They had been scared, the two lowlanders, like frightened rabbits bolting for their burrow. Even Kal could read their sign. Clearly they were trying to put as much distance as possible between themselves and their now-discovered spy post above the Shaad.
"We're safe for now. But let that shorter fellow get his hands on a crossbow, then watch out," Galli said, halting for a moment. "I bet he's the brains of the outfit too. It must have been hard going for him here, more than it was for his partner. The short one carries more lard on him."
Heading east, they resumed their tracking, threading their way through a little-trodden path that was thickly overgrown. It took them through a steep hardwood forest high up into the coniferous reaches of the glencelands. There the air was brisk and cool, and the bulking massifs of the Radolans seemed like stark immobile giants with their heads lifted boldly to the azure dome of the sky.
When they reached a windswept copse of stunted pines, it became apparent that the two lowlanders had taken a branching trail that led them straight northwards, gradually descending towards the area where the glencelands ended along a steep-sided ridge, which merged farther down with the gaping pit of the Delf. At a break in the ridge they crossed over into the expansive upland shielings where many of the farmer herdsmen of the Holding had their summer pastures. The land they had now entered belonged to the Clouts of the Burrows. It actually formed part of their farm, although its abundance of large game animals and its difference in altitude and vegetation from the more sedate pastoral landscape closer to their house made it seem alien and exotic.
In a sheltered dingle, well out of sight and protected from cruel mountain winds, they found the remains of a settled camp. Kal kicked at the still glowing embers of a fire, while Galli busied himself examining a patch of flattened grass, marked at its corners by empty tent-peg holes.
"Must be some kind of field camp," remarked Kal.
"For what reason?"
"They needed a place that was within easy scouting distance of the Howe, somewhere they could have a fire and make a meal. That way they wouldn't have to travel the length of the valley every time they were engaged in one of their spying missions. It would be too long a trip back and forth."
"You know, I did hear old Sarmel mention to Uncle Diggory just yesterday how strange he found Kenulf's new friends, that they seem to disappear and not a soul sees them for days on end, and then they're back poking around for another day or two at the Bottle or at Broadmeadows and then gone again."
"And it can't be they go far, certainly not out of the Holding. The gatewardens—not a field mouse could get by them without the whole valley knowing."
"There wasn't much chance of someone stumbling onto them here. Most folk don't start moving their livestock up to summer pasture until mid-month."
"Even then I'm not sure anybody would be apt to find them up here. Come on, let's get moving. We'll follow them as far as Mantling Moss, then swing down and tell my father what's happened."
A couple of times along the trail, when Kal and Galli reached a fork in the path, Galli could tell from a confusing clutter of footprints that their quarry was uncertain which way they should turn. Evidently they had not come this way often enough to recognize the landmarks. The sign showed that they were forced to slow their pace, so as to take their bearings once more from the sun.
The two followed the lowlanders' halting tracks to a place where four paths intersected one another. Kal recognized the spot—part of Mantling Moss, his own family's homestead. Not too far off, lower down, lay Browside, the pasture where, only just the day before, Kal had folded their prize flock of Blackface Mereton sheep. Much to their surprise the tracks bore no mark of hesitation, but turned right, straight onto the path which led farther into the higher places nestled in the mountains.
"Will you look at this? There's so many footprints here, really unusual ones, like I've never seen before. And different footgear from anything we use in the highlands. Re'm ena, but where did they come from!" Galli crouched, fingering the ground in wide-eyed disbelief.
"There must be at least a score of men," he thought aloud, "then the two we're following came right on their heels." He paused and pointed, his attention drawn to the right edge of the footpath where a footprint was impressed clearly over the others. "What's this now? At least one Holdsman in with the lot, although he came a bit later. Not too long ago." Galli glanced up, catching his friend's eye.
"We'd better be careful. I can't say I like the look of this. It's strange, too strange."
"I agree, something's really out of kilter here."
"Don't you think we'd better leave? Tell your father? Get help?" Galli said, casting a squint-eyed look all around him, half- expecting the woods to disgorge a troop of strange, unbenign figures.
"And miss our chance to be the big topic of discussion at the Bottle for days and nights on end? Having people stop and point us out any time we step foot in Wrenhaven? We'll be the talk of the town. Why, old Sarmel—well, he'd keep the pot boiling for the next ten years, if he lives that long."
"If we live that long, you mean."
"We're not going to fight anybody. Come on, Galli, we're just going to sneak up on them and do a bit of spying, just like they did."
"They got caught, remember?"
"They don't know this land like we do. Besides, we'll be careful. For one thing, we won't stay on this path. Here, look, we'll follow Plunge Brook. It meets up again with the path about a mile up. That way, if these are foemen, and we know that two of them have no reason to love us, we're more apt to stay out of harm's way."
"Foemen, Kal? How do you mean foemen? Can't be! Where would they all have come from? Not Broadmeadows, do you think?"
"I don't know. Even if they are from Broadmeadows, how did they get past the gatewardens without every living soul in the Holding knowing about it? But it's no use worrying about that now. I feel exposed and out in the open here. We'd better search out some cover fast. Come on, this way." Kal dashed off the path into the underbrush. "I'd rather find whoever it is that made these tracks before they find us."
Galli paused a moment then fell in behind his friend.
The two of them were soon tramping alongside a small clear stream that gurgled across the face of the hill in a sunken ravine that was broad enough to contain a much larger river, as it did in the spring thaw. Deep moss covered the rocky banks, and the sun, where it slipped through the green canopy above them, was caught sparkling on the brook's surface. Its rose-moles flashing, a trout darted from a riffle. They scanned the forested sides of the ravine for any flicker of movement. It felt odd for them to be on the lookout for the presence of outlanders in these familiar woods.
