Zandru's Forge

  The horses stumbled on the increasingly rocky ground. Eiric’s mount tripped on loose stone and fell to its knees. When it scrambled up, the beast was bloodied but not lame. One of the other men gave Eiric his own mount.

  After that, they went on foot, leading their horses. They moved more slowly, keeping together. This far into the cave-pocked hills, with catmen lurking anywhere, their greatest protection was their numbers.

  Time wore on as the moons swung through the sky. Idriel set. The night became darker and then lighter, a milky tinge along the eastern horizon. Torches burned lower. When they guttered out, Eiric did not order new ones lit.

  Varzil shivered as if ice pierced the very marrow of his bones. He rubbed his arms with his hands, chafing the skin. Exhaling, he expected to see his breath as frosty mist.

  Cold... shivering... A voice he should know, hands on his shoulders, sword hilt shaking between his hands... “Quiet, m‘lord, or they’ll hear us!”

  The ice lay not inside him, then, but in his brother’s fevered body.

  Varzil had to reach him—but how? He had never been taught to use his starstone to enhance a telepathic contact, but he knew it could be done. He drew out the blue gem from where it hung, wrapped in triple-layered silk, from a cord around his neck, and focused on it. The blue fire, which had flared to brilliance at Arilinn Tower, filled his sight. He drew it in through his eyes, through his breath.

  Harald! Can you hear me?

  A stirring. No, it cannot be! It is the fever putting words in my mind. I am hearing the voices of those I love, nothing more.

  “Master Varzil?” Eiric asked.

  Varzil waved him to silence. Dimly, he knew the men were staring at him. They could see his face blank and set, his posture of intense listening.

  What does he hear, that none of us can? Their thoughts, like stinging insects, buzzed in his ears.

  Impatiently, he handed the reins of his horse to Eiric and, gesturing for the others to follow him, went on in front. They had been traveling on a thread of a trail, barely wide enough for a horse to find footing. He strode along it like a hound on the scent.

  Harald! Harald!

  Ah, it is a dream. Who calls to me in the darkness, where I cannot hear? Armand is gone. I pray the catmen have not found him.

  It’s me, Varzil—where are you?

  No, Varzil is at Arilinn. How could he reach me here? Get away, you spirits! I am not ready to give myself over to you! The darkness is spinning. I see lights—are they catmen or more of those accursed will-o-wisps? Has Aldones, Lord of Light, come to take me from this place?

  Harald!

  Not yet, O Lord, not yet the.gray land of the dead! I cannot leave my father like this—a little more time, I beg of you, just a little more time—

  Harald! Where are you?

  Why, you know where I am. You know everything. I am where you have placed me, in darkness... And now you send the dancing lights. Ah, how beautiful they are, like flickering gems. Am I already dead, to see them? But I am so cold, so cold. I must be in Zandru’s coldest hell.

  Varzil tried several more times, but could not penetrate his brother’s ravings. He feared the infection from Harald’s wound had spread to his brain.

  “I can sense his thoughts,” Varzil said to Eiric, “but he thinks I am—He cannot tell me where he is.”

  “What are we to do then? You say he is still alive, but beset by a fever dream. If that is so, he cannot help himself.”

  Lord of Light, what do I do now? He must go on and pray that something more would come to him. Perhaps his senses would sharpen once he was inside the caves themselves, where the darkness would be akin to that which surrounded Harald.

  He did not know if any one cave in particular was Harald’s favorite, but there was one where he himself had always felt safe. Facing westward, it had a broad outer ledge, perfect for sunset picnics. A narrow tunnel led into the cliff face, forcing pursuers to enter one at a time. Harald would choose such a defensible place, if he had any choice.

  In the muted dawn light, the cave entrance eluded him. After several tries, however, he managed to locate it. They had to leave the horses at the bottom and climb to the ledge on foot. As a boy, he’d scrambled up with ease. A man burdened with a sword, or wounded perhaps, would have more difficulty.

