by Andre Norton
wagons.
Eveleen was beside Ross. She let her buck shield her from some of the
breeze as she tightened his saddle girth.
Ross saw her shiver. "There's no need for you, or Gordon for that
matter, to come this time. We don't intend to fight."
"Our abilities no longer satisfy you?" she answered with no good
humor.
"I'm only trying to spare you a most unpleasant journey," he told her.
"We always ride with you," she retorted. "When you decide to spare
yourself, we'll be spared as well. Until then, we'll hold our prerogatives."
"That's pure stubbornness, Lieutenant."
The woman smiled. "Perhaps I'm only speaking for myself. You might
suggest to Gordon that he remain behind."
"I already did. His answer was the same as yours. He just used
considerably less restraint in phrasing it."
Ross gave an exaggerated shake of his head. "I won't give any
commands. Such folly deserves to reap its full reward."
The Sapphirehold unit rode almost steadily during the next several
days. There was a lot of territory to be examined, and the war captain
wanted to see it all and be away again as quickly as possible. The Corridor,
even this northern part of it, was too close to the invaders' front-line army
and was thus too well patrolled to allow him to feel even minimally secure
here.
The fact that the invaders tended to send out fairly large units into this
region did nothing to comfort him, either. There were only five with him.
Their mission was such as to require no more, and it was relatively easy to
conceal the movements of so few, yet six was a small number to put
against a Condor Hall company.
He sighed then and put a rein on his nervousness. Their purpose was to
explore, to study, not to fight. They would send word back to the
mountains if they encountered any tempting targets whose capture they
might thereby hope to effect, and conceal themselves or flee if they met
with a patrol.
His partisans often rode thus and rarely came into trouble because of
it. This, he knew full well—had he himself not originated their
tactics?—yet the nagging fear of attack, of riding into a trap or a situation
they would not be able to handle, continued to plague him unmercifully
until he heartily wished they were well away, out of this place and back in
the safety of the highlands once more.
Gradually, however, as time passed without difficulty and he gained the
information he sought, the Time Agent was forced to congratulate himself
for taking the risk of coming here. The rain had indeed done its work.
Zanthor of Condor Hall would, be sending no wagons through the Corridor
for a long time to come.
"We've seen enough," he said at last to the woman riding beside him.
"Let's head for home."
His voice had been low. All else was quiet apart from the moaning of
the wind, and alien sounds could carry far.
None of the unit was sorry for hearing that order. The endless chill ate
at their bodies, and their nerves were raw from trying to keep watch in a
country that offered little in the way of defense and no alternate route of
escape should they be discovered and need to bolt.
This, then, was what the invaders must feel and endure…
The six rode fast and hard, passing at last from the Corridor to the
nearly equally dangerous Funnel.
They relaxed somewhat despite the undiminished threat of meeting
with a Condor Hall patrol. Here, at least, there was cover, and they had
room in which to fight or flee if they did encounter trouble.
The wind was against them, and it was already too late when their
springdeer gave them warning. Even as their ears went back, riders
rounded the sharply defined bend formed by the base of a low hill just
before them, twenty-four of them.
The two parties faced one another, frozen by surprise, only yards apart.
"Through them!" Murdock shouted.
His partisans had learned well the hard lesson of instantaneous
response. They charged past their still-stunned foemen.
Their advantage was short-lived. The invaders whirled about and gave
chase.
They were close, and their deer, if not fresh, were no more spent than
were those of their prey. They would not give up quickly.
Ross dropped back to buy his comrades time. Lady Gay was fast. She
would soon bring him away again.
He felled the first rider. The second. Others pressed around him,
uncowed by their comrades' deaths. They had recognized him, and
knowing his worth to those who could take or slay him, they let their greed
fire their courage, greed, and their numbers.
He slashed out, desperately trying to open a path for himself.
Two more went down and then a third.
Fire erupted in his side, tore across his stomach.
Murdock slumped forward with a gasp, clutching at Lady's short ridge
of mane as the sword dropped from his grasp. The saddle in front of him
was already red with his blood.
A shout of triumph began, only to die stillborn.
Others, green-clad warriors, were about him.
The weapons expert's hand steadied him. "Just hang on!"
"Beat it! I'm gutted…"
He had no time for more. Someone had Lady Gay's reins and was
leading her away.
He glimpsed Eveleen, Gordon, two of the others fighting furiously.
Eveleen? Was she a woman at all or a demoness out of the Halls of
Fury?
There was nothing human about this battle. The invaders must have
felt the truth of that as well. They buckled, fled, before the unexpected,
incredibly fierce counterattack.
