Songs of the Dying Earth

“Did you really think that you were the first?” said the Twk-man with a laugh. Then he was gone, and Pelmundo was alone once more.

“Father,” said Pelmundo softly, “I pledge the coming battle to you, for after I have slain the Umbassario’s nightmare creature my triumph shall be written up in song and story, and the day will come when as Chief Curator you file it in a place of honor in the Great Archive of Zhule.” Then, looking forward, he said in a steady voice: “Creature, beware, for your doom is approaching you!”

Deeper and deeper into the moor he went, the mud grabbing at his feet, his sweat cascading down his body. “Here I am, creature,” he said again and again. “You have but to show yourself.” But there was no sign of Graebe the Inevitable.

Pelmundo trod through the moor for an hour, then another, with no sign of any other living thing.

“The Twk-man was wrong,” he said aloud. “There is no monster abroad today. I must find the wherewithal to pay a mage for a spell to draw him to me, for without him there can be no ultimate reward from the golden witch.”

He plodded ahead, and finally reached the edge of the moor. The trees were less closely clustered now, and narrow rays of sunlight finally penetrated through the dense foliage. Birds chirped, crickets sang, even the frogs seemed at peace with their surroundings.

And then, suddenly, there was silence — an almost tangible silence. Pelmundo lay his hand on the hilt of his sword and peered ahead, but could see nothing — no shape, no movement, nothing at all.

He looked to the right and the left. Not a thing. His hand moved to his medallion, which he touched for luck and moved slightly to cover his heart. “Fear not, beasts of the moor,” he said at last. “My quarry has fled.”

“But your inevitable doom has found you,” growled an inhuman voice from behind him.

Pelmundo whirled around and found himself face to face with a creature out of his worst nightmares. The bullet-shaped head boasted coal-black eyes slit like a cat’s at high noon, nostrils that were uniquely shaped for sniffing out souls, gross misshapen lips whose only function was to suck the souls from its prey. It was shaggy, covered with coarse black hair. Its hands had but a single function: to grab souls and hold them up to its mouth. Its feet served but one purpose: to carry it to its prey, on dry land, on mud, even on water.

“I am Graebe the Inevitable,” it growled, stepping forward as Pelmundo retreated step by step, the mud feeling like more of Graebe’s hands, grasping at his ankles, holding tight to his feet.

“No,” said Pelmundo. “You are my tribute to Lith, the golden witch.”

“She has taken what does not belong to her,” said Graebe. “Now she tempts you with what does not belong to you.”

“I have nothing against you, monster,” said Pelmundo, “but you stand between my and my heart’s desire, and I must slay you.”

“Your heart has nothing to do with the desire you feel,” said Graebe contemptuously. Suddenly, the creature smiled. “This is a most fortuitous meeting. I have not dined all day.”

Pelmundo tried to step back as Graebe the Inevitable approached him, but his feet were mired in the mud, and he knew he would not be able to fight on a firm terrain of his own choosing. He withdrew his sword, grasping the hilt with both hands, holding it upright before him, prepared to slash in any direction—

— and at that instant a shaft of sunlight struck the Watchman’s medallion.

Graebe stared at the shining medallian, the smile frozen on his misshapen, soul-sucking lips. Suddenly he emitted a howl of anguish that echoed through the moor, and held his hands up to shield his eyes from the vision he saw.

Finally, he lowered his hands and stared once more at his image in the medallion.

“Can that be me?” he whispered in shock.

Pelmundo, puzzled, held the sword motionless.

“I was a man once,” continued Graebe, still barely whispering. “I made a bargain, but not to become…this! It is more than I can bear.”

“Have you never seen your reflection before?” asked Pelmundo.

“A very long time ago. When I was…as you.” Graebe stared hypnotically at his face in the medallion. “The rest of me,” he said, “is it the same?”

“Worse,” said Pelmundo.

“Then do what you must do,” said Graebe, lowering his hideous hands to his side. “I cannot go on. Do your worst, and claim your golden reward, little joy may it bring you.”

The creature lowered its head and closed its eyes, and Pelmundo raised his sword high and brought it down swiftly. A moment later, the head of Graebe the Inevitable rolled on the ground, but when Pelmundo looked at it, it was the head of a man, not handsome, not especially ugly, but a man, not a creature of darkness and horror.