Feet came pounding up. That last manifestation of Power must have aroused all the camp. Zolan tendered the knife to Bina, sucking the bloody tip of his finger. Duty planted herself directly before him. We had seen the expression she now wore many times in our childhood.
“What are you?” she demanded sternly. “You dare to blood-tie one of the Wild Ones? No good can come of this!”
“There are Talents and Powers, Wisewife. Yours were fostered in this world; mine were strengthened elsewhere. I deal with earth, and the creatures of earth.”
I heard Duty draw a deep breath. For the first time in my life she showed surprise and, when she made answer, it was in a different tone of voice.
“So be it, Warlock.”
He shook his head. “I am no warlock; I dance not to a tune that may sweep my feet down the Left-hand Path. I claim nothing but that which is my own.”
Zolan turned away but in doing so he came face-to-face with Mother, who stepped quickly before him.
“Do not”—she spoke in warning, I understood, and not in command—“draw to yourself some Power you cannot face.”
He bowed to her with a courtier’s grace. “Lady, to this battle I am new. What I can do to further our cause, I will, but I shall take no reckless chances.”
Thus it was that Zolan broke a little from his shell, leaving us to reconsider him.
Tamara
HAVING TRAILED FATHER in his circuit of our camp, I did not witness Zolan’s meeting with the Wild Magic, but I was made quickly aware of what had happened. It took either a very reckless or very confident one to deal with such Power. Our knowledge of Wild Magic was slim, though it is supposedly inborn with a user as is the Talent. I had heard that, from time to time, a few who can deal with it come forth. Unlike sorcery, however, it cannot be learned, nor does it grow with training—it simply is. Nor, as far as we Scorpys knew, are its limits measurable. It is rooted in an age far past.
Tales told by the firelight are rich with unicorns, hopwits of the household, willights who dance in the swamps, wolfweres, willow-women, and a wealth of other children of the Wilding Way. Other, Darker, offspring the Old Magic bears: boogels, barrow-wights, volies, and grossmiths. Winter’s tales, all of them. Yet—if Frushes lived and could be put under the command of mortals, then surely all the fears of childhood were real and able to confront one.
How narrow our life had been! Even though we had relished our Power—our very small Power—it had been contained by ignorance. If Wild Magic had been loosed, then in truth, all Gurlyon was flooded and what we could not see might press us from every side.
I began to search memory for all I had ever learned from the old tales concerning possible defenses. Cold iron was one. Most of our party went clad in steel bonnets, breastplates, and carried that metal in their swords. But one of the strongest weapons on the other side was the art of shapeshifting. Those of the Wild who were true weres could walk in company with us and not be detected. Or rather, they could be discovered by the proper Talents, but with none of the Old Ones could one ever trust outward appearances. Certain herbs had virtue against them—Bina had grown rowan and holly, ivy and fearnot. I gave a small start—had I really heard that? A tinkle of laughter had answered my memory-combing! I closed my eyes determinedly. If Zolan could deal with Wild Magic, so would we also. Or was I again thinking too highly of Scorpy skill?
Twenty-five
Drucilla
I awoke in the morning to feel softness and warmth against me. To my surprise, Climber had apparently shared my bed for at least part of the night. Perhaps, though I had not been conscious of his presence, it had been that which had kept away any troubling dream.
The sun was no herald to awaken this day; instead, one of the thick and ghostly mists for which Gurlyon is infamous blanked out most of the camp beyond the half shelter where we had slept. I noted Mother combing her hair prior to braiding it into a traveling net, and Duty tying the ribbons of her cap firmly under her chin.
Climber yawned widely, nosing against me until I scratched his ears. He then gave me a hearty shove with his shoulder, confirming his faint Send that suggested it was high time to break our fast.
He had never before sought out any of us—Zolan was his bond-mate. What did it mean that he had now come to me?
It was not until I was ready to take the trail, hair braided tight, bescarfed, and jacketed, that I finally left the shelter, my sisters ready to follow.
