by Lee Duigon
“So!” he growled, when he’d heard Bort’s news. “The Temple sends out a real killer, all this way from Obann, just to visit a harmless balmy hermit. And they think I’m fool enough to believe it!
“You’ve never lived in the City, Bort; you don’t know the presters like I know them. Holy men—bah! They’re worse thieves that we could ever be. Like as not they’ve found out there’s money to be made in Lintum Forest, provided they stretch a few necks first, beginning with mine and yours. Then the free men can pay their dues to the Temple instead of to the likes of us.
“Well, I’ll tell you what to do. Take ten men and find that popinjay from the Temple, and bring him back to me. Able to talk, mind you! I’ve got a few questions I’d like to ask him. And then we’ll see whose neck gets stretched.”
Bort lost no time in choosing nine of the most accomplished manslayers in the camp, including two or three adept at tracking and leading them in pursuit of the killer from the Temple.
Martis hiked eastward along the fringe of the forest, pushing himself at a brisk pace. He felt exposed and vulnerable without his horse—absurd, he chided himself, considering what had happened to the horse. But he was not used to being afraid, and the fear had worked itself down into a deep place in his soul where he couldn’t fight it.
He discovered now that he’d been inwardly sneering at his patron, Lord Reesh, for being afraid of a dream. Reesh, of all men, giving in to religious superstition! Martis had always admired his master’s ability to rule the Temple without believing in any of the medieval mummery it stood for. For a little thing like a dream to shake his unbelief was unworthy of him. But now that he himself was shaken, Martis sympathized with his master.
It’ll pass, he promised himself. I’ll carry on with the mission; I’ll follow those moonstruck children up the mountain—if they get there!—and see nothing happen when they ring the bell, if there is a bell. And by the time it’s all over, I’ll be myself again.
It’s all tripe and superstition, he told himself. A lot of foolishness left over from ancient times, cobwebs and all. Even if some fanatic, thousands of years ago, had managed to erect a bell atop Mount Yul, and the bell were still there today, you could ring it until your arms fell off and nothing would come of it. God wouldn’t hear it because there is no God. The ancients believed in God, and where were they? It was all superstition—albeit useful superstition, because the Temple was a device to hold the nation together. By all that was reasonable and sane, the God of the Scriptures would have blasted the Temple ten times over if He knew but half of what the Temple did in His name! Including any number of assassinations performed by Martis himself in the service of the Temple.
By such arguments, and by pushing himself as hard as his legs would tolerate, Martis came near to calming himself. But from time to time the vision of that terrible bird crushing the horse’s neck in its beak rushed back to him and made him shiver, and wrung his stomach into a knot, and oppressed his heart.
“There are no birds like that!” he would mutter to himself. “It was a thing that should not be!”
But the fact that he was walking now, instead of riding, argued otherwise.
Helki took his time following the stranger’s trail, which for him was as easy to read as a page in a book would be for you. It told him that the man was hurrying along as if a pack of wolves were baying at his heels. The man stumbled frequently, but never fell: mighty determined to get to wherever he’s going, Helki thought.
Sooner or later the man would have to stop. Helki didn’t hurry. The stranger would stop when he’d used up all his strength, and then it would take him some time to get going again. Helki would catch up to him before then.
Obst had never traveled from Lintum Forest to the wooded foothills, and he’d underestimated the distance. Late afternoon found him and the children still on the plains, with maybe another full day’s hard marching to go before they reached the hills.
“It’s time we chose a spot to camp for the night,” he said. “I’d rather not spend a night out here, but there’s no help for it. Just pray our fire doesn’t attract slavers.”
“We don’t know how to pray without a prester,” Ellayne said. “We did try it once, but I’m sure we didn’t do it right.”
Obst smiled at her. “It’s very hard to do it wrong, child,” he said. “Just set your mind on God and talk to Him, aloud or silently. He’ll hear you.”
