"Here they lie in waiting. This is the trail —it is rough and very narrow. The earl's men need to string out like one of your threads in order to advance. But these who lie in wait will not expect—"
Sarita nodded. "They would not expect an attack from the rear." But she looked at the child and then to Rhys with something of a challenge. "We are two —two and a half. The little lordling, he must not be harmed. Yet this you cannot do alone. So will you work around these rats waiting to easily take their cheese and warn the earl — ?"
Rhys slowly shook his head. "The lay of the land is against me. No. Sarita, who stands behind you now?"
She gave a small gasp and turned her head, half expecting to see some danger, for the prick of peril was steady now. She saw only the range of heights down which they had come.
"LodenKail," Rhys said slowly. "Monster's land. The wolfheads have never ranged its slopes. And who are we — ?" His eyes met hers squarely and held.
Sarita's heart began to beat faster. Her mouth seemed to dry of itself as she got out the words.
"Loden! But we are — not—" Her hands slipped along the rain-sleeked scales which covered her. 'The cast skin —it was from one such as we — "
"Do they know that?" Rhys nodded toward the way ahead. 'There has never, in any tale I heard, been any mention of how the Loden might appear to those who invaded its lands. Nor was there any word that the Loden was solitary of its kind. Those wolf-heads might well expect monsters, so . . ."
So this was the true meaning of the dream which had set her to her labors these past days —that sight of the three of them standing against a rising dark, clad in the skin of one who had once defeated that same darkness.
"But Valoris —" she protested.
"We shall put the child behind us when we move. But we cannot leave him in this wilderness. I like it no better than you do, yet this is our only chance. We have until morning, I am sure. The earl will not try to work his way down through that last broken land in the dark. And by the looks of those waiting, they have settled in well."
They ate from the supplies they carried, and then the three of them hunched closely together under the rock. It seemed to Sarita that the rain fell with less force; perhaps the storm was close to an end.
She cuddled Valoris against her, but her own sleep that night was only a few short dozes from which she awoke confused, aware of her aching body, then more sharply of what might lie before them. Looked at with cold sense, Rhys' plan was sheer folly; still, she was certain that they were going to proceed just as he had foretold. She longed to ask him if he had visited the egg before leaving—had he been given some message he had not chosen to share with her?
There was an odd luminescence to their suits, equal perhaps to some of the fungi of the forest. She could see his features plainly. His jaw was firmly set, the mouth above it thin, and there was a frown line deepened between his black brows. It seemed to her now that she had known him always, that he was the bloodkin she had never had. Yes, she must lay her trust on him. And now in her came a strange feeling of peace, fleeting but plain, even as she had known it in that ancient audience hall of LodenKail.
The rain stopped before morning, but there was a mist which curled in thick eddies and Rhys stood surveying that.
"Is it to the good or ill?" he apparently asked himself rather than her. "No mind, we must move on."
They left their packs behind, Rhys merely taking with him his dry bowstrings, which he now placed within the breast of his suit. Since they had started this trek Valoris had been quiet and biddable, almost unnaturally so. He had asked no questions and eaten without question what they had given him.
Now he moved forward and caught Rhys' left hand, reaching back to link also with Sarita.
"Go — go —!" his excitement was growing. How much was he part of this? Sarita wondered. The Lady had certainly blessed him and they were, in some way, about Her business.
Thus they entered the mists and the glow born of the skins appeared to deepen. Rhys moved without any hesitation. Sarita felt it also —that drawing. Whatever lay ahead was meant to be their own fate.
"Haaa!"
Rhys stopped short, jerking Sarita and the child closer to him. The voice had come out of the mists before them.
"How're we goin' t' get any range in this here soup?"
"Quit blatin' off yur mouth, Smeek. Well get 'em right—"
The second speaker did not finish. There was something quivering in the very air about them. The mist was whirling, being tugged from one side and then the other. But this was no act of nature. Sarita bit her lip. It was so strong —that nearing of evil. Power was being used, such power as she could not understand.
The world before them was clearing fast. They were standing at the top of a low ridge and there was a thickening of growth below them. But, as plainly as if she had been afforded some power of her own, Sarita could pick out the men lying in wait there as if they lay completely in the open.
"A-comin' —" Perhaps that was meant as a whisper, but the warning reached the three on the ridge as if it had been shouted aloud.
Now the girl could see the thread of an ancient trail, much overshadowed by growth. There was movement, too. She caught a glimpse of a travel-worn surcoat: the advance rank of the earl's party was in view. And —her throat tightened —they were working their way ahead with no more suspicion of their surroundings than if they had been marching to the keep in peace time. Were they mind blinded?
"Harrroooow—" The throat-straining cry broke from right beside her. Rhys stood steady, his hands fitting arrow to string before he let fly. There was a commotion among those who were hidden. Sarita heard someone give a choking cry.
The men filing down the trail had halted, heads turned in their direction.
"Harrooow—!" Again Rhys shouted, and shot. The men in the trail were pulling quickly back. Now one of the wolfheads staggered up from the brush, his hands clutching at an arrow which had pierced him through. Sarita plucked at one of the pouches on her belt and rolled a stone into her hand to load her sling. She could see someone moving now and let fly.
