Suddenly he clutched at his chest where hair showed through the rents of a dingy shirt under an unlaced jerkin. He gasped, wheezed, sank to his knees. In spite of the pain, his features were twisted into a mask of rage, which gave way to a cloud of despair as he sank forward and lay facedown.
The wolfhead crew shrank back. But the red-badged sergeant took a step forward. "Look you well," he commanded. "This one questioned —now what is he but a carcass? You have your orders — see that you follow them." With that he turned swiftly and, with the other liegemen, went to the horse lines where they speedily mounted and rode into the wood beyond. But the wolfheads remained where they were, nor did any of them venture to approach the fallen giant.
To Rhys' complete astonishment the body was stirring—the man had not been death-stricken after all! However, when he got first to his knees and then to his feet, his face was empty, as if nothing human now filled his body. Those of his kind edged away from him.
'They come against ns on the twisted track." Even his deep voice had lost a touch of life; he might be repeating something another had said. "Forken!"
The rat man scuttled back as if to escape the attention of Mar-ken. But he was speedily caught and held, though he twisted for freedom in the grip of two larger fellows.
"Forken, you have told us many times that you know more of these hills than even the rangers —and since they are now finished, your sneaking about will be put to the test."
Marken, his face still blank, advanced on the captive, who looked at the giant with fear and despair twisting his features.
Marken stood directly before him. He put out a heavy hand and slapped the smaller man with force enough to send the other's head against his shoulder. Had he not been in his captors' grip, it was plain that the blow would have smashed him to the ground.
"Forken — you will be our guide — "
Oddly enough all the wild fear the other had shown a moment before was wiped away and his narrow face was as void of emotion as Marken's.
"I lead," he said in a dull voice.
"You lead," Marken commented, as if to enforce the action suggested.
Rhys drew a deep breath. Whatever possessed Marken now also held Forken. Thus this compulsion could be passed from one to another even as a plague would spread down the streets of a city.
They busied themselves, collecting the gear which lay around their campsite and then, each man slinging a pack, they started north and west, the thing that had once been Marken in the lead.
For the moment Rhys could not move. What he had seen happen was against all belief, but the knowledge which had come to him in the valley of the Loden began to answer the questions his common sense demanded to have explained.
Yes, that power which the Dark served could strike the wits from a man, make him an empty body, able to fight, to serve, but with no life, no heart left in him —if the wolfheads had ever known such softer emotions. The liegemen had not shown that blankness of face; therefore, if they were mind bound, they were still human. Was that fact one which could be used to turn them against the sorcery of the Gray One? A glimmer of hope suggested that it was true.
However, he must follow them, must know of this so-called twisted path. Familiar as he was with the woods, he had never heard of it, but that it must be a way onto the keep's land he was sure. Rhys closed his eyes for a long moment and dared to unleash those tangled memories, seeking among them for some hint of what he must now find.
The twisted path —it was as if on the inner side of his closed eyelids he could see pictures. A pass, long ago sealed by the force of nature loosed by winter storms. Yet not remaining completely closed now, for time wears away even piles of stone. It had been known in the long ago. Not as easy a path as the one his own people had used for generations but allowing access —at least to a determined band of men.
Earl Florian had always favored sage scholars. Rhys was sure now that, feverishly seeking some way back to his lands, he had drawn upon some very ancient knowledge. But to the Gray One such knowledge was current. There would be another ambush, and Rhys did not doubt that with the Dark power it would again succeed. Unless —
One part of him wanted to skulk along behind that band that had just left the clearing, making sure that they kept on —away from LodenKail. The other part of him felt a pull, a summons to return. The egg had given them a fleeting vision of what was occurring in Raganfors —the egg might not be their greatest aid. He only knew that he could not allow the earl to march to his death if there was anything he could do about it.
So, partly against his will, Rhys turned back. At least he knew where the others were headed now. And if Sanghail also sent a force to join them, they would have some time breaking through the rough land which formed a great part of the barrier in that direction.
But it was the Gray One and that thing of power which lay to the fore of the ranger's mind as he retraced his wandering course. Night was coming fast and the dusk was heavy under the trees.
It was dark by the time he reached the gap and came down into the bowl. There was no sign of any life save the donkeys and the two goats, though Lopear came trotting to him with a welcoming bray as he headed for the strange entrance to their shelter. Rhys glanced up along the cliff behind, as he had several times in the past few days —there was no gleam of light from any of the concealed window slits. This was truly a well-hidden refuge. They were safe.
18
Sarita sat cross-legged, staring down in despair. The skin, which was so supple to the touch, seeming near tissue-thin, had proved itself invincible to her scissors, to the edge of her ranger knife, to even tearing with her now broken nails. Yet she knew what must be done. Only, please, Lady, she silently pled, give her the knowledge of how to do it.
How could one cut and sew something impervious to any metal blade? It was like one of the old tales where an unfortunate maiden was faced by an insurmountable task. Except in the old tales, some unforeseen aid always arrived.