“How can He hear us if we do it silently?” Jack said. He’d never heard of such a thing.
“The Most High Lord who created you knows you better than you know yourself,” Obst said. “He knows every thought you’ve ever had. He’s not a man, who must live in the world and depend on his eyes and ears. You can be sure He’ll hear you when you pray.”
Jack put an arm around the donkey’s shoulder and leaned on him a little, resting. Ham nuzzled him.
“Why didn’t the prester ever tell us that?” he asked.
“You’d have to ask him. Come, we’d better make camp. It’ll be dark soon.”
It wasn’t much of a camp, just a few bushes between them and the cold wind blowing down from the mountains, and as big a fire as they could manage. Obst had them cut clumps of gorse and lace them into the branches of the bushes that sheltered them, the better to block the wind.
Somehow Obst and Ellayne were able to fall asleep right away after they ate; and Wytt cuddled up in Ellayne’s arms and occasionally made faint meeping noises in his sleep, as if he were dreaming hard. Jack wondered what Omahs dreamed. He couldn’t fall asleep, as tired as he was. He kept wondering why, if God could hear silent prayers, anyone would need to attract His attention with a bell. If he tried to discuss such a thing with his stepfather, Van would have him declared mad and send him away.
Jack decided to get up and see what Bell Mountain looked like by starlight. None of his companions stirred as he crawled out from his blanket and crept past the dying campfire. Ham, tethered to a stake in the ground, nickered at him. He stood beside the donkey and petted him.
“Look at them, Ham,” he whispered, meaning the mountains. “Do you think we’ll ever get there, really? They don’t look any closer than they did when we started out.”
But the sight of the starlight on the mountain snows was worth getting up for. By night Bell Mountain’s crown of clouds had a mysterious silvery glow. Jack wondered what lay hidden in those clouds. He wondered if God could see through the clouds.
Ham suddenly shuddered and went stiff—ears up, nostrils quivering, eyes rolling. Jack clasped his arms around his neck to keep him from bolting, and tried to see what Ham saw.
There—about as far as Jack could throw a stone: taller than the tallest man, taller than a horse, with a head bigger than a horse’s head—a colossal bird stood looking at him, with one of its enormous legs bent as if it were poised to charge. It carried itself just like one of the little white egrets you saw wading in the quiet shallows of a pond, dark against the starlit plain, as massive as a tree. There was nothing like it in all the world. And it was close, much too close. With those two long legs, it would quickly run down anyone who tried to escape.
But Jack wasn’t running; his feet froze to the earth. Ham was frozen, too.
The bird shook a pair of ridiculously undersized wings, and Jack could hear its feathers rattle. It shook its wings twice, turned its head, and then stalked off. Its great hooked beak pointed the way, and its heavy head on its ess-shaped neck bobbed back and forth as it went. Jack glimpsed at great clawed feet. It just walked off, and Jack watched until it vanished into the night.
His breath came back with a whoosh. He was terrified that Ham would make a noise and call the monster back, but the donkey only blew hard and shook its ears and shivered. Jack would have fallen if he hadn’t been holding on to Ham’s neck.
It was gone. It could have run right up and killed us, Jack thought, and it just walked away. He couldn’t understand it.
The wind blew, chilling him. He shi
vered. He kissed the donkey good night and crept back to the others, wrapping himself tightly in his blanket and wedging himself between Ellayne and Obst because he was so cold. Wytt whimpered and stirred in Ellayne’s arms, but didn’t wake.
For some reason Jack didn’t want to wake the others. He didn’t want to talk, not with his teeth chattering. And while he was trying to decide what to say, he fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.
CHAPTER 25
The Rod Strikes
Toward the end of the afternoon, the man Helki was tracking went slower and slower. Helki knew the man would soon have to stop, and knew he was catching up to him. But if you’d been there to watch Helki, you wouldn’t have seen him.
