It stood in a wilderness turned pestilential orange by the setting sun, a black silhouette of spikes and gables with the regular metallic points of the Deathwall marching away to the south. The light from its windows spilled out across the enclosure into the desert beyond, catching the scrubby tocac bushes that were the only plant life. Out on a rocky outcrop, Tôrnon Selfrayan saw the light and knew that it was time to go home. Other, hungrier eyes saw it too.
The proprietor of the Last Inn, Davin Vandar, was a man with a two hundred year old secret to keep. Short and squat, with dark curly hair, empathic eyes and persistent expression of semi-amusement, he mechanically cleaned already shiny glasses as he listened to the man in the bledrun-coloured cloak setting across the bar from him. The stranger wore a neatly trimmed Vordinian moustache that matched his soulful brown eyes and long, lank hair.
"...So there it was," he concluded. "The caravans arrived twelve weeks late, in the middle of a snow storm. Anyone who wanted ice was surrounded by the stuff! Anyway, by the time I'd paid my debts I didn't have enough for another load, so I thought... oh, I'm sorry, you must have heard it all before."
Davin's half-smile became a whole one. "Something like it," he admitted. "But it's part of my job to listen, and it does help me to decide if I trust you enough to let you stay."
It was the stranger's turn to smile. "I should have guessed that there was more to your innocent enquiry after my fortunes than met the eye. Did I pass?"
"Yes, you sounded sincere enough and it's pretty difficult to fake sincerity with me. You'd better sign the visitor's book."
From a shelf behind the bar he took two thick brown-coloured books and pushed one across to the stranger. Then, taking a wooden dipper from a hook on the wall, he walked to the fire in the centre of the room and scooped up a small amount of the flaming oil, which he carried gingerly back to the bar and tipped into the torch suspended over it. Flames flared brightly, suffusing the room with their orange glow.
"Thanks," said the stranger, as he filled the narrow, yellow girrit horn with ink and inscribed "Gurenyor Ol Venyok" neatly on the dry, crinkly page. He flipped back through the book, looking for people he recognised.
"Great Annita, I didn't know Tohmon Serkôsen came here," he said, surprised. "That must have been good for business."
"Good? We nearly closed down! All our customers went off to fight in that national Valtherionese army of his. Tohmon Serkôsen was a very dirty word with my father after his visit."
"I don't see why. Without Tohmon, we would all have ended up as koraken meat!" retorted Gurenyor.
"Nationalist," thought Davin. Out loud, he said "I shan't argue the point. Anyway I'd better tell the rules of the Inn. Dinner after sunset, breakfast in first half-pass after sunrise, accommodation seven trawks a night, payment delayable until after first find. And you'd better read this."
He pushed across the second book. Inscribed on its front cover were the words "The Book of Monsters".
"What's this for?" asked Gurenyor, opening it.
"When an adventurer finds a new monster, I get him about it in the book. It's a warning to others. The local monster population hasn't found about this place yet - we've killed all those that got too close. But if word did ever get round that there were lots of succulent humans living here, we'd be in trouble."
"Won't their fear of fire keep them away?"
"Not if they're hungry enough."
"But the Deathwall..."
"Yes, but that means closing the outer gates, which means no adventuring, which means no Inn. The rumours about the pile of bledruns located somewhere under the Inn are entirely untrue."
"Shame," said Gurenyor. "I think I'd better read this."
There was a cheer from the skurandee room as another game ended. Davin turned to serve a man with his arm in a sling, as a pretty auburn-haired woman emerged from a door behind the bar armed with a cloth and began to wipe down the tables. A silence descended over the bar as Gurenyor took another swig of skorlina juice and settled down to read about the exciting habits of wild gaaa.
-- o --
"Hy Tôrnon!" the big man shouted as he approached. "Good hunting?"
"Not a thing." Tôrnon tugged irritably at a net that had become snagged in a tocac bush.
"Oh. Sorry about that," said the big man, barely keeping the sincerity in his voice. He pulled at the ropes trailing over his shoulder to the covered object that lay behind him. There was an embarrassed silence.
"I see you've had a kill. What is it?" said Tôrnon, finally asking the question that the big man wanted him to ask.
I'll show you when we get back to the Inn," said the big man irritatingly. "You coming?"
"Nah, sorry. I've got some more nets to disentangle."
The big man shrugged. "Please yourself. But I'd hurry if I were you. Storm's coming." He set off for the welcoming lights of the Last Inn, dragging the carcase behind him.