Father made his way toward us, grim of face. He greeted us with no usual wish for a good day and a fair ride. Well aware that such words in this hour would be empty form, we were not surprised when he launched into speech as if we had continued with him all night.
“Your friend”—he must have seen Climber, for he spoke directly to me—“has disappeared.”
I was not only startled but felt a sudden prick of fear. The Wild Magic and the Frush Zolan had placed under bond posed ever-present perils. The man from the Dismals might have meddled too far with a Power he was untrained to handle. However, I could not be sure of that, for certainly our instruction in the use of the Talent had not been shared; his gifts must have been fostered by the Jugged Woman.
But Climber—certainly the cat-creature could find Zolan, if he were still to be found. I opened my mouth to say so but was cut short when the Send came. Father also caught that mind-message and whirled around, snatching a battle whistle from his waist sash. One shrill blast would alert all within hearing, even if they were mist-blinded.
A suggestion of Evil that had moved through the night now slunk through the dulled air, its Power not only encircling our camp but perhaps also casting out a loop toward the keep we had so carefully avoided. The Lord Warden responded, but his Send went unanswered.
“Climber—use Climber as a focus!” I cried. Without being urged, the beast moved to Father’s side.
With one hand on the scarlet creature’s head, he followed my suggestion. It was a clear message, emphatic as a battle-cry. “Where is Zolan?” Father shouted silently. “How many raiders are advancing?”
The answer, when it came, was so unlikely that it might have been shaped to deceive us.
“One”—the next few words made the odd reply clear—“a gray robe.”
I needed to hear no more. “He means one of the Chosen. It was thus at Frosmoor—the Gray Robe was the bringer of sorcery.”
Frosmoor, where the keep and clan lord had fostered the Chosen—though where that false priest had, in the end, been riven by his own power. Was the same trick to be tried again? But Lolart had ridden to warn the folk of the keep we were skirting—unless, as before, the forces of the Dark had a means of silencing him.
My thoughts must have been charged by Power without my summoning it, forming a Send, for an answer came.
“This time the bait is known for what it is. I bring him in; Ward yourselves well.”
Father nodded as if Zolan stood before him. He touched Climber’s head. “Ride guard for him, good beast.”
Having been so dismissed, Climber whisked into the grayness and was gone. We made our preparations. There was no breaking of camp; our party did not wish to be mist-bewildered and to go astray attempting to meet with Zolan. Instead, more wood was fed to the fire; then, under Gorfund’s orders, most of the troop concealed themselves. It was good strategy that only a fraction of our force should be evident.
We readied ourselves for a little drama of sorts. Mother and Duty weakened our Wards, for those spirit-shields, at full strength, would be at once detected by the Chosen; of that we were certain. Once he had been brought in, the barriers could be reinforced, but if possible he must believe our Talent less than it was. With the priests of the Left-hand Path, any small show of a Gift on our part would be dismissed as Wisewife trickery used to amaze simple villagers.
We had not long to wait when the mist rippled and we heard a ringing challenge from one of the sentries. Father stood unflinching to the fore, flanked by six armsmen at guard. The mi
st appeared to grow thicker at one point. We easily sensed what approached—the chill foulness had in no way been disguised. Either this servant of the Jug Demon had never learned concealment or else he scorned our protections.
Zolan drove before him another horse on which was seated a robed and cowled figure, hands tied behind him. His face was so deeply shadowed by the hood that we could see no features. However, Zolan pressed his mount up beside the other to pull that head-covering sharply away.
The man was already known to us—this was Udo, the first of his kind we had met. His face was bleached white with anger, and he spat out a stream of filth together with garbled words in a strange tongue; but he halted abruptly as Zolan raised his hand, leaned over, and slapped him hard across the mouth.
“Sasssssss!” The snakelike sibilance Udo used in reply showed that he was not to be deterred from sound, at least. Then a man no longer sat on the horse. In his place crouched low a creature with scales, long stiff bristles for hair, too many limbs, and glaring eyes.
