"Then I must get on with my hellride. I have to beat him to it."

"I see you are riding Drum," Julian observed. "He is a good beast, a sturdy fellow. Been through many a hellride."

"Glad to hear that," I said. "What are you going to do now?"

"Get in touch with someone in Amber and get up to date on everything we haven't had a chance to talk about-Benedict, probably."

"No good," I said. "You will not be able to reach him. He is off to the Courts of Chaos. Try Gerard, and convince him I am an honorable man while you are about it."

"The redheads are the only magicians in this family, but I will try... . You did say the Courts of Chaos?"

"Yes, but again, the time is too valuable now."

"Of course. Get you gone. We will have our leisure later-I trust."

He reached out and clasped my arm. I glanced at the manticora, at the dogs seated in a circle about it.

"Thanks, Julian. I-You are a difficult man to understand."

"Not so. I think the Corwin I hated must have died centuries ago. Ride now, man! If Brand shows up around here, I'll nail his hide to a tree!"

He shouted an order to his dogs as I mounted, and they fell upon the carcass of the manticora, lapping at its blood and tearing out huge chunks and strips of flesh. As I rode past that strange, massive, manlike face, I saw that its eyes were still open, though glazed. They were blue, and death had not robbed them of a certain preternatural innocence. Either that, or the look was death's final gift-a senseless way of passing out ironies, if it was.

I took Drum back to the trail and began my hellride.

Chapter 10

Moving along the trail at a gentle pace, clouds darkening the sky and Drum's whinny of memory or anticipation... . A turn to the left, and uphill... . The ground is brown, yellow, back to brown again... . The trees squat down, draw apart... . Grasses wave between them in the cool and rising breeze... . A quick fire in the sky... . A rumble shakes loose raindrops... .

Steep and rocky now... . The wind tugs at my cloak... . Up... . Up to where the rocks are streaked with silver and the trees have drawn their line... . The grasses, green fires, die down in the rain... . Up, to the craggy, sparkling, rain-washed heights, where the clouds rush and boil like a mud-gorged river at flood crest... . The rain stings like buckshot and the wind clears its throat to sing... . We rise and rise and the crest comes into view, like the head of a startled bull, horns guarding the trail... . Lightnings twist about their tips, dance between them... . The smell of ozone as we reach that place and rush on through, the rain suddenly blocked, the wind shunted away... .

Emerging on the farther side... . There is no rain, the air is still, the sky smoothed and darkened to a proper star-filled black... . Meteors cut and burn, cut and burn, cauterizing to afterimage scars, fading, fading... . Moons, cast like a handful of coins... . Three bright dimes, a dull quarter, a pair of pennies, one of them tarnished and scarred... . Down then, that long, winding way... . Hoof clops clear and metallic in the night air... . Somewhere, a catlike cough... . A dark shape crossing a lesser moon, ragged and swift... .

Downward... . The land drops away at either hand... . Darkness below... . Moving along the top of an infinitely high, curved wall, the way itself bright with moonlight... . The trail buckles, folds, grows transparent... . Soon it drifts, gauzy, filamentous, stars beneath as well as above... . Stars below on either side... . There is no land... . There is only the night, night and the thin, translucent trail I had to try to ride, to learn how it felt, against some future use... .

It is absolutely silent now, and the illusion of slowness attaches to every movement... . Shortly, the trail falls away, and we move as if swimming underwater at some enormous depth, the stars bright fish... . It is freedom, it is the power of the hellride that brings an elation, like yet unlike the recklessness that sometimes comes in battle, the boldness of a risky feat well learned, the rush of rightness following the finding of the poem's proper word... . It is these and the prospect itself, riding, riding, riding, from nowhere to nowhere perhaps, across and among the minerals and fires of the void, free of earth and air and water... .

We race a great meteor, we touch upon its bulk... . Speeding across its pitted surface, down, around, then up again... . It stretches into a great plain, it lightens, it yellows... .

It is sand, sand now beneath our movement... . The stars fade out as the darkness is diluted to a morning full of sunrise... . Swaths of shade ahead, desert trees within them... . Ride for the dark... . Crashing through... . Bright birds burst forth, complain, resettle... .

Among the thickening trees... . Darker the ground, narrower the way... . Palm fronds shrink to hand size, barks darken... . A twist to the right, a widening of the way... . Our hoofs striking sparks from cobblestones... . The lane enlarges, becomes a tree-lined street... . Tiny row houses flash by... . Bright shutters, marble steps, painted screens, set back beyond flagged walks... . Passing, a horse-drawn cart, loaded with fresh vegetables... . Human pedestrians turning to stare... . A small buzz of voices... .

On... . Passing beneath a bridge... . Coursing the stream till it widens to river, taking it down to the sea....

Thudding along the beach beneath a lemon sky, blue clouds scudding... . The salt, the wrack, the shells, the smooth anatomy of driftwood... . White spray off the lime-colored sea... .

Racing, to where the place of waters ends at a terrace... . Mounting, each step crumbling and roaring down behind, losing its identity, joined with the boom of the surf... . Up, up to the flattopped, tree-grown plain, a golden city shimmering, miragelike, at its end... .

The city grows, darkens beneath a shadowy umbrella, its gray towers stretch upward, glass and metal flashing light through the murk... . The towers begin to sway... .

The city falls in upon itself, soundlessly, as we pass... . Towers topple, dust boils, rises, is pinked by some lower glow... . A gentle noise, as of a snuffed candle, drifting by... .

A dust storm, quickly falling, giving place to fog... . Through it, the sounds of automobile horns... . A drift, a brief lift, a break in the gray-white, pearlwhite, shifting... . Our hoofprints on a shoulder of highway... . To the right, endless rows of unmoving vehicles... . Pearl-white, gray-white, drifting again... .

Directionless shrieks and wailings... . Random flashes of light... .

Rising once more... . The fogs lower and ebb... . Grass, grass, grass... . Clear now the sky, and delicate blue... . A sun racing to set... . Birds... . A cow in the field, chewing, staring and chewing... .

Leaping a wooden fence to ride a country road... . A sudden chill beyond the hill... . The grasses are dry and snow's on the ground... . Tin-roofed farmhouse atop a rise, curl of smoke above it... .

On... . The hills grow up, the sun rolls down, darkness dragged behind... . A sprinkle of stars... . Here a house, set far back... . There another, long driveway wound among old trees... . Headlights... .

Off to the side of the road... . Draw rein and let it pass... .

I wiped my brow, dusted my shirt front and sleeves. I patted Drum's neck. The oncoming vehicle slowed as it neared me, and I could see the driver staring. I gave the reins a gentle movement and Drum began walking. The car braked to a halt and the driver called something after me, but I kept going. Moments later, I heard him drive off.

It was country road for a time after that. I traveled at an easy pace, passing familiar landmarks, recalling other times. A few miles later and I came to another road, wider and better. I turned there, staying off on the shoulder to the right. The temperature continued to drop, but the cold air had a good clean taste to it. A sliced moon shone above the hills to my left. There were a few small clouds passing overhead, touched to the moon's quarter with a soft, dusty light. There was very little wind; an occasional stirring of branches, no more. After a time, I came to a series of dips in the road, telling me I was almost there.