  Eiric stopped to light one of the torches, despite the risk of making them visible to any catmen lurking within. He insisted on going first, for if there was any trouble, he told Varzil, it was his sword that would defend the young master. Slowly, they made their way single file through the narrow tunnel. The walls smelled dank and the wan light glittered on runnels of condensation. In the close space, the breathing of the men turned whispery. They trudged on, their footfalls muffled. Once or twice, Varzil thought he saw the scuff marks of a boot.

  After a short distance, the tunnel opened out into the heart of the mountainside. Darkness pressed in on Varzil, swallowing the sound of his heart.

  6

  They had gone only a short way into the mountainside when Black Eiric spotted signs of struggle—spatters of dried blood, boot marks in the dust, rocks recently overturned. The tunnel branched into one path which continued in roughly the same direction, and two side passages. One was little more than a crevice, barely able to admit a slender youth moving sideways. Pebbles covered the floor of the main artery, showing no footprints or other signs of disturbance.

  The hairs along the back of Varzil’s neck prickled. When Eiric gestured that they should proceed along the broadest way, his feet froze to the spot. He shook his head as his inner reluctance mounted.

  Varzil could not understand his own reaction. It made sense to take the wider passageway with this many men, where they might have a hope of using their weapons. He could think of no reason why Harald, wounded and perhaps sorely pressed, would have chosen the slower, more tortuous route.

  He said none of this aloud. Eiric asked if his laran told him anything new, but he had nothing to offer. “Then we will go on,” Eiric said. “Eyes sharp now, and be ready for anything.”

  They crept on, with Varzil in the rear. Eiric’s torch cast wavering shadows. The slither of boot over coarse sand and the occasional brush of leather against rock wall rasped along Varzil’s nerves. He strained his ears for a feline hiss, the moan of a wounded man; what more, he did not know.

  When he tried reaching out with his mind, he caught only a jittery tension, a coiling of invisible forces he had no words for. No more images came, whether from Harald or anywhere else.

  Varzil’s heart beat an uneven tattoo against his ribs. His throat turned dry and his palms moist. His stomach knotted sickeningly. They passed a subsidiary branch, a pit of darkness, and then another. The air smelled thick and dank.

  “Careful now,” Eiric’s half-whisper came ghosting back. “We’re near to a bend.”

  They went on, even more slowly. The tunnel fell away to the right and disappeared. Varzil caught a musky reek like that of a mountain cat. The torch, which Eiric had lifted high above his head, suddenly plummeted to the floor. An inhuman yowl fractured into a pandemonium of echoes. The tunnel exploded with frenzied action, dimly glimpsed in the light of the fallen, guttering torch. One moment, there had been a column of men, moving single file, the next, there were twice as many bodies, some of them furred in gray or ocher, all of them struggling, dodging, leaping.

  A sword, short and curved, glinted. A man screamed. Adrenaline and battle heat drenched the air.

  Varzil, standing behind the other men, could not get a clear view of the fight, beyond confusion. The torch, kicked to one side, would last only a few moments. He didn’t know how well the catmen could see in perfect darkness, but he couldn’t.

  The fighting surged farther along the tunnel. Standing pressed against the wall, Varzil spied the torch on the ground. Without thinking, he dashed for it. His fingers curled around the base, the strips of resinous wood bound together.

  In the flare of brightness, the
face of a catman leaped into focus. Eyes met his, green-gold with slitted pupils flared wide but now constricting. Great curved ears tufted with black lifted, then flattened against the short neck.

  Varzil sensed a tumble of emotions—hunger... desperation ... hatred, deep and wordless.

  The catman whirled away in a blur—gray fur crossed by leather straps, claws, short curved sword, blood welling along hard-muscled thigh. Another cry shocked through the air.

  Along the tunnel walls, shadows milled and broke. One of the men was hurt, hand clutching ribs low on his side. Blood so dark it looked black flowed over the man’s fingers. His back was to one wall, feet braced and sword in free hand. Even as Varzil watched, the man’s knees buckled and he began to sink.

  “After them!” Eiric screamed. The wounded man heaved himself to his feet.

  They rushed down the tunnel. Varzil thrust the torch aloft, running as fast as he could, and tried to keep his footing. The floor sloped away and turned rough. A few moments later, the wavering light of the torch touched a furred back. Eyes gleamed red as the nonhuman glanced back.

