Quag Keep (17 page)

Only when his patient was wrapped in a layer of cloaks, with even the horse blankets heaped over him, did Deav Dyne relax. He spoke to the elf. “If he stays in the mountain cold we cannot answer for his life. His people are of the steaming swamps—not conditioned to such trails as these.”

“Then let him return whence he came,” broke in Naile. “I know of old these snake-skins. They are as full of treachery as a drinking horn of ale in an indifferent inn. We should have been the better, priest, had his spirit departed from him!”

“You forget,” the battlemaid answered him. “Is not the same fetter on him as the ones we must wear?” She thrust her arm farther into the firelight, where the flames awoke to glinting life the reddish gleam of the bracelet. “I do not know by what method we were chosen, but it is plain that he was meant to be one of our company.”

Naile snorted. “Yes—to betray us, perhaps. I tell you, that one I shall watch, and should he in any way raise doubts of his actions he will answer to me.” His lips flattened against his tusk-fangs.

Milo stirred—this was no time for the berserker to allow his change-making rage to take control of his human part. He inched forward and dared to lay hand on the massive arm within his reach. “There is more wisdom in what she says than in your doubts, warrior.”

Naile's head swung in his direction. The berserker's small eyes already held a warning light. “I say—”

“Say—say—say—” Wymarc repeated. But he made of that
single word a singsong of notes. His uncovered harp rested on his knee, and now he fingered one string and then another, not as if he chose to use his song magic, but rather as if he tried each in turn to make sure of its strength, even as a warrior before battle looks to the state of his weaponry. Yet even such a seemingly idle plucking carried with it sounds that echoed softly through the cave.

Milo, who had been about to tighten his grip on Naile's arm in perhaps a futile attempt to bring the berserker to his senses, found his hold broken. His hand fell away to rest on his own knee. Just as the warmth of the fire sank into his chilled body, so did those random notes warm his mind, bringing a release from tension, a gentle dreaminess from which all that might harm or threaten was barred.

The swordsman chewed away at the bit of rolled journey-food Yevele had handed him, content with the warmth and that ease of mind, though an instinct buried deep inside him still was wary enough to cry out that this easement was of magic and would not long hold.

Outside the cave, darkness gathered. Only Ingrge arose now and then to feed the fire, but no longer with wood. Rather he brought lumps of coal from some inner bay to be set with skill among the brands so that in turn those kindled, giving new life and strength to the flames. Now and then one of the horses or ponies, tethered farther in, stamped or snorted, but those by the fire were sunk in the silence born of their own thoughts or dreams.

Once Milo roused enough to mention the need for a sentry, but Naile, his voice a whispering rumble, pointed to Afreeta,
saying, “She will give voice in warning. Her senses are better than ours for such service.”

The pseudo-dragon had waddled so close to the fire that Milo wondered if it would not singe her. Her long neck uncoiled, her head darted forth and her jaws clamped upon a bit of glowing coal. She crunched it, as if it were some dainty to be relished, and pounced upon a second. What Milo knew of her kind, even of the greater, true dragons, was very little. He had always supposed that their legendary fire-eating was just that—a legend with no truthful foundation. But it would seem that it was true.

Naile made no attempt to prevent her epicure feast, even though there was a faint puffing of smoke trails from her throat.

“Eat well, my beauty,” the berserker half whispered. “You will need such fire within you if we stay long in this land.”

To stare into the fire brought drowsiness. Naile might believe that his winged companion was adequate protection for their camp, but the tested soldier within Milo could not quite accept that. Finally he got up and went to the mouth of the cave.

In doing so he seemed to pass through an actual wall. The heat that hung so comfortingly around the fire was lost instantly. He shivered and drew closer his cloak, as he peered out into a night so dark and starless that he had to depend upon his ears rather than his eyes to guess what was beyond.

The sound of the wind among the peaks made a threatening cry, like that of a hunting beast prowling the mountains. It shrieked and puffed fine snow into his face, which stung his flesh like needles of ice.

By all the sounds he could identify, a storm had closed in upon the high country. Perhaps only the cave shelter had saved
their lives. Even magic could not withstand such raging of nature. Milo stepped back. The others, even Ingrge, slept, but the swordsman found himself shaken out of the charmed contentment Wymarc's harping had produced.

Though he settled down once more by the fire he could not drowse. Rather he tried to order his thoughts, looking from one to another of his strangely assorted company. Each represented certain abilities and strengths (also, probably, weaknesses), which differed. Even though he, Naile, and Yevele were fighters, they were far from being alike. The cleric, the bard, and the elf commanded other talents and gifts. The lizardman—like Naile, Milo wondered why the alien had been added to their motley company. It was true that the saurian-ancestored ones were swamp dwellers, needing both water and turgid heat about them to function best. Yet Gulth, uncomplaining, had ridden into the near waterless plains and climbed as long as he could into what must be for him a hell of cold.

The lizardfolk in their own lands, and with their own weapons, were warriors of high standing. Therefore, there must be some reason why Gulth should ride with them now, not just because he also wore the bracelet which was the badge of their slavery to some unknown menace. As he gazed into the fire Milo was once more plagued by fleeting memories of that other world. He stirred uneasily. Those—he must seal them away for his own sake. To be divided in mind when danger stalked (and when did it not here?) was to be weakened.

He slept at last. This time he dreamed vividly. A dark stone wall loomed large. About the base of the wall grew greenery, a greenery that was not natural—that was too bright—that shuddered
and shook, as if the plants themselves strove to drag their roots from out the soil and charge at him.