At least she need not waste time simply sitting and staring at the thing. She could busy her hands at another job. But what was the use of twisting thread which she could not use to sew?
However, she set about smoothing the long locks of hair Rhys had shorn from her head earlier that day and then considered the split bowstrings. Her head felt light. He had done as she ordered and cut as closely to her scalp as he could. She must be a sorry sight, not that that mattered.
Leaving the skin stretched out as they had placed it for measuring, she went now to rummage through their scanty possessions for something to serve as a spool, lighting at last on an article from the treasures they had uncovered: a rod about the length of her hand which had a ridged center. What it might have once been intended for she could not guess, but it did bear some resemblance to a winding spool. It was not of metal, but made of something like polished bone and yellowed by the years.
Sarita discovered that one end could be wedged between two of the close-set stone storage boxes in which most of her own gear now rested. Haltingly at first, and then gaining speed and dexterity as she went, she began her intertwining of hairs and tough gut string, taking the same care at the work as she would have if she wrought the precious gold thread.
As she twisted, she traced back that night vision which had set her to this task. Three of them —Rhys, Valoris, and she —facing a coil of foul evil, each clad in a tight-fitting sheath of Loden-cast skin. This was true dreaming, of that she was entirely sure. What it foretold would come and they must have their defenses ready—if she could make it so.
Scissors could not make the slightest impression, a knife used with force was useless. How then could she shape the garments her dream demanded of her?
In the guildhouse there had been much larger shears, keen of blade, meant for cutting canvas and the heavy materials used for horse trappings. Well, there were none of those to be found here, and she dared not risk breaking her finer blades by force.
She tried to call to mind all she kne
w of the preparation for work as she had seen it done in the guildhouse. Some of the heavier stretching and cutting had always been done by men. What tools had they used other than the common ones she so easily remembered?
A hunter's knife could slit a hide when used skillfully. She had seen Rhys do that and had learned the knack from his tutoring. And a hide was certainly thicker and stiffer than that skin. But it had already withstood the knife.
Her fingers seemed to move of themselves, twisting and winding her strange thread as she called to mind all the tools she knew. Needles were certainly of no help for cutting; the measure was useless except for its proper job of holding firm the material to be cut. What else remained with her now—? The awl? But that was for marking materials with designs. Sharp as its point was, it had nothing to do with cutting—or had it?
Yes, Dame Argalas had used an awl for cutting once —a tedious piece of work on which she had concentrated with power enough to bring extra wrinkles to her forehead.
There had been a design —a very ancient one, thick with gold over stitching. The altar cloth of which it was a part had grown too thin and there were small age slits in it. But the frayed silk also backed the emblem, so the use of shears to free it might well cause unraveling, which would doom the heavy design to be burnt for the gold it contained.
Except that this design was a symbol of great power and had hung so long in the sanctuary that the high priestess would have it saved if that could be done. And Dame Argalas had done it! With the point of her awl, she had patiently pricked around the symbol, punching at the silk. Then she had signaled, sitting back on her stool, her hands shaking with exhaustion, while two of the most senior apprentices had carefully taken the far ends of the silk length and lifted. It had come away easily, leaving the symbol intact—cut free with the awl's point.
Carefully Sarita tucked in the end of the thread she had been working with. Though it seemed a very thin chance, she could only try, having nothing else left to do. After placing her loose hair and the bowstrings carefully into the chest and seeing it closed, she got up to go back to the skin, but Valoris came in demanding to be fed and she realized suddenly that she, too, was hungry.
As she prepared their meal, she was impatient to get back to proving whether or not she had the answer to her problem. If she had, how long would it take her to do the necessary cutting using the awl?
She hurriedly ate and saw that Valoris had his share. Their supplies were getting low—that, too, must be taken care of. However, the burning need in her sent her quickly back to work.
Using the heavy measure, she smoothed out a section as flat as she could get it and drew the awl from its loop on her belt. Then she aimed it for the first time down at the scaled length before her and struck at it. The point sank in! She felt the tip touch the stone pavement beneath. Again, she struck just beside the first hole, but this time the point slipped a fraction, did not go straight down but rather skidded along the hard surface and, to her amazement, Sarita saw the skin part along its path as smoothly as silk sheared by the sharpest of blades. It had reached the end of her measure line before she had lost enough surprise to raise it.
To her eyes the awl was as it always had been. There was no cutting edge on it to account for what had just occurred. Yet the section lay as perfectly cut as if she worked with cloth on the great cutting table in the guildhouse.
Caught up by the excitement of her small success, Sarita went to work furiously, measuring, using the awl to cut, measuring again, fitting piece to piece and examining the joins. She was caught up in such a frenzy of being able to do what she desired that she was unaware of the passing of time until the light which seeped through the walls had begun to dim. Then she sat back on her heels with a sigh.
There were odd scraps of skin left here and there. Valoris had gathered up a handful of those and was engaged in twisting a piece to make a lead for one of his treasured jewel animals, a representation of a quite dangerous-looking quagbear.