"Will you look at this? We're not the first ones to have passed this way."
"What do you mean?" asked Kal, stiffening.
"A lone sheep. There's a lone sheep blazing a trail for us. A ewe, a couple of years old, by the looks of it. How did she get here? I didn't think you'd brought any of your sheep up from the lower pastures yet."
"We haven't. It must be a stray that's wiggled its way out of Browside. I'd bet you a small fortune it's Gardy-Good, the most unsheeplike sheep that ever was. Dumb animal's always finding a way to break through the hurdles, wandering where none of the others'll think of going. More trouble than all the rest of the flock put together. Plunge Brook flows into a pool just inside the fold. It's the weak spot in the fence. That's where she must've gotten out and then climbed along the streambed up here."
Kal and Galli talked no more. Their breathing became more laboured, for it was mucky uphill going along the soft-shouldered strand, especially when they had to tramp through water meadows. The banks of Plunge Brook became steeper and covered with a thickly matted undergrowth of laurel, its course taking several snake-like twists and turns. Galli had taken the lead and was skirting an outcrop of rock that was forcing the stream into another of its curling turns when he froze stock-still. He drew back to the cover of the rock.
"Men," he whispered, his eyes bulging, "around the corner, they look like—you'll never believe it—like soldiers."
Ever so slowly, Kal peered around the edge of the rock, hiding his face behind a screen of ivy creepers. There were two of them, each wearing a chain-mail hauberk and pointed steel cap, with their broadswords in scabbards hung on their backs. One of them was busy cleaning off an arrow and examining it with a view to using it again, while the other was hunched over something that lay on the ground. The latter man moved.
It was Gardy-Good. He had been right. The poor creature was as dead as a door-tree, the hoofs of her carcass having been tied to a pole. The two soldiers stood on a small expanse of pebbled shingle which lay submerged when the stream ran in full spate during the early spring. Above them rose the packed earthen path they had used to come down from the meadow that overlooked the gully of the stream.
They were deep in conversation. Strange guttural sounds, a different language, it was clearly not Arvonian of any dialect or description. Kal strained his ears to listen to them, wrestling with the shapes and texture of the sound. There was no mistaking the accents, the wharling which Landros the schoolmaster imitated so humorously when he gave the boys of the Holding their lesson in Gharssûlian.
" 'Pir-r-rian D'Ar-rba'! Now tell me, Kalaquinn Wright, what do these words mean?" he would ask, spewing out the "r"s with enormous gusto.
" 'Battle of the Trees,' sir. It's also the name of the capital city of the Autarchy of Gharssûl, where this ancient battle is supposed to have taken place," Kal would answer.
"R-r-right you ar-re, lad. You'r-re ver-ry lucky, most extr-remely for-rtunate to be learrning Ghar-r-rssûlian, ver-ry lucky, indeed, boys. Mind the sound of the Ghar-rssûlian 'r-r-r.' Not trilled like a highland 'r' but drawn out and growled, like a dog choking on a bone. Ther-r-re's no mistaking it. Pir-r-rian D'Ar-rba! Aye, boys, 'battle,' they'r-re mighty adept at that," he would say and wink.
Their talk was fast-spoken and colloquial. Nonetheless, Kal must have learned his lessons better than he thought, for he found himself able to make out snatches of their conversation. It seemed they were talking about roasting a spit of mutton for supper, how they were mightily sick of "dur-rabor"—Kal remembered their word for hardtack. Then the Holdsman saw other armed figures on the edge of the meadow above looking down at the two men below and gesticulating.
Putting an end to their talk, the two men grabbed opposite ends of the pole and ascended the path out of the gully. Kal paused in disbelief. Gharssûlian soldiers in the Holding, on his own homestead, no less. He turned and in a hoarse whisper gave Galli a quick account of the situation. They were reasonably well-hidden, much to their relief, by a thick tangle of bushes and thorny briars that rose to a close-growing coppice on the lip of the gully.
"What are we going to do?"
"We have to go, see what's happening. Whatever these men are here for, they're up to no good."
"Are you sure we shouldn't go back and get some help?" Galli urged under his breath. "There's no telling how many of these fellows there are, and they're probably armed to the teeth."
"Stop griping, Galli," Kal hissed. "Let's just scout out the situation a bit more before we head back. We need to see how many of them there are so we can make a proper report of it. I know this mountain like the back of my hand, every nook and cranny, and you're not exactly a stranger to it either. I could find my way around it in my sleep. There's a meadow above us to the left. I'm sure you remember it." Kal motioned, pointing with his chin above and beyond Galli's shoulder. "I'll bet they're camped out on that meadow. I'll tell you what: There's a perfect spot about fifty paces upstream, just past a narrow gap, where we could creep up to the meadow for a peek."
"And how do you propose we get from here to there without being seen?"
"Just a small chance we'll have to take. Only a short sprint and we're there. We can't go back and approach them from below . . . Can't you feel the wind? We'd be upwind of them, if we came at them that way. What if they've got dogs? And we can't circle round this gully and come at them downwind by meeting up again with Plunge Brook and crossing it. There are some steep bluffs blocking off that approach, except for a narrow sort of causeway which that path we left crosses over. And odds are it's under guard. The only way for us is to stay in this streambed and go straight ahead. Look," Kal peered around the corner, "we'd have made it already, if we'd cut all this talk and gone right away. They're too busy getting their meal ready, that's my bet, and a very tough stringy meal they're bound to get out of that sheep."
