"Orvig said your spear held death runes," Rathe said, speaking in a low voice. "It doesn't, does it?"
"He's no rune master," Kel replied. "A rune has many faces, Rathe." She stared out into the river. "Felmurg, the rune that guided us through the fog, also holds the spear true when I throw it into a foe's heart." She put her hands on her hips, and gave him a quizzical look. "Don't they teach magick at Stonekeep?"
"They do," said Rathe. "But I was never chosen to learn the art."
"The more fools them," she said. "What's it like?"
"The Keep?"
"Yes." She took Rathe's hand in both of hers. "Tell me."
"It's very different from living here, deep in the forest," Rathe said. "And yet the forest is part of all our lives..." Rathe described the huge citadel of the Keep, towering over the forest, its many halls and winding underground passages. Kelandra listened raptly, sometimes shaking her head, but made no comment till Rathe described its thousands of inhabitants.
"That many? But what do they all do?"
"Most of us are loggers, working in the forest."
"Not farmers or hunters?" She was skeptical. "Do you eat wood?"
"No," Rathe grinned. He saw Orvig returning, bearing his laundry, face and beard wet. "We leave that to the Dwarves."
"You're teasing me," Kel said.
"A little," Rathe admitted. "Some of us are hunters, and we gather fruit and nuts in season, same as you. But the Dwarves dwell deep beneath our halls, and grow mushrooms in their caves. In return, we bring them timber to frame their passages and stoke their furnaces. They forge good steel." He slapped his sword.
"So that's why your folk gather wood!" said Kel. She turned to face Orvig. "Are you a mushroom farmer?" Kel asked him, "Or a smith?"
"Neither," replied Orvig, proudly. "My clan is the Stonemelters."
"You melt stone?" Kel asked. "Why?"
"We brew strong acids. To etch rock into carvings," Orvig said. "We also make other goods, like glass, from things like sand. Have you seen a telescope?"
"No," said Kel. "But I've heard of them."
"I wish I had one with me," Orvig said glumly. "Maybe we could spot that mountain."
They shared a meal of dried fish and cheese, then resumed their journey. They scoured the river bank for trails that would take them from the foothills into the mountains. Late in the afternoon, they found one—an old game track. Kel stopped to read the signs: It had been used, and recently. A dozen booted feet. And other prints. It led northeast. They followed it.
Kel walked in front, with Rathe beside her. Their eyes scanned the trail, but they talked easily, speaking of the differences between the trees in this place and those around Stonekeep. Orvig brought up the rear, staying silent, though he smiled sometimes, as if to himself.
Suddenly, Kel froze. "Tse'Mara," she hissed. Quick as a serpent, she vanished behind a boulder. Rathe and Orvig scurried for hiding places. Rathe found himself in the bushes at the base of a small pine. He peered out.
Whispering Death. There was only one, but it still sent shudders down Rathe's spine. A thing of glittering armor and flashing spikes and wings, it was beautiful in its sheer deadly grace. It circled, humming to itself. Was it after them? Rathe's hand closed tightly on the hilt of his sword, and he slowly unfastened the shield from his back.
It furled its wings and dived, stooping like a hawk. Rathe's heart leaped into his mouth, afraid that it had spotted Orvig or Kel. There was a squeal of pain—and then the Death emerged, a small rabbit impaled on its forearm spike. Rathe breathed a sigh of relief. Hunting, but not for them.
The creature launched itself into the air, alighting on a nearby tree. A cloud of pine needles showered down. Perched on it, the Tse'Mara looked like an exotic weathercock. It stared down at its captive, compound eyes reflecting myriad rabbit-images. The agonized creature mewled piteously as it writhed on the spikes. Then the Tse'Mara bent over, and its jaws closed on the rabbit's head. Blood splattered. It slurped up what was left with a wet sucking sound, then dropped the carcass and launched itself skyward, wings buzzing, toward the east. Soon it dwindled to a black dot.
The sun was an orange glow, low in the sky. They were among the foothills now, climbing steadily. The mountains loomed high above them, covered with a dense pine forest. That evening, they found a place to camp, a small copse a score of paces from the summit of a low hill. Their supper was meager—the last of the bread and cheese, two onions, and the remnants of Kel's fish. Their rations were nearly gone. They would last another day, at most.