Sarita straightened, put her hands to her aching back. She had done all she could do for now. It remained to sort the pieces into piles, each representing one set of clothing, and that was easy enough to do. Now she could return to her threadmaking without the feeling of failure dogging her.
She also gathered the fragments of the skin, having a feeling that nothing must be wasted, though she left Valoris his bit. She ached so —in the guildhouse they were never allowed to sit too long at any task. It was necessary for their health to stretch, to walk around a bit now and then.
Sarita carried the pieces she cut back to her chamber and placed them beside the small ball of thread she had twisted, pushing the heavy lid back over them.
It was then that she realized for the first time Rhys had been gone for a long time. She lit the torch in the room where there was a hearth, which they used for a common room and kitchen. The flickering light was enough to allow her to set up their incongruous spit—a sword so slender that Rhys had marveled that it could be of any use at all, though it did them well enough with a leaper haunch or two impaled on it.
Tired as she was, Sarita felt restless. There was a need —a need to do something she could not put a name to. Valoris was settled happily with his array of toys, the meat was cooked enough to be drawn back from the full heat of the flames. But it was not hunger which moved her now.
She fed the child and saw him settled for the night in his bedroll. Tomorrow she could take her thread into the open and allow him to play outside, which he enjoyed. Now she sat cross-legged in front of the small fire and thought with increasing uneasiness about Rhys. She had been so intent on her struggles with the skin that she had not really listened if he had told her where he was going.
How much could she depend on her vision of the three of them dressed in the skin clothing? Was that a foreseeing of what would really happen, or just a variable which might or might not be in their future? If Rhys never returned from one of these scouts —
She was now fingering the coin pendant he had made for her. Silver was the metal of Light, but how much armor would this be against a well-aimed arrow, a swift sword point?
At last she could stand it no longer. With a last visit to make sure Valoris was fast asleep, she ventured back down to the egg chamber. She had seen Dame Argalas when she had focused her thoughts on the guildwoman —could she use that same power to find Rhys?
However, she was still in the stem-shaped passage when she heard the sound the trapdoor made when opened. Caution bred by the past weeks sent one hand to the hilt of the hunter's sword.
She heard the thump of a body to the floor and stood where she was, waiting. If it were Rhys, he would not hesitate among those chambers but come straight for the passage leading to the quarters above. But there was no sound of movement.
Knowing that she dared not turn her back on the unknown, Sarita crept forward. Now she was at the mouth of the passage. In the faint grayish light which always seemed to cling here, even at night, she could see no movement. Rather—she heard —
In the chamber of the egg! Swiftly, bared steel in hand, she reached the entrance.
It was Rhys there —on his knees before the egg. He was wiping his hands back and forth across his thighs, his eyes fastened on it. Then, as if he had suddenly made up his mind to some action no matter what its consequences might be, he leaned forward and placed both his palms against the egg, leaving a fair distance between them. Sarita was at his shoulder, but he gave no sign that he noticed her arrival.
The whirl of color intensified and then rolled back, as if to frame a picture. It was clear—as clear as her glimpse of Dame Argalas in prison. They were both peering at a camp where figures rolled in blankets made a background for two men still alert and sitting in the full light of the fire.
There was no mistaking the hawk features of Earl Florian. They seemed to have sharpened, or perhaps his cheeks had grown leaner. He wore no polished armor and brilliant surcoat now—his mail had a film of dust on
it. He had thrown back the hood over which a battle helm would be fitted, so his dark head was bare. His hair, however, was no longer the silken black of a teeral's wing—there were strands of gray to dim it.
He was talking, gesturing with his hands. But if the egg could bring them this sight, it did not transmit any sound. Sarita caught an impatient exclamation from Rhys and guessed that the ranger was frustrated.
The earl's companion beside the fire also wore mail, but his face was unknown to Sarita. She heard a sudden sound from Rhys as the second man leaned closer to the fire for an instant.
"Ragcor!" It was very plain that Rhys knew that man and there was little good will between them. She saw this Ragcor make some answer to the earl, and then the frame closed in a whirl of fading color.
"No!" Rhys protested. He kept his grip on the egg. "Show me!" he cried like a battle order before he slumped down, his hands falling limply before him. Sarita caught him, or he would have crumpled, steadying him against her own body.
He shook his head back and forth, but did not look at her—he was too intent upon the egg. Twice he tried to raise his hands once more to ovoid, only to be unable to complete the action. She could feel his body trembling, heard his heavy panting as if he had undergone some dire test.
"I must—see!" he cried out.
"You will — " Sarita was unsure of her words or even if she uttered the truth. "Rhys." She settled down beside him on the floor now, though she did not remove her hand from where it lay on his shoulder. "Rhys —what do you seek?"
Again he shook his head impatiently and then raised a shaking hand to wipe his sweating face.
'They set a trap —where and how? The Gray One has them mind bound. And Ragcor—if he is the best my lord has to depend on — "
Part of Sarita wanted to shake him into sense, but the rest of her knew that he had put forth what talent he possessed and must now regather his strength.
Rhys' fist struck against his knee. "My lord in the mountains with no sure guide/'