"All right, then, what are we waiting for?"
"You go first," insisted Kal, "and I'll cover you with Wilum's bow. I hope it's properly strung."
"What about you? Who'll cover you? All I have is my shortsword."
"You can watch from the other side and warn me if you see anyone coming. Make that cooing sound, the wood-dove sound, and I'll try to slip behind that rock."
"That rock won't give you much cover."
"It'll be enough, if I'm still. So don't worry. If we time it right and run like the blazes, we'll make it fine. Go on," urged Kal. "The coast seems clear. I'll watch for you and give you the same signal, if you need it."
Kal pulled the longbow off his shoulder and nocked an arrow, making ready to shoot a perfect stranger. Before he could entertain the thought for more than a fleeting moment, Galli, who seemed to glide along the ground like a disembodied wraith, had passed without mishap through the little valley, which was pinched almost closed by a narrow, neck-like opening upstream. That Galli—he had a born woodsman's way of crouching cat-like into a stealthy walk that Kal could not match, try as he might.
Now came Kal's turn. He slung the longbow back across his shoulder and ran. He had all but reached the spot where they had trussed up Gardy-Good when his ears caught the wood dove's coo and the sound of nearby voices—a thick, menacing blend of Gharssûlian syllables, drifting down from the brow of the ravine, not thirty paces above him.
"You'd best be quicker than quick about getting that water. We don't have all day. See that you make yourself useful for once," barked a gruff voice.
The warning came too late, leaving Kal no place to hide, only gorse and bracken all around him. The rock he'd staked his hopes on lay well behind him now, beyond easy reach. In a moment the Gharssûlian would turn down the path and see him, raising a cry when he did. Kal stopped himself in mid-career, like a hare frozen at the sight of a fox. In that moment there came to his ears a series of insistent bleats, the sound drifting from where Galli waited beyond the gap.
"What do you know! Another bit of mutton for the spit!" Bucket in hand, the Gharssûlian soldier descended, intent on locating the source of the sound, regarding it with curiosity instead of alarm. Rather than coming down the main path, he turned down a smaller side path in Galli's direction. A thick lug of a man, he did not spare so much as a glance Kal's way. Still clutching his bucket, the soldier waded into Plunge Brook in order to get through to the other side of the bottleneck, which was choked with purling water. A moment later and he disappeared out of sight. The bleating ceased and all fell quiet again. Kal rushed forward.
"Give me a hand, will you? Help me get his muzzle out of the water before he drowns, if he isn't dead already. I hope I didn't do him in . . . just wanted to draw him away from you."
"The sheep, that was you?"
"Aye, a fair imitation, I'd say."
"Not bad for a beekeeper."
"I gave him a couple of drubs with the pommel of my sword. Didn't know what hit him. I think he's still breathing," said Galli in a low voice, as he lifted the limp, sodden form from a turbid eddy of the stream, trying to pull him up onto the shore.
"I don't know that you should be so concerned about him," returned Kal, who had taken one of the soldier's arms. "Look at the insignia on his surcoat." A cold chill ran right through him.
"A black scorpion! Don't tell me—a dragoon! A Black Scorpion Dragoon!"
"And a heavy mean-looking piece of work, too," said Kal, straining at the dead weight of the man's thick muscular body, which seemed as heavy as an oak log. "One of Ferabek's fiercest troops. Landros says they're ruthless, utterly without pity. Just a handful of them are enough to keep things under control in Dinas Antrum. Re'm ena! The Holding's in danger, great danger. Here, give me that bucket and I'll take it quickly back to the bank of the stream. They'll be starting to wonder soon what happened."
"As long as they don't think he's run into any foul play."
"If we fill the bucket with water and leave it there, I think we'll be safe for a while. It'll look like their man went loafing somewhere. I'd better be quick. Here's the bow. Cover me, Galli."
Kal returned in a moment. They were right in the middle of dragging the immobile body of the hapless soldier up the bank to the leafy underside of a lilac bush, when the quiet of the river bottom was broken by a lone loud voice.
"Where are you, you moron? Estvor, where have you gone to? Come on, man! Out with you. Where are you? . . ." The man's comrade swore, lowered his voice and said, "So you're playing games with me, are you? You think you're getting back at me for that little episode in Pirrian D'Arba? Well, we'll see who's the gull when you're in the stocks."
Kal and Galli crouched over Estvor as his comrade-in-arms stepped through the gap below them, had a perfunctory look around, issued a guttural curse, and then retraced his steps. A few more grumbling imprecations—which grew more faint and then receded—drifted down to the cowering Holdsmen, and after that silence fell once more. Kal scrambled back down to the gap and saw that the bucket was gone, taken back to camp by Estvor's disgruntled companion. With relief he surmised that it would be a while now before they realized their man had gone missing and was not truant.
Having taken care of the soldier, they crept through a densely twisted thicket of alder trees that covered the gradient of the hill to the left as they moved farther up from the streambed. At the top the ground levelled off into a tableland with close ranks of linden and beech trees. This tableland clung to the mountainside like a bracket fungus fixed onto the bole of a tree. Its lower lip was the sprawling meadow from which Kal and Galli had seen the Gharssûlian soldiers come down into the ravine after Gardy-Good.
The two stole like shadows through the burgeoning green of the woods that Kal knew so well. They stayed close to the sloping hanger of brush and tangled briar they had just climbed, moving along the edge of the woods, avoiding its further depths, which were broken by the main path that gave onto the tableland, a path sure to be well-travelled.
