Gryphon in Glory (7 page)

The hall itself was enough like that of a keep to make me feel that these horsemen lived a life not too different from what I had always known.

Directly facing me stood the high table. However, this did not have just three or four chairs of honor. Instead there were twenty, each with a high-carved back, none set above its fellows. There was no second table for servants of the household, only that one board.

A wide hearth took up nearly a third of the far wall, cavernous enough to hold logs that must be nearly the size of those forest giants we had passed among. Along the other wall, which was broken by the door, were bunks on which were piled cloaks and coverings made of the cured skins of animals. A chest stood beneath each sleeping place.

There were no wall tapestries, no carved panels or screens. However, on the expanse of stone against which the high table was situated, a star was outlined in red-brown, the color reminding one unpleasantly of dried blood. The center of that was a mass of runes and symbols for which I hurriedly averted my gaze. For it seemed to me, that, when one viewed it directly, they came to life, wriggled, coiled, moved as might headless serpents in their death throes. I glanced to the band on my wrist. Its blue sheen neither waxed nor waned. Perhaps that meant that for me (at least now) there was no danger, no Power of the Dark here.

I was given little time to look about, for a man, seated in the chair directly before the center of that wall star, moved. He had sat so utterly motionless that now he startled me as he leaned forward. Both elbows were planted on the table, his forearms outstretched along the surface of the board. He presented the appearance of one who had no reason to try to impress a visitor, he being who and what he was.

He did not wear mail, or even a jerkin, his chest and shoulders being as bare as those of the field laborers. Though he was seated he gave the feeling of height and strength—the wiry strength of a good swordsman. A sword did lie there, lengthwise on the table, both of his hands resting upon its scabbard.

The scabbard was leather, horsehide, while the pommel of the weapon was in the form of a rearing stallion, such as I had seen depicted on one of the banners without. To his right a helm also rested, its crest the same design, save larger and in more detail.

He was dark-haired, and there was a likeness between him and Herrel, which revealed, I decided, some kinship—if not of close blood, then of race. It was difficult to judge his age, though I believed him older than my guide. There was about him such an air of inborn command and practiced Power as would reduce Imgry's bearing to that of a fumbling recruit new come to camp. Whatever this warrior might be otherwise, he was a long-time leader and user of Power.

I do not know whether he was used to staring others out of countenance at first meeting, but the look he turned on me was a heady mixture of contempt, a very faint curiosity, and much personal assurance.

Little by little I was learning how to deal with the unknown. Now I left it to him to break the silence. This might just be a duel of wills set to test me, he who spoke first forfeiting an undefined advantage. How long we faced each other so I do not know. Then to my surprise (which I fought not to show), he flung back his head and gave a laugh carrying a hint of a horse's neigh.

“So there is sturdy metal in you, hill-hugger, after all.”

I shook my head. “Lord"—I granted him the courtesy title, though I did not know his rank—"I speak for certain of the Dalesmen, yes, but if you look you shall perceive I am not wholly hill-hugger.” I advanced one of my hooves a fraction. If my half-blood should prove a barrier here as it was in the Dales, that must be my first discovery.

He had very level black brows, straight and fine of hair. They now drew together in a frown. When he spoke it was as if a faint, far-off ring of a stallion's battle scream hung behind his words.

“None of us may be what we seem.” There was bitterness in that.

Then it happened. The air thickened, wrapping him in mist. When that cleared, it was pulled away by force, as if blown by the great arched nostrils of a horse. For there was no longer any man in the chair. Rather a war stallion, such as any fighting man may see but once in a lifetime, planted forehooves on the board, still nudging the sword. Its head, crowned by a wild mane, was lowered until it near overreached the far edge of the table in my direction. White teeth showed as it voiced the scream of a fighter.

I gave no ground; afterwards that memory sustained me. The thing was no hallucination, of that I was sure. Also the red fury in its eyes might signal a death warning. In that moment, in spite of my daze, I understood. I fronted a shapechanger—one who could at will, or in the heat of some emotion, assume animal form. Not that of any ordinary beast, no, this was a manifestation of the Were—one of the most dreaded of our ancient legends.

There was a deadly snarl to my right. I dared to turn my head a fraction. Where Herrel had stood a moment earlier, there crouched a huge snow cat—tail lashing, fangs displayed, burning eyes on me as its muzzle wrinkled farther and farther back.

