“Father?” says the dark horse shadow upon the castle wall.

“Yes, Typhon.”

“Father!”

A sound to break the ears occurs, then:

“Anubis said you had perished!”

“He lied. Osiris must have wielded the Hammer, saying that he was saving the universe, for I was losing the battle.”

“That is true,” says the Prince.

“I was not losing, however; I was winning. He wished to slay me, not the Nameless.”

“How did you survive?”

“A reflex. I went into fugue as the blow descended. A fraction of it fell upon me and Anubis retrieved me, senseless, and spirited me off to his House. He scattered my gear across the Midworlds. He trained me as his weapon.”

“To slay Thoth?”

“That was the task he gave me.”

“Then he dies!” says Typhon and rears, flaming.

“Desist, brother,” says the Prince. “He did not succeed, and we may yet have a use for the dog…”

But already the dark horse shadow has faded, and the Prince lowers his head.

He looks to Set.

“Should we follow to stop him?”

“Why? Anubis has lived a thousand years too long. Let him guard himself now. -And how? Even if we would, there is none can stop Typhon when the madness lies upon him.”

“That is true,” says the Prince, and, turning, he addresses Vramin:

“If you would serve me further, my former Angel of the Seventh Station, go you to the House of the Dead. It will soon require the presence of one who can operate the machinery.”

“Typhon was Lord of the House of Fire,” says Vramin,

“Yes, but I fear he will not remain in the House of the Dead after he has gained vengeance. If I know my brother, he will then seek out the one who wielded the Hammer. He will go after Osiris.”

“Then I shall remove me to the House of the Dead. Will you accompany me, Madrak?”

“If the Prince has no further use for me here.”

“I have not. You may go.”

“Lord,” says Vramin, “it is kind of you to trust me again, knowing the part I played in the Wars of the Stations…”

“Those days are gone, and we are different people-are we not?”

“I hope so-and thank you.”

The Prince crosses his arms and bows his head. Vramin and Madrak vanish.

“How,” says the Steel General, “may I assist you?”

“We go again to fight the Nameless,” says the Prince Who Was A Thousand. “Will you come and stand in reserve?”

“Yes. Let me summon Bronze.”

“Do so.”

The winds of Marachek stir the dust. The sun flickers its way into another day.

Vramin stands in the great Hall of the House of the Dead, holding his Maypole cane. Its streamers go forth, entering into all the passageways, visible or otherwise, which come together at that place.

At his side, Madrak shifts his weight from foot to foot and stares about him.

Vramin’s eyes glow, and the light dances within them.

“Nothing. Nothing alive. Nowhere,” he says.

“Then Typhon has found him,” says Madrak.

“Then Typhon is not here either.”

“'Then he has slain him and departed. He doubtless seeks Osiris now.”

“I wonder"

“What else could it be?”

“I do not know. But now I am master here, by delegation of the Prince. I will find the places of power and learn their functions.”

“Yet once you broke faith with the Prince…”

“That is true-and he forgave me.”

Then Vramin seats himself upon the throne of Anubis, and Madrak pays him homage, saying:

“Hail, Vramin! Master of the House of the Dead!”

“You need bend no knee to me, old friend. Please rise. I will need your assistance, for this place is quite different from the Seventh Station, where once I reigned.”

And for hours Vramin studies the secret controls about the throne. Then, “Anubis!” cries a voice which he knows is not the voice of Madrak.

And somehow he mimics the bark, the whine:

“Yes?”

“You were right. Horus was defeated, and he returned here. But he is gone again.”

It is the voice of Osiris.

He gestures with his cane, and the big window appears in the middle of the air.

“Hello, Osiris,” he says.

“So the Prince has finally moved,” says Osiris. “I suppose I am next.”

“I hope not,” says Vramin. “I can personally attest to having heard the Prince assure Horus that he would not take vengeance upon you-in exchange for cooperation.”

“Then what has become of Anubis?”

“I do not know for certain. Typhon came here to kill him. I came here to clean up after Typhon and to hold the Station. Either he has slain him and departed, or Anubis fled and Typhon followed. So listen to me, Osiris: Despite the Prince’s assurance, you are in danger. Typhon is not aware of the Prince’s promise, and he was not party to it. Having learned the true story from Set himself and having heard it confirmed by the Prince, he is likely to seek vengeance on the wielder of the Hammer-“

“Set lives?”

“Yes. He was known for a time as Wakim.”

“Anubis’ emissary!”

“None other. The dog had stripped him of his memories and sent him to slay his own son-and father. That is what moved Typhon to anger.”

“A pox on the whole bloody family! And what has become of my son? He but left me this note, and-Of course!”

“ ‘Of course,’ what?”

“It is not too late. I-“

“Behind you, on the wall!” cries Vramin. “Typhon!”

Osiris moves with a speed which belies his fragile appearance. He dives toward a green tapestry, casts it aside and moves beyond.

The shadow flows after him and rears.

When it moves away, there is a Typhon-shaped hole in the tapestry and the wall itself.

“Typhon,” says Vramin.

“I am here,” comes the voice. “Why did you give warning?”

“Because Thoth gave him his life.”

“I was not aware of this.”

“You did not remain long enough to hear it repeated. Now it is too late.”

“No. I fear he has escaped me.”

“How so?”

“He was not within the chamber when I destroyed it.”

“This may be a good thing. Listen. We can use Osiris.”

“No! There can never be peace between our families so long as he lives, regardless of any chivalrous sentiments my brother may mouth. I love my brother, but I will not abide by his forgiving this one. No. I will search this House until I find Osiris and he passes down Skagganauk Abyss!”

“As did Anubis?”

“No! Anubis has escaped me!” comes the cry. “For a time.”

Then Typhon rears, the flames come, and he is gone.

Vramin makes a daisy-beheading gesture with his cane, and the window is closed.

“Anubis still lives,” says Madrak, looking back over his shoulder.

“Obviously.”

“What shall we do?”

“We shall continue to study the functions of the House of the Dead.”

“I wish to rest.”

“Then do so. Find yourself a near chamber and retire. You know where the food is.”

“Yes.”

“Till later, then.”

“Till later, Lord”

Madrak goes forth from the great Hall, and he wanders. He comes, after a time, to a chamber where the dead stand like statues. He seats himself among them. He speaks.

“I was his faithful servant. Hear me, lady with the breasts like melons. -I was his faithful servant. The poet went to war with other Angels, knowing it went against his will. But he is forgiven and exalted. And where am I? Servant to a servant.”

It is not fair.

“I’m glad you agree with me. -And you there, fellow with the extra arms. Did you spread religion and morality? Did you single-handedly defeat monsters and wondrous beasts among the unenlightened?”

Of course not.

“So you see…” He slaps his thigh. “So you see, there is no justice, and virtue is constantly betrayed, befouled, imposed upon. Look what has become of the General, who devoted his life to humanity: Life took away his own humanity. Is that justice?”