Not too far ahead of them the trees ended at an open field. They stopped, amazed at the number of human figures that could be seen milling about, limned against a backdrop of open sky. They decided in a huddle of furtive whispers that it would double the danger of discovery for both of them to continue. Although Galli was by far the more expert and silent stalker, Kal insisted he should be the one to go on ahead while Galli stayed back, since he had a far abler grasp of the Gharssûlian language. Besides, the woods were so close-woven in their spring array that it would be child's play to creep to the forest's edge and scout things out. Galli protested that with his sharper senses he would see more than his companion. Finally they compromised by agreeing to approach the Gharssûlian camp by short stages. One of them would go on ahead and wait for the other to catch up and so on, like two wrens flitting across a lawn.
This way they were able to reach the overgrown skirts of the clearing without being detected. Here Kal, peeping out from behind a gorse bush, counted a dozen pyramidal canvas tents arranged in the shape of a horseshoe, the open end of which they were facing. There must have been at least two score men, probably more, as some of them were in their tents. Many of them were dressed in chain mail with a surcoat bearing the dreaded figure of the black scorpion. Most were swarthy in complexion and tended to be short and stout with heavy jowls that made them look like dour-faced bulldogs. Indeed, story had it that Black Scorpion Dragoons did possess the tenacity of bulldogs, indomitable in the service of their lord and master Ferabek. One or two of them carried short stubby bows, while others were armed with thick-shafted spears—the weapons like the men.
A couple of the men were taller and fairer and dressed in simpler garb. Telessarians, no doubt—full-blooded ones, not half-breeds like Galli—the eyes and ears of the Black Scorpions, their master trackers and advance scouts. As one of them turned, Kal could discern the browmark. His mouth grew dry, his heart pounded.
At one of the farther tents, just above the ravine of Plunge Brook, a roasting spit had been set up. Close beside it a small knot of soldiers played at dice. One of them languidly turned the spit now and again. A pack of wolfhounds and surly-looking mastiffs were quartered in a makeshift kennel. Kal rubbed his eyes in disbelief. What were all these outlanders doing here in the Holding, the back of beyond? How did they evade the gatewardens at the Aerie—and them ready at the slightest sign of danger to blow a warning blast?
There arose a stir of excitement in the clearing. Someone important, it was clear, had arrived in the camp area enclosed by the semicircle of canvas. Kal and Galli exchanged puzzled looks, for there entering the encampment were none other than Kenulf and Enbarr dressed in huntsmen's garb.
The flap of one of the tents was flung open, revealing the strangest-looking character that either had ever seen. The man was short, short enough to make the other Gharssûlians look like giants beside him, yet there was a marked, almost palpable, air of authority that radiated from him, charging the air around his person. He had a full fleshy face with a bearded chin and thick protuberant lips beneath an upturned nose suggesting the snout of a boar. His flowing mane of coal-black hair cascaded down to his shoulders, which were covered by a richly embroidered saffron tunic with wide sleeves, pouched at the waist, reaching down to the tops of his high leather boots.
The Boar of Gharssûl—Ferabek himself. Looking wide-eyed at each other and pointing, they read each other's silent lips forming the dread name "Ferabek"—Ferabek, the undisputed master of the Autarchy of Gharssûl, and as such the liege lord of Arvon's usurper-king Gawmage, for he was the supreme leader of the Gharssûlian League, which grew stronger with every passing day.
From the tent behind Ferabek emerged two other men, one tall and sinewy, dressed in slate grey, the other short and stout, clad in green. Galli pointed in their direction and then to the wound on his arm. Kal nodded. Ferabek dismissed them and his subalterns with a peremptory wave of his hand and turned his attention to Enbarr and Kenulf, the latter looking very uncomfortable as he played with the fringe of his cloak.
Enbarr paid the Boar an obeisance with a quick bow, followed immediately by Kenulf, who did the same, but more diffidently, crowding his cousin like a child clutching its mother's skirts. Both of them were motioned briskly to stand aside even as Kenulf began to say something but was cut off, left to swallow his words, for Ferabek had turned to instruct his page boy, who had remained to attend him.
A slender oddly dressed figure emerged from another of the tents. He wore a distinctive black leather cap with flaps that were tied neatly with thongs beneath his clean-shaven chin, while cradled against his body, held fast in the crook of his right arm, was a common yard fowl, squawking as it struggled to break free. The man had a curious raptorial nose, with deep-set hooded eyes that scanned the scene with beady stealth, grudging only the merest telltale flicker to show that something had caught his interest. The page boy had scurried to one of the tents and come back carrying a tripod, which he unfolded, placing a large oval-shaped salver on top of it. The man holding the chicken wore a long white beltless robe that fell in billowing folds to the ground, covering his feet. The robe itself was decorated with odd intricacies in bright blue and gold embroidery.
Taking the knife that was proffered to him by the page boy, the man laid the fowl on the salver and held it steady with his free hand. Then deftly, with a slight effortless flick of his wrist, he drove the knife up through the gullet, releasing a gush of blood that dripped down onto the salver. Once the bird had ceased struggling, the man, who was being watched no less keenly by Ferabek, Enbarr, and Kenulf than by Kal and Galli from their hiding place, slit open its tail end and, reaching into the body cavity, pulled out the entrails, which he strewed across the salver. The carcass itself he handed to the page boy, who by now had brought a ewer of water with a towel and a basin, which allowed the white-robed figure to wash his hands. Having cleansed his hands of blood, he reached through a slit into the wide folds of his robe. He pulled out a small pouch and extracted something from it, which he placed in his mouth and began to chew. Similarly he procured himself a thin long-handled spoon, using it to turn and poke at the viscera of the fowl he had just gutted. With this his whole demeanour changed. His head rocked back. He began to chant in low sonorous tones that rose and fell with a hypnotic languor, all in some nameless language, entirely unfamiliar and utterly unlike either Arvonian or Gharssûlian.
