by Andre Norton
“Beautiful one—who are you who comes to me so?”
He heard a soft chuckle. “Learn the answer to that, Great Warrior, and when I come I shall stay—as you wish. It has been so long.” Now she sighed.
Even as she sighed, she faded to nothingness in his arms and was gone. And he cried out hopelessly even as he saw the cat pillars also spin into nothingness.
If he dreamed more that night he did not remember it. With the morning his frustration sent him out on scout even before the camp was dismantled.
He took the same trail he had followed before, save that he no longer tried to trace out the scent of Jakata’s people. The winged ones had promised an easier way to what they called the Land of the Dead, and Ibycus believed that that was the direction in which Jakata was headed—if he had survived the evil he had called up.
“Though doubtless he did,” the mage had commented as they decided on Kethan’s direction, “or we would not have been tracked last night. Unless he loosed what cannot be controlled. But if that were so, this”—he held out his finger ring, the same dull stone now power empty—“would have given us warning.”
The trail led them more to the north, and as the day advanced, the distant mountains raised a jagged barrier across the horizon. Once they skirted ruins of some size—a keep which might have been even greater than their Gryphon’s Eyrie, Firdun thought. But they did not approach closely, and there was a feeling of desolation and despair which appeared to reach out to them from those tumbled walls.
Here, too, were the remains of walled fields where once crops had been sown. Even here and there a degenerate lone stalk of grain waved a tassel in the breeze. But the travelers did avail themselves of what was furnished by an ancient orchard. Most of the older trees had moldered away, but there had been fresh saplings arising from long-rotted fruit. And several of these bore a heavily ripe crop, so the travelers made that their nooning and relished the sweetness of fresh fruit again.
By afternoon they had reached the beginning of the heights. There was the remains of an old road, but they did not follow that. Rather, Kethan scouted a more difficult way up and down the reaches of some valleys, being careful to note if there were any signs of past habitation there. A large cellar hole suggested that there might once have been a hunting lodge. About it was a strong smell of bear and he mind-sent back a warning to avoid the possible den.
For two days they traveled so. At first their pace was slow, for they had all suffered from the draining of Power, but strength returned. Firdun had kept to himself. Nor did he sleep well at night, for the import of what had happened weighed upon him. He was no adept like Alon, no master of both the lesser and the great Powers. Yet he could not deny that in those moments when he had grasped Ibycus’s staff it had seemed that a key turned deep within him.
He bit down upon sour fear. Many times he had wondered how Kethan could reconcile his two selves, pard and man. Now he wondered if he himself had, in some way, been splintered and now carried a second being within. Though he had always felt the loss of not being one of the melding Eyrie, yet that act of his had seemed to come as if he had planned it and knew that it would succeed.
“Firdun?” Startled, he looked up. They had dismounted to lead their horses up a rough grade. He realized that his horse had been snorting and sidling, and he saw that Aylinn with Morna had caught up with him.
“Moonlady?” he returned, soothing his horse. She wreathed her reins about Morna’s saddle horn and the were horse dropped back, still following steadily.
“But I am Aylinn,” she said now. “Trail companions follow no formal speech. Firdun, is all well with you?”
He wanted to turn her off with a quick denial. Somehow he could not.
“I wonder,” he said slowly, finding it difficult to put his unease into words, “if I am still Firdun.”
“The Power uses us hard sometimes. But one carries what one was born to hold. If you are more than warder, more than what your kin line has believed, is it not better to face that and accept? I . . . sometimes I can foresee . . . a little.”
She was looking beyond him upslope now to where Elysha was walking beside her mare. Ibycus was in the lead well ahead; Aylinn had not seen them together since the night of bespelling.
“And you have foreseen?” Firdun demanded. Perhaps she could supply some answer to his disordered musings.
“Loss,” she said quietly. “Just an emptiness where life should be.”
“For all of us?” he asked again, entirely alert now.
“No. Nor can I tell you which in surety. But there will be gain also, Firdun. Do not shrink from what will come for you alone. It is as the Great Power designs. We are children and have our tasks to learn.”
“Nor is that easy!” His voice was harsh. “Aylinn, you are a healer—how can one heal a fear of the unknown?”
“One accepts,” she answered softly. “Firdun, you doubt yourself. Look upon what stands behind you. You are of the Gryphon line—Kerovan fathered you, Joison is your mother. They were far apart in talents and gifts yet they came together to form a stronger whole. I heard you call on Landsil in the night. Would one of little talent dare such an awakening of old forces?”
“Ibycus stands alone.” He stared ahead to where the mage was just disappearing over the crest of the height up which they were making their way. “I—I do not want such a life.”
“Nor need you choose so. Think of Alon, or Hilarion. Do they hold themselves apart from others, adepts though they be? Ibycus is the ancient warden of this land, but he is also a man and makes men’s choices, and others can do also. Ah, look!”
She suddenly pointed to the sky. There was a dark speck there, growing ever larger as they watched. Somehow it did not have the right shape to be a bird.
“One of the flying people!” the girl cried as it sank behind the heights. “What freedom—to use the very sky as a path.”
