Quag Keep (10 page)

“The Word of Him Who Knows—this set about an unknown, draws His attention to it. If He chooses to enlighten our ignorance, then such enlightenment is His choice alone. Now—at least this is not of Chaos, or the Word could not contain it intact, the markings would be wiped away. So—let the rings now approach the Word, swordsman!”

His command was so sharply uttered Milo obeyed without question.

He held his two thumbs in the air above those scrawls on the earth, feeling slightly foolish, yet apprehensive. Deav Dyne was certainly not a wizard, but it was well known that those who did serve their chosen gods with an undivided heart and mind could control Power, different of course from that which Hystaspes and the rest of the adepts and wizards tapped, but no less because of that difference.

Running his prayer beads through his fingers, the cleric began to chant. Like the symbols he had drawn which were without meaning to Milo, so were the words Milo was able to distinguish, slurred and affected as they were by the intonation Deav Dyne gave them. But then the ritual the cleric used might be so old that even those who recited such words to heighten their own trained power of projection and understanding did not know the original meaning either.

Having made the complete circuit of the beads on his chain, Deav Dyne slipped it back over his wrist, and picked up from where it lay by his knee the same rod with which he had drawn the patterns. Leaning forward, he touched the tip of it to the map ring.

Milo heard Yevele give a gasp. The rod took on a life of its own, spinning in Deav Dyne's hold until he nearly lost it.
Quickly he withdrew. There were drops of sweat beading his high forehead, rising on the shaven crown of his head from which his cowl had fallen.

Mastering quickly whatever emotion had struck at him, he advanced the rod a second time to touch the oval. The response this time was less startling, though the rod did quiver and jerk. Milo had expected some backlash to himself but none came. Whatever power the cleric had tapped by his ritual had reacted on him alone.

Now Deav Dyne settled back, returning the rod to his bag. Then he caught up a branch, using it to wipe away the drawing.

“Well?” Milo asked. “What do I wear then?”

There was a glazed look in Deav Dyne's eyes. “I—do—not—know—” His words came as if he spoke with great effort and only because he must force himself to utter them. “But—these are old, old. Walk with care, swordsman, while you wear them. There is nothing of evil in them—nor do they incline to the Law as I know and practice it.”

“Another gift from our bracelet-bestowing friend perhaps?” Wymarc asked.

“No. If Hystaspes spoke true (and by my instincts he did) that which has brought us here is alien. These rings are of this space, but not this time. Knowledge is discovered, lost through centuries, found again. What do we know of those who built the Five Cities in the Great Kingdom? Or who worshipped once in the Fane of Wings? Do not men ever search for the treasures of these forgotten peoples? It would seem, swordsman, that this Milo Jagon, who is now you, was successful in some such questing. The ill part is that you do not know the use of what you wear. But be careful of them, I pray you.”

“I would be better, I think,” Milo returned, “to shed them into this fire, were I only able to get them off. But that freedom seems to be denied me.” Once more he had pulled at the bands but they were as tight fixed as if they were indeed a part of his flesh.

Wymarc laughed for the third time. “Comrade, look upon the face of our friend here and see what blasphemy you have mouthed! Do you not know that to one of his calling the seeking out of ancient knowledge is necessary to maintain his very life, lest he fade away like a leaf in winter, having nothing to sharpen his wits upon? Such a puzzle is his meat and drink—”

“And what is yours, bard?” snapped Deav Dyne waspishly. “The playing with words mated to the strumming of that harp of yours? Do you claim that of any great moment in adding to the knowledge of men?”

Wymarc lost none of his easy smile. “Do not disdain the art of any man, cleric, until you are sure what it may be. But, in turn, I have another puzzle for you. What do you see in the flames, Deav Dyne?”

Milo guessed that was no idle question, rather it carried import unknown to him. The irritation that had tightened the cleric's mouth for an instant or two vanished. He turned his head, his hand once more swinging the chain of his prayer beads. Now he was staring into the fire. Ingrge, who had drawn a little apart during their delving into the mystery of the rings, came closer. It was to him that Naile addressed another question.