Tôrnon glanced at the black clouds fast approaching from the east, shivered, and continued with his work.
-- o --
The battered-looking door leading outside the Inn was flung open and three brothers wearing the distinctive yellow cloaks of Garulanians stomped in. They nodded curtly to Davin, who nodded back and indicated a table apart from the others with three elums of skorlina juice already set out. The men sat down, two with their backs to the rest of the room, and began to converse in low accented voices.
"They must have had a bad day," confided Davin. "If they'd caught something, they would have been almost friendly."
"Garulanians? Friendly? Never!" said Gurenyor.
"Oh, you'd be surprised. When they can overcome their prejudices - and we can overcome ours - they'll talk just as readily as we are talking now."
"You surprise me."
"I thought I might." A malicious gleam came into Davin's eye. "Talking of being friendly, I think you'd better meet Gort. Gort is - interesting. He arrived a few days before you did."
"Oh good, I'll be able to ask him for a few hunting tips."
"I doubt it. Oh, and if I were you I'd keep a straight face. Gort doesn't like to think that people are laughing at him."
Exactly on cue, the outside door crashed open and a huge figure stood in the opening just long enough for everyone in the room to see him. As he strode into the light of the oil-fire in the centre of the room, Gurenyor could see that the figure eschewed the usual Valtherion coverall and wore instead a black gatchit-hair loincloth, crossed kikon-hide bandoliers across his hairy chest, high black boots and a helmet with two horns stuck in it. His bulging muscles could only be described as faintly unnatural, but were rendered less impressive by the collection of bruises and scratches that the local flora and fauna had dealt his unprotected skin. The man swaggered (that was the only word for it, thought Gurenyor; swaggered) over to the bar and sat down heavily on the stool next to Gurenyor's. Gurenyor dearly hoped that it would collapse under the strain, but it didn't.
"Hy barman!" roared Gort in a voice that effectively silenced all conversation in the room. "An elum of your best skorlina juice, if you please!"
Maintaining a mask-like expression of seriousness on his face, Davin filled a glass with frothy yellow liquid and handed it to the man. An expectant hush, broken only by a snigger that was quickly stifled, descended on the room. Gurenyor watched with interest as the stranger proceeded to drain the contents of the glass in one draught. He dearly hoped - as did the rest of the Inn - that the cumulative alcoholic effects would lay him out flat, and was rather disappointed when they didn't. The buzz of conversation returned, except by the bar where an awkward silence reigned. Davin poured out another elum, Gurenyor sipped his drink. A delicious odour of stew wafted from the door by the bar.
"I see there is a stranger in the Inn," Gort boomed finally, more hoarsely than before.
"Yes," said Davin, his voice unnaturally calm. "Gort, may I introduce Gurenyor. Gurenyor, this is Gort."
Trying to stop the corners of his mouth from twitching, Gurenyor held out his hand, winced as Gort's fingers crushed his knuckles. There was another embarrassed pause. An expression close to terror crossed Gort's face as he tried to think of something to say. Then, abruptly, he stood up, grabbed the drink that Davin had poured, and stalked off to sit by himself at another table.
"Barman, indeed!" muttered Davin. Gurenyor released the mirth that had been building up in him during the entire interview.
"I don't believe it!" he gasped when he had recovered himself sufficiently to speak. "He can't be real!"
"You tell that to Jarmo," said Davin. "He found out the hard way that Gort tends to take comments personally. Gort nearly picked a fight with him because he suggested that he might occasionally feel cold in that costume of his. Apparently it's a point of honour with heroes that they are impervious to everything."
"Why does he do it? Apart from giving malicious pleasure to people like me, that is."
Davin glanced at the lonely figure sitting on the far side of the room. "He's got it wrong, poor fellow. He hasn't realised that heroes do what they do because of what they are, not the other way round."
"Yes, I suppose that's right," said Gurenyor, as the auburn-haired serving woman placed a steaming bowl and a small white oval in front of him. "Pity he hasn't worked that out yet."
"Oh, it's an easy trap to fall into. In a way, we're all playing at being heroes. That's the attraction of the wild; there are no laws out here, no one to tell you how to behave. You can become anyone you want to be. My grandad realised that - that's what made him build the Inn."
The woman returned with another bowl of stew. She put it down in front of Davin, then bent down and kissed him firmly on the cheek.
