Quag Keep (14 page)

Though most of his shirt was now bandaged about his wound (his arm stiff and sore but with none of the burning pain he had earlier felt), Milo was able with the bard's help to pull on once again the leather undergarment, even take the weight of mail. They were alone and Milo, seeing that his sword was once more
in sheath, his battered shield ready to be hung from the saddle, looked to Wymarc for enlightenment.

“Yevele—Naile?” He still had odd spells of detachment, almost drowsiness, as if he could not or had not completely thrown off the effects of the poison.

“Have gone on—we shall catch up. The old boar,” Wymarc's face crinkled in what might be an admiring grin, “is stouter than we, comrade. He rode as if hot for another fight. But the river is a sure guide and we must hurry for there lies a choice ahead.”

Milo was ashamed of his own weakness, determined that the bard need not nurse him along. Once mounted he found that his head did clear, even though he was haunted by the vague impression of something of importance he had forgotten.

“What choice?” he asked as they trotted along the riverbank.

“There are watchers on the frontier. It would seem that Yerocunby and perhaps even Faraaz is astir. Though who they watch for—” Wymarc shrugged. “Yet it is not wise to let ourselves be seen.”

Milo could accept that. The disappearance of the druid came to him in vivid recall. Magic could meddle with the minds of unshielded men—make friends or the innocent into enemies to be repulsed.

“Ingrge urges we go back to the plains to the north. Deav Dyne has rigged a protection for the scaled one—a cloak wet down with water—so he can stand the dryness of such traveling. We have filled the drinking sacks also. Ingrge leaves certain guide marks to take us west while once more he scouts ahead. He swears that once among the mountains we shall be safer. But then there will be forests, and to the elven kind forests are what stout defense walls are to us.”

They caught up with Yevele and Naile before night and took shelter in the fringe forest. The battlemaid came to Milo, examined his arm where the claw slash had already closed, and rewound the bandage saying, “There is no sign of the poison. Tomorrow you should be able to use it better. We have indeed been favored by the Horned Lady thus far.”

She sat cross-legged, looking down now at the bracelet on her wrist.

“In a way, the wizard's suggestion works. When I laid the spell upon those skulkers, I thought on these.” She touched the dice with the tip of that overlong forefinger. “And it is true—of that I am sure—they moved farther by my will. Thus the spell held the longer.”

“You cannot use that one again,” Milo reminded her.

“Yes, it is a pity—that was a good spell. But I am no follower of magic, nor a priestess of the Horned Lady, that more of the Great Art be mine. I do not like,” she now looked at him and there was a frown line between her wide-set eyes, “this druid who can vanish in a puff of smoke. There was nothing of the art in the two I held—only their own cunning strength. But he whom you fronted is a greater danger than near a hundred of their kind could be. Still Naile says he was not of Chaos, when he knew him of old, rather one of those who went from side to side in battle, striving to choose the stronger lord to favor. What lord has he found, if it be not one of the Dark?”

“Perhaps that—or the one we seek,” Milo returned as he laced up his leather jerkin once again.

He saw her shiver, and she moved a little closer to their small fire. Though he did not believe what chilled her came from the outside, but rather lay within.

“I have ridden with the Free Companies,” she said. “And you know what quest I followed alone when this wizard swept us up to do his will. No one can lose fear, but it must be mastered and controlled as one controls a horse with bit and bridle. I have heard the clan victory chants—and know”—her face was somber and set—“of their defeats. We have gone up, sword out, arrow to bowstring, against many of the creatures of Chaos. But this is something else.”

Now she pulled her riding cloak closer about her, as if the chill grew. “What do you think we shall find at the end of this blind riding, swordsman? Hystaspes said it was not of Chaos. I believe he thought it could master even Chaos—the Black Adepts and all who are bound to their service. This being true, how can we prevail?”

“Perhaps because in a manner we are linked to this alien thing,” Milo answered slowly. His fingers ran along the smooth band of the bracelet. “We may be this stranger's tools, even as the wizard said.”

The girl shook her head. “I am under only one geas—that set by Hystaspes. We would know if another weighted upon us.”

“—Up by dawn—” Naile came close to the fire with his heavy tread. Once more Afreeta lay, a necklet, about his throat, only her eyes showing she was a living thing. Wymarc had come with him to open a bag of provisions. They shared out a portion of its contents, then drew lots for the night watch.

Once more Milo paced and looked up at stars he did not know. He tried not to think, only to loosen his senses, to pick up from the world about him any hint that they were spied upon, or perhaps about to be beleaguered by the unknown. That they had defeated the druid and that which he had summoned
once was no promise that they could be successful a second time.

Dawn skies were still gray when they rode on at a steady trot. It was close to noon when Wymarc halted, pointing to a rock leaning against another on the far side of the river.

“We ford here. There is the first of the guides as Ingrge promised us.”

There had been little talk among them that morning; perhaps each in his or her own mind, thought Milo, was weighing all that had happened to them, trying to foresee what might lie ahead. The compulsion of the geas set upon them never lessened.

Another day they rode with only intervals of rest for their horses. Milo learned fast to watch for the twist of grass knotted together which pointed their way onward. One of them at each such find dismounted to loose the knot, smoothing out as best they could the marking of their way.

On the third day, close to evening, even though they had not dared to push their horses too much, they came to the second tributary of the border river. A camp awaited them there, where the cleric and Gulth had pulled brush to make a half shelter. The clouds had broken earlier in the afternoon to let down a steady drizzle of rain, penetrating in its cold, but there was no fire for them.