As closely as he studied the stranger’s trail, Helki paid just as much attention to everything else around him. He noticed when the birds stopped calling to proclaim their territory or attract mates for the nesting season, which would soon begin; now they called out warnings. One jay was louder and angrier than all the other birds. Helki paid special heed to its cawings.
Someone or something was on the move, coming closer by the moment, and the birds didn’t like it. Soon squirrels were chattering about it, too.
So Helki melted into the shadows among the trees and blended into the undergrowth. The birds ignored him. It may have been that they could neither see nor hear him.
Now he followed the noise instead of tracks. Maybe he would meet the unknown animal that had killed the stranger’s horse. But as he paused from time to time to sniff the breeze, it brought him the scent of unwashed men who’d worked up a new sweat. There were quite a few of them. Before long Helki could hear them crashing through the underbrush and the faint sound of their voices.
Helki kept a safe distance from them, stalking them by sound and scent. He knew they must be some of Latt’s men and guessed they were chasing the same stranger that he’d been following all afternoon. One of their lookouts must have seen the man and told them where to find him.
Helki smiled to himself. They were so hot to rob the stranger that they took no thought to the possibility of themselves being robbed.
He let them get a little farther ahead, but not out of earshot. They blundered along the narrow paths, cursing when they got caught on brambles. But Helki didn’t need a path. There were great elk in Lintum Forest, huge creatures that could pass through a dense thicket without so much as a rustle. Helki learned how to move through the forest by studying them.
As he neared the edge of the woods, he heard loud voices. He slowed his approach. The trees here wouldn’t have been close enough together to hide a smaller man, but they hid Helki. Soon he could see Latt’s men, but they couldn’t see him.
But they wouldn’t have. It was getting dark, and they were busy with their prey.
Having gone as far as he could go, Martis had stopped to gather firewood and make a camp while he still had some strength left for it. He was sure he’d want a cuss’t big fire burning all night. If there were monster birds hunting by day, there was no telling what would come out at night.
Why had he never heard of gigantic birds in Lintum Forest? There were many fabulous beasts mentioned in the Old Books, but not those. There were idle romances, children’s fairy tales, and silly songs that told of unipeds, men who walked backwards because their faces were on the wrong side of their heads, and giants, centaurs, and hobgoblins—but there was nothing in any of them about horrible birds that ate horses. What did it mean, that there were now such things in Lintum Forest?
Martis stacked a high pile of firewood, enough to last all night. Exhausted, he supposed he’d better start the fire right away. Luckily he hadn’t lost his tinderbox, and he still had his water bottle and a few bites to eat. It was only jerky, wayfarers’ food; but he was too tired to long for braised lamb and wine. And it would soon be dark.
If he hadn’t been so weary and so preoccupied with starting his fire, he might have heard something that would have made him prepare to defend himself. But he heard nothing at all until a band of men burst out of the woods and surrounded him.
“Don’t try to fight, elder brother! You’re one man against ten.”
It was with something akin to relief that Martis recognized the fat outlaw with whom he’d passed the night at the hermit’s house. He held up his empty palms in surrender.
“If you’ve come to rob me, Bort, you’ve come too late,” he said. “I’ve lost my horse. A giant bird killed it and ate it.”
“What happened to your horse?”
“A bird ate it. A bird that’s bigger than a horse. You live here. You must have seen it sometime.”
One of Bort’s men looked at his leader quizzically. “What’s he saying, Bort? What’s this about a giant bird?”
“Never mind, Skrup. Elder brother, we’ve come for you, not your horse. You’re our prisoner. Our chief, Latt Squint-eye, wants to meet you. So let’s see your weapons. Hand ’em over. Then we can sit down and talk about birds. It’s too late now to head back to camp.”
Martis surrendered his mace and a rather expensive little dagger he wore in his belt. His skewer he left in his lapel: they might not notice it, and he might get a chance to use it later. They didn’t notice, but Bort had two men tie his wrists together with a strip of hide. Only then did the outlaws sit down around the fire.