"I wish you wouldn't do that!" expostulated Davin, blushing. "Why can't you ask for help like an ordinary woman?" He glared at the lady, who glanced over her shoulder and flashed him a quick, wide smile.
Davin put down his cloth. "Excuse me, I'd better go and help or she'll do it again."
"Your wife?" asked Gurenyor.
Davin nodded. "Zerindra. That's the problem with being married. They learn all your weak points." He headed for the door.
"Wait a moment," said Gurenyor. He picked up the hard white oval. "What's this?"
"Cirinya. Break off a bit and dip it in your stew." Davin disappeared through the inner door.
Gurenyor glanced around the room to see what everyone else was doing, then snapped off a piece of the oval and dipped it cautiously into his broth. As he watched, the fragment in his fingers absorbed the moisture and swelled to several times its original size. Gurenyor shrugged and began to eat.
-- o --
The net came from to the accompaniment of a not-so-distant rumble of thunder. Tôrnon groaned aloud. On top of everything else, he was going to get a soaking on the way back as well as missing out on Zerindra's delicious stew. A perfect end to a perfect day, he thought sarcastically. With a heavy sigh, he hoisted the nets over his shoulder and began the five kilana trek home. Dieph, the first moon, rose slowly over the western horizon.
-- o --
"My compliments to your wife on her cooking," said Gurenyor as Davin returned. "That was delicious."
"Not so nice tepid, though," growled Davin as he sat down to eat.
"Yes, I suppose not," said Gurenyor absent-mindedly. "Before we were so, err, interestingly interrupted, you were talking about the history of the Inn."
"Hasn't got much of one," mumbled Davin through a mouthful of cirinya. He swallowed. "Tary Vandar, my grandad, built the Deathwall and the Inn about two hundred years ago. Quite a character, by all accounts. People thought he was a bit loopy at the time. I must find out what he did before he settled down here one day. Anyway, apart from one or two concerted attacks by marokin and other monsters, and the visit of that Tohmon Serkôsen character, that's it. That's one advantage of being on the edge of civilisation - day to day life is so exciting that an event has to be really extraordinary to be classed as historical."
"Where did your grandfather get the idea for the Deathwall from?" asked Gurenyor suddenly.
Davin opened his mouth to speak, then shut it again. Oh no you don't, merchant. Nice use of interrogation technique, though, softening your victim up then rapping out the question.
"Sorry," he said. "Family secret."
"Oh come on," said Gurenyor. "It's not that important."
Bare-faced lie if I ever heard one, Davin thought. Does he think I don't know to the last trawk how much people would pay for a wall that kills everything it touches?
"It is to me. Sorry."
"Oh well, forget it then," said Gurenyor.
Davin raised his eyebrows. I underestimated you, merchant. You're not after my secret, you just saw an opportunity and tried to take it. He smiled wryly. Must remember to trust my instinct for sincerity a bit more. Gurenyor, watching him from across the bar, smiled back, but the veiled suspicion in his eyes matched that in Davin's own.
"Not too late for supper, are we?" came a voice from the door. Both Davin and Gurenyor looked up in surprise to see a tall thin man with the sandy hair of a Mulon standing in the doorway, and a lady with similarly coloured hair tied sensibly back just behind him. The left side of the man's face, and his left hand, were covered in a bright red rash. There was a roar of derisive laughter from the rest of the Inn.
"All right, so I fell in a tocac bush!" said the man, a self-mocking smile on his lips. He crossed to the bar. "Davin, any chance of a drink for the woman here and myself?"
"I should think so, Greni," replied Davin. He nodded to the pretty lady. "Good evening, Sibiha." He turned back to the man. "So what happened?"
"Gaaa-brain here," interrupted Sibiha, "tried to steal a jorapi egg."
Davin chuckled. "Oh he did, did he?"
"But I thought jorapi were harmless herbivores!" protested Greni.
"So they are, but if you'd read the Book of Monsters properly, you'd know that jorapis get very aggressive if their eggs are tampered with," said Sibiha.
"Well if you knew that, why didn't you tell me?"
"Because then I wouldn't have had the pleasure of seeing you run into that tocac bush." Sibiha smiled sweetly.
Davin laughed out loud. "After all that effort, do you have any eggs for me? Zerindra makes a marvellous scrambled jorapi egg."
"Well?" echoed Sibiha.