Then—

A man again sat at the table fondling the sword. I did not need another glance to assure myself that the cat had also disappeared.

“I am Hyron,” the man announced in a flat voice as if he had played a game that no longer amused him. There was a weariness in his tone also. He might have been very tired at the rise of each sun, the coming of every night. “We are the Wereriders. And you—what are you? Who are you? What do the hill-huggers want of us that they dare send a messenger?”

“I am Kerovan.” Once more I made no claim of lordship or rank. “I was sent because I am what I am—a half-blood. Therefore, there were those who believed that you might give me better attention.”

“A half-blood—one they hold in low esteem. And so they must hold us also—thus why would they wish a pact with us?”

“Lord Imgry has a saying to fit the need,” I returned steadily. This horseman's taunts would awake no visible anger in me. “He has said that a common enemy makes allies.”

“A common enemy, eh?” Lord Hyron's right hand had closed about the hilt of his sword. He played with the blade, drawing it forth from its sheath a fraction, snapping it back again sharply. “We have seen no such enemy.”

“You may, my lord. And, if things continue to go so ill in the Dales, sooner than you think.” With as few words as possible and as simply as I could I told him of what we suspected to be the eventual purpose of the invaders.

“A treasure—a Power . . .” He tossed his head with an equine gesture. “Poor fools and dolts. If these invaders found any such they would rue it bitterly in the end. Whoever dispatched them on such an errand is well disordered in what wits they possess. The Waste itself would fight with us.”

I felt Herrel stir rather than saw him move. His lord's gaze shifted to him. The cat-helmed warrior said nothing. All I perceived was that he and his leader locked gazes, though I gained the impression that between them communication passed.

There was a need, I sensed, not to speculate too far concerning the talents of the Weres. They were not of the kind to take kindly to any who pried into their ways. But that this period of silence was important I was sure.

Nor was I too surprised when there appeared from behind us several other men, drawing near to Herrel and me as if they had obeyed some unheard summons to council.

A loud click ended that period of silence, as emphatic a sound as if the fist of a man had come smashing down. Hyron had given a final slam to the sword, smashing it back into the scabbard with full force.

He arose, not as a threatening stallion, but in man guise. Yet still he leaned across the board even as the stallion had done.

“There is much to be thought on,” he said. His frown had returned full force. Also there was a quirk to his lips as if he tasted something sour, perhaps his own words. “There is nothing in the Dales for which we choose to fight. On the other hand"—he hesitated as if turning some thought over several times to examine it the better—"there was once a geas laid—and perhaps that has brought us to this meeting. If we consult and discover that we indeed have a common enemy—that your purpose can answer ours—” He broke off with a shrug. What he said had no real commitment, but I guessed I would get no better answer. Then he asked a question.

“Whom did you really seek when you came so boldly into the Waste, Kinsman-by-half?”

“Whoever there might be who would listen, Lord.”

Now he raised a forefinger to scratch along the line of his beardless jaw.

“You are forthright enough,” he commented. From his tone I could not judge whether he thought me a fool for using the truth. “That being so—there are others here who might be interested in your warning.” He smiled and I heard muffled sounds from those about me as if they shared his amusement. Did he want me to beg him for directions to those “others"? Somehow I believed that if I did that I would lose any advantage I had held in this interview.

“This you may tell your Lord—or he whose scheme brought you to us—” He folded his arms across his chest, once more tossed his head so that the crest of his hair fell in a lock over his forehead. “We shall certainly consider all he has said. If we make a decision in his favor, he shall hear so from us. There will be a price for our services, of course. We must have time to think of that. Years ago we once sold our swords and sold them well. Those who bought had no reason to claim they did not receive full measure. If we choose to bargain again, your Dalesmen may find us worth any price we ask.”

“That price being?” I mistrusted this horse lord—not because I thought him a follower of the Dark, for I knew he was not. Still, legends say that there were those among the Old Ones who were neither good nor evil, but whose standards of right and wrong are not our measures.

“In due time and to your lord's own face shall we state that,” he countered. “Also, if you wish to gather an army you need other allies.” He suddenly pointed to my hooves.

“Why not,” he asked, “seek those with whom you can claim kin?”

I knew that I dare not show ignorance now, that to do so would lessen me in their sight. My mother's clan came from the northernmost Dales—there must lie the mixture that had made me what I was. So if I did have kin there I would find such.

