The Dark Queen by Michael Williams Page B

whirlpool, a wavering translucent shape like a mirage on the
     desert horizon. The apparition scrambled vainly.toward the top of the sandy whirlpool, the
     springjaw clambering after it, its smaller set of fangs clacking hungrily. “Fordus!”
     Vaananen whispered, stepping forward in alarm. He knew that somewhere this was actually
     happening. The rebel was fighting with a monster. Here in his chamber, powerless to help,
     the druid could only watch and hope. And breathe the warding over the distant tore. At the
     edge of the eddying sand, the ghostly man clutched, grappled, slid back. The springjaw
     scrambled toward him, a dull light shining in its great green eye. Huge, sand-colored, and
     insectlike, it scrabbled at the bottom of a funneling pit, its ragged jaws opening like a
     crab's claw, like a Ner- akan mantrap.
    Fordus lurched toward the lip of the pit and safety as the creature reared and plunged,
     its huge mandibles encircling his ankle, widening, arching ... “Watch the other eyes . .
     .” Vaananen muttered, staring at the dull black orbs resting behind the false, brilliant
     eyes of the springjaw. The black eyes, the true ones, would signal the attack.
    He breathed a prayer that Fordus would know this as well. The great jaws hinged and
     wavered over the Plainsman's leg. Sliding down the sandy incline, Fordus snatched an axe
     from his belt, pivoted, and hurled the weapon solidly into the thorax of the attacking
     monster. The springjaw roared, staggered back, its black eyes rolling swiftly beneath the
     chiti-nous exoskeleton of the head. “Now!” the druid cried, and thirty miles away, in the
     heart of the desert, the Prophet felt the tore at his neck quiver and draw him up. With a
     last burst of furious energy, Fordus set his other foot on the springjaw's head and
     pushed. Crying out as the swiftly closing jaw flayed the skin of his ankle, the Plainsman
     rolled clear of the trap, pulling himself onto level ground as the springjaw slid back
     into crumbling darkness. He sat on the edge of the sand funnel, thankful to be alive,
     clutching his wounded foot. Which already was beginning to swell with the monster's
     poison. Vaananen leaned forward, trying vainly to judge the severity of the wound. But the
     white sand whirled in the other direction, and slowly the stone rose to the surface of the
     garden. Innocent and mute, it lay where the druid had placed it, next to the red stone,
     where its shadow formed a soothing pattern on the manicured sand. Vaananen exhaled. The
     vision was over. The sand was smooth, featureless again. He was alone and safe in his
     sparely appointed room, the shadows on the walls lengthening and deepening as the colored
     lamplight dwindled. Vaananen raised his head at the soft sound on the windowsill. Vincus
     gracefully lowered himself into the room. “What did you bring me?” the druid asked,
     smiling and turning to face his visitor. The young man's dark hands flashed quickly,
     racing through an array of ancient hand-signs. “Of course you may sit,” Vaananen said,
     chuckling as he detected the smell of sour hay. “And the pitcher of lemon-water on the
     table is for you.” Vincus drank eagerly, then seated himself on the druid's cot. Swiftly
     his hands moved from sign to sign, like a mage's gestures before some momentous conjury.
     “So they all mention this dissent among the rebels,” Vaananen mused. “Mercenary, augurer,
     salt sellersame story.” Vincus nodded. Vaananen turned slowly back to the sand. “But no
     more than a passing word?” Vincus shook his head, then noticed the druid's back was to
     him. He shrugged and took another drink of the water. “And what do you make of it,
     Vincus?” Vaananen asked, glancing over his shoulder. The young man flashed three quick,
     dramatic signs in the lamplit air, and the druid laughed softly. “Nor do I. But you have
     done your job. Now I must do mine.”