"Err... no. When I hit the bush I dropped it, and it landed on its soft end and broke. the jorapi lost interest after that."
"Yes, they've got more sense than some men I could mention."
"And who was it who found the pebeum, female?" retorted Greni.
"Only because you tripped over it."
"Let's have a look," said Davin.
Greni removed some light grey lumps of metal from his sack and placed them on the bar. Davin picked one up and studied it closely.
"Well? How much is it worth?" said Greni eagerly.
"Good quality stuff," declared Davin. "Say a week's free stay for the two of you?"
"That's very generous, Davin," said Sibiha. "Thank you."
Gurenyor's face took on a calculating look. "But that's - seventy trawks! Rather a lot for a few lumps of worthless metal."
"Oh, I know an artist who makes sculptures out of it," said Davin with the airy ease of a well-used lie.
"Eh, Davin," said Greni, "did you know you've got a good-sized tocac bush in your back yard? I'll dig it up for you if you like. I feel the urge to do something violent to a tocac bush."
"I'm sure you do," said Davin, chuckling. "But believe it or not, it has sentimental value. It was that bush that decided my grandad on building the Inn here."
"You're joking."
"It's true." First law of lying - make it preposterous, people are more likely to believe it.
Zerindra arrived, bearing stew for Sibiha and Greni.
"Ah well," said Greni. "Been nice talking to you, Davin. Come on wife, let's go and impose ourselves on Rikho."
As Greni and Sibiha wandered over to another table, rain began to patter on the roof and in the distance there was a crack of thunder. All around the Inn, people looked up with fear in their eyes. Conversation was hushed and all movement suspended. In the silence another rumble of thunder sounded, nearer and louder.
"Looks like Tôrnon's going to get wet," remarked Davin loudly.
-- o --
Lost in his own miserable thoughts, Tôrnon trudged homeward. He ignored the storm raging about him, its blinding flashes of sky-magic and blustering winds, concentrated only on putting one foot in front of the other as fast as possible. The rainwater dripped off his hair down the back of his neck and his damp clothes chafed at his skin. In an effort to cheer himself up, he thought about a theory some Creator cultists had told him about, that Sula, Annita and Macon had built mountains on the tops of clouds from which to survey their domains. Thunder, they had explained, was the sound of avalanches created with his evil sky-magic as he tried to destroy them. But mixed in with the latest roll of thunder was a sound that the cultists could not have explained, a strange rat-tat-tat noise like a hammer hitting a nail. Tôrnon frowned. A pack of gruki, hunting in this weather? Then he remembered. The big man and his mysterious bundle. Tôrnon cursed loudly, dropped his nets and began to run.
-- o --
Everyone in the Inn was talking loudly - too loudly, Davin thought. He wondered at the psychological power of the storm; even he, who knew that the Inn was safe, felt a frisson of fear every time a peal of thunder sounded. The atmosphere in here is oppressive, he thought. He could feel the tension in the air, see it in people's bodies. Someone's going to crack under that pressure.
It was when a crack of thunder sounded from directly overhead that Davin's guess was confirmed. A grey-haired man in a green robe suddenly spread himself face-down on the floor, hugging the ground, and began to chant in a language full of harsh sounds and syncopated rhythmns. With an oath, one of the Garulanians got up and drew his sword.
"Leave him," said Davin languidly. "He does no harm."
"He disturbs me!" replied the Garulanian furiously in his strange accent.
"I'm sure he does. Leave him alone."
The hot-blooded Garulanian started to make a reply, but one of the brothers pulled him down by the sleeve and muttered something to him. Still glaring at Davin, he thrust his sword into its scabbard and sat down.
The window next to the bar was briefly illumined by a jagged streak of sky-magic. Gurenyor glanced at it nervously, and flinched as the thunder crashed down.
"Are you sure we're safe here?" he asked.
Davin shrugged. "The Inn's stood for two hundred years and hasn't been damaged yet."
"A Green Magic cultist would say that the Father of Nature should have destroyed this place as an affront to the wilderness."
"Apparently not," said Davin. "The Inn is - protected. Maybe it's because it belongs here, it's part of the wilderness."
Any further conversation was interrupted by a sudden gust of rain-laden wind as the door opened once again. Outlined in a flash of sky-magic a figure stood dripping, a covered object lying on the ground behind him. As he dragged it wearily into the Inn, Davin thought he heard a faint rat-tat-tat over the howling of the storm. Must be hearing things, he thought.
