Daughter of Regals

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  Lord Shetra slowed her mount. Reacting instinctively, the Bloodguard parted behind her, let her drop back beside Pren. As the flood of wolves came toward her, she swung her staff at them. The blow knocked down the first beasts and set flame to them, so that they flared up like tinder. The following pack jumped aside from the sudden fire: the rush was momentarily broken.

  In that respite, the Ranyhyn reached full stride. Plunging to keep away from the fangs, they laboured up the slope. The pack raged at their heels; but they were Ranyhyn, swifter even than the yellow kresh. By the time they topped the valley’s rim and thundered back into the closed woods, they were three strides ahead of the pack.

  Then through the depths of Grimmerdhore the Ranyhyn raced the wolves. Korik could no longer see as well as the horses, so he abandoned to them all concern for the direction and safety of the run. Unchecked, they dodged deftly through the night as if they were riding the wind. But still the Forest hampered them, interfered with their running, prevented them from their best speed. And the wolves were not hampered. They swept along the ground easily, passed through the woods like a black tide, When they gave tongue to the chase, they did not break stride.

  The gap between the pack and the company shrank and grew as Grimmerdhore thickened and thinned. Through one tight copse Pren and his clan-kin had to fend off wolves on both sides. But fortunately the terrain beyond was relatively open; and the Ranyhyn were able to restore the gap.

  During it all — the dodging, the surging pace, the unevenness of the ground — Lord Hyrim clung to his seat. He was kept there by the proud skill of his mount. And the other Ranyhyn aided him by choosing their ways so that his horse had the straightest path through the trees. When he observed this, Korik applauded silently, and his chest grew tight with admiration, in spite of the other demands on his attention.

  Still the race went on. The Ranyhyn pounded through the Forest with growing abandon, discounting the safety of the company more and more for the sake of speed. As a result the riders had to hold their seats when they were lashed by branches, wrenched from side to side while the horses evaded looming trunks. But the savage pursuit of the wolves did not abate. Clearly, the will which drove them was strong and compelling; and Korik guessed that a powerful band of ur-viles remained in Grimmerdhore — a force which used the wolves just as it had used the Gilden and the other ur-viles. But such thoughts were of no value now. The wolves were the immediate danger. Hundreds of ravenous throats howled: hundreds of jaws gaped and bit furiously, as if they were too eager to wait for the raw flesh of the company. The Ranyhyn gave their best speed — and the pack did not fall behind.

  Korik was revolving desperate solutions in his mind when the company broke out into a broad open glade. Under the stars, he saw the ravine which cut through the centre of the glade across the company’s path. It was an old dry watercourse, deeply eroded before its source turned elsewhere. And it was far too wide for the wolves: they could not leap it. If the Ranyhyn could manage the jump, the company would gain precious time.

  But when the wolves burst out of the woods, they broke into hard howls of triumph. In a few strides, Korik saw his danger: the ravine appeared to be too wide even for the Ranyhyn. For an instant, he hesitated. In his long years, he had heard the shrieking of horses far too often. He knew how the Ranyhyn would scream if they shattered their bones against the opposite wall of the ravine. But their night-sight was better than his: he could not make this decision for them. He silenced his fears, shouted to his comrades:

  — Let the Ranyhyn choose! They will not err! But ward Lord Hyrim!

  Then Runnik reached the ravine. His mount gathered itself, seemed for an instant to shrink, to coil in on its strength — and sprang. Already it was too late for the rest of the riders to stop; but Korik kept his eyes on Runnik, watched the leading Ranyhyn so that he would have an instant’s warning of his fate — an instant in which to try to save himself for the sake of the mission. For the first time since the night when he had assumed his Vow, he left the Lords to their own fortunes. He expected Hyrim to fall. As old Brabha started into his own jump, the Lord wailed as if he were plunging from a precipice.

  Then the Ranyhyn carrying Runnik touched down safely on the far side of the ravine. Beside him, Tull and another Bloodguard also landed with ground to spare, followed by Cerrin, Shetra, Korik, Hyrim, and Sill in a line together. Lord Hyrim flopped forward and back as if his mount were bucking: his wail was broken off. But he did not lose his seat. Amid the wild yowling frustration of the wolves, the rest of the Bloodguard jumped the ravine. The Ranyhyn sprinted across the glade with clear ground at their heels.