  Someone behind Varzil shouted, “Got them!”

  In an instant, Eiric had the catman within sword’s reach. He slashed, and the catman rolled, shrieking.

  Varzil, carried by the press of men behind him, raced past the fallen catman. The white of its belly fur glimmered in the light. It was weaponless, the leather sheath hanging from its cross-shoulder straps empty. The reek of fresh blood stained the air. He had no idea how badly hurt the creature was, or whether it could find its way back to its own kind if it lived.

  They went on, scrambling over strange rock formations, stumbling, leaping up again. The tunnel veered sharply left and then began to rise. Varzil struggled to keep up with the mad careening pursuit. He could not get the smell of the catman’s blood out of his lungs.

  Harald...

  In an instant, he sensed his brother’s mind, very close now. He could see the crossroads ahead, a branching so narrow and cramped that it could hardly be called a cave. Here was where the two paths converged once more. Dark droplets trickled across the coarse sand of the floor.

  Eiric rushed to the opening, his sword in ready position. His body blocked what lay beyond, but Varzil caught his surge of dismay. He barked out an order that made the other men scramble back. Varzil raised the torch. Its light filled the little space.

  Harald ... and a wounded catman with claws knotted in his hair, his head back at a joint-straining angle, a curved blade at his throat.

  Huddled beyond them, a trio of catmen clung to each other. Their mouths opened to reveal needle-thin fangs. Varzil could not read their expressions. No human could.

  Terror... terror and despair, pulsed wordlessly through his mind.

  Eiric inched forward, his sword still poised. The catman reacted instantly, jerking Harald’s head even farther back. The curved blade bit into his skin, sending a rivulet of blood along his exposed neck. A flush darkened his face. He tried to speak. The catman silenced him with a warning hiss and a dig of the blade.

  Strange notions surged beneath the catman’s emotions, a dimly-glimpsed code of honor Varzil could not understand.

  One thing was clear. The catmen were trapped here, their escape blocked. They would make their last stand... over Harald’s lifeless body.

  Varzil laid on hand on Eiric’s shoulder, gently so as not to startle him into a rash move. “Lower your sword.”

  “Are ye daft, boy? What’s to stop them—” “Eiric, lower your sword.” Varzil spoke with a calm, instinctive certainty. The older man’s eyes flashed white as he let the tip of the blade fall.

  Varzil slid past Eiric, scraping along the rough surface of the rock. Behind him, the other men murmured, half in protest, half in awe.

  ... know what he’s doing? ...

  ... taking a terrible risk... get Lord Harald and half of us killed...

  ... none of us get out of here alive...

  And the single word that echoed in each man’s mind, Laranzu!

  From the catman came a pulse of fear-hatred-hunger and the contorted dance of thought forms. They tasted like a maze of iron, though Varzil could not guess how the catmen knew of that precious mineral. Darkover was poor in metals, and the sword that the catman still held to Harald’s throat had come from trading with the Dry Towners of Shainsa or Ardcarran.

  Perhaps whatever is in the creature’s mind is as precious to him as iron.

  Varzil approached slowly, hands held low and away from his body. He deliberately halted at such a distance that the catman could, with its superior speed, release its prisoner and slash his own throat if it chose.

  In the dim orange light, slitted pupils dilated a fraction more, though the catman gave no other sign of recognition. Varzil had placed himself at risk, and therefore within the catman’s power. He wished he could read some expression in the lean muscled body, the eyes so like a cat’s. He suppressed an impulse to reach out for physical contact, as if by sinking his fingers into the gray fur, he could also link to the creature’s mind. His overture might seem a preemptive attack to the catman. He dared not risk it.

  The image of reaching out filled his thoughts. In an instant, he saw the catman’s mind as a gleaming metallic cage set with jewels and sigils of incomprehensible design. There was beauty and meaning in the pattern, although so far from his human experience, he could not even guess what it was.

  Hunger and fear ... Those he knew.

