“Good advice, my friend. How did you know the Vores were loose?”
“The deer did not just run, they fled in panic. A man’s smell would not do that, nor would a wolf’s. Since the wind was coming from behind and to the right of us, I reasoned the beasts must be close.”
“You are a canny man to have around, Prasamaccus. Perhaps our luck has changed.”
As if to evidence his words, a large Vore raced across the clearing before them, oblivious to their presence, and leapt over the corpses in a headlong rush toward the bugle call.
“You think it is safe now?” asked Korrin.
“A few more minutes.” Prasamaccus could feel sadness riding him. Korrin had not yet stopped to consider the full meaning of the attack, and the Brigante hesitated to voice his fears. If four Vores had been loosed, why not all of them? And if that was the case, what had befallen the brotherhood at the caves? “I think it is safe now,” he said at last.
Korrin sprang to the ground and waited to aid the slower Prasamaccus.
“I owe you my life. I shall not forget it.”
He began to walk back toward the camp, but Prasamaccus’ slender hand fell on his shoulder. “A moment, Korrin.” The taller man swung toward him, his face paling as he saw the look of concern in Prasamaccus’ eyes. Then realization struck.
“No!” he screamed, and tore himself from the Brigante’s grip to race away through the trees. Prasamaccus notched an arrow and followed at his own halting pace. He did not hurry, having no wish to arrive too soon. When at last he did come in sight of the caves, his worst fears were realized. Bodies were scattered in the clearing, and in his path was a leg dripping blood to the grass. It was a scene of carnage. In the cave mouth Korrin knelt alongside the giant body of his brother. Prasamaccus approached. The man-beast lay beside the bodies of three Vores, and his talons were red with their blood. Beyond Korrin, cowering in the darkness, were three children and Laitha. Part of his burden lifted as he saw that she was safe. Korrin was weeping openly, holding a bloodstained paw in his lap. The man-beast’s eyes opened.
Prasamaccus touched Korrin’s shoulder. “He lives,” he whispered.
“Korrin?”
“I am here.”
“I stopped them, Korrin. The Witch Queen did me a service, after all. She gave me the strength to stop her own hunting cats.” He took a deep shuddering breath, and Prasamaccus watched as his lifeblood continued to flow from the dreadful wounds.
“Four of the Seven are safe within the caves. Some of the men ran into the forest; I do not know if they survived. Get them away from here, Korrin.”
“I will, brother. Rest. Be at peace.” The body shimmered as if in a heat haze, then shrank to that of a normal man, slender and fine-boned, the face handsome and gentle. “Oh, sweet gods,” Korrin whispered.
“Very touching,” came a woman’s voice, and Prasamaccus and Korrin turned. Sitting on a nearby rock was a golden-haired woman in a dress of spun silver that looped over one ivory-skinned shoulder.
Korrin lunged to his feet, dragging his sword clear. He ran at the woman, who lifted a hand and waved her fingers as if casually swatting a fly. Korrin flew from his feet to land against the rocks ten feet away.
“I said I would watch him die … and I have. Bring my women to the camp in the north. Perhaps then I will allow the rest of you to live.”
Prasamaccus laid down his bow, feeling her eyes on him.
“Why do you not attempt to kill me?” she asked.
“To what purpose, lady? You are not here.”
“How perceptive of you.”
“It takes no great perception to see that you cast no shadow.”
“You are disrespectful,” she chided. “Come to me.” Her hand pointed, and Prasamaccus felt a pull at his chest hauling him to his feet. He stumbled on his bad leg and heard her soft lilting, mocking laughter. “A cripple? How delicious! I was going to play a game with you, little man, make you suffer as Pallin suffered. But I see there is no need. Fate has perhaps dealt with you more unkindly than I could. And yet you should suffer some pain for your insolent glances.” Her eyes shone.
Prasamaccus was still holding the arrow he had notched earlier, and as her hand came up once more, he raised the arrowhead before him. A blaze of white light came from her fingers, touched the arrow, and returned to smite her in the chest. She screamed and stood … and in that moment Prasamaccus saw the golden hair show silver at the temples. Her hand shot to her aging face, and panic replaced the malevolent smile. She disappeared in an instant.
