The Last Days Of The Edge Of The World by Brian Stableford Page B

guitar strings make when the wind touches them.
    Helen took her lips from the mouthpiece, but the sound went on. It grew in volume and rose in pitch, changed from a whisper to a cry, from a cry to a scream, from a scream to an almighty roar….
    Helen leapt down, clapping her hands to her ears, and ran, not pausing to pick up the match or return the chair or even to go round the high table—she dived straight under it and came up in the aisle on the other side, and ran pell-mell for the oaken door, which still stood ajar.
    The note grew, from a roar to a howl, from a howl to a boom that must surely have vibrated the Earth itself. …
    As she reached the doorway the note reached its climax, which was a sound too big to be described, a thunder outside the Earth–-
    With the thunderclap came a bolt of lightning, arrowing out of the boiling blue-black sky, not aimed at the tall towers of Mirasol’s keep but deep into the courtyard, hurtling deep into the encaged darkness to strike with astonishing violence the weathervane atop the old well. In striking home the searing white light of the electric bolt stripped away the shadows with an awesome flourish.
    Following the lightning came the rain, in a mighty torrent, which washed the walls and the stairs and the floor of the courtyard free of the slimy dust of centuries.
    Helen looked back and saw that the great hall was quite deserted. Belek of Beauval and his ghostly court were released from their enchanted bondage, gone to eternal rest. Even the moaning from beneath was gone, still forever.
    When she looked back into the yard again, Helen saw the strange lumps which scattered the flagstones regain their colour and their form and their life. They became small coloured birds: goldcrests, bullfinches, yellow-hammers, robins, bluebirds and bulbuls. They fluttered up into the rain-filled sky, too buoyant with freedom to heed the great cascade, and they flew away.

CHAPTER NINE
    My dear Prince Damian, (began the letter)
    The words engraved upon the horn of the giant Faulhorn, which hangs in the Great Hall of Castle Mirasol, are: blow hard.
    Your second task, as you doubtless already know, is to discover the name of the lamia who guards the forbidden city. I would wish you luck, but I am sure that you do not need it. I look forward to receiving your answer.
    With best wishes, Helen
     
    “It doesn’t seem quite so easy,” admitted Ewan. He was not just facing Coronado, but also the king and the prince. As soon as the letter arrived he had been invited along to the council chamber to discuss the matter.
    “You can’t do it,” said the king. Ewan shrugged. “I won’t know that until I’ve tried, will I?”
    “I won’t have it!” said the king. “I’m going to put a stop to this whole silly affair. Sending Damian off to the enchanted forest and the ruins of Ora Lamae… They’re just about the most dangerous places in the world. Who does this girl think she is? I simply will not have it.
    Asking my son to risk his very life–-“
    Coronado coughed, politely. The king hesitated. “Well,” he said, “she thinks it’s Damian that’s doing it. And anyhow, this boy’s one of my subjects, and in his way is just as dear to me as my son. So there!”
    Coronado shook his head. “That’s not what I mean, sire,” he said. “The thing is that we don’t actually know how hard these questions seem to the young lady. To an enchanter’s daughter they may seem to be mere riddles. Perhaps she obtains the answers by magical means— crystal gazing or some other manner of divination—and expects us to do the same. We don’t know that she actually intends anyone to go to these places.”
    “We haven’t got any crystal balls,” said the king, testily. “Or any other of the divi-things you were talking about. And it’s all irrelevant. I’m going to put a stop to it, and that’s that. It’s unfair!”
    “It certainly is,” put in the prince. “I don’t think we should