough to fight, that if he came
upon Thayya and her soldiers now, they would certainly kill him.
Of course, they thought him dead already. Still, there was life in
him, to be nursed along until the time came when he might have to
fight. He thought of the thousands of men in the army of Urgrik

who would would gladly have followed him into these Barren Lands
and grinned wryly. This task—whatever it was—was up to him
alone.

Not alone, Niall! I am watching!

“I’m almost dead,” he growled, yet he was thrilled to discover
that Emalkartha had not deserted him.

It was as if he heard her gasp, then. He felt eyes upon him—eyes
he could not see—and fancied that he heard a faint cry.
You are hurt! Almost unto death! Yet I knew not!
Terror was in that thought-voice—and raging fury!
The world shifted under Niall. He felt it slide away, tilt even
more—and then it steadied. There was heat around him, awful heat,
but there were soft voices crying out and girls running toward him, to
help him from the saddle and half-carry him toward a couch.
Emalkartha was there, regal and proud, but there was pity in her
eyes, and a great softness. She came toward Niall where he lay and
knelt beside him, touching his forehead with her hand.

“Here you will mend, my darling. Here in this forecourt of one of
my Eleven Hells, you can rest and be nursed back to health.”
She clapped her hands and girls came running. Niall looked at
them and grinned. They were all lovely, young, and their bodies
took the breath away with their beauty.

Emalkartha saw his interest and frowned. “They are to bring you
back to full health, Niall. Nothing more!”

He chuckled. “Beside you, my darling, they are pale shadows.”

The goddess went on scowling for a moment, then laughed.
“See that they remain only shadows!” But she leaned forward and
kissed him, and Niall knew that he would live.

He never knew how long it was that he remained in that steaming
room, with his wounds bandaged and with unguents applied to
them. He slept and rested, and as he did, magical antidotes worked
their cure. Always, the girls were on call to aid him.

He saw no more of Emalkartha; he reasoned that she was busy

with her own problems. He waxed in strength, his wounds no longer
troubled him, and now a restlessness began forming inside him. He
would draw his sword and flex his muscles with it, and begin to wish
for the more familiar world he knew.

What kept her? Why was Emalkartha not here with him? Niall
began to chafe at his inactivity.

And then one time when he was asleep he woke to the touch of
her lips on his. Her eyes laughed down at him. “Slugabed,” she
breathed. “The time has come to send you on my mission.”

“What mission is that?”

“Look—and know!”

The room in which he lay faded from view. He was staring down
into ancient ruins. He saw the little golden god resting on an altar,
before which was standing Thayya, her arms outstretched. Behind
her were those hired killers he had fought. Niall grinned when he saw
that each one of them was bandaged.

She calls to Korython and—Koython must answer!
Slowly, the god was forming. There at the altar, where he had
been worshipped so long ago, he was rising into being. His outline
was tenuous, but it was becoming stronger.

“Korython must obey—because he is present in the golden
statue. He is helpless against the power of Xollabar as long as that
condition exists!”

Niall frowned. “And I can help?”

He stared at the god Korython. It seemed that the god’s outlines
were fainter now. As he muttered something of this Emalkartha
nodded.

“Korython plays for time, time in which the other gods and
goddesses—myself included—can come to his aid. Alone, he would
not be able to last too long, since Xollabar has power over that
statue. But with our help—and yours . . . .”
Her voice faded. Niall growled, “Aye! Now we come to it. What
part do I play?”

Emalkartha nestled close, hugging him. “You fight those men of
Thayya’s—and Thayya herself, if need be. We will keep Xollabar
busy.”

The scene faded, and Niall shook himself. Emalkartha was
nestled in his arms, but he was vaguely uncomfortable. He was used
to Lylthia, not to the goddess herself.

“You would wish for my other self?” she whispered.
Niall chuckled. “I’d be more comfortable.”

“Of course you would. You are used to grabbing Lylthia, pawing
her, kissing her and bedding her as though she were some common
wench.”

“She never objected,” Niall grinned.

Emalkartha sighed. “Here in my Eleven Hells I am adored and
worshipped. It’s fun sometimes to be in human guise, to be pawed
and hugged and kissed.”

She pushed away from him. “But we sit here while time grows
short for Korython. It is time to be leaving.”

Emalkartha stood, catching his hand, drawing him to his feet.
Niall wore his chainmail and his fur kaunake; his sword and dagger
were belted at his side. Emalkartha put her hand to his forehead,
and—

Niall stood on a rocky wasteland, aware that a wind was blowing
and aware also that he could hear chanting by a female voice. The
wind blew steadily, the chanting seemed to grow in strength. Niall
saw broken columns and battered bits of what had once been temple
walls.

A woman stood before what had been an altar, long and long
ago. On that altar stood the golden statue of the god. Behind Thayya
were her mercenaries, staring, watching what was about to take
place.

Forward, Niall! Attack!

He grinned, remembering how those men before him had
wounded him, left him for dead. He owed them for that! He raced
forward, drawing out Blood-drinker and his Orravian dagger. His
warboots made hardly a sound on the rocky ground.

But they made enough sound to alert one or two of the hired
swords who had ridden here with Thayya. They turned, those men,
and their eyes went wide at sight of this man, whom they had thought
to be lying dead many miles behind them.

One of them shouted hoarsely.

At his cry, the others turned, but Niall was upon them even as
they swung about, and his blade licked out to slash through a man’s
neck. Even as he felt his steel bite deep, Niall yanked free his sword
and drove it at a second man.

The odds against him were great, but at first his enemies thought
they were dealing with a dead man raised to a mummery of life by

some magic—so that in those first few moments Niall gained a great advantage.