The two young men were held spellbound as they watched. Kal surmised from his studies that this must be the bizarre ritual of augury, where the future was read by the unique colouring and configuration of an animal's entrails. It was Ardiel who had done away with the practice in Arvon and much of Ahn Norvys. The man wore a Thrygian cap, and what he was chewing had to be laurel leaves to aid him in the process of divination—a real-life Thrygian magician. Neither Kal nor Galli had ever seen such a creature, although many a highland tale was woven around these mysterious adepts from Thrygia, far to the east of Gharssûl.
The magician's trance did not last long, for he had stopped chanting in those strange rhythmic tones and had laid aside his spoon to let it be washed by the ever-attentive page boy. Then he turned to Ferabek and spoke, shaking his head as if in disappointment. Ferabek, not to be outfaced by the magician, glowered, barking some kind of order to him. The Thrygian remained cool, his air of calm unruffled. Then, ever dignified, he turned away and reentered his tent. A moment later he was slowly making his way back, carrying another bewildered chicken.
Again the ritual was enacted. Again it seemed unsatisfactory, for Ferabek nodded in the direction of the magician's tent, as if bidding him to fetch another fowl and try again. This the magician did, changing the colour of his cap to a blue of the same light aquamarine hue as the intricate designs adorning his robe. Once more Ferabek, now even more visibly angry and upset, sent the magician back. This time he returned with a much larger bird, a cock, as black as obsidian, its bright red comb and wattle dyed a deeper ruby red by the fountain of blood that spurted out from its severed neck. The cock's blood was everywhere. There seemed no end of it. The magician's own robe, until now unsullied, was spattered by jets of it. Turning up his aquiline nose with sniffing disapproval, he probed the inner organs with his spoon, all else hushed to silence by the lugubrious rise and fall of his chanting, which had now become a kind of ominous wail.
Once more the auguries proved unsatisfactory. Clearly there was a problem. Ferabek's face had grown flushed with anger. Thwarted thrice and again—not a good omen. But then the magician spat the laurel leaves discreetly into the closed palm of his hand and started to explain some point in earnest to his lord, who nodded in agreement and tugged pensively at his jutting chin, much mollified, it seemed.
Ferabek dismissed the bowing magician with a languid sweep of his hand and took notice again of the two Holdsmen in attendance. Kenulf appeared taken aback by the gruesome course of the rituals, while his cousin's eyes lit up at the prospect of obtaining a hearing at last. The three of them began strolling leisurely together and conferring. At least Ferabek and Enbarr were. Kenulf fumbled in their wake, ignored for the moment.
The three drew closer to Kal and Galli. Ferabek was heading right for where they lay hidden. Icy fingers of panic closed around Kal's chest. His first instinct was to run all out like the wind, in order to put as much distance as possible between himself and the Boar.
And Enbarr. There was something hardly less unsettling about him too. Enbarr had always seemed possessed of a sixth sense as far as Kal was concerned, as if he could read Kal's thoughts, feel his aversion. Whenever chance happened to throw them together, Kal would stand off, repelled by the man, and Enbarr would turn and pierce him with those fathomless blue eyes of his. Whatever it was about Enbarr—the sly knowingness, the cunning—the Boar exuded it too, except even more powerfully and malignantly. Kal shivered, sure that Ferabek had seen him or sensed his presence somehow. It was those eyes, even at this distance, their dark pupils sparked with a burning fire, sinister, grotesquely unnatural.
His voice, now within Kal's hearing, reinforced his naked terror, for it had a bestial quality, untouched by emotion. Not that it sounded gruff or unpleasant to the ear. Not at all. Rather it had a certain suavity to it, but with an underlying savage edge that seemed to spring from the darkness of the underworld itself, from which the Boar was reputed to draw much of his strength.
Somehow Galli was held less mesmerized, managing to keep his wits about him. He gripped Kal by the shoulder, which seemed to break his spellbound state.
"They're just following the path, that's all, don't worry." His voice had fallen to a whisper of a whisper in Kal's ear, for with his keener eyes he could make out the little game trail, overgrown with a lattice of leaves, that wound past their hiding place. Ferabek was merely wandering at leisure down this trail with Enbarr in tow, Kenulf being a few strides behind the two of them. In a moment they could hear Ferabek clearly, turning to speak to Enbarr in slow, measured Gharssûlian.
". . . The sun, Enbarr, I have to get myself out of the sun to consider the situation and away from the confounded odour of those chicken guts. It seems that they're no longer adequate for Cromus. The dream paths are blocked, he says. What do you say, Enbarr, about how he proposed to unblock them? A pretty idea, don't you think, with only one catch, as you well know. If I didn't value my Thrygian magician as highly as I do, I'd almost say he was mocking me. But we won't talk of Cromus now. Ah, this is much better . . . the shade and coolness of these trees after the stuffy air of the tent and having to listen to the bumbling apologies of those hotspur fools from Dinas Antrum sent by Gawmage. I should have sent a couple of Scorpions to do the job. I have half a mind to send the two clowns hopping headless back to that pigsty Gawmage calls his capital, but probably they're useless even as crow bait."
Enbarr knit his brows.