Gray wall, green that had a life he could not understand and—

There was a piercing shriek. Milo roused. For a moment he was so completely bewildered at the breaking of his dream that he only stared bewilderedly at a fire. Gray walls—fire. . . . No, the walls had not been composed of flames, but rather of solid stone.

Again that shriek. Now Ingrge moved lightly toward the outer entrance. The others stirred, sat up. Naile's hand gripped his axe and Afreeta perched on his shoulder. Though her mouth was open and her tongue darted in and out she did not hiss. Milo, hand about sword hilt, moved out behind the elf.

There was no dark ahead now, rather the gray of an overcast day. But their view of the dull sky was nearly hidden by the vast form of the gar-eagle who had settled on the ledge without, its head lowered so that it might look into the cave.

Once more the bird loosed its mighty scream. Ingrge fronted it eye to eye in the same form of silent communication they had earlier held. Milo fidgeted at his side, not for the first time wishing that some of the talents of the elven kind were also shared by men.

That confrontation of elf and bird continued for what seemed a long space. Then Ingrge stepped within the overhang of the cave as huge wings fanned the air. Up into the thin atmosphere of the heights sped the gar-eagle, while the elf returned to the company now roused and waiting by the fire.

“Lichis lies to the south in a place he has made his own,” Ingrge reported shortly. “It remains to be seen if he will accept our
company. Your little one”—now he spoke to Naile—“it is she who must speak for us in the end.”

The berserker nodded. “Afreeta knows. But how far is this dragon dwelling? We have not the wings of your messenger. Nor can Afreeta take the way such a mighty one follows. A single blast from the wind in these reaches would beat her far off course.”

“She need not try her wings, not until we reach the boundaries Lichis has established to protect himself,” returned the elf. “As to how far away—” He shrugged. “That I cannot measure in our distance upon land—for Reec”—he waved to the outer world, plainly naming the gar-eagle—“does not reckon distance as do we who are wingless. He has set the way in a pattern for my mind only—as he looked down upon it from afar. However, we can descend to the lower lands and move from one valley to another, sheltering in part from the cold.”

Even Gulth aroused enough to sit one of the mounts, still wrapped as well as they could manage against the chill of the heights, making no complaint as Deav Dyne led his horse once more out into the blasts that had nearly killed the lizardman. Thus they followed the path of the ledges down, until scrub trees, finally forest giants, closed about them in a dark green silence through which Ingrge took a twisting route with the same confidence as one treads a well-marked road.

11

THE SILENCE ABIDING IN THE FOREST WAS DAUNTING. MILO FOUND
himself glancing over his shoulder now and then, not because he heard any sound, but rather because he heard nothing. This was the same feeling that had gripped him in the inn at the start of this whole wide adventure, that he was under covert observation.

Perhaps some distant kin of Ingrge patroled these ways, keeping out of sight. But it was strange that no bird called within the dark green fastness, that the party caught no sight, heard no sound of any beast.

There was no way of telling the hours, and so zigzag was the path the elf followed that Milo could not be sure whether they still headed south or west. They did mount rises separating one valley from another. From these ridges all he could see was the loom of the cloud-veiled mountains behind, with other dark and dreary-looking peaks massing ahead.

At length they emerged from the trees into a section where the rough terrain was of congealed lava, long hardened, yet retaining
sharp edges. This brought their progress to a crawl, making it necessary to constantly watch for the safety of their own footing and that of their animals.

Above them, at last, was the break in the mountainside through which, ages ago, this once molten flood had found a path. Ingrge waved to that opening in the rock wall and spoke to Naile. “It is time to loose Afreeta. We stand at the outer edge of Lichis's own domain. Beyond this point we do not dare to go without invitation.”

“So?” The berserker raised his hand to the pseudo-dragon nested within the upturned collar of his hide cloak. “Well enough.”

Afreeta uncoiled, crawled out upon his palm, her wings shimmering in the air as she exercised them. This time she seemed too eager to even look at the man she had chosen to companion; rather she took off in a glide. Then her wings whirred swiftly as she beat her way up toward that break in the mountainside. So swiftly did she go that she vanished as if blown afar by some act of magic.

“We wait.” Ingrge moved out among their ponies, unfastening the feed bags. Milo and Wymarc joined him, measuring out handsful of corn which the small beasts greeted with eager whinnies. The horses munched the grain and were watered from bags not nearly as plump as they had been earlier. The riders rationed themselves to a small portion of water, well below the rim of a cup Ingrge filled and passed from hand to hand.

Gulth slumped in the saddle of his mount. Milo guessed that had the lizardman dismounted it could well be that he could not have won aloft again. His cowled head hung forward so that
his snout nearly touched his breast. But, as usual, he uttered no complaint.

Naile strode back and forth. It was never easy for one of his mixed nature to wait patiently. As he paced, he turned his head ever upward, seeking a glimpse of Afreeta returning.

Deav Dyne set his back to a jutting rock. He began to pass his prayer beads through the fingers of one hand, while the other rested on the breast of his robe, guarding what secrets he carried there in the inner pockets.

A man, raised and trained in the precincts of one of the great temple-abbeys, would find consorting with the dragonfolk hard. Those of the scaled and winged kind owned no gods—or demons either. Their own judgment of right or wrong was not that of mankind, and their actions could not be either foreseen or measured by those whom they considered lesser beings.

The Golden Dragon himself was known to have always favored the road of Law. Lesser beings of his race consorted openly with Chaos, giving aid capriciously to Dark adepts. The stories concerning Lichis all stated that, when he withdrew from the world, he had, finally, fiercely bade men go their own heedless ways and expect no more commerce with him. That he would break with his word now, even though they had indeed come to his private nest place—how dared they count on any favorable reception?