One man fell, and then another. Niall was like a savage beast,
springing here and there, his swordpoint stabbing into a throat or its
edge slashing downward across a shoulder or an arm. He growled as
he slashed, and every once in a while he would snarl like an enraged
tiger.

He became vaguely aware that the chanting had stopped, that
Thayya had turned and was regarding him with wide eyes in which
were mixed terror and superstitious horror.
Niall felt an anger beating down about him—gigantic fury that
seemed to assault him with maddened rage. Yet something shielded
him from that awful displeasure. Somehow, Emalkartha had thrown
a corner of her cloak about him.

Thayya had turned now and was chanting with renewed power.
It was almost as though the god Xollabar were entering into her,
endowing her with his demoniac strength.

And in answer to that chanting—
Korython was appearing more fully, towering above the altar
where stood the golden statue. It seemed to Niall—even as he
fought—that Korython was also fighting, fighting to prevent himself
from being drawn into this world, to be made the slave of Xollabar.
There were few mercenaries left now. One by one they had fallen
to Niall who had fought as he had rarely fought before, and never
against such human odds.

Only two men were left now.

Niall leaped, his sword flashed. One man dropped, the other
turned to flee. Niall hurled his Orravian dagger, saw it sink to the
pommel in the back of that last man.

Then the Far Traveler leaped again.
Straight for Thayya he drove, his arms spread wide. The girl was
in the middle of her chanting when he bowled into her, snapping off
her words and carrying her to the ground. His fist hit her jaw and she
slumped. 

Kneeling above her, Niall felt the air grow hot. It was as though all
the many hells had spilled out their glowing fires. Sweat oozed from
his pores, and it grew hard to breathe. Within that almost fiery
atmosphere, he sensed a titanic struggle taking place.
Dimly he could see Xollabar, dark and sinister, towering high
above the dead floor of the once-great temple. His many eyes were
boring downward—not at Niall, but at something beyond him.
It was Korython!

The god was writhing, twisting, seeking to avoid the tug of
something that seemed far more powerful than itself. It was out of its
abode by now, and seemingly helpless in this world. Niall saw that it
sought vainly to avoid being drawn into the golden statue.
Now, Niall! Now!

He leaped from the fallen priestess toward the little statue. His
great sword swung upward, glinting in the sunlight.
Xollabar bellowed with utter fury.

Then the sword was cleaving downward, slashing at the golden
statue. As it drove toward it, Niall saw his blade shine and glimmer as
though with inward light. That light danced and sang along his
steel—

His edge struck the statue! Cleaved through it!
Xollabar screamed.

In that moment of his screaming, Korython leaped forth. No
longer was the god fearful. Instead, it waxed even larger. Spread
were its arms, or what served it for arms. Straight for Xollabar it
drove.

Niall crouched on his knees beside that which had been the altar
to Korython. On that altar lay the two fragments of the golden statue.
Above him, the two great gods were doing battle, and the very air
seemed almost to cry out at the fury of that assault.
Korython drove Xollabar back. Ever backward the evil god went,
as though it sought to escape. But Korython pursued too relentlessly
for that. Xollabar was caught and held, and though it fought savagely, it seemed to Niall that Xollabar was weakening swiftly.
And now Korython was dragging Xollabar toward the ancient
stone altar. Xollabar struggled, but was too weak to oppose. To the
altar Xollabar was drawn, then forced upon it.

Held on that altar! Helpless!

From above streamed a golden bolt, so vivid that Niall was
momentarily blinded. He cried out, his arm going to shield his eyes.
No need to fear, Niall. I protect you!

Then it was over. Whatever there was of Xollabar was gone.
Devoured, in some strange fashion which Niall could not comprehend.
Silence lay across the old temple. Niall staggered to his feet,
stared at the dead bodies, then at Thayya, who lay unconscious at
his feet. The gods had come—and gone.

He shook himself. Well, he had done what they asked. He had
fought and triumphed this day; he had stopped Thayya. Something 

assured him that he had eased the way for Korython by weakening
Xollabar just enough.

Thayya stirred, opening her eyes. She looked up at Niall, sat up,
stared about her. A gathering horror dawned in her eyes. No words
were needed to tell her what had happened. She could see the
stained altar where Xollabar had writhed in its last moments.
Now she rose slowly to her feet, backing away from Niall. She
turned and fled across the ground. toward and then between the
corpses of the mercenaries who had come here with her. Past them
she ran, then halted.

She bent over the body of the last man Niall had killed, lifting
from his back the Orravian dagger. Niall shouted and ran to her, but
he was too late.

Thayya drove that dagger to the hilt between her breasts. When
Niall came up to her, she was dead.
A soft voice said, “It is better so. By her death, she has expiated
her evil.”

Lylthia came striding toward him, hips gracefully swinging. As he
watched her approach, Niall growled, “I’m tired of these gods who
fight among themselves—and drag me into their battles.”
“Yet they are grateful to you. Xollabar sought to draw Korython
into the golden statue completely. In that way he would have had
dominion over him forever. You helped prevent it. Korython is
grateful.”

Niall eyed her suspiciously. “How grateful?”

Lylthia smiled teasingly. “He has filled the glen of the gods with
gifts for you, with vessels of wine and hampers filled with good things
to eat—so that we may go there and live for a little while.” She
hesitated. “Unless you’d rather not, of course.”

He whooped and ran toward her. “Silly girl! Why are we standing here talking? Race you to our horses—and then to the glen of the
gods!”

Lylthia tried to get to her horse, but Niall caught and kissed her
before she could make it.