"What's that? You mean you haven't heard?" Ferabek stopped in his tracks and faced the Holdsman. "This morning they attacked the two men that help the bard, meant to do them in, if they hadn't proved unequal to the task and bungled it. Now the old man will surely have his back up, won't trust his own woods to be safe, with good reason, mind you. And he as full of tricks as Lostek the Fox by all accounts, knowing full well that someone will be watching his every move to try to discover where he has that brat of Colurian's hidden. Why, the Prince's blood would have dyed the ground red two decades ago if Gawmage hadn't been such a blundering fool right from the start.
"But now, to make matters worse, my trap is sprung, and I'm afraid the old man will find some way to spirit the lad, wherever he is, from out of harm's way, for the time being at any rate, so long as the lad's not here in this valley. For if he's here, and Cromus has a feeling he is, there's not a thing the old man can do to save him.
"On the other hand, if he's not hidden hereabouts, it makes the job of capturing him more complicated. Curse the whole business! Take the old man's pigeons, for example. There's no telling what messages he's sending out to those in league with him . . . but never mind. Whatever way he manoeuvres, in the end I'll not be flouted. Sooner or later, with my men watching the approaches to the Balk Pit and in control of this valley, we'll take the royal fire-bearer, since it's him and no other that'll rekindle the fire and carry it back to its sanctuary in the woods. Tradition won't have it any other way, will it, Enbarr? Still, I'm in no humour to wait. I want him now!" Ferabek growled with sudden ferocity, striking the palm of his hand with his fist.
"May it please Your Imperial Excellency, but I believe I've solved your problem, for I think I've hit on your royal pain in the neck at long last and he's not far off, not very far off at all, I can assure you. It was a marvellous stroke of luck and my own keen eye for detail, Your Excellency. I've kept my eyes and ears open for you, always vigilant on your behalf."
"But Enbarr, it was I who discovered it," ventured Kenulf, coming closer.
"Fool, you didn't know what you'd discovered until I rowed out to the Castle last night in dead darkness to have a look for myself . . . even brought the blasted painting back to Broadmeadows with me. If it hadn't been for your dithering, we'd have had our bird in hand days ago."
"But I needed to think about it."
"You'd have been thinking 'til doomsday, if I hadn't wrung your secret out of you."
"It wasn't a secret. I just wanted to make sure, that's all."
"Aye, great way to make sure, sitting on your tail gnawing on your morsel of a clue, keeping it to yourself—"
"Stop, stop!" Ferabek flung forth his hand, palm outwards, in impatience. "What are you two jabbering about?"
"About our lost prince, Your Excellency. I think I've found him."
"Out with it then, man!"
"Well, it all came to pass because Kenulf's father found himself too ill with dropsy to make the trip himself to Raven's Crag Island this year. You've probably heard how the tradition hereabouts works, Your Excellency, that it is the Thane of the Stoneholding who every seventh year, within the Octave of the Candle Festival, makes the trip from Broadmeadows to the Castle to deposit an updated version of the manor rolls, a list that gives the names and ages of every living man, woman, and child in this whole backward clanholding and the names of all those who have died as well."
"Aye, we need that list."
"Not anymore we don't, at least not the way we needed it before. All the same, we should look it over. Just to double-check things, make sure all the Holdsmen of Starigan's age are accounted for when you sweep this valley with your Broom—"
"Aye, they're important rolls," Kenulf launched himself into the conversation again.
"That's not what you thought the other day." Enbarr rounded on him. "It was like pulling teeth to get you to make that trip to the Island."
"It was you who urged me to stand up to my father."
"Stop bickering. Get on with what you've got to tell me," demanded Ferabek.
"As long as I can remember and even before that, it's been my father who has undertaken the task of depositing the manor rolls," Kenulf piped up again. Enbarr let him continue with the thread of the story, while he himself kept silent, a smirk on his face.
"Well this year, imagine my surprise, my father bade me go in his stead. He was too ill. I thought it an infernal nuisance. You thought so too, Enbarr. Don't deny it. The whole idea of having to deposit the rolls in the Castle is sheer nonsense, no basis in reason, a worn-out tradition. Why not keep them at Broadmeadows? You said it was a stupid custom that allowed only the Thane to deposit the rolls in that old bat-infested stonepile! What difference does it make, really? It was only to keep him from nagging me to death that I finally relented and went. He said he'd dispossess me if I didn't go. I was forced to make the trip three days ago on an absolutely terrible, storm-tossed day. The sort of weather you wouldn't send a dog out into, least of all your only son."
Ferabek shuffled his feet impatiently, hands clasped behind his back. Kenulf rambled on with an increasing confidence, for he was showing himself to be a surprisingly fluent speaker of Gharssûlian, more so than his cousin.
"But no, he had to have it done that day, wouldn't hear any more of my excuses, as he put it, and before I can say jack-in-the-green there I am being rowed out by our head steward to the Castle with the wind blowing right through me and coming near to capsizing the boat, I should tell you, Your Excellency—"
"You should tell me indeed! What is it that you're driving at?" Ferabek spoke with brutal impatience. "I don't have the stomach today to listen to a braggart's tale of derring-do on that accursed pond you have the brass to call a lake."
"Yes, Your Excellency, by all means, if it please Your Imperial Excellency, I-I w-was only trying to fill in some of the d-details," stammered Kenulf, recoiling from Ferabek's affront.
"Spare me the details. Get to your point. Out with it quickly. There's much that needs doing, and I must be about my business."