I managed a shrug. “We have no maps of the Waste, Lord. I took the westward hills for my guide—that brought me here. Now I shall ride north.”

“North.” Lord Hyron repeated. Then it was his turn to shrug. “The choice is yours. This is not an easy land, none does ride or walk here without due caution.”

“So I have already discovered, Lord Hyron. My first meeting with a Waste dweller was his body—”

“That being?” He asked it idly, as if it did not matter.

Just because he would so dismiss my gruesome find, I described the mauled thing I had buried and was only halfway through my story when I felt the whole atmosphere about me change. It was as if I had brought portentous tidings without being aware of it.

“Thas!” It was a name, a word I did not know, and it exploded with force from Herrel. The indifference of Lord Hyron had vanished in the same instant.

Joisan

E
LYS STOOD ON A SMALL RISE FACING THE FOREST LAND. SHE WAS
frowning and the hands that hung by her sides twitched slightly. I thought that she was disturbed, that she felt some need for action, yet she was not sure what. Jervon had brought the packs and our saddles close to the mark of a recent Fire and was again off collecting wood. A small pile of branches lay at Elys's feet also but she made no move to pick them up again. I paused beside her, turned also to face that line of trees that was so well protected against any invasion. Now that I regarded them more intently I could see that the leaves were darker green than those I had known in the Dales and they grew very thickly together.

“There are no birds.” Elys said abruptly.

For a moment I was at a loss. Then, thinking back, I could not remember having sighted, since we left the Dales, any wing- borne life. The Waste was indeed a barren land. Still—why Elys should now be seeking sight of birds puzzled me.

“In such a wood—yes, there should be birds,” she repeated; her frown grew heavier.

“But—I do not remember seeing any since we came out of the Dales.”

She gave an impatient shake of the head. “Perhaps over the desert—no—there would be few to wing there. But this is a wood, a place to harbor them well. There
should
be birds!” She spoke emphatically, her attitude one of foreboding. Then she glanced at me.

“You did not enter there after all.”

“Jervon was right—there was a barrier. As if a keep door was closed and no visitors welcomed.”

Her frown lightened a fraction. My answer might have supplied a part answer to her puzzle.

“There is a keep of sorts, I believe, in that wood. If that be so—then the land
is
closed, save when those who hold it wish otherwise, it will open to their desire only.”

I did not like the idea her words conjured in my mind. “But"—I spoke my thought aloud, trying to reassure myself, perhaps have Elys agree with some hope or comfort—"I cannot be sure that it was Kerovan who camped here, who was enticed within there . . .” Even as I spoke that denial I knew that any hope of it being so was folly.

“Enticed . . .” Elys repeated thoughtfully. “No. If he entered there he did so willingly. These are not of the ones who entice, they have no need to do so. They are—strong—”

“What do you know or guess?” I demanded eagerly. “Have you then found some trace—some clue . . .”

“I only feel,” she replied. “There is Power there, but I cannot say with any truth what it is. There is no sense of ill, but neither is there any of a force that is friendly, or beneficial. It is just—Power. “ She made a small gesture of bafflement with one of her hands. “But I wish that there were birds.”

“Why?” I still could not understand her preoccupation with them. Nor why the presence—or absence—of birds might be so important.

“Because"—again she sketched that gesture of helplessness—"they would be here if all was well, judged by our own world. Without them that wood must be very silent, a secret place—too secret . . .”

Jervon called and we turned toward the camp. But she had wrought upon my imagination. As I went I found myself straining to hear a bird call—one of those things I had taken so for granted in the world I had always known that I had not been aware of such until it was missing.

Back in the campsite I looked longingly at those other saddle bags, which had been left behind by the missing traveler. If I could only rummage through them, perhaps so discover for certain that they were Kerovan's. Yet I could not bring myself to do that. I was sure, far too sure, that this was his camp—but a small hint of hope did remain battling within me and I feared to quench it and allow the dark suspicions that prowled among my thoughts entirely free.

As I sat beside the fire Jervon had kindled I still strained to listen, hoping for the comfort of the usual noises of the world. Even those made by the grazing horses, the thud of their hooves as they moved about was a reassurance. There was also the crackling of the fire . . .

