"I don't believe you actually cut off my hand!"
"Take warning," Rance said, moving on.
The man turned indignant. "Warning? Did you say warning?" He held up the fountaining stump. "This is a warning? Is that what you're telling me? What do you do when you get really pissed off?"
Rance was somewhat nonplused. He sheathed his sword. "Well, I'm sorry. When you came at me, I-"
"All I wanted to do was take your mount into the stable for some water and food and a nice rubdown. But no-o-o-o. It's Mr. Touchy! Mr. Hands-Off! Mr. Macho Guy!"
"See here," Rance began. "You-"
An armored rider came out of a side street, his steed foaming at the bit. The horse stopped, reared.
"Mortal," came a deep, echoing voice emanating from behind a visored helm, "prepare to meet thy doom." Rance's sword again hissed from its scabbard. "Prepare to meet this, spirit!"
"Your sword hisses nicely," the specter observed, drawing his own weapon.
It was the biggest, wickedest blade that Rance had ever seen. Rance swallowed hard.
"Make acquaintance with my sword, Just Avenger," the armored eidolon said. "How call you yours?"
Rance drew himself up. "The name of my sword," he said, holding his blade high, "is Bruce."
"What?"
Rance's shoulders slumped. "Uh, you heard me."
The fearful apparition laughed derisively. "Bruce?"
"I call him Brucie. That's his name."
There was general merriment. The demon with the still-gushing stump stood there giggling along with the rest. " `Brucie'?" the warrior-demon sneered. "What kind of name is that to strike fear into the heart of your enemy?"
"I got it secondhand," Rance muttered. "That was the name given the sword by its maker, and in order to take advantage of all the magical stuff you have to invoke it by its name, and that's its name. Bruce. That's all there is to it."
"Well, it's ridiculous!"
"Well, I'm sorry," Rance said with some hauteur.
"I suppose your dagger is named Murray. And the horse? Butterfly Love Moon? Or perhaps Tittybum Up-your-arse-on-the-Leeward-Side?"
The innkeeper especially loved this. Convulsed, he rolled on the ground repeating "Butterfly Love Moon" over and over. R
ance boiled. "Right, that tears it. Laugh if you must, but you'll be laughing out of the other side of your helm when you get a taste of Brucie's cold steel."
"Oh, steel-tasting time, everyone!" the handless one minced. Then, an aside: "I hear the real pros spit it out and go on to the next sample."
The spectral mount suddenly charged, its rider's sword swishing like a scythe.
Rance backstepped his mount, jerked the reins to the right, then heeled into a canter. He swung and blocked his attacker's slashing swipe. Then his mount broke into a gallop down the middle of the street.
The dust became a mire, his mount's hooves sinking to the first joint. The animal whinnied piteously, struggling to disengage itself from the muck.
The mire did not seem to impede Rance's attacker. The dark rider turned, reared again, and bore down.
Rance fended off another onslaught, then dismounted and led the beast out of the mud, which now began crystallizing into dry crackling.
He remounted in time to ward off another savage blow. This time he followed up and decapitated the rider. The helmeted head fell to earth and shattered like a glass sphere.
The town faded, its new-ancient gables blending with the gray sky. Soon the phantom hamlet was no more, and the hillside was clear again.
But a faint voice lingered. "Ooo, talk about rough trade… "
He sheathed his sword and continued down the slope. Big rocks blocked his path, and his mount scrabbled around them down to level ground. The valley of the Zinites was nearer now, but darkness hovered at the edge of the world. He decided to make camp.
The night was long. Voices wailed in the distance, naming the unnameable, invoking powers of darkness. Greenish mist choked the valley below. Vague shapes moved against the night sky. Rance thought they were dark clouds, but was not sure.
He kicked another dry stick into the fire and huddled closer to the flames.
Presently he opened his bedroll, spread it out, and lay down. He took out a parchment scroll-a back issue of Graverobbers' Forum-and read himself to sleep.
Nothing disturbed him during the night.
He stood looking up at the pinnacle of the immense burial pyramid. The structure was at least as tall as it was wide, and it was very wide indeed, and was set off in steps-he counted seven. An involved sequence of ramps, each quite steep, led to the top. A forced entrance had been cut into the west side of the thing, a gash in the stone like a wound that had never healed.
He could see that there was zero chance of recovering anything of value from this site. Hundreds of tomb robbers had plundered it, perhaps thousands. Generations. What was of value was long gone.
He looked around. And there was nothing else. All had been picked over, searched through a thousand times. He had sifted through piles of bones, skulls-remains of ancient Zinites, or squatters who had died almost as long ago? Zin's history was a muddle. There was no telling. The bones were probably those of ghouls who had succumbed to the inevitable curses and protection devices.
He tethered his mount and untied a packet of tools and other paraphernalia. He slung it over his back and strode forward toward the lowest ramp.
CHAPTER THREE
At thirty-five, Maximilian Dumbrowsky knew his life was a mess, but there was absolutely nothing he could do about it. He had tried.
In fact, he had tried: (1) psychotherapy; (2) Zen; (3) various forms of meditation; (4) good old-fashioned psychoanalysis; (5) existential therapy; (7) biofeedback training; (9) jogging; (10) running; (11) massage; (12) screaming; (13) macrobiotic and other diets; (14) drugs; (15) sex; (16) and assorted cheap thrills.
None of the above had done him any good.
He had done almost everything there was to do, gone with every fad, every New Age flimflam. He had dared to be great, tried to win through intimidation, pulled his own strings, got himself together, found his own private space, sensitized himself, desensitized himself, sought union with the cosmic Om, only to find in the end that he was… o.k.
But he didn't feel it. In truth, he was fed up, more than a little desperate, and was seriously thinking of looking into pyramid-selling schemes.
Everything was a mess. He lived with not a farthing to his name in three squalid rooms in the student/aging-hippie section of town. His career history, spaciously laid out with embarrassingly long periods of unemployment; was a sorry record of job-hopping. His present job was excremental, and his boss, Herb Fenton, was a dolt of the first water.
Regarding (15) [see above], Penny wasn't returning his calls to her phone recorder. Hadn't for three weeks. The least of his worries, actually.
And his present psychotherapist-he was back to (1) again-was giving up his private practice to work in a large university hospital upstate. He handed Max a card with the address and phone of another therapist, to whom he had referred Max's case. Max had glanced at it, slipped the card into a pocket, and promptly lost it.
He just couldn't face starting over again. He had checked with a physicians' reference service, got a few names, but hadn't done anything about getting a new shrink.
Working late again. Printer's deadline for the updated hardware catalog.
Coming back from dinner, Max snapped on the light in his cubbyhole of an office. The place was cramped, windowless, and drab. There was a desk with reams of paper and old catalogs piled around a battered typewriter and a telephone. A filing cabinet occupied one corner. The rest of the roam was stuffed to the ceiling with cardboard cartons. Max sat down at the desk. A note taped to the telephone read: MAX, CALL ME-HERB.