He donned his cloak and raised the hood. As he sat there, unmoving among the gray rocks, he seemed to blend into the background until he was almost invisible.
It was the sound that first alerted him. It came and went vaguely with the breeze. As the breeze grew stronger, so did the sound. Then, as the breeze faded, he could no longer hear anything, so that at first he thought he was imagining things.
Then it came again. A deep, rhythmic sound. Voices, perhaps, but not like any he'd heard. It could have been singing, he thought, then, as the breeze blew a little harder, he heard it again. Not singing. There was no melody to it. Just a rhythm. A constant, unvarying rhythm.
Again the breeze died and the sound with it. Will felt the hairs on the back of his neck rising. There was something unhealthy about that sound. Something dangerous. He sensed it in every fiber of his body.
There it was again! And this time, he had it. Chanting. Deep voices chanting in unison. A tuneless chanting that had an unmistakable menace to it.
The breeze was from the southwest, so the sound was coming from the road where they had already traveled. He raised himself slowly and carefully, peering under one hand in the direction of the breeze. From this point he could make out various curves and bends in the road, although some of it disappeared behind the rocks and hills. He estimated that he could see sections of the road for perhaps a kilometer and there was no sign of movement. Not yet, anyway.
Quickly, he scrambled down from the rocks and hurried to wake the others.
The chanting was closer now. It no longer died away as the breeze came and went. It was growing louder and more defined. Will, Horace and Evanlyn crouched among the bushes, listening as the voices came closer.
"Maybe you two should move back a little," Will suggested. He had left himself a relatively clear view of the road. He knew that, wrapped in his Ranger cloak, with his face concealed deep within the cowl, he would be virtually invisible, but he wasn't so sure about the others. Without any reluctance, they squirmed back, deeper into the cover of the thick shrubs. Horace's reaction was a mixture of curiosity and nervousness. Evanlyn, Will noted, was pale with fear.
They had already struck the camp and moved the horses back about a hundred meters into the rocks. He glanced around quickly now to make sure they had left no sign of their presence. Satisfied that they had done all they could, he turned his attention back to the road.
"Who are they?" Horace breathed as the chanting grew louder still. Will estimated that it was coming from somewhere around the nearest bend in the road, a mere hundred meters away.
"Don't you know?" Evanlyn replied, her voice strained with terror. "They're Wargals."
16
W ILL AND H ORACE BOTH TURNED QUICKLY TO LOOK AT HER. "Wargals? How do you know?" Will asked.
"I've heard them before," she said in a small voice, biting her lip. "They make that chanting sound as they march."
Will frowned. The four Wargals he and Halt had tracked had made no chanting sound. But then he realized those Wargals had been tracking their own quarry at the time.
Out of the corner of his eye, Will saw a movement at the bend in the road.
"Get down!" he hissed urgently. "Keep your faces down!" And both Horace and Evanlyn dropped their faces into the sand. He reached up and pulled the shadowing depths of his cowl further over his own face, then held a forearm draped in the folds of his cloak to obscure everything but his eyes.
The chant, he saw now, was a form of cadence, designed to keep the Wargals moving at the same pace-in the same way a sergeant might call the step for a troop of infantry. He counted perhaps thirty in the group. Big, heavyset figures, dressed in dark metal-studded jackets and breeches of some heavy material. They ran at a steady jog, chanting the guttural, wordless rhythm-which, he realized now, was nothing more than a series of grunts.
They were all armed with an assortment of short spears, maces and battleaxes, which they carried ready for use.
As yet, he couldn't make out their features. They ran with a shambling movement in two files. Then he realized that they were escorting another group between the two files: prisoners.
Now that the group was closer, he realized that the prisoners-about a dozen of them-were staggering along, trying desperately to keep pace with the chanting Wargals. He recognized them as Celts-miners, judging by the leather aprons and skullcaps they wore. They were exhausted, and as he watched, he could see the Wargals using short whips to urge them along.