“What of it, ranger? You have certain powers also—this shaven addresser of gods is not alone in that.”

“I do not rule fire. It is a destroyer of all that my kind holds
dearest. For those of your kin, were, can flee when such destruction eats upon their homes and trails. Trees escape not . . .” He stared also at the leaping of the flames, as if they were enemies against which he had no power of arrow shot or chanted spell.

Deav Dyne continued to stare at the flames as intent as he had been moments earlier when he had attempted to use his knowledge of wand and rune.

“What—?” began Milo, at a loss. Wymarc raised a finger to his lips in warning to be silent.

“They come.” Deav Dyne's tone was hardly above a mutter.

“How many?” Wymarc subdued his own voice. His smile vanished, there was an alertness about him, no kin to his usual lazy acceptance of life.

“Three—two only who can be read, for they have with them a worker of power. Him I perceive only as a blankness.”

“They are of Chaos?” Wymarc asked.

A shadow of impatience crept back into the cleric's voice.

“They are of those who can be either. But I do not see any familiar dark cloaking them.”

“How far behind?” Milo tried to keep his voice as low and toneless as Wymarc's. His body was tense. Their mounts along the river—Gulth—Was the lizardman a good guard?

“A day—maybe a little less—to measure the march between us. They travel light—no extra mounts.”

Milo's first thought was to break camp, ride on at the best pace they could make in the dark. Then better judgment took command. Ahead lay another stretch of plain, perhaps a day's journey, if they pushed. Then came a tributary flowing north. There was a second dry march after that, before the third
stream, which was the one they sought, leading as it did into the mountains, enough below Geofp so that they might avoid any brush with the fighting there.

That particular stream was born of a lake in the mountains which cupped the Sea of Dust itself. They had decided earlier that it would be their guide in among the peaks where they might or might not be able to discover Lichis's legendary lair.

But the marches from one river to the next, those were the problem. Deav Dyne blinked, passed his hand across his sweating forehead and moved away from the fire. He reached for his bottle of water newly filled from the river, took a long swallow. When he looked up again his face was gaunt and drawn.

“Once only—”

“Once only what?” Milo wanted to know.

“Once only can he scry so for us,” Wymarc explained. “Perhaps it was foolish to waste . . . No, I do not believe it is wasted! Our protecting wall of illusion is exhausted. Now we know that there are those who sniff behind us, we can well take precautions.”

“Three of them—seven of us,” Naille stretched. “I see no problem. We have but to wait and lay a trap—”

“One of them possesses true power,” the cleric reminded them. “Enough to mask himself completely. Perhaps enough to provide them all with just a screen as has encompassed us through this day.”

“But he cannot draw upon that forever.” Yevele spoke for the first time. “There is a limit to all but what a true adept can accomplish. Is he an adept?”

“Had he been an adept,” Deav Dyne returned, “they would not need to cover the ground physically at all. And yes, the constant
maintenance of any spell (especially if the worker has not all his tools close to hand, as did the wizard who drew us into this misbegotten venture) is not possible. But he will be gifted enough to smell out any ambush.”

“Unless,” the girl pressed on, “it takes all his concentration and strength to hold the spell of an illusion.”

For the first time Naile looked at her as if he really saw her. Though he had showed antagonism toward Gulth, he had refused to notice Yevele at all. Perhaps the near-giant berserker held also a dislike for Amazon clan forces.

“How much truth in that?” he now rumbled, speaking at large as if he did not quite know to whom of their party he should best address his demand.

“It could be so,” acknowledged the cleric. “To maintain a blockage illusion is a steady drain on any spell caster.”

“With our illusion in turn broken, we should be easy meat,” Milo pointed out, “not only for an open attack, but for some spell cast. The way before us is open country. Therefore, we must make some move to halt pursuit. Let Ingrge in the morning lead on with Deav Dyne, Wymarc, Gulth—”

“And we of the sword wait?” Yevele nodded. “There are excellent places hereabouts to set an ambush.”

