The Return of Kavin

by David Mason

  “Zamor!” Thuramon cried out, clutching at Kavin’s belt. “Hugon, quickly!”

  Hugon came, running, and got hold of Kavin’s arm; but the other pulled free, with unnatural strength. Kavin’s eyes were strange, glazed and mad.

  Then Zamor reached him, and his huge arms clamped about the prince’s waist, heaving; they fell to the deck, and rolled in wild struggle. Then Zamor’s fist rose and fell with a meaty thud, and Kavin lay unconscious.

  “I had to strike,” Zamor muttered, rising to his knees beside the other. His big hand touched Kavin’s face. “By the Snake’s mercy… no, he will not be hurt too badly.” He got to his feet, looking apologetic; but Thuramon nodded.

  “That was well done, Zamor,” he said. “Had he reached the other bank, the Other would have him now.” Thuramon turned, to stare at the distant mailed figure, which had paused.

  “He could make himself one with Kavin,” Thuramon mused. “That cold and monstrous mind, in a soul and a body that could live as other men do… it’s not strange that Ess could seize him so.”

  “We’d best bring the ship in, up there,” Yorgan called down. “There’s a landing, and a village, see there?”

  On the other shore, Gann waited. He called to his Other; but the Other could not come. It would be necessary to use his weapon, he thought. The ship was nearly out of range, and in a moment it would be. Gann lifted his arm, and sighted the thing he carried, carefully.

  There was a glare of violet light, and a crash of sound.

  The bolt struck the ship’s side, high and near the stern; it burned a hole the size of a man’s head through the stout timbers and planks, upward, and out through the decking. And also through one crewman, who screamed, and burned like a torch before he fell to the water. In the blackened hole, small flames burned.

  “Douse that!” Yorgan barked to the other seamen, setting example with a bucket. They threw water on the flame, while Yorgan ran to the rail, uttering a curse of magnificent complexity.

  “May the gods rot my gut, that filthy bastard that did this is out of range!” Yorgan snarled, sighting a crossbow. But he loosed the bolt anyway; it struck the water, halfway across.

  “Killed poor old Bungt, the motherless dogsgut!” Yorgan grated. “Yonn, lash a line to the bows, and come help me get the boat overside! I’ll tear that scum’s foul eyeballs out with my fingers, damn him!”

  “Wait!” Thuramon thundered, commandingly.

  Yorgan paused, his fury-flushed face turned toward the warlock.

  “Wait? For what, till he burns my ship about me?” Yorgan’s voice broke, and tears streamed on his leather face. “Bungt! He sailed with us these five years, man! The dog threw fire and killed him, and not a challenge out of us or that one!”

  “His weapon can slay you before you reach him,” Thuramon answered, calmly. “But he is no longer close enough to fire it a second time, or he would have done so. And he cannot cross running water.”

  Yorgan stared at Thuramon, and his face paled under the sea tan.

  “He… cannot… cross running water?” Yorgan knew well enough what it was that could not cross a running stream. He shuddered, and uttered the word, low. “Vrykol!”

  “No, not that,” Thuramon said. “But nearly. Yorgan… let me manage this. I have the skill.” He touched the man’s arm. “I know your sorrow. Be wise, though. Remember the safety of this ship, and the others.”

  Yorgan uttered a wordless sound, and turned away.

  “I must set a stronger barrier between us and that thing,” Thuramon muttered. He glanced at Kavin, who still lay unconscious on the deck. “Especially since the creature will call again.”

  The others had gone to the shoreward rail, and were looking down toward the houses that lay along the riverbank. They were low, log and wattle buildings, thatched; a few chickens wandered among them, and farther along the bank, small boats lay under a shed. All in all, it seemed a typical fishing hamlet, Hugon thought. But it seemed odd that no one had come out of the houses. He saw a faint eddy of smoke from a chimney, and pointed it out to Zamor.

  “They might be afraid of us,” Zamor said. “There have been pirates, in these seas.”

  “They would have to be blind not to see we’re no such thing,” Hugon muttered.

  “We could go and see,” Gwynna suggested.