Mother’s light laughter came almost as a greater shock than this metamorphosis. A moment later Father joined his mirth to hers.
Without knowing our Talents, Udo had seen fit to try thus to impress and frighten us. Mother nodded to Tam, who raised a hand and flicked two fingers together. Udo in his own form appeared again, and his rage, if possible, grew worse at this failure.
Father spoke first. “This be no time for games. What do you here, Chosen?”
For once Udo was silent, though his eyes held tiny yellow fires—unclean lamps for any human to display in those windows of the soul.
“I have asked a question, robed one. What bloodletting will you be about?”
Udo allowed himself a sneer. “Lord Warden, your warrant does not run here, as you will discover. Had you any wit, you would head for the Border—with those whores and witches you company with.” He glanced in our direction, then back to Father. Now he turned his gaze upward as if he could see a sun instead of the netting of mist.
“His Majesty the king will within this very hour bring you and yours to a Horning. Then all hands will be raised against you.”
I sensed a stir among the armsmen present. If Udo spoke the truth, we had been formally outlawed, and we would thus be unable to safely reach Kingsburke without fighting through—we would be like mice attempting to enter a trap.
“Have him down and search him,” Father ordered. He must have remembered that the other Chosen had carried strange aids to his Talent to use against Frosmoor.
Gorfund started forward, but Zolan had already carried out part of the order, sliding from his own saddle to pull Udo roughly from his. Though the Dark priest kicked out and strove to free himself, he found it useless to struggle.
“Toy of Pharsali.” Udo spat directly into the younger man’s face. “I know from what you came and to what you shall soon return. Do not think you can best Lord Tharn!”
Without warning, a snarl sounded, and Udo screeched in pain. From out of the curling mist Climber had appeared, to sink knifelike fangs into Udo’s leg.
In an instant Sergeant Gorfund grasped the Chosen and Zolan stood free. The bond-beast also released his hold but did not retreat. All about us the mist continued to thicken. Tam reached for the bag she now wore in full sight and spilled the talisman into her hand.
A golden ray shot up from it, cutting through the webs of fog that had settled in to blind us. Udo gave a cry of surprise and fear, then went limp in the sergeant’s hold. His eyes were fixed on the gem, and his mouth fell open a little.
Search him Gorfund did, Udo offering no resistance; all his attention was for the stone Tam continued to hold. She moved forward a pace or two. He would have shrunk away, but he was bound by armsmen the sergeant had summoned. Gorfund himself brought Father what he found strapped to the False One’s waist beneath his robe, as well as the contents of a belt pouch.
As he passed Tam, a flame shot from her hand to the end of the tubeshaped object that had been drawn from under the Chosen’s robe. Gorfund gave a shriek as the cylinder spun from his hold to roll near Father’s boots, where it proceeded to burst into flame. Udo gave a final wail and crumpled to the ground, where he lay motionless.
The sergeant stamped at the burning rod and he, too, cried out. He jumped back and continued to stamp and scrub his feet into the turf as if his boots had suddenly been set afire.
Zolan unhooked a canteen from his saddle and straightway dashed its contents onto the small fringe of flames. An oily greenish smoke answered, reeking like a week-old battlefield.
Sabina
I WATCHED THE wretched Chosen lying still and began to wonder if Tam’s weapon out of the Dismals indeed possessed fatal Power. Father now held the pouch taken from Udo, who offered no opposition, being effectively bound under the sergeant’s supervision.
We removed ourselves to a place under the partial cover of a thickly woven square of cloth of the kind used to shelter troops in the field. The mist was now fast becoming rain. We sat on mats as one of the armsmen brought a small brazier to provide some warmth and a spicy smoke to quell the lingering stench of the now-charred rod.
Tam still held her talisman in sight, and Udo, parceled like a bale of trade goods, was stretched out before Father and Mother. The Chosen lived, at least, for his eyes were open, fixed on his captors as his lips stripped back in a grimace of hate.
