“He knows the woodlands,” Duncan said. “He’s run in them all his life. When time hangs heavy on his hands, as it does at times, for his duties are not strenuous, he takes out for the woods.”
“It does not seem to me,” the archbishop said, “that running in the woods is a great qualification …”
“But it would be,” said Duncan. “We’d be traveling in a wilderness.”
“This Conrad,” said Duncan’s father, “is a brawny man, about seven feet and almost twenty stone of muscle. Quick as a cat. Half animal. He bears unquestioning allegiance to Duncan; he would die for him, I’m sure. He carries a club, a huge oaken club …”
“A club!” the archbishop groaned.
“He’s handy with it,” said Duncan. “I’d put him with that club of his up against a dozen swordsmen and I’d give you odds on Conrad and his club.”
“It would not be too bad a choice,” Duncan’s father said. “The two of them would move quietly and swiftly. If they need defend themselves, they’d be capable.”
“Daniel and Tiny to go along with us,” said Duncan.
Duncan’s father saw the archbishop’s lifted eyebrows. “Daniel is a war-horse,” he explained, “trained to battle. He is the equal of three men. Tiny is a great mastiff. He is trained for war as well.”
3
Cedric left them well before dawn, after guiding them to a patch of thick woodland where they spent the remainder of the night. Shortly after dawn, Conrad awakened Duncan and they breakfasted on cheese and bread, unwilling to light a fire. Then they set out again.
The weather had improved. The wind had shifted and died down. The clouds were gone and the sun was warm.
They traveled through a lonely land, largely covered by woods, with deep glens and faery dells running through the woodlands. Occasionally they came across small farms where the buildings had been burned, with the ripe grain standing unharvested. Except for a few ravens that flew silently, as if awed to silence by the country they were passing over, and an occasional startled rabbit that came popping out of one thicket and ran toward another, they saw no life. About the whole country there was a sense of peacefulness and well-being, and this was strange, for this was the Desolated Land.
Some hours later they were traveling up a steep slope through a woods. The trees began thinning out and the woods came to an end. Ahead of them lay a barren, rocky ridge.
“You stay here,” Conrad said to Duncan. “I’ll go ahead and scout.”
Duncan stood beside Daniel and watched the big man go swiftly up the hill, keeping well down, heading for a rocky outcrop that thrust above the ridge. Daniel rubbed a soft muzzle against Duncan’s shoulder, whickering softly.
“Quiet, Daniel,” Duncan said.
Tiny sat a few feet ahead of them, ears sharp-pricked and bent forward. Beauty moved over to stand on the other side of Duncan, who reached out a hand and stroked her neck.
The silence wore on to a breaking point, but it did not break. There was no sound, no movement. Not even a leaf was rustling. Conrad had disappeared among the rocks. The afternoon wore on. Daniel flicked his ears, again rubbed his muzzle against Duncan’s shoulder. This time he did not whicker.
Conrad reappeared, stretched out full length, slithering, snakelike, over the rocks. Once he was clear of the ridge, he came swiftly down the slope.
“Two things I saw,” he said.
Duncan waited, saying nothing. Sometimes one had to wait for Conrad.
“There is a village down below us,” Conrad finally said. “Black and burned. Except for the church. It is stone and could not burn. No one stirring. Nothing there.”
He stopped and then said, “I do not like it. I think we should go around.”
“You said you saw two things.”
“Down the valley. There were men on horses going down the valley, far beyond the village.”
“Men?”
“I think I saw the Reaver at the head of them. Far off, but I think I recognized him. There were thirty men or more.”
“You think they’re after us?” asked Duncan.
“Why else should they be here?”
“At least we know where they are,” said Duncan, “and they don’t know where we are. They’re ahead of us. I’m surprised. I hadn’t thought they’d follow. Revenge can get expensive in a place like this.”
“Not revenge,” said Conrad. “They want Daniel and Tiny.”
“You think that’s why they’re here?”
“A war-horse and a war-dog would be very good to have.”
“I suppose so. They might have trouble getting them. Those two would not change masters willingly.”
“Now what do we do?”
“Damned if I know,” said Duncan. “They were heading south?”
“South, and west, too. A little west. The way the valley runs.”
“We’d better swing east, then. Go around the village and widen the distance from them.”
“They are some distance off. Still more distance would be better.”
Tiny rose to his feet, swinging around to the left, a growl deep in his throat.
“The dog has something,” Duncan said.
“A man,” said Conrad. “That’s his man growl.”
“How can you know?”
“I know all his talk,” said Conrad.
Duncan swiveled around to stare in the direction Tiny was looking. He could see nothing. No sign anything was there.
“My friend,” Duncan said, conversationally, “I’d come out if I were you. I’d hate to have to send the dog in after you.”
Nothing happened for a moment. Then some bushes stirred and a man came out of them. Tiny started forward.
“Leave him be,” said Conrad to the dog.
The man was tall and cadaverous. He wore a shabby brown robe that reached to his ankles. A cowl was bunched about his shoulders. In his right hand he carried a long and knobby staff, in his left he clutched a fistful of plants. The skin clung so tightly to his skull that the bones showed through. His beard was skimpy.
He said to them, “I’m Andrew, the hermit. I had meant not to interfere with you. So, catching sight of you, I hid from sight of you. I was out to hunt for greens, a mess of pottage for my supper. You wouldn’t have some cheese, perchance, would you?”
“We have cheese,” growled Conrad.
“I dream of cheese,” said Andrew, the hermit. “I wake up at night and find I am thinking of a bit of cheese. It has been a long time since I have had the taste of cheese.”
“In that case,” said Duncan, “we’ll be glad to give you some. Why don’t you, Conrad, take that sack off Beauty.”