  “We?” Hugon looked at her. “My lady, this is man’s work. If you’ll excuse me…” He swung himself up and over the rail, to drop to the river bank; he laid a hand on his sword, and moved forward, but did not draw. It might be best to seem as friendly as possible, he thought, moving slowly toward the house where he had seen the smoke.

  Behind him, he heard a faint sound and whirled; then glared at Gwynna, who came toward him. She carried a crossbow, with a competent air, and smiled sweetly at Hugon.

  “Well, if you must,” he said, and turned. But before he could move, a new sound intruded.

  Thuramon’s voice rang out, in a thundering shout, strange words that meant nothing to Hugon’s ear. As Hugon stared toward the ship, a cloud of white vapor eddied up out of the moored vessel. Thuramon’s voice echoed out again, and the cloud swelled larger; it poured, like thick milk, out and over the river.

  The cloud spread, and stood like a white wall; the other bank vanished, hidden completely.

  “It seems Thuramon is about his craft again, thank the Goddess,” Hugon grunted. “That would be a barrier to any more lightning bolts from that demon on the other bank, I hope.”

  He turned toward the house again, and reached its door; pushing it open, he looked inside.

  “Nothing but a fisherman’s hovel,” he grunted, and stepped in.

  On a stone hearth, a fire smouldered, nearly out. Pots and plates stood in disarray, as though a meal had been interrupted. And other objects, scattered about, seemed to say that those who lived here had departed in haste, gathering up whatever they could carry. Hugon turned and went out again; Gwynna was coming from another house.

  “They’ve all run away,” she said in a puzzled voice.

  “Something to do with our mailed friend over there,” Hugon said. “Though Thuramon said he couldn’t cross here… but there may be a way for him, farther up the river. I wonder if he’s been here, and the villagers ran… like wise men, at that.”

  They went back toward the ship; Zamor came toward them as they approached, and Fraak as well, sailing down to the ground.

  “The dragon says he saw men, fleeing out to sea, in small boats,” Zamor said. “They went by another channel, eastward, so we didn’t see them. Those would be the village folk.” He stared about. “I wonder what could frighten fishermen so much. That creature over the river… he doesn’t look any more than a man, to me. He’s got no more than five others with him.”

  “He is more than a man, Zamor,” Thuramon’s voice came from above, at the ship’s rail. “Or less than one, if you wish. But you cannot fight him with your hands alone. He carries a deadly tool, for one thing; and both he and his creatures will not die as easily as a man might, though you break them into pieces.” Thuramon laughed wryly. “Die, indeed. They are long dead, in a way, already.”

  “Well, then, we’d best leave them as quickly as we can,” Hugon answered. “Ah, Prince Kavin! Awake again?”

  Kavin stood at the rail, rubbing his head with a rueful grin. Zamor looked up and spread out his big hands in a gesture of apology.

  “I tried not to strike too hard, Prince Kavin,” Zamor said. “But it was most necessary. You were about to leap into the river.”

  “I know,” Kavin said. “And I thank you, Zamor. You’ve my leave to do that again, as hard as you like, if that spell takes me again.” He shivered.

  “You’re right, Hugon,” Thuramon said. “We should move as quickly as we can. Perhaps there may be another village upriver, and horses; but as it is, we’ll walk.” He swung himself over the rail, lightly, and dropped to the bank. In one hand he carried a heavy sack, which he swung over his shoulder
; there, Hugon knew, the Egg of Fire lay secure.

  “My ship,” Yorgan said, gloomily, gazing at the burned hole.

  “If you’re wise, Yorgan, you’ll patch that with a sail, and set out again,” Thuramon told him.

  “Not if there’s any chance to set my hook into that damned demon over there,” Yorgan said, but shuddered. “Oh, curse it… you’re right. If he’s what you say he is, I’d have no way to do him properly. It’s bitter in my mouth, it is. Bungt dead, and my ship wounded, and not to see the rat’s son dead that did it.” He spat. “But I’ll sail. I will. And good luck, warlock. Kill me that thing, that’s all I ask.”

  “If it can be done, it will be,” Thuramon said. “Or he will kill us. There’s no third choice. But we must reach the Black Valley first, and he must do so too.”

  The old man swung the sack to his shoulder, and turned to stride away along the river bank; behind him, the others came too.

