here was a violent wrenching inside of him. He gasped again, and this time found the air icy but breathable. He stood on a slope covered with thin, pale blue snow, surrounded by jaggedly broken midnight blue rocks. Light filtered down dully from a bluely clouded sky. A brisk wind whipped the snow into drifts about the feet of the rocks and bit at his body even through the furs. The atmosphere had a strange acrid flavor, as well as searing his throat and lungs with its bitter chill.

He had taken no more than three breaths of it, meanwhile glancing wildly about him, before the Master suddenly appeared out of nowhere at his side. Here the magic sword was more than subliminally blue – it glowed bright as a blue flame all down its slim length.

The sorcerer raised it and stared at it. "There are kekri near," he announced grimly. "Not on our backs, to be sure, but closer than I had hoped. We shall have to be very careful." He thrust the point of the sword straight down into the snow and released his grip. It seemed to shift and melt, becoming a simple rod, but still glowing brightly. Then, still in upright position, it moved off to their right. The Master followed, with a beckoning wave at Tiron. "This way."

The young Koth tried to keep track of their course, in case he should have to find the way back, but it wasn’t easy. The wind whipped streamers of blue snow among the rocks, cutting off vision even a few yards away both in front and behind. Their general trend was downhill, following the windings of a sort of canyon. The sorcerer seemed utterly tireless, as he had in the fight, striding ahead without respite. Eltiron matched his pace, but the cold swiftly penetrated his clothing and numbed his face, hands and feet, while his throat and lungs ached more deeply with every breath.

Then suddenly his companion halted, so abruptly that the Koth collided awkwardly with him. Before he could voice his annoyance, the other man had seized his shoulder and dragged him to his knees in the lee of a rock. Tsahra seemed to have disappeared.

When they had crouched there in the snow for several minutes without any sight or sound to indicate any sort of danger, Tiron tugged impatiently at his guide’s arm, but the Master gestured imperiously for him to be still. The sorcerer seemed to be listening, but what he heard, if anything, was not apparent to the younger man.

Finally when Tiron was sure he would never be able to move again, the sword-rod appeared before them and the Master slowly got to his feet. "What was all that about?" the Koth asked peevishly, through stiff lips.

"The kekri passed us. They have detected the opening of the Gate. We must hasten."

"I saw nothing, heard nothing."

"For which you may be grateful. Tsahra warned me in time, and I shielded us from them."

Tsahra was flaring so brightly that Tiron could scarcely bear to look at it, and also dancing up and down in obvious impatience. The Master followed it, and the young warrior followed him. The rod was much faster than either of the men, and it was in a great hurry, darting ahead and then back, or zigzagging across their path. About the time Tiron had decided that he simply could not and would not go another step in this mad chase, they rounded the shoulder of a towering mass of blue stone and came to the city.

It was not a city in human terms – in fact at a glance one might have supposed it was merely a large open area in the rocks. But there were many rods in the space, moving in a complicated vortex of sparkling light. And just before the travellers, barring their way, stood a group of a score or more tsi, all glowing as brightly as Tsahra. Two of these were very tall, sticking up half again taller than Tiron’s head. Several more were around shoulder height, and others shorter, all the way down to some which little more than topped his knee.

Tsahra stood just before the tall wands; the Master advanced to stand a pace behind. Again Eltiron could hear nothing. But the sorcerer bowed deeply, and a flickering of light up and down the rods seemed to reply. Then they suddenly burst into such brilliance that it was like a cry of alarm or rage.

The Master whirled; Tsahra leaped into his hand, sword-shaped once more. Tiron hastily and clumsily jerked around. And at last he saw the kekri. From behind the rock, the same way they had come, there now poured what appeared to be a dense blue fog. Floating in it, moving with it, were a host of flat, darker blue ovals. Mist with eyes ...!

The Master darted past him to meet their charge, swinging Tsahra in wide arcs before him. The other rods streamed behind him and also plunged into the fight, leaving the Koth helplessly cursing in the rear. He had no weapon; the sorcerer had said a sword would be useless here; but to just stand by, watching, while others fought, was maddening!