"We should have taken that rabbit," remarked Rathe. "The one the Death threw away." Orvig looked at him suspiciously, but Kelandra just nodded. "It had no rune. It was just a wild hunter. It was dangerous, but not magic."
"Who takes first watch?" Rathe asked. He was dead tired, but doubted the others felt any better.
"We'll be in poor shape for tomorrow," Orvig grumbled.
"Orvig's right," Kel said. "Tomorrow we reach the mountains. We need some rest." She reached into her pack, and removed a small wicker cage. It held the skeleton of a bird.
"That was in your hut," Orvig said, surprised. "What is it?"
"A talisman," Kel said. "I can use it once, without a lengthy cleansing."
Rathe watched, fascinated, as Kel plucked a feather out of her cloak, pricked her finger with its tip, and then sketched a delicate rune on the bird's skull, over each tiny eye socket. "Sybaris," she said. "The Guardian." She addressed the bird, "Watch well, spirit of the forest. If throg or beast or man approaches, wake us." She hung the cage on the tree limb. "We can rest easily, tonight. But don't leave its sight, or the spell will be broken. If foes come, Sybaris will give warning—but not much."
"Dead tree and dead birds," said Orvig gloomily. He yawned. "I hope this works better than the Ithark."
"If you toss a pebble and your foe replies with a spear, is your aim any less true? The shaman was stronger than I thought." She scowled. "Next time I'll be ready."
Rathe's eyes were drawn back to the wicker cage. He fell asleep wondering what call a dead bird would make. The image haunted his dreams, and he saw skeletal ravens flying over a forest of dark trees whose leaves were broken glass. Then, suddenly, a shadow fell across the forest. The leaves shattered and fell to the ground with a sound like a thousand broken mirrors.
Rathe woke with a jump. He saw Orvig as the dwarf snatched up his sword. He looked up. The dead bird's cage slowly rotated in the tree.
There was no wind.
"Ssssshh!" hissed Kel. "throgs!"
Rathe lay crouched down, face pressed into the brush. Kel was on his left, Orvig behind him. He couldn't see the throgs, but he heard their harsh voices, calling to each other, the snap of twigs as they widened the path through the wood, the clank of metal and the creak of leather. Their croaking language seemed a blending of frog and bird—and yet, he thought, it had a complex, rhythmic structure that spoke of intelligence.
They lay still for some minutes. The band was going north.
Kel and Rathe studied the tracks. "Five of them," Kel said. "A small party. Probably hunters."
"What now?" said Orvig. He yawned. "Back to sleep?"
"No! We need them to lead us to their stronghold," Rathe said. "This may be our only chance." He looked at Kel. She nodded. "We follow them." said Rathe. "And pray we don't run into any Tse'Mara."
They stalked the throgs through the night, following them eastward, over hill and vale. An hour before dawn, they heard a whisper of wings. The throgs were a hundred paces ahead of them.
"Tse'Mara!"
This time it was not just one, though how many they couldn't tell.
Kel urged him to take cover. "I want to see," said Rathe.
"It's too dark," said Kel. "They'll smell you before you see them." She held him back.
Hardly breathing, they listened. The humming rose in intensity, and mingled with the throgs' own voices. Then the creatures rose again. The humming grew in streng
th—they were heading this way. Rathe lay flat, pretending to be a log. The Tse'Mara passed high overhead, heading south.
When dawn paled the eastern sky, the throgs stopped and made camp. One stood on watch. The other four were sleeping.
The day was warm but the sky was gray and cloudy. The stalkers moved slowly, carefully. It took them an hour to get into position, crawling on their bellies. Rathe's body was tired, but he felt exhilarated. He glanced at Kel, and saw the same light shining in her eyes. This time they were the hunters. Orvig was grim.
They could see the throg who was standing watch. He had green skin, pointed ears, and no hair. He was about Rathe's height, although he stood slightly bow-legged. He wore crude skins and fur boots, and leaned on a spear. A shortsword was strapped to his side. He was humming quietly to himself.
They struck swiftly. Kel murmured words and threw. Her rune-spear flew as quickly as any arrow, piercing the sentry's throat. He dropped, gurgling. Rathe and Orvig raced forward. Their swords rose and fell. It was butcher's work. Three throgs died before they woke. The fourth rolled over and drew a long knife, snarling. Orvig dealt him a vicious kick to the head. He collapsed.