  Behind them, the wolves rushed on, caught in the grip of a dementing passion. They piled into the dry watercourse, careless of what happened to them, and scrambled furiously up the far side. But Korik was confident of escape now. The company had almost reached the edge of the glade when the first wolf clawed its way out of the ravine. Korik leaned forward to say a word of praise in Brabha’s back-bent ears.

  Out of the corner of his eye he saw Lord Hyrim tumble like a lifeless sack to the ground.

  Korik shouted to the company. Immediately, the leaders peeled around to return to Hyrim as fast as possible. But Pren, the rearmost Bloodguard, saw Hyrim’s fall in time to leap down from his own mount. In a few steps, he reached the motionless Lord. While Korik and the others were turning, Pren reported that Hyrim was unconscious — stunned either by his fall or by the jolt of the jump over the ravine.

  Wheeling Brabha, Korik gauged the distances. The wolves surged out of the ravine in great numbers now: they howled rabidly toward the men on the ground. The company would barely have time to snatch up Hyrim and take defensive positions around him before the pack struck.

  But as Korik pulled his comrades into formation, Lord Shetra ordered him back. She had a plan of her own. Driving her mount straight for Hyrim, she called to Pren, ‘His staff! Hold it upright!’

  Pren obeyed swiftly. He caught up Hyrim’s staff from the grass, gripped it with one metal-shod end planted on the ground between him and the charging wolves.

  As he did this, Shetra swung her Ranyhyn until she was running parallel to the line of the charge. When she flashed behind Pren, she cried, ‘Melenkurion abatha!’ and dealt Hyrim’s staff a hammering blow with her own.

  A silent concussion shook the air: the ground seemed to heave momentarily under the hooves of the Ranyhyn. From Hyrim’s staff a plane of power spread out on both sides, came like a wall between the wolves and the company across the whole eastern face of the glade. Seen through this barrier, the scrambling wolves appeared distorted, mad, wronged.

  Then they smashed into the wall. In that instant, the area of impact flared like a sheet of blue lightning; and the wolves were thrown back. They charged it again as more of them reached it, hurled themselves against the rippling plane — howled and raved, assaulted the air. But wherever they hit the wall, it flared blue and cast them back. Soon they were crashing into it in such numbers that the whole plane across the length of the glade caught fire. Where the greatest weight of the pack pressed and fought against it, it scaled upward into dazzling brightness. Carefully, Shetra withdrew Hyrim’s staff from the plane. It wavered as if it were about to break; but she sang to it softly, and it steadied, stood up firmly under the strain.

  It was too much for the wolves. In a wild excess of passion and frustration, they began to attack each other — venting their driven rage on the nearest flesh until the whole place was consumed in a boiling melee.

  Lord Shetra turned away as if the sight hurt her. She appeared suddenly weary: the exertion of commanding two staffs had drained her. Dully, she said to Korik, ‘We must go. If it is assailed again, my Word will not endure. And if there are ur-viles nearby, they will know how to counter it. I am too worn to speak another.’ Then she knelt to examine Hyrim.

  In a moment, she ascertained that he had no broken bones, no internal bleeding, no concussion. She left him to Kori
k and Sill. Working rapidly, they placed Hyrim on the back of his Ranyhyn and lashed him there with clingor thongs. When he was secured, the Bloodguard sprang to their own mounts, and the company hurried away into the covered darkness of Grimmerdhore.

  The Ranyhyn moved at a near gallop. Soon the intervening Forest quenched the tumult of the wolves, and the company was surrounded by a welcome silence. But still they ran: they did not stop or slow, even when Lord Hyrim returned to groaning consciousness. They left him alone until he was alert enough to free himself from the clingor . Then Lord Shetra explained to him shortly, in a tired voice, what had happened.

  He took the news dumbly, nodded his comprehension of her words. Then he lay down on the Ranyhyn’s neck as if he were hiding his head and clung there through the rest of the night.