After that, there was only the blurred sensation of speed and a
constant, jolting agony that seemed somehow unreal, as if it were part of
him and yet not part. He clung tightly to Lady but knew he would soon fall
were it not for the hands grasping his arms on either side.
At last, the motion stopped. Someone lifted him down. The smith, he
thought. Only he could bear a man as if he were a child.
He was placed on the ground, on a cloak. A second was balled and
eased under his head.
Marshaling his will, he forced his eyes open, compelled them to focus.
"Eveleeni?" His voice was no more than a whisper.
She moved swiftly into his line of sight. "Easy, Rossin. We're away with
it."
"All—must not risk themselves—for a dying man. Go on now. This,
I—order…"
"You are incapacitated, Captain," the woman replied with icy firmness.
"I'm in command at the moment."
"Fool…"
She placed her fingers over his mouth. "We're not going to give you up,
Firehand. I will not."
He had grown too weary for further argument and closed his eyes once
more, giving himself over to her will.
His mind retained its awareness. He knew what was happening to him,
heard and understood what was being said around him, but it was beyond
his power to respond to any of it.
His shirt was torn back and pressure applied to stem what remained of
the bleeding. Ashe probed his wo
und. Ross had felt his touch before in the
aftermath of battle and knew it now.
Gordon's breath caught. "The Lord of Time be praised," he whispered,
his voice oddly thick. "I don't think the intestines have been cut."
He demanded water, which soon came. It was hot, and Ross moaned.
Eveleen's fingers gently caressed his forehead and temple. "Hold on,
Love. It'll be over soon."
"I wish we could chance a duller," a man's voice, the blacksmith's said;
there was an anguish in it that surprised him.
They would give him no pain killer, of course. Gordon had no more of
the supply issued him at their mission's outset, and Murdock's body could
not tolerate the local substance. If he sickened now, with such a wound, he
was dead.
Ashe probed the laceration again, this time cleaning as well as
examining. "I'm nearly certain they're sound, but it was a close miss, and
he's by no means free of danger. He can't take any more tearing… I'll need
help with the bandages. They'll have to be tight."
Ross felt another touch him, one of the men. The binding process was
harsh. He lost consciousness during part of it, and when he drifted back
into semiawareness, his mind was too confused to make an identification.
He heard Eveleen order someone to ride for the mountains, and then
blackness closed in over him.
The war captain shivered violently. Someone was holding a frigid cloth
to his face.
He tossed his head to rid himself of the tormenting thing and opened
his eyes.
Gordon was beside him. He looked tired and strained, and there was an
open fear on him which he now strove to conceal.
"How are we doing?" Ross was pleased that his voice, though weak, was
at least steady. It sounded strange to his ears, as if he heard it through
some kind of aural fog.
"Quite well. We're just ending a short break now. By riding through the
night, we should be home by this time tomorrow."
"Any sign of the invaders?"
"None."
"My wound?" he asked after a brief pause.
"Bad enough," Ashe answered evenly, "but not so serious as we first
supposed. You've got a high fever, and that could prove more dangerous to
you than your actual injuries if it gets much worse."
"I'm able to ride now, at least slowly. Let me have Lady. I can make my
way back at my own pace…"
Gordon's eyes flashed in sudden fury, but then he laughed. "You read
too many adventure novels back home, Friend. We're not going to let you
ride off to a solitary death in sacrifice for us all. Besides, that's not
necessary."
Murdock sighed, knowing there would be no moving his partner.
He had to try. "Gordon, some of those men escaped. They recognized
me, and they'll soon spread the word that Firehand has been seriously
wounded and must still be within their power of taking. Half Condor Hall's
army'll be out in force after us if they aren't already."
Eveleen joined the pair at that point. She sat beside them. "Hunting
and capturing are two different matters," she informed him in a tone that
brooked no argument.
He nodded, as if in defeat. "At least, you might give me something to
ease the pain.
The woman laughed then and bent to kiss him. "So you can force your
own body into slaying you? I think not, Firehand. Anyway, I doubt it
would work. I don't believe your injuries are that severe, especially since
they haven't worsened under the motion of the litter. You'd only succeed in
making yourself dreadfully sick."
"You can't make any speed while I'm with you!" he argued desperately.
"I know enough of wounds to realize that. Am I to see you all killed, to be
the cause of it?"
Ashe smiled down on him. "Not a chance. We're as safe now, or nearly
as safe, as if we were in the midst of our own camp. Listen to the noise of
the deer around us! We're with a goodly company. Scouts are combing all
the country about to carry warning if the enemy should approach, and
skirmish patrols are riding near on every side to challenge and delay any
who might be so foolish as to appear.
