The Black Beast (8 page)

“Fetch more water!” Tirell called to me. “Hurry!”

I went as quickly as I could. All my anger had vanished at the panic in his voice, though I could not understand his concern. Still, to help a hurt thing was worthy of him.… I scrambled up the bank, gritting my teeth. When I reached the camp Tirell was pulling out the arrows, one by one, and tightly binding the wounds with strips cut from his royal cloak. The beast stood numbly accepting his care, its head nodding to its knees. In a moment it bent its knees and sank to the ground with a groan. It lay stretched there with closed eyes, unheeding, as Tirell pulled the last arrow from its shoulder and pressed on the place with both hands.

The other wounds, in neck and legs and belly, lay quiet beneath their wrappings, but this one spurted blood. Tirell stemmed it with wads of cloth, but the blood welled up beneath his hands and trickled through his fingers.

“Eala, he'll die!” muttered Tirell frantically.

I stood awkwardly by. It was usual for Tirell to be extravagant over trifles, but I sensed this was no trifle to him. I wanted to help him, but I did not know what to do or what to say to him.

“Come here!” he shouted.

I jumped. “Me?”

“Who else?” he snapped. “Put your hands here. Here, here, hurry! If I have no power of healing, perhaps you do.”

I pressed on the wound as I was bid, puzzling. “Why should I?” I had forgotten my loathing of the beast.

“Come on, just try!” Tirell gestured impatiently. “Say a charm, such as smiths and tinkers say!”

“I don't know any!”

Tirell grabbed at his head as if it might fly off. “Just say something!” he cried, but then he looked and came to attention.

“Never mind,” he said quietly. “The bleeding has stopped.”

I eased the cloth away. It was true; the blood no longer flowed. Probably it had been just ready to stop when I came. The wound lay like an angry red mouth, a tongue of clotted red between its lips.

“Touch the other wounds,” said Tirell.

“What in the world for?”

“Just do it, would you?” he said tiredly. He started binding the shoulder wound. He had to pass the strips of cloth under the neck. The beast scarcely moved for his gentle prodding.

I touched each of the wounds, reluctantly, with my fingertips. Then I got the water and tried to pour some into the beast's mouth. It did not gulp or stir. “What makes you think I am a healer?” I asked Tirell bitterly.

“You would do better with metal,” a voice said behind us. We both leaped around, grabbing for our swords. But it was no enemy that faced us. “Grandfather!” I cried, and embraced him.

Daymon Cein stood by the fire, leaning on his staff to peer at us. I wondered how far he had walked to come to us. Perhaps the whole distance from the Wall. “So,” he said, “you are going to Vaire.”

“Are we?” I asked.

“To be sure,” growled Tirell. “What else lies west and south?”

“But why?” I stared at him.

“For help, what else?” He glared up at me from his place by the prone beast. “Do you think I can take Melior single-handed? But no matter.” He turned back to the wounded monster, stroking its angular head. “I'll not budge without this beast.”

“There's no budging anyway, in this beastly forest,” I complained.

“And the Boda will be on you in an hour or so, with the dawn,” said Grandfather serenely. “I'm glad you're keeping a good watch out. I'll sit by your fire. Thank you for the offer.” He let himself creakily down and rubbed his old hands over the small blaze.

“Grandfather, how are you?” I questioned anxiously. I knew by then that Abas was angry at him. “What will you do, now that they have driven you from your home? Is Mother all right?”

“Leaping panthers, lad, we are fine!” he said emphatically. “Have a care for yourself! Are you going to sit here and wait for the Boda?”

I shrugged helplessly. Tirell moved grudgingly to join us. “With deference and apologies to your old bones,” he told Grandfather sourly, “I dare say it would be well to put out the fire.”

“A bit late for that, don't you think?” Grandfather kept his place, looking cross.

“We could hack our way through this mess of a forest on foot, leaving the horses,” Tirell muttered, as much to himself as to us. “But I can't leave the beast.”

“I told you, Frain would do better with metal,” Daymon snapped. “Iron is best. Grasp a knife blade or something, lad, and have a go at it again.”