Elys had been far too right. That wood was ominously silent. Not a leaf stirred, no branch swayed. The growth was rooted like a dark green trap, set to swallow up a reckless venturer at its own time and in its own way. Behind it, now cutting off the setting sun, bulked that dark line of heights. Perhaps they stood guard on the very end of the world. One could believe any weird fancy here.

I was too restless to sit still for long. Twice I sought the small rise where I had found Elys, ever watching the wood. Only the horses moved within the oddly marked square of pasture. When I looked back over my shoulder I saw that Jervon had taken out a whetstone, was using it on his sword balde, though he continually glanced up and around with a keen measuring look such as a scout would use in unknown and perhaps dangerous territory.

Elys remained by the fire. Her back was straight, her head up, but I could see even from my perch that her eyes were closed, and still she had the attitude of one listening intensely. It was said that the Wisewomen at times were able to detach a part of their inner sense, send it questing in search of what could not be seen, felt, or heard—by the body.

Where was Kerovan? Who had he gone to deal with inside that silent wood? Why had he been welcomed within and I refused entrance? Had he arranged a meeting with one who did sentry duty there?

I was so impatient for some news of him that I could have raged in my frustration. The sun was gone, the sky was beginning to dim—though bright colors still spanned the sky with broad bands of brilliant hue.

Twilight always came to the Waste as a time of brooding evil, or so I had found it in the past. The shadows of these trees lengthened across the open meadow, crept and crawled toward us. Even as there had been in that thick mist that enclosed the ruin where I had met with my present companions, so here now grew the feeling that something—or things—used those shadows for sinister purposes, and that a threat of peril hung here.

Yet the last thing I could have done—a thing I could not force myself to think of doing—was to get to horse and ride away. Slowly, with heavy feet and a feeling of growing chill within me, I left the rise to return to the fireside. As I went I shook my head against those irrational fears—but I was not able to so rid my mind's sensing of that brooding, watching something . . .

Jervon had put aside his stone, sheathed his sword. The world was all the more quiet when the scraping of his whetstone ceased. He came to Elys, dropped on his knees behind her. His hands went out to rest, one on each of her shoulders.

I saw her quiver at his touch, as if he had drawn her back out of some trance. Her eyes opened, yet she did not turn her head toward him.

“There is trouble?” he asked softly. I was on my feet again, looking at once to the wood.

Her eyes, though they now opened, remained blank. She did not focus on anything before her. At last one of her hands arose to close about his where it lay on her right shoulder. Again she shivered.

“If I only knew more.” Her cry held passion, even a note of despair. “Yes, there is something—something wrong—wrong—or else so different from us that there is no understanding it!”

Startled, I wheeled to look at that wood, for I thought only of it. Was Kerovan returning, perhaps accompanied by whoever dwelt here? But surely Kerovan, for all that strangeness in him since he had summoned Power (in spite of himself when he fronted Rogear and the rest), was not so unhuman as to be what Elys apparently now sensed.

“Who comes from the wood?” I demanded of her, all my fears aroused.

“Not the wood.” There was still enough of the lingering after-sunset light to see clearly what she did. She pulled out of Jervon's hold, set both hands palm down on the earth where there was a patch bare of grass, leaving only the naked soil. There she leaned forward, her weight upon her arms and hands, while there was very strong about her that air of listening, of a need for concentration.

So tense she was that I found myself also kneeling, watching her hands against the earth as if one could expect a sudden upheaval of the soil there.

“Under"—she spoke so softly that I barely caught her whisper—"under . . .” I was sure I saw her hands whiten across the knuckles as if she exerted her full strength to hold down a force under the ground that was struggling with a matching effort to win free.

Then she threw herself backward and away, scrambled to her knees, seizing upon Jervon's arm to drag him with her.

“Up—and back!” That was no half-whisper, rather close to a shout of warning.

I also scrambled backwards, at the same time heard a maddened squealing from the horses. They were racing, their eyes wild, kicking out at each other, milling around within that square marked by the wands.

While the ground—! The ground itself was trembling, shaking and rolling under my feet, the earth shifting as if it were as light and fluid as water, Jervon had drawn steel, so had Elys. Swords ready, the two crowded back from the spot where they had been a moment earlier.

The flames of the fire flared as wildly as the horses moved, spitting sparks into the air while the brands upon which they fed shifted this way and that.