"Condor Hall-born warriors may be famed for fighting with a fanatic's
zeal, but all their fury is nothing to that which we're prepared to show
now. We'll defend our own, my Friend. Believe that, and rest easy."
"It might all be for nothing," he whispered, reassured almost despite
himself.
"Then you'll at least die at home, with whatever comfort we can provide
for you," Eveleen told him quietly.
As she had done to silence him before, she pressed her fingers to his
lips. "Shut up now, and don't let me hear any more talk about dying. I'm
not about to surrender you, Firehand, not even to that grim Lord."
Ross was conscious of a strange, swaying movement, its rhythm
occasionally broken by unpredictable jerks or drops that wrung a moan or
a cry of protest from him, however the weak control he still possessed over
his body tried to quell it.
At times, he would be puzzled or totally disoriented but then would
force himself to concentrate.
He rode in a deer litter. It was not the first time he had traveled thus,
but on that other occasion, he had been able to fix himself to his position,
consider his unit's needs. Now, it was hard to focus his thoughts at all,
impossible to hold them any length of time…
It was cold, bitterly cold. Not all these blankets they had piled on him
seemed able to hold it away from him, as if it originated within his own
flesh rather than in the sleet now lashing down in a continuous storm.
Once, maybe twice, he thought he felt heat. There was far too much of
it. His body poured sweat, and he struggled against the weight of his
coverings until powerful arms restrained him.
Those warm spells, if he had not dreamed them entirely, did not last
long, and he was more than glad to feel the end of them and have the cold
sweep back over him once more.
Gradually, the troubling episodes came less frequently. A deep oblivion
rose up to take him, and he drifted down into it, secure at last from
discomfort and from the sharp talons of pain.
25
THE TIME AGENT lay perfectly still. His body was at ease. There was
no motion, no movement at all. He was resting on a comfortable bed.
Pillows supported him at an angle steeper than that at which he was wont
to sleep, a measure to help keep his lungs clear. The air around him was
wonderfully warm.
A muted light reached his lid-veiled eyes. It teased him, and in the end,
he opened them.
He frowned. This was not his chamber.
"So you wake at last!"
He turned his head.
Luroc was sitting beside him. The Ton moved swiftly to adjust the
pillows so that the injured man might sit higher. "Easy. You are in my
cabin."
"Why?" he asked.
"It is the warmest and most comfortable in the camp… You had us all
very worried this last week, Rossin."
"A week? So long?"
He nodded. "Yes. Until the fever left you this mo
rning, we were in doubt
as to whether you would live."
A strangely strong sense of loss filled him when he suddenly realized
that neither Eveleen nor Gordon was present.
I Loran seemed to read his thought. "I just sent your comrades to get
some rest. Between commanding our war effort and nursing our
illustrious wounded, they are both about spent."
The ruler chuckled. "Do not scowl so! You cannot expect everything to
hold still because you have been put out of it for a time. As a matter of
fact, those hunting you have provided our people with some excellent
targets."
"They shouldn't have wasted themselves here…"
"You could have kept away had one of them been hurt, I suppose?"
Murdock was visibly growing tired, and I Loran pushed his chair back,
away from the bed. "No more for now. It is near midnight. Eveleeni will
see you tomorrow and will give you as full a report as Healer O Ashean
declares you are able to hear. In the meantime, you are to rest. We all
fought a hard battle to save you, and I am not about to risk setting you
back again by overtaxing you."
Recovery did not come quickly. The wound itself closed in good order,
but the fever returned twice more, each time stripping away whatever the
war captain had regained of strength, and the winter was well spent
before he had at last been permitted to return to his own quarters.
In truth, he had not pressed to leave the Ton's cabin. It was warm
there, and he seemed no longer able to tolerate cold. Any cold. Even now,
long after the other effects of the wound had begun to vanish, he could still
bear no touch of chill. So severe was his reaction against it that unless it
lessened again with the passage of time, significantly lessened, Ross feared
he would be forced to limit his long-term activities either to the far south
here or to hot paradise worlds like Hawaika, venturing into other climates
only for short, summer assignments.
Murdock put that thought from him. He had to trust that this blight
would eventually leave him as the fever had finally done. In the meantime,
he could only endure it as best he might, that and conceal his continuing
discomfort from his companions.
Save in this one respect, he had reason in plenty to be pleased. His own
strong constitution had reasserted itself, and he had regained both the
flesh he had lost and his wonted energy, which had so far deserted him