They quickened pace and then she dropped back to Morna and Trussant, where Uta rode with the air of one for whom that very mount had been trained. The last scramble up the slope was a slippery one and they had to take it with caution, though they longed to run.
Then at last they looked out on a plateau of red, black-veined rock and saw Kethan, in pard form, accompanied by a small figure who had discarded the wings and came forward to greet the newcomers.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
The Road to the Land of the Dead, the Waste
T here had once been a road through these brittle cliffs, but lava flow and violent earth-twisting had left only the faintest traces. The badly shattered surface was little trouble for those winged forms coasting above the party as they now crawled painfully along. But this was the only way to what they sought.
Now they rode at a walking pace and in armor, for the warning given them had been clear. This broken land had its own menaces, although Kethan could not guess what might lair in such a desolate place.
Then the brighter-colored lands over which they traveled were well behind them. Coarse black sand drifted and the winged ones warned of setting foot on the porous rock where domed bubbles could break under any weight and entrap man or beast in the hollow below.
They wound single file in the direction their winged scouts waved them, often having to dismount and lead their horses. Aylinn was kept busy at each pause tending cuts from the raw knife edges of the broken stones, and Kethan’s pads would have been lamed within an hour, so he rode as a man.
It was on the second day’s journey into this dire place that they came upon one of the reptilian mounts of a Garth Howell breed. It had been literally torn apart, most of its belly gone and the rest clawed and broken.
Rock crawler.
It was from Uta that send had come. Kethan could smell the fetor of the dead thing and now he sighted what seemed to be a narrow trail metallically bright under the sun. It looped down from the heights above and, even as he eyed it, Trussant gave one of the deep whinnies of his kind and sidled as far as he
could from corpse and trail.
What is this thing? Kethan aimed at the cat, who spat as the horse whinnied, her ears flattening against her skull.
Crawler—eater of all.
She had no more sent that message than one of the high rocks moved, uncoiled, became something alive. The were’s shout of warning carried along the trail as he urged his mount around to face the thing.
Its rough skin matched exactly the rocks over which it now traveled, so movement alone could reveal its presence. A huge mouth gaped, showing a double row of stained teeth.
He could see no legs as it slid down toward him, nor did it curve its passage as might a snake. Instead it appeared to slip with ease over the most jagged fringes of the rocks, leaving behind a metallic, gleaming trail, perhaps of slime.
Nor did it utter any sound. But the horses of the party were going wild and Kethan saw Ibycus bucked from his seat to land on the sharp fragments of the trail.
The thing reared its forepart now. Greenish liquid dripped from the corners of its huge mouth. Kethan could distinguish neither eyes nor ears, but plainly this creature had some sense which alerted it and drew it in his direction. He caught Uta by the back of her neck, dropped her behind him, and then drew sword.
Weres did not fight with fang and claw alone. The battle heat was rising fast in him, but he did not will the change this time. Plainly the creature was heavily defended with scales and he thought even a pard would have no chance with this.
“Together.” Firdun forced his horse in beside Kethan. “The head.”
Yes, the head. But there was no eye one could transfix, only that open cavern of a mouth. Both horses were wild with fear and Kethan knew that they could not force the animals closer. He lunged out of the saddle and ducked to avoid the metal battle shoes as Trussant reared.
There came the sharp whistle of Kioga arrows. But those which reached the thing clicked harmlessly to the ground.
“On the move,” he half shouted over the din of the milling party behind. “I take right.”
“So be it!” Firdun made answer. He was also afoot. But he was swinging something in one hand, one of the saddlebags.
And the monstrous head seemed to center on that. Kethan had scrambled up the short incline. The vile stench which arose from it set him gasping for air. That bag Firdun had hurled was caught, the great teeth clamped on it.
“The head.”
Kethan had not needed that suggestion. In spite of the weight of his mail and sword, he leaped, not as surely as the pard might have done, but well enough to bring him tottering on the back of the thing. His boots slipped and then found purchase on the huge back scales which arose in ridged lines.
He fully expected the monster to hump its body, endeavoring so to throw him off. But that did not come. Instead he saw Firdun below moving from side to side, throwing rocks which left his hands cut and bleeding, so holding the attention of the monster.
Twice it lowered its head under that barrage of rocks. Firdun had been joined by Guret in the assault now. Apparently this rock-bred thing was slow of brain. Kethan leaned forward a fraction. Yes, when the head swung to his right he thought he could see a kind of dark crevice between the scales. They could not be entirely fast set or the thing could not move.
“To the right,” he shouted.
He almost brought about his disaster, for his voice coming from above appeared to reach some hidden hearing organ of the crawler. It lifted its head with a jerk and Kethan fell to his knees, feeling the points of those ridge scales cut his flesh. But he did not lose his grip on his sword, nor did he slip to the ground. Now the rain of rocks was coming from his right and that head went down again.
His chance was a small one and he dared not wait any longer to take it. Holding the sword with both hands, he thrust down with all his strength and skill at that dark line which might be a seam between the scales.
The quan iron blade struck, was held for a moment, and then went deep, as Kethan pushed with all the might he could summon. But he could not hold that long. This time the thick body beneath him convulsed. The forepart arose with a twist which tore loose his hold on the sword hilt and he was tossed out and down, landing painfully with one hand impaled on a splinter of rock.