Korrin stumbled to the Brigante’s side. “What did you do?”
Prasamaccus looked down at the arrow; the shaft was black and useless, the head a misshapen lump of metal. He hurled it aside. “We must get the women from here before the soldiers come, as surely they will. Is there another hiding place in the forest?”
“Where can we hide from her?”
“One step at a time, Korrin. Is there a place?”
“Perhaps.”
“Then let us gather what is useful and go.” As he spoke, five men emerged from the trees. Prasamaccus recognized the tall Hogun and the hulking Rhiall.
“So,” said the Brigante, “the brotherhood still lives.”
Laitha strode from the cave to the body of a dead warrior and unbuckled the man’s sword belt. Swinging it around her lean hips, she drew the blade, hefting it for weight. The hilt was long and tightly covered with dark leather, and she could grip it double-handed for the cut or sweep. Yet the blade was not so long or heavy that she was unable to use it one-handed. She found a suitable whetstone and began to hone the edge. Prasamaccus joined her.
“I am sorry you had to suffer such an ordeal.”
“I did not suffer; Pallin kept the Vores from me. But the screams of the dying …”
“I know.”
“That woman radiated evil, and yet she was so lovely.”
“There is no mystery in that, Laitha. Pallin was a good man, yet sight of him would cause sleepless nights. All that is good is not always handsome.”
“I do not like to admit this, but she frightened me. All the way down to my bones. Before we left Culain, I saw a Soul Stealer from the Void. Its face was the gray of death, yet it inspired less fear in me than the Witch Queen did. How was it that you were able to speak so to her?”
“I do not follow you.”
“There was no fear in your voice.”
“It was in my heart, but all I saw was an evil woman. All she could do was kill me. Is that so terrible? In fifty years no one will remember my name. I will be merely the dust of history. If I am lucky, I will grow old and rot. If not, I will die young. Whatever, I will still die.”
“I never want to die—or grow old. I want to live forever,” said Laitha. “Just as Culain had the chance to do. I want to see the world in a hundred years or a thousand. I never want the sun to shine without it shining on me.”
“I can see how that would be … pleasant,” said the Brigante, “but for myself I think I would rather not be immortal. If you are ready, we should be on our way.”
Laitha looked deeply into his sad blue eyes, not understanding his melancholy mood. She smiled, rose smoothly, and pulled him to his feet. “Your wife is a lucky woman.”
“In what way?”
“She has found a gentle man who is not weak. And yes, I am ready.”
The small group, joined by four other survivors, numbered nineteen people as they headed high into the hills at the center of Mareen-sa. There were four pregnant women, three children, and, counting Laitha, twelve warriors.
Because of the advanced stage of one of the pregnancies, the pace was slow, and it was dusk when Korrin led them up a long hill to a circle of black stones each some thirty feet high. The circle was more than a hundred yards in diameter, and several deserted buildings had been constructed around the eight-foot altar. Korrin dragged open a rotted door and pushed his way into the largest building. Prasamaccus followed him. Inside w
as one vast room over eighty feet long. Ancient dust-covered tables were set at right angles to the walls, with bench seats alongside.
Korrin made his way to a large hearth, where a fire had been neatly laid. A huge cobweb stretched from the logs to the chimney breast. Korrin ignored it and sparked the tinder. Flames rose hungrily at the center of the dead wood, and a warm red light bathed the central hall.
“What is this place?” asked Prasamaccus.
“The Eagle sect once dwelled here—seventy men who sought to commune with the ghosts.”
“What happened to them?”
“Astarte had them slain. Now no one comes here.”
“I cannot bring myself to blame them,” said the Brigante, listening to the wind howling across the hilltop. One of the women began to moan and sank to the floor. It was Erulda.
“The babe is due,” said Hogun. “We’d best leave her to the women.” Korrin led the men outside to a smaller building where a dozen rotted cot beds lined the walls. A rats’ nest had been built against the far wall, and the room stank of vermin. Once more a fire had been laid, and Korrin ignited it.