  He built a scene in his thoughts, focusing on each element until it was as clear as a painting. The hillside—green grass, rocks, a few clumps of brush, tendrilled windweed. Sheep—two, no, four—gray-white fleece hanging in tangles, narrow feet finding traction on the rocks, muzzles nipping at the new growth, bobbed tails wagging. The mingled smells of sheep manure and dew-damp wool.

  A stirring... arousal-interest-memory...

  Varzil pictured a shepherd, not any shepherd but the one called Donny. The shepherd perched just above the sheep, crooked staff resting on his shoulder, in his fleece jacket, with his weather-worn face and alert eyes.

  Fear-hatred-hunger. Although not as strong as before, the response was unmistakable. Sheep good, man bad.

  Varzil imagined the shepherd rising to his feet, walking slowly uphill, away from the flock. He tried to make the mental picture as vivid as before—the shadow falling across the stone, the heavier breathing as the shepherd reached the top and stood silhouetted against the bright sky... the sheep grazing on, undisturbed... the shepherd’s distant form disappearing over the crest of the hill.

  Now Varzil visualized a catman crouched where the shepherd had been sitting. Its dark-tufted ears lifted in an attitude he hoped was friendly, relaxed. The sheep grazed on, unguarded.

  In the cave, the real catman froze its position. Varzil could not even make out its breathing. The last jolt of fear-hatred-hunger fell away like dust settling from the air, to be replaced by a sense of alertness-waiting.

  The catman in Varzil’s vision got to its feet. It moved stiffly, since he’d had little opportunity to observe how they moved when at ease. But there was no flare of hostility or disbelief from the real catman, only that alertness-waiting. Closer and closer, the imaginary catman drew to the sheep until it halted a few paces from the flock. One sheep, a fat ewe, looked up and, with total absence of concern, ambled toward the catman until the feline nonhuman could easily touch her.

  Alertness-waiting flared into hunger-arousal!

  The imaginary catman stretched out one clawed hand to the sheep. The sheep placidly approached and allowed herself to be picked up and slung over the catman’s shoulders, much as Varzil had seen shepherds do with injured animals or lambs too young to scamper over pastures still half-frozen in spring.

  Hunger-arousal! Disbelief... Hunger! Hope-hope-hope!

  Varzil lifted one hand, palm facing away and fingers spread wide to show he carried no weapon. The catman in the cave riveted its attention on the gestur
e. Its three fellows also came to rough attention. They seemed to be waiting for some signal, although none made any gesture toward their weapons.

  Varzil heard the sharp exhalations of the men behind him, the rustle of cloth over leather. The answering surge of tension from the catmen struck him like a physical blow. He prayed Eiric had enough control of his men to keep them in check. If he shifted his own focus, the fragmentary rapport would shatter.

  Praying to whatever god would listen, Varzil closed his eyes and concentrated on the image of the cave, just as he’d seen it a moment ago. In his mind, the catman still held its curved sword against Harald’s neck, dark blood trickled down his brother’s neck, the other nonhumans poised for action in the flickering torchlight. Now Varzil showed the catman lowering its weapon.

  With as much authority as he could summon, Varzil switched to the mental picture of the catman carrying away the sheep. The figure of the nonhuman dwindled in size as it progressed up the valley. Varzil showed it following the same route these very catmen had fled along. He made it clear that this time, the valley was empty. There would be no pursuit.

  Again, he projected the image of the catman dropping its sword and Harald going free, followed immediately with a vision of the catman with the sheep.

  Let my brother go, and you may keep the sheep you have taken. We will not hinder you. Though he doubted the catman could understand his human words, Varzil drew a measure of assurance from hearing them in his own mind.

  The last picture he formed was of the cave and Harald rushing forward, free. As the moments trickled by, the sharp lines of the image blurred, like a reflection in a pool stirred by a stick. In the ripples, he caught a flash of distorted shapes, a background of fire-lapped darkness. Catmen—slinking, crouching, flowing as swiftly through the shadows as a hawk piercing the air. They carried sheep, gray and lumpy, slung over their shoulders.

  The next moment, the image vanished. The real Harald slumped over, the sword no longer pressed against his throat.

  “Laddie,” Eiric called to Harald, “get yourself over here.”