Discomposed by Kenulf's tedious wordiness, Ferabek had stopped almost directly before the place where Kal and Galli lay hidden, scarcely daring to breathe, perhaps a good five paces away. He stood sideways to them in striking profile. A magnetic, compelling aura radiated from the Boar at this close distance. Kal thought he smelled a heady musk-laden odour, wafted to him by a downwind draft. The atmosphere was charged with a creeping menace, mysteriously compelling. Kal felt himself caught up and absorbed in it against his will, so that he had to make a great mental effort not to fall thrall to the spell of the Boar—a charm woven not merely out of the dulcet tones of Ferabek's suavely contemptuous voice, but more deeply from the very bones and sinews that netted together his flesh.
"Of course, Your Excellency—if it please Your Excellency, I mean to tell you directly that while I was making for the oaken chest in the Overlord's Chamber to deposit the manor rolls I chanced to be poking around in one of the side rooms, the scullery, I think, filled with all manner of odds and ends. Well, hanging all dusty with cobwebs on the wall was a huge portrait. It was labelled with an etched gold plate in Old Arvonian saying that this was a portrait of the High King Colurian in his twentieth year, the year he acceded to the throne of Arvon. Well, the portrait . . . the surprise of it, you understand, Your Excellency. There was something familiar about it that I couldn't place. But I searched and searched my memory—"
"And found nothing, a gaping void!" sneered Enbarr. "It was I who made the connection and I could have made it days earlier if you hadn't been so tight-lipped about your side jaunt through the scullery."
"But you know it's considered bad luck if you step foot outside the Overlord's Chamber. I didn't want anybody knowing—"
"Wait! There's a disturbance back in the camp. I must see what it is. Come along with me," grunted Ferabek, whose attention had suddenly been captured by a flurry of excitement in the clearing where the tents of his Scorpions stood pitched. Kal and Galli were puzzled too, until they saw with grim amusement that one of the chickens had escaped from Cromus's tent, a spry one, for several men, including two Telessarian trackers, were trying to catch it without success. Galli pinched Kal and whispered cautiously in his ear, urging that they should turn back, now that they had been given a natural diversion to cover their escape.
"No, no, Galli," Kal said, "we'll miss the most important part." At first Galli failed to follow Kal's meaning, for he had understood only a smattering of the overheard conversation. Hurriedly Kal related what he had learned.
In a short while Ferabek, discounting the cause of the commotion, turned back towards the shaded side path, deep in conversation with Enbarr. He had taken a friendly hold of Enbarr's arm, his face a glowing picture of pleasure. Meanwhile Kenulf trailed farther behind the two of them than ever, like a chastened puppy. It seemed to take forever for Ferabek and Enbarr to approach within earshot of Kal and Galli again.
". . . is very good, my dear Enbarr. You've certainly earned a king's ransom, a king's ransom, with this bit of news, for my plans have been much skewed, thwarted you might say, by this youth who carries the weight of Arvon's faded glory in his veins. And now he's within my reach, aye, finally, within my very reach . . ." Ferabek rubbed his hands together, and his voice trailed off into an awkward, reflective silence.
"Do you know, Enbarr, about the dream that's plagued me?" asked Ferabek suddenly, leaving Enbarr bewildered.
"No, Your Excellency."
"A plague, yes, a plague . . . Night after night, shadows and voices . . . Always the same, Enbarr, I awake with the words before my mind . . . The words. Cromus says it's prophetic, but offers no answer to the riddling lines."
Ferabek paused, turned and looked up at the taller man, holding him captive in his steely gaze. " 'Beware the seed of Ardiel yet, else never shalt thou Arvon get.' Such is the prophecy, Enbarr. A prophecy against me! Me, the Overlord of the Gharssûlian League, Overlord of a dozen vassal kingdoms and more, a mighty empire. Aye, and Overlord too of this ancient folkdom of Arvon, the jewel of Ahn Norvys, excepting these bullheaded highland folk and their kindred in the Arvonian Isles. But now—now, Enbarr, you've brought me news that will put to rest this irksome fancy, this dream shadow. And there's more I need to ask of you yet." The tone of Ferabek's voice had changed yet again, becoming arch and smug.
"What is it you want me to do, Your Excellency?"
"I want you to return to Broadmeadows, you and your cousin. Keep your eyes and ears open. I don't trust this self-styled Hordanu, this holdout."
"Aye, Your Excellency," Enbarr said.
"He's a fox, sly and crafty. He knows that the Sacred Fire has been quenched in order to force his hand. Before the break of a new day, once we have the prince, this wretched Wilum shall vex me no more. He and the boy, both of them will be in my grasp this very night." The Boar clenched his fist. "Oh, how pleased Cromus will be to read the boy's intestinal fortitude!" He laughed, his throaty guffaw ringing through the open spaces of the upland forest.
The two young men felt themselves chilled to the bone. Even Kal could no longer bear the tension and longed for the chance now to flee. Every moment they stayed was fraught with danger. How long would Ferabek and Enbarr linger here, shackling them to this perilous hiding place, a mere stone's throw away from the Black Scorpion encampment? How long would he and Galli be kept from making good their escape?
"And then the Talamadh shall be mine, and all of Ahn Norvys will step to a mighty Gharssûlian march." Redirecting his attention to the matter at hand, he sighed. "I digress here, Enbarr. My words are untimely and tempting of fate. First this night must bear its fruits. Go now. You know the plan. Tonight, in the smallest hours of the morning, when all save me and my men are asleep, we shall strike. Which means that at dusk you must make your way back to our encampment here."
"With Kenulf?"