Gulth lay in the open, moisture streaming from his skin. He watched as they rode up and picketed their horses, but he gave not so much as a grunt of welcome as they pressed past him into the shelter.

Deav Dyne sat cross-legged there, his hands busy with his prayer beads, his eyes closed in concentration. Respecting that
concentration they did not break silence even among themselves.

Milo had drawn his sword during their day's ride and used his arm over and over again, determined that he would be able to fight and soon. The wound still was bandaged, and there was an angry red scar as if indeed fire had burnt his flesh. But he was content that his muscles obeyed him, and the soreness his actions left could be easily ignored.

They had settled down, sharing out food, when Deav Dyne opened his eyes. He gave them no formal welcome.

“The elf has gone on. He seeks the mountains as a man dying of thirst would seek water. But his trail we can follow. It is in his mind that he can find some clue to the dwelling of Lichis.” His voice kept to a level tone as if he gave a report. “He has gone—but—”

For a long moment he was silent. Something made Milo look away from him to the opening through which they had crawled. Gulth shouldered his way in. But it was not the lizardman the swordsman was looking for. Milo did not know what he sought—still there was something.

“We light no more fires. That feeds
them
,” the cleric continued. “They must have a measure of light to manifest themselves. We must deny them that.”

“Who are ‘they'?” growled Naile. He, too, slewed around to look without.

“The shadows,” returned Deav Dyne promptly. “Only they are more than shadows, though even my prayers for enlightenment and my scrying cannot tell me what manner of manifestation they really are. If there is no light they are hardly to be seen
and, I believe, so weak they cannot work any harm. They came yesterday after Ingrge had ridden forward. But they are no elven work, nor have I any knowledge of such beings. Now they gather with the dark—and wait.”

9

THEY WATCHED, NOW ALERTED, AS THE TWILIGHT FADED. MILO
noted patches of dark that were certainly not born from any tree or bush, but lay in pools, as if ready to entrap a man. Always, if you stared directly at them, they rested quiescent. But if you turned your head you caught, from the corner of an eye, stealthy movement, or so it would seem.

“These are of Chaos,” Deav Dyne continued. “But since they take shape in no real substance—as yet—perhaps they are but spies. However, the stench of evil lies in them.” His nostrils expanded. Now Milo caught, too, that smell of faint corruption which those who gave allegiance to the Dark always emitted.

The cleric arose. From the bosom of his robe he brought forth a small vial carved of stone, overlaid with runes in high relief. He went to the mounts Wymarc and Milo had ridden, and taking the stopper from the bottle, he wet the tip of his right forefinger with what it contained.

With this wetted finger he drew invisible runes on the horses'
foreheads and haunches. When he returned he sprinkled a few drops across the entrance to their cramped camp.

“Holy water—from the Great Shrine.” He gave explanation. “Such as those may spy upon us. But we need not fear their attempting more—not while they are out there and we are here.”

Naile grunted. “These are your spells, priest, and you have confidence in them. But I have no liking for what I cannot turn axe or tusk against.”

Deav Dyne shrugged. “The shadows have no weight. If you could put axe against them—then they would be something else. Now, tell me how you fared—more of this druid who set a calling spell . . .”

He held his hands cupped about his prayer string, not looking at any of them, remaining tense and listening as each in turn told his or her part of the story. When they had done, he made no comment. In fact they had brought out supplies and were eating when he, not noting the share Yevele had laid near his knee, spoke. “A tamer of beasts, an adventurer who may be of the Thieves Guild, and one who can summon—You know this druid?” It was too dark now to see much, but they knew he asked that in the direction of Naile.

“I know of him. He lurked about when the Mage Wogan led us to the finding of the Toad's Pinnacle. Wogan would have no dealings with him, and he sniveled like a white-blooded coward when the mage sent him out of our camp. Since then he seems to have gained some courage—or else his magics are the greater.”

“Never underestimate one who has the summoning power,” commented the cleric.

“We destroyed what he used to bring the urghaunts upon us,” Milo pointed out. “Is it not true that a spell once used, unless it can be fed from another source, will not answer again?”

“So we have believed,” Deav Dyne assented. “But now we deal with a thing—or a personality—that is alien. What tricks its servants may be trained in we cannot tell.”

They set no watch that night, for the cleric assured them that, with the holy water sign upon them, their mounts would not wander, nor could anything come upon them without a warning that would alert him.

There were no shadows in the morning. However, as the day lengthened into afternoon, all of the party were aware that the flitting, near-invisible things again both trailed and walled them in. By twilight they reached the next tributary of the northern river. In the half-light they could see a mountain range silhouetted against the western horizon.

“Running water.” Deav Dyne looked down at the stream. “Now we shall see what manner of thing these splotches of dark may be. We shall cross—”

The girl interrupted him. “You mean because some evils cannot cross running water? I have heard that said, but is it the truth?”

“It is the truth. Now let us push to the other side and test it on our followers.”

Ingrge had left a stone marker by what must be the shallow part. The pack ponies had to be driven on and the water came well up their shaggy legs. Their own mounts picked a way cautiously, advancing as if they mistrusted the footing. Once they were across, Deav Dyne swung around, and the others followed his example, to look back at the shore they had just quitted.

There were distinct blots of murk there right enough, no clean shadows, but something of the Dark able to mimic such. These separate parts flowed together, pooling on the sand. And then—it flapped up!

Milo heard the battlemaid's breath hiss between her lips. That hiss was answered with far more strength by Afreeta. Their horses snorted, fought for freedom.