Mother leaned forward a fraction to sketch a symbol in the air. Udo squirmed at that, trying to roll away, only to be pushed back in place by Zolan. Unless he had been Warded by a Power far greater than any we knew, he must now respond with the truth as he saw and heard it.
“You were bound for Rossard.” That statement—no question—came abruptly from Father.
Udo’s head twisted on his shoulders; his teeth clamped on his lips, then opened to show bloody marks. However, an answer was wrung from him.
“Orders—”
“Whose?” Father could be as terse as the Chosen.
“Those of the Voice of Tharn,” came the second forced admission.
“Vislaf ci rorble—” Zolan spoke as he held up his hand with an instrument I saw was a whistle. To these words, the Chosen simply looked bemused, as he might if hearing only the garbled sounds we did.
“Star!” The single word carried the force of an order.
When Udo continued in his attitude of rebellion, Zolan gave what could only be a sigh of relief and settled back a little.
“This one is an underling, Lord Warden,” he reported.
“What did you think him to be?” asked Mother.
The man from the Dismals did not speak at once. He appeared to weigh one answer against another; Mother’s invocation of the truth-urge might have touched him also.
“One truly born Evil,” he returned soberly.
Turning to Father, he added, “Your pardon for my interruption, Lord Warden, but there was a need—a strong need—to learn what rank this one holds among our unknown foes.”
“So be it.” Father nodded. “And listen well, Zolan: should you hear aught from this so-called Chosen that needs further explanation, speak freely. Now then”—once more he addressed Udo—“these orders were of what nature?”
“To see that Rossard lay open to raiders.”
“As Frosmoor was laid bare to them?” asked Mother.
“Yes—”
He had said only that one word when I tensed. The soldiers had used two of the stone pillars in this circle for the stretching of our temporary shelter from the steady downpour, and my place was close to one of those. I now caught the throbbing beat I had heard before. The Wild Power was astir! Zolan leaped to his feet, hunching so as not to take our roofing with him.
Perhaps Udo had summoned help, though we had not heard or sensed any exertion of Talent; he had assuredly made no Send.
Zolan crowded past me, his hand out to the rocky pillar. He gestured me back.
Astonishment erased Udo’s sneer. That Zolan had recognize
d the source of what was coming was a surprise bordering on a blow to him.
At this second manifestation of the Untamed Power, the man from the Dismals did nothing to summon the Frush or whatever else might materialize. Drawing out once more the focus of his Gift, he tapped it against the rock in a distinct pattern. This time, all that grew out of the column was the head of the Frush. It snarled, the huge fleshy lips twisted—an ugly sight. However, if it were displaying rage against Zolan, it could do no more than make a child’s boogel-face.
Udo jerked, trying to move into a better position to face the thing from underground. It saw the false religion plainly now, and those lips gibbered, almost as if it begged help from one expected to offer aid.
Zolan had stepped back a little so they could see each other clearly, Frush and Chosen. Another despairing cry, and Udo’s head fell back again as his eyes closed.
The priest’s pate had been shaven except for a ridge of locks that spilled in all directions. Zolan stooped and, catching at that unkempt crest, yanked the head up again with force enough to bring the Chosen to his feet.
“Saray u Sal!” he ordered.
The head on the column pursed lips and spat. Something that was not liquid hit the earth at Zolan’s feet, moved sharply kneed legs, spread wings. Before it could take to the air, however, he stamped it flat.
With one hand still holding Udo’s head off the ground, he shaped a symbol in the air with the other. His answer was a second insect from the Earthborn’s mouth, a missile that once more fell short. But Zolan had established a bond-tie with the Frush only the night before, so his control should be fresh and strong—how had it been so far broken?
“Soz!” Udo no longer tried to free himself by shaking his head; rather, he was grinning.
I could hear Duty to my far right reciting a Ward-spell.
Zolan was blank of feature, relinquishing his hold and allowing Udo’s head to thud back to the ground. The man from the Dismals turned his back on the Chosen to fully face the stone. Raising his hand, much as he had done to silence the Chosen earlier, he struck out at the Frush, though in gesture only, his fingers never touching the rock.