I gaped at the old man in bewilderment. His gray eyes met mine steadily, and with unreasoning trust I became willing to try. I drew my iron dagger, the one Shamarra had given me, and held the blade lightly between my curled fingers, sheathing it with my own flesh, so that it could hurt no one except myself. I went and knelt beside the beast, the hurt and crippled thing.… Something warm moved in me, nudging me, so that I suddenly felt quite certain what to do. I touched each wound, then ran my curled hand over the beast from nose to tail and from flank to flank, feeling the warm force join us like brothers. I stood back and raised the dagger. Power shot through me and out, a white-hot, searing, tearing power that made me cry aloud and left me staggering. I lowered my arm.

The beast got to its feet. It stood shakily at first, with drooping horn, but then it raised its head and stood firm. In the faint light of fire and early dawn it arched its neck, lifted its wings, stamped and pawed the earth amidst the tangled forest.

“Tirell!” I exclaimed, still shaking. “Your shield!”

“What!” He crouched and looked about him for an enemy.

“Your shield! Look at your shield, then look before you! This is the place on your shield! It is the same entanglement!”

“Then he has been here before,” Tirell murmured.

He stepped up to the beast and cradled its head in his arms, holding it with his hands below its eyes, so that its dark, pointed horn passed scarcely an inch from his head. I could hardly bear to look. They gazed at each other for a minute or more, and I could feel an understanding grow between them; risk was part of it. Finally Tirell let go his grasp and turned back to us.

“The beast will lead us,” he said.

It started off at once, veering away from the river. Tirell and I scrambled to gather our gear and get our horses. Grandfather rose stiffly to his feet. “I had better be getting on,” he remarked. “Farewell, you two.”

“Has the King tried to harm you?” I asked worriedly.

“Harm me!” He snorted. “I'd like to see him try! Harm me!” He extended a hand, and our little fire winked out as if it had never been. In the dim interstices of the forest I could hear him chuckling. “Do you want me to put it back again?” he called to Tirell.

But Tirell mounted his horse and rode off without word or notice. I faced my grandfather a moment longer, and suddenly there were tears on my cheeks, childish tears of hurt and despair.

“Grandfather, come with us,” I whispered. “We need you. He is a very son of Abas. To him I am only the burr that clings to his horse's tail. He is as mad as any Sacred King since the line began.”

“Frain, you know I am too old to ride,” Daymon replied gently. “Do your best for him, as you always have. He needs you far worse than he knows. Someday you will be able to measure the love beneath his anger. But for now, will you take my word that quite surely love is there?”

I could not speak or touch him, or I would have sobbed. “Thank you, Grandfather,” I murmured at last, and mounted my white mare and hastened after Tirell.

Chapter Six

The beast was leading back the way we had come. Tirell followed it willingly. I tore through the brambles to catch them, too tired and confused to realize what we would meet when we came to the edge of the forest.

It was the Boda, of course, with their scarlet tunics and their bronze helms and their curved, slicing swords. They were camped at the river bend, and they sighted us as soon as we cleared the trees. A dozen of them vaulted onto their horses and clattered toward us with a shout.

Tirell sat still on his horse, watching, with sword and shield at the ready. I galloped up beside him and came to a disorderly halt, hurriedly arming myself. The beast was nosing about, looking for a passageway into the intertwining wall of the forest. For a moment it stopped its searching and snorted at the approaching riders. Tirell glared, and it went back to its prodding, snorted again, and disappeared into the forest.

Before we could follow, the Boda were upon us. We set our horses' haunches between the trees and met them. I was exhausted, utterly spent, but I had not yet realized it. Because my heart was thumping and my head felt light, I believed I was a coward. The attackers swam in front of my eyes and nothing seemed real; I had never fought for blood before. My training saved me. My sword moved in the ways it had been taught as I watched it, bemused. The Boda came at us three or four on one, but a long straight sword was enough to hold them off. Their scimitars are ugly things, good for lopping heads off peasants and footmen, but they have no reach.

“Whoreson cowards!” Tirell shouted.