  At dawn, Korik called a halt beside a stream to water the horses and allow the Lords to eat a few treasure-berries. But after that they moved on again at a fast canter. Korik did not want to spend another night in Grimmerdhore; and he could feel Brabha’s eagerness to break out of the dark woods.

  The fatigue, the lack of rest, the unrelieved haste of their journey showed in both Lords: Hyrim’s eyes, formerly so gay, had a grey angle of pain; and Shetra’s lean face was lined and sharpened, as if some erosion had cut away the last softness of her features. But they endured. As time passed; they found deeper springs of strength to sustain them.

  Korik should have been reassured. But he was not. The Lords had proven themselves equal to wolves and Grimmerdhore. But he had reason to know that what lay ahead would be worse.

  NORMAN WAS A PERFECTLY SAFE, PERFECTLY SANE man. He lived with his wife and son, who were both perfectly safe, perfectly sane, in a world that was perfectly sane, perfectly safe. It had been that way all his life. So when he woke up that morning, he felt as perfect as always. He had no inkling at all of the things that had already started to happen to him.

  As usual, he woke up when he heard the signal from the biomitter cybernetically attached to his wrist; and as usual, the first thing he did was to press the stud which activated the biomitter’s LED readout. The display gleamed greenly for a moment on the small screen. As usual, it said, You are OK. There was nothing to be afraid of.

  As usual, he had absolutely no idea what he would have done if it had said anything else.

  His wife, Sally, was already up. Her signal came before his so that she would have time to use the bathroom and get breakfast started. That way there would be no unpleasant hurrying. He rolled out of bed promptly and went to take his turn in the bathroom, so that he would not be late for work and his son, Enwell, would not be late for school.

  Everything in the bathroom was the same as usual. Even though Sally had just used it, the vacuum-sink was spotless. And the toilet was as clean as new. He could not even detect his wife’s warmth on the seat. Everything was perfectly safe, perfectly sane. His reflection in the mirror was the only thing that had changed.

  The tight lump in the centre of his forehead made no sense to him. He had never seen it before. Automatically, he checked his biomitter; but again it said, You are OK. That seemed true enough. He did not feel ill—and he was almost the only person he knew who knew what “ill” meant. The lump did not hurt in any way. But still he felt vaguely uneasy. He trusted the biomitter. It should have been able to tell him what was happening.

  Carefully, he explored the lump. It was as hard as bone. In fact, it seemed to be part of his skull. It looked familiar; and he scanned back in his memory through some of the books he had read until he found what he wanted. His lump looked like the base of a horn, or perhaps the nub of a new antler. He had seen such things in books.

  That made even less sense. His face wore an unusual frown as he finished in the bathroom. He returned to the bedroom to get dressed and then went to the kitchen for breakfast.

  Sally was just putting his food on the table—the same juice, cereal, and soyham that she always served him— a perfectly safe meal that would give him energy for the morning without letting him gain weight or become ill. He sat down to eat it as he always did. But when Sally sat down opposite him, he looked at her and said, “What’s this thing on my forehead?”

  His wife had a round bland face, and its lines had slowly become blurred over the years. She looked at his lump vaguely, but there was no recognition in her eyes. “Are you OK?” she said.

  He touched the stud of his biomitter and showed her that he was OK.

  Automatically, she checked her own biomitter and got the same answer. Then she looked at him again. This time, she, too, frowned. “It shouldn’t be there,” she said.

  Enwell came into the kitchen, and Sally went to get his breakfast. Enwell was a growing boy. He watched the food come as if he were hungry, and then he began to eat quickly. He was eating too quickly. But Norman did not need to say anything. Enwell’s biomitter gave a low hum and displayed in kind yellow letters, Eat more slowly. Enwell obeyed with a shrug.

  Norman smiled at his son’s obedience, then frowned again. He trusted his biomitter. It should be able to explain the lump on his forehead. Using the proper code, he tapped on the face of the display, I need a doctor. A doctor would know what was happening to him.

  His biomitter replied, You are OK.