When Tsahra swept through the mist creatures, they did not fall, but disappeared, eyes and all. But some of the rods had disappeared as well, and the kekri were still coming around the rock, as if there were no end to their numbers. They clustered thickly about the Master, so that Eltiron could scarcely see him. Only the glow of Tsahra moving in the fog showed that he still fought.

Then two kekri broke through the cordon of the tsi and advanced on Eltiron. He backed away, hand clawing at his side for the hilt which was not there. The things suddenly dashed forward, one on each side of him. It felt as if a dozen icy hands clutched at his bare skin, heedless of the layers of fur which swathed him. He struggled, waving his arms and whirling around in a vain attempt to escape the grip, but he might as well have fought the wind. His arms met no resistance, and the cruel grip only intensified. He felt warmth and life pouring from him like blood from an open wound.

Then his right hand struck and closed on something. He neither knew nor cared what it was; in this extremity he was ready to seize upon anything which might serve as a weapon. Desperately he swung the thing, which hefted like a heavy stick – or a sword. The torturing grip fell away, and he heard a thin screaming, high and horrible.

He staggered and fell to one knee, his head swimming. After a moment he roused and looked for the first time at his weapon. It was a sword – the sword of a king – the sword of his dreams! Totally different from Tsahra, it was long and broad, with curling hilts, jeweled pommel, and flaming double-edged straight blade.

But he had little time for either wonder or admiration. The mist-creatures were pouring toward him. He leaped up and with a roar of defiance plunged into their midst, his newly acquired sword scything them away. The shrill keening that seemed to signal their destruction was a continuous torment inside his skull, but he did not slacken. Only a few of the bright rods were visible now, and a clot of mist completely hid the Master. Even Tsahra’s flash was veiled.

He rushed at the cloud, cutting his way through. The mist parted before his blade, revealing the rigid body of the sorcerer standing as if frozen, his face set in a savage grimace, his right hand half raised – and empty. As Eltiron cleared away the surrounding kekri, the other man collapsed limply in the snow. The remaining attackers withdrew, chased by the two tallest rods, and finally vanished back the way they had come.

Eltiron did not care to pursue them, and neither did the surviving tsi. The tall ones returned; one of them zipped rapidly away toward the vortex, while the other moved over near the fallen sorcerer. Eltiron laid down his sword and knelt to roll the Master onto his back. He appeared totally lifeless.

With an oath, the Koth tore off a mitten and dug under the other’s wrapped scarf to feel at the base of his throat for a pulse. But his fingers were numb with cold, and the flesh he touched was even more icy. He could detect nothing.

What was he to do? He was trapped in this alien, hostile world! He turned away bitterly, with tears of despair stinging his eyes and freezing on his cheeks. His gaze fell on the sword which had come to him in his need, and he reached out for it, his heart wrung with loss and longing. It was the weapon he had always dreamed of, without even knowing that he dreamed! Now, to both gain it, and lose his life, almost in the same hour, was a cruel irony.

But as he touched the shining hilt, a thought stabbed into his mind, not in words, but a feeling, a hope. He lives. This communication came from the tall rod. Tiron did not know how he knew that, but he was sure. Startled, he glanced up at that being, which was now only shimmering gently. Help comes for the preserver. You also have served us well. We will grant your request.

Then the contact was broken as Eltiron dropped the sword once more and turned to try to revive his guide. But nothing he did seemed of any avail.

The tall rod did not move, nor make any further attempt at communication. Eltiron glanced up at it with growing impatience, wondering whether he had just imagined he heard – or felt – something. But he had no place to go, nothing better to do than sit here waiting for death to claim him. He was finding it very difficult to fight off the lethargy of the cold.

With an effort, he stood up and swung his arms and stamped his feet to restore his lagging circulation. Then he saw the rescue party coming. Five large rods, not quite as tall as the other two, but higher than his head, formed the center of a crowd of smaller tsi. Among them these five carried a ball like a miniature moon, glowing blue-white. Threads of filmy light ran from the ball to each of its bearers, and it hung suspended about a yard off the ground in their midst.

