Quag Keep (16 page)

In the center stood a mighty trunk of such girth as two men
might well conceal themselves behind. Hanging from the underside of the drooping branches that formed the inner shell of this forest house were globes shaped like fruit, but which glowed to give light.

Moss again was the carpet, a very soft and thick one. Around the limb wall were wide ledges, also moss grown, each long enough to provide a bed. Most and best of all was the feeling of peace that seeped into one's weary body, Milo thought. He had spent nights in many places. But never had he been greeted by such a lifting of the heart and soothing of the spirit as wrapped about him in this elven stronghold. Weariness flowed away, yet he was content to seek one of those ledges, settle himself upon it, put off his helm, and let the forest life sink into him, renewing strength and spirit.

They had eaten and were lounging drowsy and content when Ingrge spoke to Wymarc.

“You have shown us one magic, bard. But I do not think that is the limit of what you carry. Can you play ‘The Song of Far Wings'?”

Wymarc's hand went out to touch the harp bag which he kept ever within reach.

“I can. But to what purpose, ranger?”

“When we climb to the West Pass,” Ingrge returned, “we must have a guide beyond if we seek Lichis. He has the will and power to hide himself from both men and elf; we cannot find him without some aid. It has been many years since any have hunted him. But he will feel our thoughts and strengthen his guard-spell unless we come to him by some way he has left unmarked, a way the feathered ones know. Then, once discovering the way”—the elf turned now to Naile—“it would be well for
you, berserker, to loose that small one.” He pointed to Afreeta. “Of the same blood she is, and she can carry our plea to Lichis. He is old, and long ago he swore he would have no more of any of us. But he might be interested enough to allow us to him—if we have an advocate of his species.”

“Well enough,” Naile agreed. Afreeta, as if she understood all the elf had said and approved of her own role to come, bobbed her head twice, then turned to hiss gently into Naile's ear—his boar-helm being laid aside, leaving in view for the first time thick braids of hair coiled and pinned to add protection for his skull.

10

THEY STOOD IN A SHARP CUT OF A PASS. HERE THE AIR WAS THIN
, very cold. Snow had drifted down to cloak the heights that walled them in. The edge of frost in the air that flowed about them was so cutting that they had tied over their faces any manner of scarf or strip torn from extra clothing to keep out what they could of the cold.

Horses drooped, feet spraddled, their limbs shivering from the effort of the last part of the climb. The mountain had been nearly like a ladder, so they had come up it at a crawling pace—dismounted riders leading the animals.

Frost gathered upon their improvised wind masks, streaked their cloaks. For the last of the upward effort Milo had wondered if Gulth would survive. The lizardman had grown more and more sluggish in his movements, though he had never voiced any complaint. In fact his silence made Milo sometimes speculate as to what thoughts passed through that alien mind. Now Gulth squatted against a small fall of rock, his ice encrusted
cloak about him, his head huddled down under the hood until only the tip of his snout protruded.

Ingrge turned to Wymarc, laying his mittened hand upon the arm of the bard, gesturing with the other to the harp in its bag. It was plain what he wanted of Wymarc. But in this wind and cold—surely the bard dare not expose his fingers to summon up his own brand of magic.

Yet it would seem that Wymarc was agreeing. He caught the end of his furred mitten between his teeth to yank it off his hand. The bared fingers he inserted under the edge of the binding about his chin and mouth, perhaps to warm them with the scanty breath these heights left in a man's lungs.

With the other hand he worried off the bag protecting his skald's harp. Then he settled down on the same fall of rock behind which Gulth crowded. Milo moved forward as quickly as he could, taking up a position to shield the harper with his body as much as he might. Seeing what he would do Deav Dyne, Yevele and Naile speedily came to aid in making that windbreak. Only the elf stood alone, staring out into the swirl of clouds that screened what lay on the western side of the pass.

For several long moments Wymarc's face mask heaved and twisted. Then he brought out his hand to the strings of the harp. Milo saw him flinch and guessed that in this cold he faced a pain as immediate and severe as if the strings were molten metal.

Touching the harp steadied Wymarc. He began to weave a spell of sound. Wind screamed and moaned, but through that clamor arose his first notes, as clear and well defined as any temple gong. They echoed and re-echoed from the rocky walls, until it seemed that more than one harper plied his art.

No pain from this playing attacked his listeners. The notes Wymarc repeated over and over again rang through and then out-called the wind, like a summons. Four times the bard swept the harp strings to play the same questing call. Then, once more, he thrust his stiffening fingers beneath the mouth scarf to blow upon them.

“
AYYYYYYY
!” Ingrge's shout could well bring down an avalanche should there be any dangerous overhang of snow and rock, Milo thought apprehensively.

The elf had cupped his hands to form a trumpet and once more voiced that upsurging shout. Through the grayish roofing of the upper clouds descended a great winged thing. Murky as the pass was, it did not hide those widespread wings. Memory once more moved in Milo's mind, opening grudgingly another door.

It was a gar-eagle—the greatest of all winged creatures (save, of course, a dragon) that his world knew. The very beating of those wings churned up snow as the bird descended. And when it came to perch at last on a rock a little farther ahead, closed its fifteen-foot wings, and twisted its head downward toward the elf—over whom it would have towered another head's length had they been meeting on level ground—even Naile pushed back a fraction.

The curved beak was brilliant scarlet—the hue of new-spilled blood—and the fierce eyes, which raked them all contemptuously in a single survey, were the gold of flames. But for the rest there was nothing but the white of the purest snow.