I saw the earth rise like a wave, hurtling outward, striving, it would seem, to sweep us from our feet. Jervon and Elys were on one side of that surge, I on the other. I could not keep my balance as the wave sent me wavering from side to side. Now there was a second peril. Between me and my companions the soil spun around and around like batter stirred by a giant spoon. As it so spun the circle of that whirlpool reached farther and farther out gulping down first the fire, then the unknown's saddlebags, then one of the poles—that with the tuft of grey-white fur—breaking so the unseen barrier that had confined the horses.

It was then I turned and ran, but not quick or far enough. One of the horses had found the opening and raced straight at me. I threw myself to one side, toppled and fell. The earth curled about me in an instant, trapping my legs, flowing waist high, engulfing my flailing arms. I sank as into quicksand, soil filling the mouth I opened to scream, forcing itself into eyes I tried to blink shut. I had but a single half-conscious moment to draw a deep breath and try to hold it, as the ground took me down into darkness.

Choking, I fought again for air. I could not move and my fear was such that I cannot now remember much of what followed, mercifully perhaps. Then—I could once more breathe freely! My smarting eyes teared, striving to clear themselves of the earth clotted on my lashes. I could see nothing but deep dark—and a sharp fear lashed at me—was I blind!

No—it was not completely dark. There was a glow—very faint—against my breast. I tried to raise my arms to brush away the burden holding me flat on my back and discovered that, twist and struggle though I might, my wrists and ankles were secured in some fashion.

However, those welling tears had cleared my eyes enough so that, with the aid of the faint glow. I discovered I was no longer encased in the earth. Rather I lay in an open space—though plainly I was still a prisoner.

The glow—with a great effort I raised my head and saw that it spread from the globe of the gryphon, which nursed a small core of faded radiance.

“Elys! Jervon!” I spat out earth and called. My only answer was a dull echo. Once more I fought against whatever held me, and, by twisting my hands as hard as I could, I became aware that each wrist was ringed by bonds to keep me firmly captive.

Captive. Then that action of the earth, which had been in force to engulf our camp, was a trap! And any trap in the Waste meant—

I fought the fear that followed like a sword thrust of ice cold. The Waste harbored life we could not even begin to imagine—what had taken me?

For some moments I lost control, flopping about as best I might, striving in sheer terror to tear apart what held me. My wrists burned from the chafing of the loops about them, earth cascaded from me in powdery puffs, until I began to cough and strangle, and so was forced to lie quiet.

Then I became aware of a noisome odor. Such was not natural to any earth I knew. It was the stench of some beast's unclean den, of old decay and death. I gagged and fought sickness rising sourly in my throat.

Beast . . . den . . . More fear awoke from such scattered thoughts to nip at me. But beasts do not bind their captives. This was the Waste—said that other, the fear itself—anything may happen here.

Gaining such control as I could summon, I once more called aloud the names of my companions. This time, through the echo, came another sound—something brushed against the side of a narrow way—a scraping. I gulped, and in spite of my efforts to master my growing terror (for in my mind formed the picture of a giant scaled thing crawling through the dark), I closed my eyes. But I could not close my ears—or my nose.

There was other life here now—rustling. The odor was such to make me gasp and choke as I had when the soil had closed on me. I felt a tugging at my wrists, my ankles. There were hands (or were they paws?) fumbling about my body. I was firmly grasped by a number of such—what, I dared not open my eyes and try to see.

They raised me. Then I was being carried through a passage so narrow that at times my body brushed walls on both sides, continually bringing a rain of dust and clods down upon me. While that terrible foul odor never ceased to assault my nose.

I think that at least once I lost consciousness entirely and perhaps that may have lasted for some time. Then I was dropped with force enough to awaken pain from many bruises—and left to myself. I became dully aware that now there were no longer bonds to hold me.

Slowly I opened my eyes. The foul smell was still strong. Only the rustling had ceased, nor did I sense any of my captors close by.

It was still dark, a thick dark, broken only by the gleam of the gryphon. I had lost my helm, my hair had fallen about my shoulders and was matted with earth, sour smelling and sticky. I moved my hands cautiously, half expecting to be rushed by those whose prisoner I was. My sword was also gone, as was my belt knife and dart gun. Apparently my captors recognized the threat those weapons offered and had good reasons to be wary. I still wore my mail and the rest of my clothing was intact.