The target jerked and fell. Whether she had done much damage she could not tell, but at least the man was not moving anymore.
Rhys shot with the steady precision he might have shown aiming at the butts on a feast day. And he was making every arrow count.
Men broke from the cover of the ambush, some of them tangled with the earl's forces in hand-to-hand battle, but three of them had turned to face the ridge. One, a small, rat-faced man, dropped his sword and staggered back.
"Loden!" he screamed. His two followers stood uncertainly while Rhys picked one off neatly and sent the other to the ground with a shaft through his thigh.
But arrows were now rising in turn from the wolfheads. Sarita swept Valoris behind her and then staggered from the force of a blow against her midsection which nearly sent the breath out of her. A broken arrow lay on the rocks below her. She saw Rhys, too, take a step back as one of the enemies' arrows struck him high in the shoulder. For a moment his own bow wavered, and she knew that he was troubled by the force of the blow even if it had not pierced the skin.
Something bright skimmed through the air and Sarita's arm swept up, to be rendered numb by the thud of another arrow. Her sling was now useless to her, but she set her teeth and forced her fingers instead around the hilt of the hunting sword at her belt.
It was not another arrow which set her head spinning. Rather, it was a mind blast heavy enough to darken the world before her eyes. When she could see again, that gray shape, seemingly risen out of the very ground, stood looking upslope at them.
Hands came forth from long, full sleeves, hands as thin as the bones which formed them, as gray as the robe. They came together, and clutched in talon fingers was a mass of darkness.
"Do not look!" Rhys' voice was as loud as a death scream. She saw him moving—slowly—so slowly. Perhaps he was caught in that same rising web of s
mothering power. But he had his bow up, he had an arrow nocked. She saw a flash of light streak downward.
However, Rhys was wavering from side to side, fighting some compulsion which was drawing him.
"No!" She pushed across his path, her body seeming leaden heavy. He crashed into her and sent them both rolling down the slope aways. Sarita pushed herself up a little.
There stood the Gray One. In his hands pulsed the ball of blackness. She must not look! That warning was her first thought. But shaking in the ball, as if the monstrous thing was trying to rid itself of that burden, was the silver-headed arrow Rhys had shot.
She could hear a droning deep in her head. The Gray One was striving to loose his power. At the same time he was gliding toward them. Could the Loden skin hold against such an evil? Silver-silver! Her hand was fumbling at her belt, her shaking fingers closed about the awl. Silver . . .
The Gray One loomed over them now. He stretched his arms so that quivering mass of black was directly over Rhys. The girl saw that the ranger's hood had been shoved back during his roll down-slope—there was no skin to protect him. His eyes were fixed in a set stare on the pulsing blackness.
Sarita gave a desperate heave upward. She had very little time for aiming as she cried aloud:
"Lady—Loden —!"
The awl entered the mass. Her hand fell away, but not before a freezing chill caught at her fingers, crooking them, then spreading up to her wrist.
But the mass —in her head was a thin, mind-splitting scream which seemed to almost drive her beyond the bounds of reason. Then there was a flare, not of black but of clear silver, as if the Light had gulped down that greedy blackness.
There came another cry —this time from the Gray One. He half turned, as if to run, but he never took his first stride. Instead his body wavered like a ribbon caught in breeze. He crumpled down to his knees, then fell forward as Rhys got stiffly to his feet and reached down to draw Sarita up with him. It almost appeared that the evil one was a penitent surrendering to his enemy, fallen at their feet.
"Loden!" There were shrieks and cries, and the sound of blows. Sarita held tightly to Rhys as they stood looking in dull amazement at the Gray One. The garment was falling in upon itself, crumbling as if there was no body within to fill it. And now the gray fabric itself began to fray.
Rhys was nearly swept from his feet again by a blow aimed by a sword. The wolfheads —no, these were soldiers, wearing Var colors.
"Kill!" That was a screamed order. Again the sword thrust came, this time sending Sarita reeling backward.
"Sareee — Sareee—" Faintly she heard the high voice calling her.
"Get back!" Her lips shaped the words, but she did not have energy enough to shout them. Rhys— The ranger still moved as if he were caught in a bog mud, and his head was vulnerable, with the hood well back. Those ringing them in, having tried twice to bring them down, had withdrawn a little now.
Down the slope behind them came a small body that careened into Sarita. She caught him up tightly for a moment, and then swept Valoris behind her for what protection her own body might give him. Before her an ax was raised, and Rhys was standing dumbly, weaving a little, unable to protect himself from the death over his head.
Hastily the girl clawed back her own hood and then brought Valoris from behind her and did the same for the child.
"Look!" she screamed. "This is the young lordling. Would you kill those who are liege to Var?"
21
Weapons were still threatening them, but the soldiers were no longer gripped by battle rage. Rather they eyed the three they had encircled with a new wariness, though Sarita thought she could read little belief of her claim. Surely they did not believe that they had taken monsters!
Into the rocky clearing came another man. With an impatient hand he swept off the helm he wore.