"Hello, big man," said Davin. "Want a drink, or did you get enough outside?"
"Wouldn't mind, Davin," said the big man as he sat next to Gurenyor.
"What've you got for me?"
"I'll show you." The big man unwrapped the bundle. Lying under the tarpaulin was a large grey-furred creature, its thin body mounted on four long stick-like legs designed for speed rather than endurance. At the front end the body twisted upwards, allowing two strong grasping appendages with long sharp claws to point forwards. The skull lay just above the claws, grey skin merging into grey bone jus below the heavy jaw lined with ridges of razor-sharp teeth. The bone of the creature's forehead gleamed in the torchlight and in their sockets the sensory organs glittered blackly. An arrow protruded from the animal's windpipe and its transparent blood seeped over the Inn's floor.
"Not bad, eh?" said the big man proudly. "One shot, straight in the..." He broke off when he saw Davin's expression.
"You fool!" said Davin quietly. He allowed his voice to rise. "Do you know what you've done? You've put the entire Inn in danger!"
The big man recoiled at the sudden attack. "I don't understand," he said in a hurt tone of voice.
With quick violent movements, Davin snatched the Book of Monsters from where Gurenyor had left it, opened it and pushed it across the bar.
"Read it," he ordered. "Out loud."
"But I..."
"Read it!"
"Gruki," the big man read slowly. "Large grey six-limbed carnivorous fur-bearer. Chief distinguishing feature - skull-like head. On no account should this creature be hunted." He looked up, puzzled.
"Go on," growled Davin.
"Chief prey - girrits and wild kikon. Capable of killing men. A hunting grukon can be recognised by the clacking of its jaws, used to communicate with other gruki. Normally encountered in twos or threes, the unnatural death of a grukon will attract all others in a ten kilana radius, who will hunt, attack and destroy the killer..." His voice trailed off.
The Inn erupted. Goaded by storm fear, people leapt to their feet, shouting and hurling insults at the big man. Weapons came as if by magic to hand, and Gurenyor had to duck as a glass flew through the air and shattered against the wall behind the bar. A full-scale lynching looked inevitable.
"That's enough!" roared Davin. "We've got enough problems without you deciding to have a riot!" The din subsided to an angry mutter.
"What're you going to do, Davin?" came a hysterical voice from the crowd. Davin considered.
"I'll... I'll have to close the outer gates," he said. He moved towards a lever set in the wall behind the bar. Unexpectedly, Greni also got up and pushed Davin out of the way.
"What do you think you're doing, Greni?" asked Davin furiously.
"Tôrnon's still out there!" replied Greni hotly. "If you shut the gate he won't stand a chance!"
"Don't blame me, blame that kikonhead there!" responded Davin, pointing at the big man. Greni glanced instinctively at him, and Davin took his opportunity. Pushing past Greni, he hauled down on the lever with all his weight.
Outside, the gates of the enclosure began to swing closed.
-- o --
Once again, Tôrnon's foot slid from under him on the treacherous mud and he fell to his knees. Wearily he pulled himself up again, tried to find the energy to force his tired legs to run the last two hundred catars to the Inn. Through the curtain of rain he could see the lithe grey bodies of his pursuers, the chilling rat-tat-tat of their jaws drawing ever closer. He wondered dimly why they had not pulled him down yet. Perhaps they were just playing with him, waiting until he dropped from exhaustion. A flash of sky-magic revealed the Last Inn only thirty catars ahead, its gates open like outstretched arms of welcome. But the sky-magic revealed something else; with smooth, oily ease the gates were closing, as if they neither knew nor cared that man's life was at stake.
"Damn big man! Damn him!" thought Tôrnon in despair as he tried to ignore the agony of his thighs and diaphragm and force himself to run faster. Behind him, a sudden clacking of jaws told him that a grukon was about to make its final pounce. With the last of his strength Tôrnon made a desperate sprint for the gates, reached them just as one gate ground to a halt. Sensing that it might lose its prey, the grukon leapt just as Tôrnon threw himself through the rapidly closing gap. The second gate clicked into position behind him as the leaping grukon hit it. For a moment its body hung suspended, outlined in blue sky-magic, then its smoking corpse flopped to the ground.