Ingrge held up his mittened hands, palm outward and at the level of his own heart in a ceremonial gesture of greeting. The
head of the huge bird dipped again, dropping lower so that they were indeed now eye to eye. Milo did not hear any sound save that of the wind which once more howled since the magic of the music no longer battled with it. Their communication must be in the “silent speech,” mind to mind, as the elven folk were able to do not only among themselves but with all the sons and daughters of nature who wore feathers, scales, or fur—or even leaves—for it was rumored that to the elves trees were also comrades, teachers, and kin-friends.

The gar-eagle's hooked beak, formed to rend and tear, opened and the bird screeched ear-piercingly. Ingrge moved back to allow it room as it spread once more those near unbelievable wings, rising up into the clouds.

When their visitor had entirely disappeared, Ingrge returned. “We can move on.” A wave of his hand gestured ahead. “The great one will track us when he has word. And we dare not linger here lest the cold finish us.”

Luckily the slope downward from the pass was less difficult than the climb. However, they did not try to ride, but stumbled along, stumping on feet numbed by cold. Milo chose to play rear guard, mainly because he feared that Gulth might drop behind and not be noticed. While he had no particular friendship for lizardmen in general, this one was part of their company and deserved an equal chance.

He had guessed right that the saurian was near the end of his strength, for Milo was not yet out of the pass cleft when Gulth fell forward into the snow, making no effort to rise.

“Wymarc!” Milo raised his voice. The bard, half-hidden in cloud mist, faced around, returning as quickly as he could. Together
they bundled Gulth across his horse and went on, Milo leading the mount, the bard hovering beside to steady the limp body of the lizardman if he showed any sign of sliding off.

Mist hid the rest of the party ahead, but once they were out of the pass itself the wind ceased to buffet them and Milo welcomed that small encouragement. Luckily there was only one possible path to take. It curved to the right where trampled snow, fast being covered, was their guide. The swordsman longed to speed up, but he was breathing in short gasps, and he could guess their footing was treacherous. Though it was a less exacting a road, it was still steep enough to call forth caution. Soon it became a series of ledges, each a fraction wider than the one above.

They were below the cloudline now so Milo looked ahead eagerly for their party. Hooves and boots had beaten down the snow—but he could see nothing of those who had made that trail. Confused, he halted, while the horse moved up a step, nudging at him.

“What's the matter?” Wymarc asked.

“They're gone!” Milo's first wild thought was of some snare of spell that had netted the rest in spite of Ingrge's talent at scenting such.

“Gone?” The bard loosed his hold on Gulth and crowded forward to look over the swordsman's shoulder.

Milo examined ledges with greater care. The three immediately below and beyond where they had paused were trail-marked. But only half of the fourth one showed disturbed snow, as if the rest of their company had been snatched up at that point and—

Before he could share such a suspicion with Wymarc, Ingrge
appeared straight out of the mountain wall. The bard's laugh made Milo flush at his own stupidity. Perhaps the cold had slowed his wits and let his imagination take over.

“Cave!” Wymarc gave the answer Milo should have known. “Let us get there with all speed. If our friend here still has a spark of life in his body we had better be tending it.”

Ingrge joined them before they were along a third of the next ledge. The elf's aid made the rest of their descent the easier. Both horses and men trusted him and did not have to pick such a careful path.

They pushed through a slit in the stone to enter a cave. Despite the narrow entrance, it widened beyond into a space large enough for both men and animals. Nor was that all. A fire blazed on a flat stone, marked with the scorching of earlier flames, and about it sat the others, holding out their hands to the blaze, crowding in upon the small glow of heat.

With Ingrge's help Milo and Wymarc carried Gulth to the source of heat. Deav Dyne arose hurriedly. As they pulled away the ice-stiffened cloak, he leaned solicitously over the scaled body. Milo himself could distinguish no sign of life. But the healing spells of priests were well known to be able to save one very close to death.

Beads in hand, Deav Dyne drew his other palm in long soothing strokes from the lizardman's domed head to his scaled and taloned feet, then down each arm in turn. The cleric's voice muttered a chant. Now the elf knelt on the other side of Gulth, joining his long-fingered hands to Deav Dyne's in the stroking.

On the opposite of the fire, feeding it from time to time from a pile of sticks heaped between two outflung spurs of rock, squatted Naile. And almost nosing into the meager flames was
Afreeta, low upon her belly, her wings outspread as if she would take into her body all the warmth she could. Wymarc rubbed the hand he had bared to the wind in the pass, alternately blowing upon the fingers and holding them to the fire. Yevele had pulled open one of their supply bags to bring out a roll of the most strength-providing food they carried—dried fruit beaten into a thick pulp and then crumbled to be combined with coarsely ground dried meat.

For a time the mere fact that they were out of the breath of the mountain wind, under cover and in shelter, was enough for Milo. He watched the labor of the elf and the cleric apathetically, wondering if their efforts were not already in vain.

Neither Ingrge nor Deav Dyne were willing to concede such a defeat. In the end, their efforts were rewarded. There was a hiss of pain from the lizardman. His horn-lidded eyes opened slowly, and now Milo could see the rise and fall of his arched chest. Deav Dyne stopped his stroking, searched again within his robe and brought out a small curved horn stoppered with a metal cap.

With infinite care he loosed the stopper while Ingrge raised the heavy saurian head upon his own knee, working his fingers between the fearsome fangs of Gulth's jaws to open the half-conscious alien's mouth. Onto the purplish tongue thus exposed, Deav Dyne dropped four small measures of the liquid the horn contained, then made haste to shut the container before he turned back to his patient.

Gulth blinked slowly. His head settled a little to one side in Ingrge's hold. Then his eyes closed. The cleric sat back on his heels.

“Cloaks!” he demanded without looking at the rest of them. “All covering you can spare!”