  On the other side of the river, Gann stood absolutely still, his cold, empty eyes fixed on the whiteness of the mist that lay on the river. He could not sense the presence of the Other. The mist… sang. It was as if a sound came from it, a low, soothing murmurous chant. He did not wish to move. The sound seemed to make the lance of pain within him duller.

  Gann continued to stand, watching the white mist; and the sun moved, across the sky, and downward, into the western horizon. His five companions sat or stood, as immobile as himself.

  Then the darkness deepened; and the mist thinned, and vanished, as the light went. Gann moved.

  I was tricked, he thought. A hypnotic effect of some sort… indicating a slightly higher degree of technology than I had thought this world possessed. One of them, the natives in that ship, is a man of some skills. That would be logical, if he intends to attempt the operation of the mechanism of the Gate. He, then, is also to be killed, as quickly as possible.

  They walked, in single file, along the narrow trail that followed the river; Thuramon ahead, then Kavin, who walked with a strangely stiff air, eyes ahead, as though he could not bring himself to look around. After them, Gwynna, carrying her share of the provisions and walking with as long a stride as any of the men, and last, Zamor and Hugon. Zamor whistled happily, and swung the long axe lightly; Fraak, sometimes in the air and sometimes on Hugon’s shoulder, replied to Zamor’s whistled tune with a rippling counterpoint of notes as he flew.

  There was no sign of their pursuer yet; Gwynna glanced toward the distant bank of the river, on the other side, and saw nothing moving. Ahead, the remnants of a stone bridge rose from the water, and just beyond it, part of a fallen tower still stood above the trees, roofless.

  “Prince Kavin,” Gwynna called. He glanced back.

  “The bridge and tower, yonder,” she said. “It looks much like the ward tower on the Brynn, at home. And this great valley… why did your people not return here? There seems to be no reason to fear it.”

  Kavin’s eyes were guarded. He flicked a glance toward the bridge, and his mouth tightened.

  “You forget, lady, I was no longer with those people, the Doradans, after they reached Koremon,” he said. “Not for long, at any rate. Perhaps they couldn’t bear to return here. There were memories connected with this land that might be difficult to bear.” He continued to walk, silently; then, “That tower was part of a manor called Muronik. I was there many times; a fair hall, filled with good and happy folk.” He looked to either side, where pines grew densely along the trail and up the slope of the river bank. “You can see it. This was farmland, where we ride now.”

  It had been so long ago, Gwynna thought. But to Kavin, it was as if it had been yesterday. That must be strange, she thought, as strange as if she were to return to Armadoc and see naught but empty fields, and ancient ruined walls. She shivered at that thought.

  “There, ahead of us,” Kavin said, in a low voice as if he spoke to himself. “Only a few more hours journey along the river, and we will come to the falls of Granorek. And the castle, below the falls… the hold of Granorek. It was there that the best man of Dorada died a long time ago, fighting the beasts that had been loosed against this land.” He stared ahead grimly. “Loosed by Ess and his servants,” he said.

  Behind Gwynna, Hugon heard Kavin’s words.

  “A fall?” he asked. “Then how does the river turn above it?”

  “Eastward,” Kavin answered. “Yes we’ll have to cross there, and then there’ll be no barrier between us and that one.”

  “He is a full day behind us,” Thuramon said, serenely. “And on foot, though he walks swiftly.”

  “So are we,” Hugon said, and grimaced. “As both my feet could tell you, if they could speak.”

  “And if you used your eyes, master Hugon,” Thuramon said, “you’d look where your feet are walking. There’s a sign there, that we may not need to walk much farther, if we’re fortunate.”

  Hugon glanced at the trail, and uttered a short bark of laughter.

  “Blind, I am!” he said.

  There were fresh droppings, and hoofprints on the path; looking carefully, Hugon saw that they were shod hooves, as well. Not wild horses; so much the better.

  And then, around a bend, they came out into an open space, and saw the wall. It was made of stout pine logs, topped with small platforms here and there, and with a heavy gate in it. The gate was closed, by a stout wooden door. There seemed to be no movement at all visible; but there was a smell of wood smoke in the air.