Prasamaccus tested several beds, then gingerly laid himself down. There was no conversation, and the Brigante found himself thinking of Thuro and wondering if the Vores had killed him. He awoke an hour before dawn, half-convinced he had heard the sound of drums and marching feet. He stretched and sat up. Korrin and the other men were still sleeping around the dying fire. He swung his legs from the cot and stood, suppressing a groan as the weight came down on his twisted limb. Taking up his bow and quiver, he stepped out into the predawn light. The door of the main building opened, and Laitha moved into sight. She smiled a greeting, then ran across to him. “I have been waiting for you for a full hour.”
“Did you hear the drums?”
“No. What drums?”
“I must have been dreaming. Come, we’ll find some meat.” The two of them, both armed with bows, set off down the hill.
On that day Prasamaccus could do no wrong. He killed two deer, and Laitha slew a bighorn sheep. Unable to carry the meat home, they quartered the beasts, hanging the carcasses from three high tree branches.
With Prasamaccus carrying the succulent loin section of the deer, Laitha stopped to gather several pounds of mushrooms, which she carried inside her tunic blouse; the two hunters were greeted with smiles on their return. After a fine breakfast Korrin sent Hogun, Rhiall, and a man called Logay to scout for the soldiers, while Prasamaccus told them where he had hidden the rest of the meat. Somehow the terrifying events of the previous day seemed less hideous in the wake of Erulda’s delivering a fine baby son. His lusty cries were greeted with smiles among the women, and Prasamaccus marveled anew at the ability of people to cope with terror. Even Korrin seemed less tense.
There was a stream at the bottom of the hill, near a basin of clay. The three remaining women spent the day creating pitchers and firing them in a kiln built some thirty feet from the stream. It made little smoke. Prasamaccus watched them work and thought of Helga back in Calcaria. Had the war reached her? How was she faring? Did she miss his presence as much as he missed hers, or had she even now found a fit husband with two good legs? He would not blame her if she had. She had given him a gift beyond price, and if he had believed in benevolent gods, he would have prayed for her happiness.
He glanced down at his leather leggings. They were filthy and torn, and several of the silver disks had come loose. His fine woolen tunic was grimy, and the gold braid at the cuffs was frayed. He hobbled to the stream and removed his tunic, dipping it in the cool water and cleaning it against a rock. On impulse he stripped his trews and sat in the water, splashing it to his pale chest. The women nearby giggled and waved; he bowed gravely and continued to wash. Laitha wandered down the hill, and one of the women approached her, offering her something Prasamaccus could not make out. The forest girl smiled her thanks and removed her boots, wading out to where Prasamaccus sat.
“What did she want?”
“She had a gift for the hunter,” answered Laitha, showing him a small vial stoppered with wax. “It is a cleansing oil for the hair.” So saying, she tugged him backward, submerging him. He came up sputtering, and she broke the wax seal, pouring half the contents over his head. Tucking the vial into her belt, she began to massage his hair, which was an experience to rival the ministrations of Victorinus’ slaves. She spoiled it by ducking him again when she was done. He sat up to hear the chuckling of the working women and the rich, rolling laughter of the men who sat at the top of the hill.
The good humor lasted until Hogun and the others returned at dusk. Prasamaccus knew something was wrong, for they had not bothered to gather the meat. He limped across to Korrin, and the dark huntsman looked up from his seat.
“The soldiers are coming,” he said simply.
The small amphitheater was bare of spectators except for the queen, who sat at the center on a fur-covered divan. Below her on the sand stood four warriors, their swords raised in salute. She leaned forward.
“You are each the finest gladiators of your lands. None of you has tasted defeat, and all have killed more than a score of opponents. Today you have the opportunity of carrying from Perdita your own weight in gems and gold. Does that excite you?” As she spoke, her right hand caressed the skin of her throat and neck, enjoying the smooth silky feel of young flesh. Her blue eyes raked the warriors: strong men, lean and wolflike, their eyes confident as they looked upon one another, each feeling he was destined to be the victor. Goroien smiled.