The chanting grew louder.
"What's happening?" Horace whispered, and Will could have cheerfully choked him.
"Shut up!" he shot back. "Not another word!"
Now the Wargals were closer and he could make out their faces. He felt the hairs on the back of his neck begin to rise as he saw the thick, heavy jowls and noses that had lengthened and thickened almost to the size of muzzles. The eyes were small and savage and seemed to glow with a red hatred as they lashed their whips at the Celts. Once, as one of them snarled at a stumbling prisoner, Will caught a quick glimpse of yellow fangs. He was tempted to shrink down further. But he knew any movement now would risk discovery. He had to trust the shelter of his cloak. He wanted to close his eyes to those animal-like faces, but somehow, he couldn't. He stared in fascinated horror as the terrible Wargals, creatures from a nightmare, chanting incessantly, jogged past the spot where he lay.
The Celt miner couldn't have lost his footing at a worse place.
Lashed by one of the Wargals, he stumbled, staggered, then crashed over in the road, bringing down the prisoners on either side of him. Will could see now that they were roped together with a thick rawhide leash.
As the column came to a confused stop, the chanting broke up into a series of snarls and growls from the Wargals. The two prisoners who had been brought down struggled to their feet, under a rain of lashes from their captors. The miner who had caused the fall lay still, in spite of the vicious whipping from one of the Wargals.
Finally another joined the first, and began beating at the still figure with the butt of his heavy, steel-shod spear. There was no reaction from the miner. Watching in horror, Will realized that the man was dead. Eventually, that same realization came to the Wargals. At an incomprehensible command from one who must have been in charge, the two stopped beating the dead man and cut the bonds that attached him to the central leash. Then they picked up the limp body and threw it clear, hurling it toward the thicket where Will and the others sheltered.
The body crashed into the bushes closest to the road and Will heard Evanlyn utter a small cry of fear. Facedown, not knowing what was happening, the sudden crashing in the bushes near her had obviously been too much for her to bear. She bit the noise off almost as soon as it started, but she was just a little too late.
The leader of the Wargals seemed to have heard something. He turned now and stared hard at the spot where the body lay, wondering if the noise had come from the miner. Obviously, he was suspicious that the dead man might be merely foxing, in an effort to escape. He pointed and shouted an order and the Wargal with the spear stepped forward and ran it casually through the dead body.
Still the commander's suspicions weren't satisfied. For a long moment, he stared into the bushes, looking straight at the spot where Will lay, wrapped in the protective camouflage of his Ranger cloak. The apprentice found himself staring deep into the angry red eyes of the savage thing out on the road. He wanted to drop his eyes away from that gaze, convinced that the creature could see him. But all of Halt's training over the past year told him that any movement now would be fatal, and he knew that dropping his eyes could lead to a tiny, involuntary movement of his head. The true value of the camouflaged cloaks lay not in magic as so many people believed, but in the wearer's ability to remain unmoving under close scrutiny.
Forcing himself to believe, Will remained motionless, staring at the Wargal. His mouth was dry. His heart pounded at what seemed like twice its normal rate. He could hear the heavy, raspi
ng breathing of the bearlike figure, see the nostrils twitching slightly as it sampled the light breeze, testing for unknown scents.
Finally, the Wargal turned away. Then, in an instant, it whipped back again to stare once more. Fortunately, Will's training had covered that particular trick as well. He made no movement. This time, the Wargal grunted, then called an order to the group.
Chanting once more, they moved out, leaving the dead miner on the roadside.
As the sound receded and they disappeared around the next bend in the road, Will felt Horace moving behind him.
"Stay still!" he whispered fiercely. It was possible that the Wargals had a sweeper following-a silent-moving rear scout who might catch unwary fugitives who thought the danger was past.
He forced himself to count to one hundred before he allowed the others to move, crawling clear of the bushes and stretching their stiff and aching limbs.