"Aye, with him. He may be useful yet, as may those two thugs of Gawmage's, although I have my doubts." Ferabek had resumed his casual walking pace, and for the first time Kal and Galli dared to hope that he would move out of range soon and give them the chance to slip away. "Yes, my dear Enbarr," said Ferabek, warming to his subject, "we're going to put paid to the old man at long last. But him I want alive. I'll make a public spectacle of him in Dinas Antrum—hanged, drawn, and quartered to provide a meal for the carrion crows, a poor meal, all bones and gristle. High Bard, Guardian of Wuldor's Howe. Scum of Wuldor's Howe! Miserable pretender of a bard, who dares to try and stem the tide of change from this backward hilltop sanctuary, who dares to defy the martial might of Gharssûl on the strength of a few oafish highland archers and an ancient sham-king's timeworn grandeur. So much for the legend of Ardiel, the noble ploughman king. The whole world will see that it's no more than a hollow tale that's had its day. This Wilum, he's going to die a traitor's death, no need to tell you, Enbarr. We'll set fire to the Great Glence. That will be the signal to the squadrons I have posted at the Wyrdlaugh Pass, which, thanks to you, is now bereft of its wardens. Before morning they will have put to the sword every man, woman, and child in this clanholding, all of them save Wilum and our princeling.
"I'll have my men land on Raven's Crag Island and take the manor rolls in Owlpen Castle, so that we can make certain that no one is missing when our Broom makes its sweep. Cromus tells me they're important, that he's seen scrolls filled with list upon list of names in two of his dream trances and he's not sure but that these manor rolls may be the ones he's dreamt of. Whatever the case, I want every one of the oafish lot accounted for, every last one of them matched against the rolls. And I want the rolls themselves. It's not often Cromus misdirects me. Hah! Am I not clement, Kenulf? The very picture of benevolence? To grant them the mercy of dying in their beloved clanholding when I could have made a spectacle of them in Dinas Antrum or Pirrian D'Arba. The yokels will be surprised in their beds. And those who awaken to the danger will have no place to go, for we hold the Wyrdlaugh Pass. This wretched little place will no longer ignore the League. Hard to do when it no longer exists, eh, Enbarr? When their homes and farmsteads are razed to the ground, when their one little town is transformed into a charred ruin. There'll be no more High Bards arising from this fastness to challenge my might, to pretend that their power can equal mine. The old cult of Wuldor will die amid the rubble of the Great Glence," he spat out. "So much for the navel of Ahn Norvys—"
At that moment a gust of wind swept up from behind Kal and Galli. The breeze had changed direction, casting their scent full into the Gharssûlian camp. The dogs in the makeshift kennels, catching the smell of them, began barking and lunging at the ashwood palings that penned them in. A choking flash of raw panic overwhelmed Kal. He broke cover to escape, but froze in his tracks. With an animal quickness, Ferabek had spun around and locked eyes with him. The searing glare of the Boar's eyes was so intense, that Kal felt stripped of his very self. There occurred an eerie moment of calm, like the heavy stillness before the onset of a savage thunderstorm. It was as if Ferabek had had some sense all along that he was being watched from the shadows. In a timeless instant, Kal knew the chill terror the fox feels when beset by hunter and hounds.
"He's seen us! Run!" A limbering surge of adrenaline unfroze Kal's limbs. Galli had already sprung to his feet.
"Spies! Spies! To arms! Let loose the dogs! They must not escape! To arms!" Kal could almost hear the furious gnashing of the Boar's teeth.
With his barked orders ringing in their ears, they sped back through the forest at a furious pace, retracing their steps. They could hear the baying of dogs approaching closer and closer behind them, the lead they enjoyed over the dogs a slender one.
"We'll never make it if we go back . . . the way we came," said Kal, winded.
"What else can we do?" gasped Galli.
"Follow me . . . our only chance . . . jump across the brook . . . almost there . . . get ready to jump." Kal, who was in the lead, cast a quick look back over his shoulder and flinched to find that the hounds, with the heavy-jowled mastiffs in tow, were bearing down on them, no more than a bowshot away. The two had left the trees, headed for a great shelf of rock, the leading edge of which ended over a gorge, which dropped sheer. At the bottom of it gurgled Plunge Brook.
"All right," said Kal, pausing for a brief moment to collect his breath. "The other side. That rowan tree. It's a jump. Just have to hit full stride, throw your body into it. You ready? Let's go. I'll go left, you go right. Hurry . . . the dogs," he added, glancing back. "They're almost on us."
Running full tilt to the brink of the precipice, they lunged forward, hurtling their bodies through the air. It was Galli who, with arms flailing, landed safely on the crest of the earthen bank on the other side. Laying hold of the matted grass and hardy weeds, he pulled himself up. Kal had landed short and was clinging desperately to a confusion of roots dangling from the rowan tree perched on the very lip of the ridge. He felt a nip at his heel and wrenched away his flailing leg, leaving one of the pursuing dogs to slither yelping down the steep bank. He dropped Wilum's bow. Galli turned and, seeing Kal, knelt by the trunk of the rowan. He grasped Kal's outstretched arm and pulled him up. From the corner of his eye he could make out massed ranks of soldiers and hounds flooding towards the gap that separated them. Galli had rescued Kal not a moment too soon, for a spear kicked up the dust at the very spot where Kal had hung. The two of them scrambled to the top of the embankment. A spear whistled past, inches above Kal's head, grazed Galli's shoulder, and thudded into the ground before them. Galli swung his head around and lifted his hand, fingering the torn fabric of his tunic. It was fortunate the enemy bowmen had needed a few moments to gather and prepare their weapons, or Kal and Galli would have been picked off as easily as newly fledged ducklings in a small pond.
Now they ran.