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FINE LINES OF light traced in the blackness- white, silver, blue, yellow, red-mainly straight, but sometimes wavering. They crossed the entire field of darkness, and some were brighter than others...
Slowing, slowing...
Finally, the lines were no longer infinite roadways or strands of a web.
They were long thin rods-then sticks- hyphens of light...
Ultimately, they were winking points.
For a long while he regarded the stars uncomprehendingly. It was only after a great time that the word "stars" seeped into his consciousness from somewhere, and a tiny glimrner began behind his staring eyes.
Silence, and no sensations but seeing...
And again after a long while, he felt himself falling-falling as from a great height, gaining in substance, until he realized that he was lying on his back staring upward with the full weight of his being once again on him.
"I am Shadowjack," he said within himself, still unable to move.
He did not know where he was lying or how he had come to that place of darkness and stars. The sensation seemed familiar; however, the return felt like something previously experienced, though long ago.
A warmth about his heart spread outward, and he felt a tingling that quickened all his senses. With this he knew.
"Damn!" was the first word he spoke, for with the return of his sense of smell came a full awareness of his situation.
He was lying in the Dung Pits of Glyve at the West Pole of the World in the realm of the sinister Baron of Drekkheim, through whose kingdom all who seek resurrection must pass.
He realized therefore that he was on a mound of offal in the middle of a lake of filth. An evil smile crossed his face as he considered for the hundredth time that while men begin and end in such fashion, darksiders could claim nothing better.
When he could move his right hand, he began to rub his throat and massage his neck. There was no pain, but that last dreadful memory came vividly to mind. How long ago had it been? Several years, most likely, he decided. That was average for him. He shuddered and forced away the momentary thought of the time when his last life would be expended. This shudder was followed by a shivering which did not cease. He cursed the loss of the garments which by now had either moldered with his former body or, more likely, had been worn to tatters on the back of another man.
He rose slowly, requiring air but wishing that he could forego breathing for a time. He tossed aside the eggshaped stone he had found in his hand. It would not do to remain long in one place now that he was almost himself again.
The East was in all directions. Gritting his teeth, he chose what he hoped to be the easiest way.
He did not know how long it took him to achieve the shore. Though his shadow eyes quickly accustomed him to the starlight, there were no true shadows for him to consult.
And what is time? A year is one complete passage of a planet about its sun. Any subdivisions of that year may be determined in accordance with other motions of the planet ... or the motions of its inhabitants.
For Jack, the four annual fluctuations of the Twilight represented seasons. Within these time units, dates were always to be determined more specifically by means of the stars-which were always visible-and the application of magical principles to determine the moods of their governing spirits. He knew that the daysiders possessed mechanical and electrical devices for keeping track of time because he had stolen several of these. But since they had failed to function darkside, they had been of no use to him except as trinkets to pass on to tavern girls as amulets of great contraceptive power.
Stripped and stinking. Jack stood upon the shore of that dark and silent place. After catching his breath and recovering his strength, he began his eastward trek.
The land slanted slightly upward, and there were puddles and pools of filth all about him as he made his way. Rivers of it ran to the lake, sinc…