The massive body convulsed again and rolled toward Kethan, who was too dazed and wedged within the rocks to evade it. Down from the skies swooped the winged guides, their hooked spears ready. The spears caught and held in the rough ridges of that body, shifting it enough so that Kethan escaped the full impact of the dying creature. His legs were trapped beneath its weight, but that was all.
Firdun was already climbing to where the were lay, and behind him came Hardin and Guret. Their united strength shoved the still-quivering body from him and then he was pulled free and aided in descent to join the rest of the party.
• • •
They later learned from the winged folk that there were but a few of these rock crawlers and each jealously guarded its own hunting space, so there was little chance of a second attack.
Kethan, screwing his face from the potion Aylinn forced upon him, his hand bound with more of her healing salves, knew that for the present he could not change, and a part of him found the pain of that realization as sharp as a wound.
There were no streams or springs in this desolate barren country. But, as they climbed another peak to wedge through, the air which struck them carried a new scent.
“Sea winds!” Elysha said. “We come to the very end of the world, Master Mage.”
Ibycus had been riding as one deep in thought, all his attention turned inward, so that Firdun had urged his mount closer and once or twice caught at the loose reins the mage seemed almost ready to let fall.
“The end of the world . . .” Kethan had seen the great sea of the east on a visit to the Dales seasons ago. But that there was another sea, no man had ever said. Certainly the Sulcars, who prided themselves on their mastery of the waves, never mentioned other waters to be plowed.
Ibycus’s head jerked up as if he had been pulled awake from some dream or trance.
“Yes,” he repeated somberly, “there awaits the end of the world.”
However, they were not the first to find it, for one of their winged guides glided overhead and landed neatly on the outcrop of rock almost directly in the mage’s path, so he had to pull up his horse.
Those of evil—wait. Firdun was close enough to the other two to pick up the send. Their fighters stand ready for battle. He who wears the cloak of the Dark goes ahead to call his master.
There are the black knights below, came back Aylinn’s send. They stand ready and there is an open plain.
They halted and Ibycus was again his alert self, as if he had made some decision and would stand by it.
“Guret,” he called, and the Kioga, who had dismounted to inspect his horse’s hooves, raised his head and came forward. “Remember the Take Song of Warren?”
The horsemaster blinked and then nodded. “It is a desperate trick, Lord.” He glanced back at the huddled horse people. “And a deadly one.” The tribesman’s jaw was set and it seemed for a moment he might defy Ibycus’s suggestions.
Kethan slipped his arm out of the sling. The weight of the sword was back; Hardin had worked it out of the body of that rocky nightmare. Firdun was drawing his own blade.
“Arrows,” he said. “Kioga are good marksmen. But the beasts will have little protection.”
Guret’s face was bleak. “If it must be so, let it be.”
He strode back to where his tribesmen were and at his orders they began to unload, dropping the packs without much caution. They were scowling and it was plain they were opposed to what was to be done. Kethan pushed ahead a little.
The remnants of the old road gave patches of good footing. But they were emerging on a plain of what looked to be coarse black sand, bad footing for any horseback maneuvers. Yes, there were those who waited. Six of them, so encased in black armor to match the footing under
their snake-headed mounts as to seem fashioned completely of metal.
Each carried a tube, its butt against the rider’s hip. And one could well believe that they held the secret of some old and powerful weapon. Of Jakata and his two attendants there was only a glimpse. They were urging their own horses through the slippery and hoof-engulfing surface of the plain, headed for a vast dome of black rock.
Aylinn had her bow, Kethan and Firdun had their swords, Hardin one of the Kioga boar spears. Who knew what forces the mage or Elysha could summon?
However, Ibycus was speaking again and even the three winged ones who had been the guides for this day had alighted within hearing.
“Those are deadly killers,” the mage said slowly. “But they are a wall we must pass. Firdun, it may well take both of us to ward what Jakata would open. Thus . . .” He paused so long Kethan believed that he did not want to continue at all. The mage suddenly seemed changed. This haggared man was not the holder of Power that Kethan had known for so long, but rather one who for the first time was gnawed by doubt.
“Thus—” again it was Elysha who spoke aloud what must be his thoughts, “comrades, let Guret do what his kinsman of long ago did in battle. Loose the mounts which are free, ride with them, and open a way, for we are of little account, being only servants of the Light, and we use what weapons we must in that service!”
There was a murmur from the Kioga. Firdun well knew the bonds between rider and horse with those people; he had been a sworn brother in the tents since childhood.
“Cut us a path, servants of Light!” Ibycus’s voice held his old decisiveness now.
The Kioga were passing among the animals. By each horse, one of the Kioga stopped, and, putting hands to either side of its head, touched his own forehead to that of the beast and held it so for a breath out of time.
They knew that they had been sighted. That grim black line below had come to a halt. The winged people took to the air and Kethan wondered if they were withdrawing. Claws caught at his shoulders for a firm hold. He was so used to Uta’s presence now that he had not even known when she had taken her place with him.