Rathe stood panting, covered in gore. Green bodies were scattered about. Orvig looked ill. A weak fetching noise came from the throg that Orvig had kicked. Kel smiled, grimly.
Kel searched the corpses, while Orvig and Rathe bound the captive warrior to a tree trunk. Rathe was surprised. The throg was female.
He leaned down, put his sword to her throat. "We want to know a few things," said Rathe slowly. "Do you understand me?"
"Uyasru Makkar ky Rhyanis Une-Makkar." she said. "Wiotha eh falkarr ni."
Orvig knew a little of the throg tongue—Jhen had practiced on him. He translated: "I be Rhyanis, warrior of the Une-Makkar tribe." He looked at Rathe. "You'll get nothing from me."
"Won't talk?" asked Kel. She stepped out from the shadow of the trees, the soft breeze blowing her black feathered cloak about her. She held her rune spear. The blood still dripped from its tip.
The prisoner craned her head to look, then caught her breath.
"Jedaykeen!" she gasped, voice shaking. "Isas! Keep 'way!"
Kel laughed and stepped forward
"Jedaykeen. What's that mean?" Rathe asked.
"Slithering death that stalks the day," said Orvig. "I think." He looked at Kel. "I don't think she likes you, lass."
"Thank you," said Kel. She rolled it around her tongue, then leaned in close to the throg, and hissed "Jeddaaykeeen."
The hunter turned a pale shade of lime.
Kel grinned, but she let Orvig pull her a step back.
They conferred together a few paces away. "She's afraid of Kel," Rathe said. "Why?"
"Who knows?" said Kel innocently. "But she does seem frightened, doesn't she?"
"Terrified," said Orvig. He looked at Kel. "Was it your headhunting?"
She shrugged.
"We need to make her talk," Rathe said. "But I won't use torture. We'll try frightening her."
"Huh," said Kel. She nodded at Orvig. "She's your prisoner." She brightened. "We can always kill her if it doesn't work."
Chapter Six
"You'll have to talk to her," Kelandra said to Orvig. "Find out where your Jhen is," she said, "and how we can reach her without getting caught."
Rathe nodded. He was sitting on a tree stump, wiping the blood off his sword with a rag. "And see if you can find out why the throgs started this," added Rathe. He looked at his blade. "If we're killing them, I want to know why."
"I'll do my best, boy," Orvig said. He glanced at Kel. "You stay over there, lass. She's too nervous to talk when you're close."
Orvig approached the captive warrior. His throg-speech was slow and halting. He punctuated his words with gestures, trying to make himself understood. Often he pointed at Kel, and once at Rathe. The throg woman answered in a low voice, almost a whisper, darting furtive glances in Kel's direction.
"Did you find anything on the bodies?" Rathe asked Kelandra.
"Nothing much," Kel replied. She was sorting through a stack of leather helmets, cloaks, coarse tunics and fur breeches they'd stripped from the dead. "Some provisions. I won't touch their meat but they had some black bread and dried fruit we can use." Kel paused. "And one of the warriors you slew had this." She handed him a shortsword.
Rathe turned it over in his hands, noting the fine workmanship. "This is Dwarven steel," Rathe said. "Not throg-work. It was made in Stonekeep." He studied the inscription on the side. He nodded grimly. "Last year's mark, from the Albenforge clan. It's not some heirloom. They got this off the Seth party."
Orvig came over to them, looking thoughtful.
"Well," he said. "I've found out a fair bit, though I had to promise that Kel here would eat her heart if she didn't tell me."
"Does she speak truth, do you think?" asked Kel.
Orvig nodded. "She's sure we're all magickers—I think she's too scared to lie. She told me her tribe, the Une-Makkar, has a stronghold a half-day's journey from here. They call it Carkulroth—the Sheltering Dark. That's where they took Jhen. By the way, you were right," he said to Kel. "She's being held in a dungeon, in their stronghold. Their Shaman's been questioning her about Stonekeep."
"Why?" said Rathe. "What could he want?"
"Rhyanis doesn't know. She's only an ordinary warrior. But she seems to think," Orvig gave a tight smile, "that we Dwarves control Stonekeep. He wants Jhen to tell him our secrets." Orvig turned somber. "Poor old Hoth was almost right, boy. The throgs are preparing for war. Their Shaman has big dreams. And now that they've crushed Kel's folk, he wants to drive out our logging parties, and there's talk of a mass assault on the other forts. From what Rhyanis says, I think this Shaman plans to conquer the entire Vale of Khera. Maybe more."