They came near; Eltiron stooped to pick up his sword and moved out of their way. The five, together with the tallest rod, ringed the motionless body, holding the ball over the Master’s breast. Eltiron caught bits of their talk, thoughts like fireflies reflecting briefly on the surface of his mind. He felt wisps of doubt, reassurance, sorrow, anger, and less identifiable feelings.

The tableau stood motionless for a few moments; then the globe sank slowly until it touched and finally disappeared into the man’s body. Immediately he stirred, gasping in a deep breath. Next he sat up, and Eltiron felt the elation of all the tsi along with his own joyful relief.

The Master turned and bowed his head to the tallest rod. Then he got to his feet, moving slowly and with obvious effort.

The Koth stepped forward to assist him. "Are you all right?" he inquired anxiously.

"Scarcely. But it seems that I owe my life to you. A strange return. Anyway, you got your sword."

Tiron lifted it for him to see. "Yes! But I don’t know what happened to yours."

The Master glanced over his shoulder at the tall rod. Tiron saw his face stiffen. "Tsahra is dead," he said bleakly. "Let us go."

"You won’t try to get another?"

"I will be doing well to get us home."

"Can you?" Tiron gasped worriedly.

"I must. We cannot stay much longer."

"What if we meet ... them again?"

"Tsan will give us an escort."

The tall rod moved out ahead; Eltiron fell in beside the sorcerer, still gripping his blue blade. "How do you know his name? How can you speak to them at all?"

"It is a speaking of minds. Tsan is ... one who wields Power. I have met him before." He broke off abruptly, as if he had no breath to waste.

But the youth had one more question to ask. He waved the sword before him. "This ... is ... one of them?"

The Master nodded. "His name is Tsangor."

"A relative of ... that one?" Tiron pointed Tsangor at their tall guide.

"Perhaps. I know nothing of their social structure."

The young warrior regarded the sword in his hand with awe and humility. Even as a thing, an object, it was gorgeous beyond imagination. And it was so much more! It was a person, who had given himself to him as a man gives himself to a liege lord. Eltiron had never known that experience before, either as man or master; as a hired mercenary he had taken only a sword oath to Yantar, essentially promising to be loyal as long as he was paid. A true liegeman pledged to be as a weapon in the hand of his lord, to work, fight and die for him, just as Tsahra had fought and died in the Master’s hand. Now this sword, this incomparable Tsangor, was his liegeman. He gripped it more tightly, wondering whether it could feel his gratitude.

He turned eagerly to the Master to speak of all these things, but seeing the other’s white face and dogged step, he remembered the other’s loss, as great as his gain, and guiltily turned away again.

The escort of rods accompanied them all the way to the place of the Gate. The Master engaged in some last exchange with Tsan; then he turned and laid his hand upon the face of a rock. It looked to Tiron just like every other rock in that howling wilderness, but it must have been the right one, for he felt himself seized by the wrenching of body and mind. Abruptly they stood once more in the circular tower room. The youth started to draw a deep breath of relief and instantly strangled. What should have been the good air of his native world was foul and unbreathable! He clutched at his face with his free hand, stumbling forward in panic.

A hand grabbed his shoulder and spun him around; white fingers moved before his face, and sweet air rushed into his laboring lungs. The sorcerer released him and stood for a moment with bowed head, his hands cupped over his own face. Then he swayed drunkenly. Eltiron caught and steadied him as he also sucked great sobbing breaths.

They staggered down the stair together; when they passed the door of the Master’s bedchamber the sorcerer fell against it, then through it, and collapsed on the floor just inside. Tiron bent over him and heard a faint whisper: "Send my people to me."

He left him lying as he was and descended the stair. On the way to his own room he met a plump serving woman, and told her, "Your lord is in bad case, in his chamber. Someone needs to undress him and put him to bed."

She immediately turned and ran back the way she had come, calling, "Bork! Edar!"

Tiron set Tsangor carefully on the chest in his room, and managed to struggle out of his furs and knit sweaters and scarves before he collapsed on his own bed.