Milo's protest against her being a part of it was on his lips, but died away before he betrayed himself. Yevele might be a girl but she was a trained warrior, even as were he and the berserker. Though he did not deny that the other four of their party each had their own skills, he was uncertain as to how much those would matter in a business that was a well-known part of the battles he had been bred and trained to.

“Good enough,” Naile responded heartily. “Tonight we shall divide the watch. I go now to relieve snake-skin—”

Milo would have objected, but the berserker had already left their improvised shelter. Ingrge raised his head as the swordsman moved to follow Naile.

“Words do not mean acts, comrade,” the elf said. “There is no love for Gulth in him—but neither will he raise hand against him.”

Wymarc nodded in turn. Deav Dyne seemed to have sunk into a half-exhausted sleep, huddled beyond the fire.

“We are bound.” The bard tapped the bracelet on his arm. “So bound that each of us is but a part of a whole. That much I believe. That being so, we have each a strength or skill that will prove to be useful. We—”

He did not finish, for Naile had returned to the fire, his lips snarling so that the teeth which had given him his name were exposed nearly to their roots.

“The snake is gone!” His voice was a grunting roar. “He has gone to join
them
!”

“And your Afreeta?” Milo asked in return.

The berserker started. Then, holding out his hand and half turning toward the dark without, he whistled, a single, ear-piercing sound. Out of the night came the pseudo-dragon like a bolt from a crossbow. She was able to stop in midair, drop to the palm Naile extended. Her small dragon head was held high as she hissed, her tongue flickering in and out. Naile listened to that hissing. Slowly his face relaxed from a stiff mask of pure fury.

“Well?” Wymarc stooped to throw more wood on the fire, looking up over one shoulder.

He was answered, not by the berserker, but rather by a second figure coming out of the night. Gulth himself stood there. His scaled skin glistened in the firelight, and water dripped from his snout.

“In the river.” Naile did not look at Gulth. “Lying in the river as if it was a bed, just his eyes above level!”

Once more Milo's memory stirred and produced a fact he was not aware a moment before he had known.

“But they have to—water—they have to have water!” The swordsman swung to the lizardman. “He rode all day in the dry. It must have been near torture for him!” He thought of the miles ahead with two more long dry patches to cover. They must think of some way of helping Gulth through that. Even as he struggled with the problem, Ingrge made a suggestion.

“We can change the line of march by this much—upriver to the main stream. We shall have Yerocunby and Faraaz facing us at the border. But the river then will lead us straight into the mountains. And it will provide us with a sure guide as well as the protection of more broken ground.”

“Yerocunby, Faraaz—what frontier guards do they post?” Naile placed Afreeta back to coil about his throat.

Their united memories produced some facts or rumors, but they gained very little real information.

They decided to take Ingrge's advice and use the river for a guide as long as possible. Naile tramped out again to take the watch. Milo, wrapped in his cloak, settled for a little rest before he should take his turn at guard.

Though they had all agreed to change the direct line of their march in the morning, they had also planned to set the ambush,
or at least a watch on their backtrail. To learn the nature and strength of those trailers was of the utmost importance.

Milo was aware of the aches of his body, the fact that he had been twenty-four hours, or near that, without much sleep. He shut his eyes on the fire, but could he shut his mind to all the doubts, surmises, and attempts to plan without sure authority or control? It seemed that he could—for he did not remember any more until a hand shook his shoulder lightly and he roused to find Naile on his knees beside him.

“All is well—so far,” the berserker reported.

Milo got up stiffly. He had certainly not slept away all the aches. Beyond the fire to which Naile must have added fuel, for the others slept, the night looked very dark.

He pushed past Wymarc, who lay with his head half-pillowed on his bagged harp, and went out. It took some moments for the swordsman's eyes to adjust to the very dim light of a waning moon. Their mounts and the pack animals were strung out along their picket ropes a little farther north. Naile must have changed their grazing grounds so that they could obtain all the forage this small pocket in the river land could offer.