Signaling to Horace to take Evanlyn back to the campsite, Will stepped cautiously into the road to check the Celt. As he had suspected, the man was dead. He had obviously been beaten many times over the past few days. His face was bruised and cut by the whips and fists of the Wargals.
There was nothing he could do for the man, so he left him where he lay and went to rejoin the others.
Evanlyn was sitting crying. As he approached, she looked up at him, her face streaked with tears and her shoulders heaving with the great sobs that shook her. Horace stood by, a helpless expression on his face, making useless little movements with his hands.
"I'm sorry," Evanlyn finally managed to gasp. "It's just that:chanting:those voices:I could remember everything when they:"
"It's all right," Will told her quietly. "My God, they're horrible creatures!" he added, shaking his head at Horace. The warrior apprentice swallowed once or twice. He hadn't seen the Wargals. He'd lain there throughout the entire encounter with his face pressed hard into the sandy ground. In a way, thought Will, that must have been just as terrifying.
"What are they like?" Horace asked in a small voice. Will shook his head again. It was almost impossible to describe.
"Like beasts," he said. "Like bears:or a cross between a bear and a dog. But they walk upright like men."
Evanlyn gave another shuddering cry. "They're vile!" she said bitterly. "Vile, horrible creatures. Oh, God, I hope I never see them again!"
Will moved to her and patted her shoulder awkwardly.
"They're gone now," he said quietly, as if soothing a small child. "They're gone and they can't hurt you."
She made an enormous effort and gathered her courage. She looked up at him, a frightened smile on her face. She reached up and took his hand in her own, taking comfort from the mere contact.
He let her hold his hand for a while. He wondered how he was going to tell them what he had decided to do.
17
"F OLLOW THEM? A RE YOU OUT OF YOUR MIND?" H ORACE stared at the small, determined figure, unable to believe what he was hearing. Will didn't say anything, so Horace tried again.
"Will, we've just spent half an hour hiding behind a bush hoping those things wouldn't see us. Now you want to follow them and give them another chance?"
Will glanced around to make sure that Evanlyn was still out of earshot. He didn't want to alarm the girl unnecessarily.
"Keep your voice down," he warned Horace, and his friend spoke more softly, but nonetheless vehemently.
"Why?" he asked. "What can we possibly gain by following them?"
Will shifted uneasily from one foot to the other. Frankly, the idea of following the Wargals was already frightening him. He could feel his pulse rate was running higher than normal. They were terrifying creatures, and obviously totally devoid of any feelings of mercy or pity, as the fate of the prisoner had shown. Still, he could see that this was an opportunity that shouldn't be wasted.
"Look," he said quietly. "Halt always told me that knowing why your enemy is doing something is just as important as knowing what he's doing. Sometimes more important, in fact."
Horace shook his head stubbornly. "I don't get it," he said. To him this idea of Will's was a crazy, irresponsible and terrifyingly dangerous impulse. To be truthful, Will wasn't absolutely sure that he was right either. But Gilan's parting words about not showing uncertainty rang in his ears, and his instincts, honed by Halt's training, told him this was an opportunity he shouldn't miss.
"We know that the Wargals are capturing Celtic miners and carrying them off," he said. "And we know Morgarath doesn't do anything without a reason. This might be a chance to find out what he's up to."
Horace shrugged. "He wants slaves," he said, and Will shook his head quickly.
"But why? And why only miners? Evanlyn said they were only interested in the miners. Why? Can't you see?" he appealed to the bigger boy. "This could be important. Halt says that wars often turn on the smallest piece of information."
Horace pursed his lips, thinking over what Will had said. Finally, he nodded slowly.
"Okay," he agreed. "I guess you may be right." Horace wasn't a fast thinker, or an original one. But he was methodical and, in his own way, logical. Will had instinctively seen the necessity for following the Wargals. Horace had to work his way through it. Now that he had, he could see Will wasn't acting on some wild, adventurous impulse. He trusted the Ranger apprentice's line of reasoning. "Well, if we're going to follow them, we'd better get moving," he added, and Will looked at him in surprise, shaking his head.