"The Shaman in his feathered cloak," Rathe said, recalling Kel's words, from just before the magickal attack. "Who is he?"
"Well, the last chief Shaman was an old fellow named Jevaka Raye. He'd been Shaman for years and years. He believed in trade with the human tribes. The occasional skirmish to keep the young bucks happy, but fighting for honor, not territory."
"Yes," said Kel. "Before they tamed the Tse'Mara, throg traders came two or three times a year. I remember the strange smells... foreign spices. They brought thick hides from the mountains, and nuggets of raw gold and copper. But sometimes we'd quarrel over hunting grounds, and our warriors would meet the throgs across a stream. We'd throw spears at each other. When we hit someone, they'd run and give us hunting rights—at least, till next season."
"What if one of your warriors got hurt?"
"Then we'd do the same. Sometimes people got hurt—my uncle Erj was almost killed. Once in a while they'd raid, steal our sheep. And so would we. But it wasn't war. We never even thought of attacking their villages, wiping them out." She glared at the captive throg with hatefilled eyes. "Like they did to us."
"So what happened? Why did Jevaka Raye turn hostile?"
"Gotha Karn happened." Orvig looked grim. "A nasty piece of work, though our friend Rhyanis doesn't want to tell us much. I think she's almost as frightened of him as she is of Kel. Rathe, do you know how throgs choose their chieftains?"
Rathe shook his head.
"Jhen told me once. Through magickal duels. Gotha Karn had magick, but not much. And if you're a throg with any magickal talent at all, it's not safe to hang around a tribe with a real shaman. He might get the idea that you're trying to replace him, and get rid of you first. So you get out of there, if you're smart. Maybe find another tribe that doesn't have a shaman, or maybe just live alone and practice your magick."
"I gather Gotha Karn was smart?"
"He went into exile in the wilds. But then he found something. Our captive's just an ordinary hunter-warrior. She doesn't know the whole tale. But Karn boasted that while he was exiled, he found a ruined temple in the hills. He defeated its guardian, and..." he glanced at Kel.
"
And what?" said Kel.
"And took its head."
"The black crystal skull," said Rathe.
"Exactly," said Orvig. "It boosted what powers he already had. It also gave him control over animals—and insects."
"The Tse'Mara," said Rathe.
"The Tse'Mara," echoed Orvig. "They were just wild creatures, before."
"That's right," said Kel. "They lived in the mountains, but they rarely took humans, mostly small game like rabbits or goats. So it was Gotha Karn." She smiled wickedly, and stroked the rune-carved tip of her spear. Now her enemy had a name. "And he used the skull's power to craft runes to control them?"
Orvig nodded. "And now they're his personal pets," he said. "With their help, and whatever other magicks it gave him, he came back and defeated the old Shaman, Jevaka Raye."
"What happened to Jevaka?" Rathe asked.
Orvig shrugged. "Usually the loser is killed in the duel—or right afterward. But Gotha Karn kept the old shaman alive." He glanced back at the captive throg, who was hanging limply in her bonds. "Rhyanis doesn't know why. But they're keeping him in a pit in Carkulroth. Just like Jhen."
They sat down to eat, sharing the throgs' fruit and bread, smearing it with the last of the cheese. Over Kel's objections, Rathe took their captive a drink of water.
"Open up," he told her and tapped his mouth. He mimed drinking. She stared at him for a moment, and Rathe thought he could read in her face a mix of stubborn pride and fear. Then she opened her mouth, and Rathe let her drink from the canteen.
"Trys'neh," she told him, in a flat voice. Was it "thank you?" Or a curse? Rathe shrugged. He went back to join his friends.
They were discussing how to get into Carkulroth. Orvig favored scouting the stronghold—by daylight, when the throgs slept—for hidden entrances. Rhyanis had said she didn't know of any, but Jhen had told him that throg strongholds were riddled with secret passages and hidden portals—bolt holes made by the Shaman and his followers. "Just because Rhyanis doesn't know about them, doesn't mean they're not there," he argued. "If everybody knows about them, they're not secret, now, are they?"
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