“Do not seek to gauge the men around you. Today you fight as a team, against the champion of my choosing. Kill him and all the rewards you have been promised will be yours.”
“We are all to fight one man, lady?” asked a tall warrior with a jet-black beard.
“Just one,” she whispered, her voice growing hoarse with excitement. “Behold!”
The men turned. At the far end of the arena stood a tall figure, a black helm covering his face. His shoulders were wide, his hips lean and supple. He wore a cutaway mail shirt and a loincloth and carried a short sword and a dagger.
“Behold,” said the queen once more. “This is the queen’s champion, the greatest warrior of this or any age. He, too, has never known defeat. Tackle him singly or all at once.”
The four men looked at one another. The riches were there, so why take risks? They advanced on the tall helmed warrior, forming a half circle. As they approached, he moved with dazzling swiftness, seeming to dance through them. But in his wake two men fell, disemboweled. The others circled warily. He dived forward, rolling on his shoulder, the dagger slicing the air to plunge home in Blackbeard’s throat. Continuing his roll, he came alongside the last man, blocked his lunge, and sent a dazzling riposte through his enemy’s jugular. He walked forward and bowed to the queen.
“Always the best,” she said, the color high on her cheeks. She held out her hand, and he rose through the air to stand before her. She stood and ran her hands over his shoulders and down his glistening flanks.
“Do you love me?” she whispered.
“I love you. I have always loved you.” The voice was soft and distant.
“You do not hate me for bringing you back?”
“Not if you do as you promised, Goroien.” His hand circled her back, pulling her to him. “Then I will love you until the stars die.”
“Why must you think of him?”
“I must be the Lord of Battle. I have nothing else. I never had. I am faster now, more deadly. And still he haunts me. Until I kill him I will never be that which I desire.”
“But he is no longer a match for you. He has chosen mortality and grows older. He is not what he was.”
“He must die, Goroien. You promised him to me.”
“What is the point? He could not have beaten you at his best. What will you prove by slaying a middle-aged man?”
“I will know that I am what I always was, that I am a warrior.” His hands ro
ved her body. “I will know that I am still a man.”
“You are, my love. The greatest warrior who ever lived.”
“You will bring him to me, then?”
“I will. Truly I will.”
Slowly he removed the helm. She did not look at his eyes … could not. Ever since the day she had brought him back from the grave, they had defeated her.
Glazed as they had been in death, the eyes of Gilgamesh remained to torment her.
Uther and Baldric entered the forest of Mareen-sa just after dawn, following a perilous journey from the Etrusces mountains. Three times they had hidden from soldiers, and once they had been pursued by four mounted warriors, escaping by wading through a narrow stream and climbing an almost sheer rock face. They were tired now, but Uther’s spirits were high with the thought that they were almost home. He would lift the spell from the man-beast Pallin and then continue his search for his father’s sword.
He was mildly ashamed of himself as he contemplated the jubilant scenes when Pallin was restored, the cheers and the congratulations and his modest reactions to their compliments on his heroism. He pictured Laitha, seeing the admiration in her eyes and her acceptance of his manhood. He grew almost dizzy with the fantasy and wrenched his thoughts back to the narrow trail they were following. As he did so, his eyes lit on a massive track beside the path. He stopped and stared; it was the pad of a giant cat.
Baldric, walking ahead, swung and saw the prince kneeling by the wayside. He strolled back, froze as he saw the print, and pulled an arrow from his quiver.
“The Vores are loose,” he whispered, his eyes scanning the trail.
Uther stood, his gray eyes narrowed in concentration. There was a stream nearby, and the prince walked to it and began to dig a narrow channel in the bank.
“What are you doing?” asked Baldric, but Uther ignored him. He widened the channel into a circle and watched as the water slowly filled it. When it was still, he lay full-length and stared into it, raising the Sipstrassi Stone above the water, whispering the words of power Culain had used. The surface shimmered, and he saw the caves and the bodies. Two foxes were tugging at the flesh of a severed leg. He stood.