I killed one man while I parried another with my shield. Then somebody cut me on the head. I swung my sword in a wide arc, and the Boda moved back. They were fighting cautiously, methodically, from which I guessed that they had been told to bring us back alive. But Tirell was raging.

He had never fought well or correctly. He did not have discipline for that. But his reckless rage struck fear even into me, and his long iron sword bit through bronze armor as if it were so much cheese. Three men lay dead to his account—I could see that through the haze before my eyes—and there was blood on many more. But I was failing, swaying on my horse's back, still not understanding why. I tried to swing my sword and found I scarcely had strength to lift it. Then I had to let it drag as I clung to my horse's neck. I would not close my eyes, blur though they might; I was fighting for consciousness. I felt the hands of the Boda dragging at me—

Then Tirell was there. Tirell was everywhere, charging and lunging and shouting. The Boda scattered before him. He stopped beside me, still swinging that great bloody sword, and the Boda, the six or seven of them that were left, clustered at a little distance, conferring among themselves. I raised my head with an effort, desperately shaking it to clear it, but blood got in my eyes.

“Go on!” Tirell roared, and gave my horse a whack. The black beast was peering out of the forest, waiting for us. The passageway it had found was veiled by a light curtain of spring-green leaves. My mare bolted through, and Tirell followed.

“They'll be after us,” I mumbled, wrestling with my sword.

“Put it away before you hurt yourself,” Tirell said.

I did not put it away. Already I heard hoofbeats. But in a moment a sort of rustle shook the forest, and then trees cracked and fell with a thud across the passageway behind us. The whole forest wall collapsed into ruins, putting up a barrier that no man could penetrate. Grandfather's doing, of course; I silently thanked him. The crash sent our horses lunging forward, and I felt so weak and sick that I barely kept my seat. I had to drop my sword and grab for my horse's mane while I hauled it to a stop. Then I clung there, swaying. Tirell picked up the sword and brought it to me, slipped it into the scabbard himself, without a word. I think he was panting from his exertions, and for my own part I could not speak for faintness. Still, in an odd way, I felt very happy. Tirell had helped me, rescued me from capture. He could no longer pretend complete indifference to me.

“Come on,” he said roughly, and we rode into the forest. The angry shouts of the Boda faded away behind us.

The black beast led us a crooked path that day, around rocks and roots and fallen logs and impassable entanglements. The forest clung to us at every step, its boughs groping for us. The way was so narrow that sometimes we had to get down and lead the horses afoot. When he could not stand our crawling progress, Tirell would draw his sword and slash away at the branches that imprisoned us; the wood seemed to shrink back from the blade. Most of the time I lay on my horse's neck, not caring where we were, nearly in a swoon from the cut on my head and from some malady I could not identify. As the day wore on, I lost all sense of time or direction. When the gloom beneath the trees grew even darker, I thought it was my eyes that had failed me. But Tirell's muted cursing informed me that it was nightfall.

“And what the bloody flood am I to do with you?” he muttered.

I did not understand, but rode along stupidly as we followed the beast through the darkness. I believe I fell asleep on my horse until I felt it come to a stop. “Hah!” said Tirell. “A light!”

I sat up groggily and saw a small, steady glow in the distance. Tirell had been leading my horse as well as his own, I discovered. He stood as still as the trees, frowning at the tiny speck far ahead of us. The beast looked around, awaiting his decision.

“You need food and water,” he grumbled at me, “and we have neither. Confound it.” He gave the reins a jerk, and we went on. Presently the forest gave way to a clearing that seemed to have been punched out of the latticework of trees, a clearing in the shape of a shield. Its upper end was bounded by a towering cliff that looked down on dark water. A sort of pool wandered out of a low cave in its roots and filled an oval basin. Small lights flickered in the water—or was it the white reflections of the black lotus blossoms that clung at the edge? By the pool sat Shamarra, holding a piece of white light that looked like a caught star. It lit her fair face. I straightened on my horse when I saw her, though a moment before I would have said that I could not muster the strength.

“How did you come here?” Tirell asked her curtly.

“Through the watery ways.” Shamarra glanced up at him archly.