“Now we’re all comfortable,” Bort said. “Now you can tell us about your bird.”
Martis told him. He was amazed they knew nothing of it. But the way some of them cast uneasy glances at the dark woods told him they believed him.
“There’ve been some queer beasts around lately, that’s for certain,” Bort said. “Don’t ask me where they came from. Twenty years I’ve lived in these parts and never seen the like of it until a year ago. But what I’m interested in is your reason for being here, elder brother. It’s a long way from Obann.”
“I told you,” Martis said. “I came to meet the hermit. The Temple is interested in him. There are stories that he performs miracles.”
Bort leaned closer to him. “If you try to tell Latt that story, he’ll burn your eyes out.”
“It’s the truth. What other reason could I possibly have for being in a place like this?”
“Whatever it is, you’ll tell it before Latt’s done with you,” the outlaw said. “The Temple’s always looking for more money, says Latt. Maybe the Temple would like to get its paws on Lintum Forest—eh? There’s trade with the Heathen over the mountains and gold going back and forth. Gold that might wind up in the Temple’s treasury, if men like us were put out of the way.”
“There’s much more money in miracles.”
Bort smashed Martis’ cheek with the back of his hand, knocking him onto his back, rousing a laugh from the men. Stunned, Martis offered no resistance when Bort pulled him back up by the hair. The pain was like a fire in his scalp.
“You’d have killed me and Tumm if we’d given you the chance, that night in the cabin,” Bort said. “A man like you doesn’t come all the way out here to chase after moonshine.”
Martis looked him in the eye. “A man like me will be the death of you, fat boy. The Temple will see to that.”
Bort’s fist crashed into his nose. Martis fell again. This time Bort let him lie there. Overhead, the stars were coming out. Martis felt blood seeping thickly from his nose.
“Better save some of that for Latt, fat boy,” one of the men said. The others laughed.
This was going to be bad, Martis thought. Because the Temple alone collected tax in every part of the country, it was the only apparatus of the government that had enemies everywhere. Some of these hated the Temple out of all proportion to the offense. Martis had encountered it many times before. Temple-hating was a passion, for which the tax was only an excuse.
“They hate us because they crave from us more than we can give them,” Lord Reesh often said. “They hunger for God, and we can’t give them God. We give them a reason to think of themselves as a nation and some hope
of there maybe being something better than this life in this world. If they understood their own desire, they would hate us even more. Let us be thankful that they don’t understand.”
Reesh was right. It’s why the hermit has nothing to fear from these ferocious men, Martis thought—but I do.
“Get up, you. I’m talking to you,” Bort said. This time he pulled Martis up by the front of his shirt.
And then something happened.
Some deep voice roared, “The rod! The rod!” It was like a bull’s bellow. All the outlaws went into a panic, and Bort let go of Martis’ shirt and scrambled to his feet.
Everyone was moving, yelling. A man went down like a sack of grain and lay still. By firelight all Martis could see was that the camp was under attack. Another gang of outlaws? A man screamed and stumbled past, almost into the fire, clutching at an injured arm. Martis saw Bort scuttle into the forest, followed by others. Taken totally by surprise, they didn’t even try to resist. They only fled the scene, and it didn’t take them long to do it.
Besides Martis himself, there was only one man left—a giant of a man who stood erect with his powerful shoulders thrown back, breathing like a blacksmith’s bellows, with a staff in one hand planted on the ground like a conquering army’s standard. He faced the woods. Martis heard the outlaws thrashing in the undergrowth as they fled.
“Come back any time you please!” the giant roared. “Tell your chief that Helki the Rod has beaten you—Helki the Rod! Ha, ha!”
What lunatic was this, who single-handedly attacked ten men and routed them like mice? He stood on guard, still breathing hard, until the noise of the bandits’ retreat diminished into silence.
