Roger Zelazny - Prologue to the Trumps of Doom

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Prologue to Trumps Of Doom from Amberzine #4 August, 1993

by Roger Zelazny

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It was almost too easy. A turning, a twisting, a doubling back...

And then he faced a rough, slanted wall, looked up and saw the shaft. He

commenced climbing.

It was no longer easy. A swaying sensation began--faint, then distinct--

if he were mounting into the uppermost branches of a tall tree. His way

brightened end then dimmed, repeatedly, in no perceptible pattern. After a

time,

his eyes ached. Images doubled, wavered...

When the way grew suddenly level he doubted his vision, till his extended

hand assured him that there was indeed a choice of passages.

He leaned and moved his head into each of these. The faint musical sound

seemed slightly louder in the one to the left, and he followed it. Of that, at

least, he was certain.

Now his way rose and fell. He climbed up, he climbed down. The

brightening

and dimming continued, only now the brightness was brighter and the dimness

dimmer.

And the sensations of external movement had nit abated. The floor of the

tunnel seemed to ripple beneath his feet, the walls and roof to contract and

expand. He stumbled, caught himself. Stumbled again...

At the next turning the sounds grew slightly louder, and he realized that

they were not a tune, but rather a totally random concatenation of noises.

He climbed. He descended. The passageway shrank, and finally he crawled.

The sensations of movement increased. At times he seemed to be spinning;

other times, it felt as if he were falling into an enormous abyss.

The flashes of light now drove nails of pain into skull. He began to

hallucinate. Faces and figures. Flames. Or were they hallucinations?

He felt the first faint pulsation upon his left wrist...

How long had he been moving? His clothes were already in tatters and he

bled, painlessly, from a dozen scrapes and lacerations.

He descended a well and emerged somehow upward onto a floor. Mad laughter

rang about him, ceasing only when he realized it to be his own.

The sounds grew even louder, until it lefts as if he negotiated a gallery

of demonic bells-- wild, out of phage, their vibrations beating against him.

Thinking became painful. He knew that he must not stop, that he must not

turn back, that he must not take any of the lesser turnings where the sounds

came softer. Any of these courses would prove fatal. He reduced this to one

imperative: Continue.

Again, a pulsing at his wrist, and a faint, slow movement...

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Roger Zelazny - Prologue to the Trumps of Doom

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