The Dark Tower

“Yes,” Roland agreed, “but given what we foundthere—and what we were told—it seemed better to move on. Simpler.Look.”

He took out the watch and snapped open thelid. They both observed the second-hand racing its solitary course. But at thesame speed as before? Susa

“Most of the time it’s still right,” Rolandsaid, “but no longer all of the time. I think that it’s losing at leasta second every sixth or seventh revolution. Perhaps three to six minutes a day,all told.”

“That’s not very much.”

“No,” Roland admitted, putting the watchaway, “but it’s a start. Let Mordred do as he will. The Dark Tower lies closebeyond the white lands, and I mean to reach it.”

Susa

Her thoughts were interrupted by a great flutteringfrom behind them. Not quite lost within it came a human sound that began as ahowl and quickly rose to a shriek. Although distance diminished that cry, thehorror and pain in it were all too clear. At last, mercifully, it faded.

“The Crimson King’s Minister of State hasentered the clearing,” Roland said.

Susa

Mordred’s a-hungry, she thought. Herheart was beating fast and she thought she had never been so frightened in herwhole life—not lying next to Mia as she gave birth, not even in theblackness under Castle Discordia.

Mordred’s a-hungry… but now he’ll befed.

Seven

The old man who had begun life as AustinCornwell and who would end it as Rando Thoughtful sat at the castle end of thebridge. The rooks waited above him, perhaps sensing that the day’s excitementwas not yet done. Thoughtful was warm enough thanks to the pea-coat he waswearing, and he had helped himself to a mouthful of brandy before leaving tomeet Roland and his blackbird ladyfriend. Well… perhaps that wasn’t quitetrue. Perhaps it was Brass and Compson (also known as Feemalo and Fumalo) who’dhad the mouthfuls of the King’s best brandy, and Los’s ex-Minister of State whohad polished off the last third of the bottle.

Whatever the cause, the old man fellasleep, and the coming of Mordred Red-Heel didn’t wake him. He sat with hischin on his chest and drool trickling from between his pursed lips, lookinglike a baby who has fallen asleep in his highchair. The birds on the parapetsand walkways were gathered more thickly than ever. Surely they would have flownat the approach of the young Prince, but he looked up at them and made agesture in the air: the open right hand waved brusquely across the face, thencurled into a fist and pulled downward. Wait, it said.

Mordred stopped on the town side of thebridge, sniffing delicately at the decayed meat. That smell had been charmingenough to bring him here even though he knew Roland and Susa

For di

When we last saw this fellow, he was only

(baby-bunting baby-dear baby bring yourberries here)

an infant. The creature standing beyond thegates of the Crimson King’s castle had grown into a boy who looked about nineyears old. Not a handsome boy; not the sort anyone (except for his lunaticmother) would have called comely. This had less to do with his complicated geneticinheritance than with plain starvation. The face beneath the dry spall of blackhair was haggard and far too thin. The flesh beneath Mordred’s bluebombardier’s eyes was a discolored, pouchy purple. His complexion was abirdshot blast of sores and blemishes. These, like the pimple beside Susa

Had he been a hume—or even a moreordinary were-creature, for that matter—Mordred would have died in theBadlands, coat or no coat, boots or no boots. Because he was what he was, hehad called the rooks to him when he was hungry, and the rooks had no choice butto come. The birds made nasty eating and the bugs he summoned from beneath theparched (and still faintly radioactive) rocks were even worse, but he hadchoked them down. One day he had touched the mind of a weasel and bade it come.It had been a scrawny, wretched thing, on the edge of starvation itself, but ittasted like the world’s finest steak after the birds and the bugs. Mordred hadchanged into his other self and gathered the weasel into his seven-leggedembrace, sucking and eating until there was nothing left but a torn piece offur. He would have gladly eaten another dozen, but that had been the only one.

And now there was a whole basket of foodset before him. It was well-aged, true, but what of that? Even the maggotswould provide nourishment. More than enough to carry him into the snowy woodssoutheast of the castle, which would be teeming with game.

But before them, there was the old man.

“Rando,” he said. “Rando Thoughtful.”

The old man jerked and mumbled and openedhis eyes. For a moment he looked at the scrawny boy standing before him with atotal lack of understanding. Then his rheumy eyes filled with fright.

“Mordred, son of Los’,” he said, trying asmile. “Hile to you, King that will be!” He made a shuffling gesture with hislegs, then seemed to realize that he was sitting down and it wouldn’t do. Heattempted to find his feet, fell back with a bump that amused the boy(amusement had been hard to come by in the Badlands, and he welcomed it), thentried again. This time he managed to get up.

“I see no bodies except for those of twofellows who look like they died even older than you,” Mordred remarked, lookingaround in exaggerated fashion. “I certainly see no dead gunslingers, of eitherthe long-leg or shor’-leg variety.”

“You say true—and I say thankya,o’course I do—but I can explain that, sai, and quite easily—”

“Oh, but wait! Hold thy explanation,excellent though I’m sure it is! Let me guess, instead! Is it that the snakeshave bound the gunslinger and his lady, long fat snakes, and you’ve had themremoved into yonder castle for safekeeping?”

“My lord—”

“If so,” Mordred continued, “there musthave been an almighty lot of snakes in thy basket, for I still see many outhere. Some appear to be dining on what should have been my supper.” Althoughthe severed, rotting limbs in the basket would still be his supper—partof it, anyway—Mordred gave the old fellow a reproachful look. “Havethe gunslingers been put away, then?”

The old man’s look of fright departed andwas replaced by one of resignation. Mordred found this downright infuriating.What he wanted to see in old sai Thoughtful’s face was not fright, andcertainly not resignation, but hope. Which Mordred would snatch away at hisleisure. His shape wavered. For a moment the old man saw the unformed blacknesswhich lurked beneath, and the many legs. Then it was gone and the boy was back.For the moment, at least.