Tôrnon lay taking deep shuddering breaths, unable to summon the energy even to lift his head from the mud. His mind was blank, remembering nothing of his ordeal except for a strange after-image imprinted on his memory of the Inn outlined in sky-magic. He felt a faint sense of wonder. Running footsteps approached through the rain, and a bledrun-coloured cloak was thrown over his shoulders. Strong arms helped him to his feet and supported him as he staggered back to the Inn.
"You okay?" asked Gurenyor.
Tôrnon hardly heard the question as he concentrated on trying to understand the image in his mind.
"Odd," he murmured. "I could have sworn... sky-magic struck the Inn!... Yet the Inn... still stands!"
-- o --
"Goodnight Rikho," said Davin as the adventurer stomped upstairs, leaving he and Gurenyor the only occupants of the room. The window flared blue as another grukon made a suicidal attempt on the Deathwall; by morning, Davin estimated, there would be no grukon living within ten kilanas of the Inn. Tôrnon was long gone, hauled off to bed by Zerindra and Sibiha the moment he came in the door, much to the annoyance of the other inhabitants of the Inn who had wanted to hear his story. Davin finished swabbing down the bar and started to flip over the lids on the torches, snuffing them out.
"I was thinking you and Tôrnon might care to partner each other when he gets better," he said. "After tonight's little episode, I get the feeling you two will hit it off rather well."
Gurenyor nodded. "And he's a fellow Vordinian. If he's agreeable, certainly."
"I think you'll find he will be. He's been complaining for ages that he doesn't have a partner."
"I'll ask him tomorrow, then." Gurenyor finished his drink and got up to go. As if it were an afterthought, he added "Oh by the way, I think I've worked out what your little secret is."
Davin stiffened. So that was why Gurenyor had stayed on after the others! And he could have done it! All the elements of his secret had come out in some form or other in the evening's events, and Gurenyor might just have put them together.
"Oh really?" he asked cautiously. "What do you think it is?"
Gurenyor grinned at his discomfiture. "I think you've got some sort of arrangement with the Father of Nature. He protects the Inn and blasts down any attackers, and in return you protect the wilderness and stop people building on it. Am I right?"
Davin smiled.
"I take it that means that I am," said Gurenyor. "You cover your disappointment well, if I may say so. Must be a bit of a shock to have your secret discovered after all this time, eh? I'd better leave you to get over it. See you tomorrow." Gurenyor went upstairs.
Davin covered the fire with a thakkar wood lid and walked to the door of the kitchen, still smiling. The smile was more obviously one of relief now than it had been when Gurenyor had seen it, but then Davin was good at dissembling. He picked up the pebeum he had stored behind the bar and left the darkened room.
"Come to bed, darling," called Zerindra from one of the black exits to the kitchen.
"In a moment," Davin called back. Dodging the table in the middle of the room, he went over to the dresser standing against the far wall, reached behind it and began to operate the ten small levers he found there, listening for the tiny clicks as the metal balls dropped through the mechanism buried in the stonework. He knew that if he made a mistake with the levers a ball would fall into the wrong slot, the counter-balance would not operate and the door would not open. Then he would have to wait until water gurgling down the waste pipe from the stone washing trough standing next to the dresser reset the mechanism. But he made no mistake and the final ball clicked into place. Opening the bottom door of the dresser, Davin pushed down on the floor inside and felt it fall away from his hand, as it had done for two hundred years. He lowered himself onto the first step, shutting the dresser door behind him, and lit a torch in a niche in the wall.
The air in the rock-hewn chamber was dry and musty, like a catacomb. Davin added the pebeum to the pile next to the crucible in which he melted it down, glanced at the pile of tocac branches in the obsidian pot nearby, and on impulse decided to check the vats. Picking up a bucket of rainwater, he entered the shadowy hole on the far side of the storeroom.
Here, in the gloom, was the heart of the Inn. Here was its two hundred year old secret. In the rock-hewn tanks lined with obsidian the pebeum sheets lay immersed in an oily liquid, a liquid that in its raw state burned like the tocac bushes it came from. And on the wall, protected by a sheet of glass, hung the page from the forbidden book of Raymon, the page that Tary Vandar had translated and which had inspired him to build the Deathwall through the long kilanas of wilderness. Stepping over the cupreum wires that led to the Deathwall and the spikes on the roof of the Inn, Davin refilled the vats to the mark and checked the pebeum sheets to make sure that they were brown beneath the liquid. He was worried in case the strain on the Deathwall had caused them to revert to base pebeum. But all was well. The Inn was safe.
Mark Tolley
1985.