  “Wait,” Kavin said, sharply. The group came to a halt; Kavin went forward, walking deliberately, till he reached a point midway in the clear space before the walled village. There he stopped, and looked toward the closed gate.

  “You, within!” he cried out.

  Somewhere inside a horse whinnied loudly. Then, from the wall, a short spear flew, and thudded into the ground at Kavin’s feet. He did not flinch, or step back. He stood, waiting.

  “Go away, demon!” a voice cried from the wall.

  “I’m not a demon,” Kavin answered. “I am only a man, like yourselves!”

  There was a sound of argument behind the door. Then, slowly, the door opened, a space wide enough to allow a man to slip out. The man who emerged was a thin, long-legged fellow, in a tunic of skins, with a head of wild hair that stood out like a furze bush. He wore a heavy chain of what looked like gold around his neck, on which a curiously ornamented disk hung, and he looked very frightened.

  He came toward Kavin, very slowly and cautiously, step by step; Kavin noted that the fellow’s teeth seemed to be chattering.

  The man paused, and stared at Kavin with wide, frightened eyes. He looked deeply puzzled, as he studied the other.

  Then he said, slowly, “Are you—you are not the demon, then.”

  “My name is Kavin of Hostan,” Kavin said. The man’s eyes widened even more. He turned, and cried out, toward the wall.

  “He’s not the demon! He’s a man!” The fellow paused, and added, “He bears the name of Hostan!”

  “As you bear the clan-sign around your neck,” Kavin said, as the man turned back toward him.

  “We are Hostan, also,” the man said. “I am Gred. But sir, you resemble a certain demon who passed this way three days ago.” He stared at Kavin, hard. “Greatly do you resemble him, except the hair… and you do not wear the strange mail he did. But your face is not as his was, either, though much alike.”

  Kavin nodded. “I know the creature you mean,” he said. “He pursues us, and will slay us if he can.”

  The gate swung open, and revealed a knot of nervous men, holding spears and axes; village houses, from which women peered with frightened curiosity. Kavin called the others to come forward, and they went into the village.

  The locals’ nervousness wore off quickly; in a matter of minutes, they were talking freely.

  The “demon” had passed, going downriver; and he had casually killed three of the people of the village, apparently for no better reason than that they were overcurious ab
out him.

  His followers, demons as well, according to the local view, seemed to have killed a farmer farther up the river, and in the same reasonless manner. The creatures were somehow visibly evil, creating terror simply by their appearance. The folk of the fishing villages had fled already.

  It puzzled the villagers greatly when they saw the strong resemblance between Kavin and the “demon”; but they evolved a kind of explanation that did well enough, saying that the demon had merely taken on a man’s appearance, to confuse folk. But before Kavin had been with them for more than a few minutes, they knew him to be of their own blood.

  They were descendants of peasants, once peasants of Kavin’s own clan-holdings; their ancestors had hidden, or fled, during the terrible destruction of the valley of Dorada. Then, with a peasant’s tenacity, they had crept back, one by one, and begun to live on their ancestral lands once more. There were only a few of them, scattered widely over the land; but still, Dorada was not wholly dead after all.

  “We have many horses,” Gred told Kavin. “You must ride quickly. The demon is terrible; he strikes men down with lightning. If he pursues you, you must go quickly.”

  There were horses, the short-legged, muscular little horses Kavin knew well. They were saddled and mounted before another hour had passed, and riding north again, with half a dozen remounts following behind them.

  As they came at last to the ford above Granorek, and crossed the river; there was still no sign of the pursuer. Ahead, the land rose in long sweeping meadows toward the mountains, and they rode on toward that range.

  Miles behind, Gann strode on, tirelessly. He came to the ford, and saw the muddy hoofprints; he stood, and stared at the distant mountaintops, red in the late afternoon sun. Then he went forward again, steadily.

  It was the third day since they had entered the mountains. They had ridden along trails no wider than would accommodate a single horse at a time. Sometimes there were no trails at all, but only precarious scrambling across slopes of loose rock, and snowdrifted gorges to be negotiated with great care. Above them, the huge peaks rose into the cold sky; and everywhere there was snow, though they were by no means as high as the highest ridges.