  This did not surprise him. It was standard procedure— the biomitter was only doing its job by reassuring him. He tapped again, I need a doctor. This time, the green letters said promptly, Excused from work. Go to Medical Building room 218.

  Enwell’s biomitter signalled that it was time for him to go to school. “Got to go,” he mumbled as he left the table. If he saw the lump on his father’s forehead, he did not think enough about it to say anything. Soon he had left the house. As usual, he was on time.

  Norman rubbed his lump. The hard bony nub made him feel uneasy again. He resisted an urge to recheck his biomitter. When he had finished his breakfast, he said goodbye to Sally as he always did when he was going to work. Then he went out to the garage and got into his mobile.

  After he had strapped himself in, he punched the address of the Medical Building into the console. He knew where the Medical Building was, not because he had ever been there before (in fact, no one he knew had ever been there), but because it was within sight of the National Library, where he worked. Once the address was locked in, his mobile left the garage smoothly on its balloon tires (a perfectly safe design), and slid easily into the perfectly sane flow of the traffic.

  All the houses on this street were identical for a long way in either direction; and as usual Norman paid no attention to them. He did not need to watch the traffic, since his mobile took care of things like that. His seat was perfectly comfortable. He just relaxed in his safety straps and tried not to feel concerned about his lump until his mobile deposited him on the curb outside the Medical Building.

  This building was much taller and longer than the National Library; but apart from that, the two were very much alike. Both were empty except for the people who worked there; and the people worked there because they needed jobs; not because there was any work that needed to be done. And both were similarly laid out inside. Norman had no trouble finding his way.

  Room 218 was in the Iatrogenics Wing. In the outer office was a desk with a computer terminal very much like the one Norman used at the library; and at the desk sat a young woman with yellow hair and confused eyes. When Norman entered her office, she stared at him as if he were sick. Her stare made him touch his lump and frown. But she was not staring at his forehead. After a moment, she said, “It’s been so long—I’ve forgotten what to do.”

  “Maybe I should tell you my name,” he said.

  “That sounds right,” she said. She sounded relieved. “Yes, I think that’s right. Tell me your name.”

  He told her. She looked around the terminal, then pushed a button to engage some kind of program.

  “Now what?” he said.

  “I don’t know,” she said. She did not seem to like being
so confused.

  Norman did not know, either. But almost at once the door to the inner office opened. The woman shrugged, so Norman just walked through the doorway.

  The inner office had been designed to be cosy; but something had gone wrong with its atmospherics, and now it was deep in dust. When Norman sat down in the only chair, he raised the dust, and the dust made him cough.

  “I’m Doctor Brett,” a voice said. “You seem to have a cough.”

  The voice came from a console that faced the chair. Apparently, Doctor Brett was a computer who looked just like the Director of the National Library. Norman relaxed automatically. He naturally trusted a computer like that. “No,” he said. “It’s the dust.”

  “Ah, the dust,” the computer said. “I’ll make a note to have it removed.” His voice sounded wise and old and very rusty. After a moment, he went on, “There must be something wrong with my scanners. You look healthy to me.’

  Norman said, “My biomitter says I’m OK.”

  “Well, then my scanners must be right. You’re in perfect health. Why did you come?”

  “I have a lump on my forehead.”

  “A lump?” Doctor Brett hummed. “It looks healthy to me. Are you sure it isn’t natural?’

  “Yes.” For an instant, Norman felt unnaturally irritated. He touched the lump with his fingers. It was as hard as bone—no, harder, as hard as steel, magnacite. It was as hard as tung-diamonds. He began to wonder why he had bothered to come here.

  “Of course, of course,” the doctor said. “I’ve checked your records. You weren’t born with it. What do you think it is?”

  The question surprised Norman. “How should I know? I thought you were going to tell me.”

  “Of course,” said the computer. “You can trust me.

  I’ll tell you everything that’s good for you. That’s what I’m here for. You know that. The Director of the National Library speaks very highly of you. It’s in your records.” The machine’s voice made Norman’s irritation evaporate. He trusted his biomitter. He trusted Doctor Brett. He settled himself in the chair to hear what his lump was. But even that amount of movement raised the dust. He sneezed twice.