"We?" he said. "Who said anything about 'we'? I plan to follow them alone. Your job is to get Evanlyn back safely."
"Says who?" asked the bigger boy, with some belligerence. "My job, as it was explained to me by Gilan, was to stay with you and keep you out of trouble."
"Well, I'm changing your orders," Will told him. But this time Horace laughed.
"So who died and left you the boss?" he scoffed. "You can't change my orders. Gilan gave me those orders and he outranks you."
"And what about the girl?" Will challenged him. For a moment, Horace was stuck for an answer.
"We'll give her food and supplies and the pack horse," he said. "She can make her own way back."
"That's very gallant of you," Will said sarcastically. Horace merely shook his head again, refusing to be baited into an argument on that score.
"You're the one who said this is so darned important," he replied. "Well, I'm afraid I think you're right. So Evanlyn will simply have to take her chances, just like us. We're close to the border now anyway and one more night's riding will see her out of Celtica."
In truth, Horace didn't like the thought of leaving Evanlyn to her own devices. He'd grown genuinely fond of the girl. She was bright and amusing and good company. But his time in Battleschool had given him a strong sense of duty, and personal feelings came second.
Will tried one more time. "I can move a lot faster without you," he pointed out, but Horace cut him off immediately.
"So what? We won't need speed if we're following the Wargals. We've got horses. We'll have no trouble keeping up with them, particularly as they have to drag those prisoners along." He found he was rather enjoying the experience of arguing with Will and coming up with winning points. Maybe, he decided, spending time with Rangers had done him more good than he'd realized.
"Besides, what if we find out something really important? And what if you want to keep following them and we still have to get a message back to the Baron? If there are two of us, we can split up. I can take a message back while you keep following the Wargals."
Will considered the idea. Horace had a point, he had to concede. It would make sense to have someone else along with him, now that he thought about it.
"All right," he said finally. "But we're going to have to tell Evanlyn."
"Tell me what?" the girl asked. Unnoticed by either of them, she'd approached to within a few meters of where they had been standing, arguing in lowered voices. The two boys now looked guiltily at each other.
"Uh:Wil
l had this idea, you see:" Horace began, then stopped, looking at Will to see if his friend was going to continue. But, as it turned out, there was no need.
"You're planning to follow the Wargals," the girl said flatly, and the two apprentices exchanged looks before Will answered.
"You were listening?" he accused her. She shook her head.
"No. It's the obvious thing to do, isn't it? This is our chance to find out what they're up to and why they're kidnapping the miners."
For the second time in a few minutes, Will found himself picking up on the use of the plural. "Our chance?" he asked her. "What exactly do you mean by 'our' chance?"
Evanlyn shrugged. "Obviously, if you two are following them, I'm coming along with you. You're not leaving me out here on my own in the middle of nowhere."
"But:" Horace began, and she turned to look calmly at him. "These are Wargals," he said.
"I had gathered that."
Horace cast a hopeless glance at Will. The apprentice Ranger shrugged, so Horace tried again. "It'll be dangerous. And you:"
He hesitated. He didn't want to remind her of her fear of the Wargals, and the reasons for it. Evanlyn realized his predicament and she smiled wanly at him.
"Look, I'm scared of those things," she said. "But I assume you're planning to follow them, not join up with them."
"That was the general idea," Will said, and she turned her level gaze on him.
"Well, with the noise they make, we shouldn't have to get too close to them," she told him. "And besides, this might be a chance to spoil whatever plans they have. I think I'd enjoy that."
Will regarded her with a new respect. She had every reason to fear the Wargals, more than he or Horace. Yet she was willing to put that fear aside in order to strike a blow against Morgarath.
"You're sure?" he said finally, and she shook her head.
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