"Fadda!" Valoris was running, and the soldiers parted to let him through. He threw himself forward straight into the arms of the man who had gone down on one knee to welcome him.
"Valoris!" That cry was as loud as a battle rally as Earl Florian held his son in tight embrace. Then he loosed the child and held him farther away, studying him, running hands over the scaled suit— as if he sought for some injury, as if he could not believe in
this meeting.
"Fadda!" The boy's arms went up about the man's neck. "Fadda—you earned!"
"Indeed I did," the earl assured him hoarsely, but now, having made sure of the child's well-being, he looked to the other two his men still guarded. His eyes fastened on Rhys; there was a momentary frown as if Earl Florian searched his memory. Then, rising to his feet and swinging Valoris up to his shoulder, he approached, his men falling back to give him room.
"You are . . ." Again that trace of frown, and then the earl nodded.
"You are Rhys Rogarson of my rangers."
Rhys' hand swept up into the breast salute of a fighting man to his commander. The lethargy which had held him was gone.
"Yes, my lord," he answered crisply.
But Earl Florian's gaze had already gone on to Sarita. She thought of her shock of untidy hair, of the fact that she had never had dealings at Var with the earl —that had been for Dame Argalas. No —he could not know her.
He was looking puzzled again. "Halda? But Halda . . ." he said, as if he expected her somehow to turn into that trusted nurse.
"She is dead, my lord." Sarita found her voice. "I am Sarita Magasdaughter, apprentice to Dame Argalas —or was." She drew a deep breath, for that identity seemed so far in the past that it no longer mattered. "Or so I was when Var-The-Outer fell."
"They set an ambush for you — " Rhys broke in as if he wished to make sure that threat was gone.
"Which did not work. We heard your ranger's call, Rhys Rogar-son. But I think more than wolfheads and some traitor scum waited us here. What I saw . . ."
He turned his head to look at the ground. Sarita could still barely distinguish the rags of the gray robe from the trampled soil.
Now the earl looked again to them. "It would seem that there is a tale here which must be told, and soon, for we do not know what perils we march against. Yost—" One of those in the circle lowered his weapon and saluted. "Send out scouts. Why—" there was a look of puzzlement now on the earl's thin and furrowed face " — did we not have such before? What power summoned us as tamely as sheep to the butcher?"
Gently he set Valoris on the ground, though he kept one hand on the boy's shoulder as if his son would disappear again. He edged toward what was left of the Gray One.
"Do not-!"
"My lord, take care!"
Both Rhys' and Sarita's warnings ran out together. The earl glanced at them.
"Be very sure that I shall. There has been a spewing of evil across this land, and it would seem that some drop of such spittal struck here. Such as this one have had their way in Raganfors. Did he twist our minds?" he appealed to the ranger and the girl. "Is that why we marched without thought to what could have been our deaths?"
Rhys nodded vigorously. "He —he had an object of power, lord, that leached men's wills out of them."
Earl Florian stooped now. Sarita gasped —he must not touch what lay there. She did not know how the Dark could spread, but there must be caution taken. However, what the earl picked up was an arrow.
The head was blackened, melted out of shape, as if it had been held in a strong, burning fire. The shaft was charred. Still holding the arrow, the earl now kicked at something in the soil and a misshapen lump rolled into plainer sight.
"Your weapons ranger, mistress?" he asked.
"Silver, lord," Rhys returned quickly. "Of old it was said that silver would be the only metal to harm some of the Dark ones. I had silver heads on two of my arrows.
"But yours, I think, mistress, was no arrow." The earl looked at Sarita.
"No." For the first time the full wonder of what had happened in those wild seconds when the Gray One would have bent his full power on Rhys shook
her. "It was my awl, a tool of my craft. But it was also silver."
The earl laughed. "An arrow and an awl —and what is left of my force saved so. We must hear the full of your tale, ranger, guilds-daughter. But I think we shall not pause for it here."
Rhys looked at Sarita and she gave a small nod.
"Lord," he said, "we can offer you a safe camp as well as a tale."
"Where?"
Rhys turned a little to point up and back toward the bare peak of LodenKail. "There, lord."
Now came a murmur from the men. Someone said, "monster," and Sarita answered:
"Lord, do you still call us monsters? Yet—" her hand went out and sleeked down the side of her body, brushing away the bits of soil caught in the scales "—yet we serve both the Loden and the Lady. What we wear is Loden skin."
The murmur from the men came louder now.
Again the earl laughed, almost as if their words had freed him from some burden.
"So be it—and where would you lead us?"
"To the Loden's lair," Sarita answered promptly. "For there safety lies."
"Well enough. We must have a base from which we can scout. It is true Sanghail has set his foot here?" He demanded that of Rhys as if expecting such news.
"It is true."
"My—my lady?" That question came harsh and quick.
"She is gone, my lord," Sarita answered, again in her mind the picture of that green-cloaked body spattered with red, rolling from where the horseman tossed her. "No one else that we know of came out of the keep. Halda was struck down by a traitoress, but first gave Valoris to me and showed me a passage in the walls to take him out."
The earl was not looking at her now, rather staring at the slope of mountain as if he could only see some painful tangle of his own thoughts.