“Nay, wait a moment,” objected Andrew. “No need to do it now. You be travelers, are you not?”
“You can see we are,” said Conrad, not too pleasantly.
“In that case,” said Andrew, “why not spend the night with me. I’m fair famished for the sight of human faces and the sound of human tongue. There’s Ghost, of course, but talking with him is little like talking with someone in the flesh.”
“Ghost?” asked Duncan.
“Aye, a ghost. A very honest ghost. And quite a decent one. Not given to the rattling of chains or moaning in the night. He’s shared my cell with me since the day that he was hanged. The Harriers done it to him.”
“The Harriers, of course,” said Duncan. “Would you tell us how you escaped the Harriers.”
“I hid in my cell,” said Andrew. “It really is a cave and it’s not as small and cramped and miserable as a proper cell should be. I fear I am not a proper hermit. I do not go in for the mortifications of the flesh as the more successful hermits do. I dug the cave first to cell-like proportions, as I understood I was supposed to, but over the years I have enlarged it until it’s spacious and fairly comfortable. There’s plenty of room for you. It’s hidden quite away. You’ll be secure from all observation, as I would imagine most travelers in a place like this naturally would want to be. The
evening’s coming on and you must soon seek camp and you can’t find a better place than this cell of mine.”
Duncan looked at Conrad. “What are your thoughts,” he asked, “upon the matter?”
“Little sleep you got last night,” said Conrad, “I got even less. This one seems an honest yokel.”
“There’s the ghost,” warned Duncan.
Conrad shrugged elaborately. “Ghosts I do not mind.”
“All right, then,” said Duncan. “Friar Andrew, if you will lead the way.”
The cave was located a mile or so outside the village, and to reach it they passed through a cemetery which, from the variety and condition of the stones, must have been in continuous use for centuries. Near the center of it stood a small tomb built of native stone. Sometime in the past, perhaps in a storm, the heavy trunk of a large oak tree nearby had fallen across the tomb, shattering the small statuary fixed atop it and pushing the covering slab askew.
A short distance beyond the cemetery they came to the hermit’s cave, which was excavated from a steep hillside, its entrance well masked by a growth of trees and heavy underbrush and a chattering brook hurrying down a steep ravine directly in front.
“You go on in,” Conrad said to Duncan. “I’ll unsaddle Daniel, bring in Beauty’s pack.”
The cave was dark, but even in the darkness it had a spacious sense. A small fire burned on the hearth. Fumbling in the darkness, the hermit found a large candle, lit it at the fire, and placed it on a table. The candle, flaring up, showed the thick carpet of rushes on the floor, the crude table with benches that could be pulled up to it, a badly constructed chair, bins against the earthen walls, the pallet in one corner. A cabinet in another corner held a few parchment rolls.
Noting Duncan looking at them, the hermit said, “Yes, I can read, but barely. In idle moments I sit here by candlelight, spelling out the words and striving at the meanings of the ancient Fathers of the Church. I doubt that I arrive at meaning, for I am a simple soul and at times a stupid one to boot. And those ancient Fathers, it seems to me, ofttimes were much more involved in words than they were in meaning. As I told you, I’m not really a good hermit, but I keep on trying, although at times I find myself a-wonder at the true profession of a hermit. I have thought off and on that a hermit must be the silliest and most useless member of society.”
“It is, however,” said Duncan, “a calling that is thought of very highly.”
“It has occurred to me, when I’ve thought deeply on it,” said the hermit, “that men may be hermits for no other reason than to escape the labors of another kind of life. Surely hermiting is easier on the back and muscles than grubbing in the soil or performing other menial tasks by which one may win his bread. I have asked myself if I am this kind of hermit and, truthfully, I must answer that I do not know.”
“You say you hid here when the Harriers came and that they did not find you. That seems not exactly right. In all our journey we have seen no one who survived. Except one group of ruffians and bandits who had taken over a manor house and had been skillful enough or lucky enough to have been able to defend it.”
“You speak of Harold, the Reaver?”
“Yes. How come you know of him?”
“Word travels throughout the Desolated Land. There are carriers of tales.”
“I do not understand.”
“The little folk. The elves, the trolls, the gnomes, the fairies and the Brownies …”
“But they …”
“They are local folk. They’ve lived here since time unknown. They may be pestiferous at times and unpleasant neighbors and, certainly, individuals in whom you can place no trust. Mischievous they may be, but very seldom vicious. They did not align themselves with the Harriers, but themselves hid from them. And they warned many others.”
“They warned you so you could hide away?”
“A gnome came to warn me. I had not thought him a friend, for through the years cruel tricks he had played upon me. But, to my surprise, I found that he was an unsuspected friend. His warning gave me time to put out my fire so the smoke would not betray me, although I doubt the little smoke of my poor fire would have betrayed anyone at all. It would have gone unnoticed in the general burning that came about when the Harriers arrived. The huts went up in flames, the haystacks and the straw stacks, the granaries and the privies. They even burned the privies. Can you imagine that?”
“No, I can’t,” said Duncan.
Conrad came clumping into the cave, dumping the saddle and the packs to one side of the door.
“I heard you say a ghost,” he rumbled. “There isn’t any ghost.”
“Ghost is a timid one,” said Andrew. “He hides from visitors. He thinks no one wants to see him. He has a dislike for scaring people, although there’s really nothing about him that should scare anyone. As I told you, he is a decent and considerate ghost.”
He raised his voice. “Ghost, come out of there. Come out and show yourself. We have guests.”
A tendril of white vaporous substance streamed reluctantly from behind the cabinet holding the parchment rolls.
“Come on, come on,” the hermit said impatiently. “You can show yourself. These gentlemen are not frightened of you, and it is only courteous that you come out to greet them.”
The hermit said to Duncan, out of the corner of his mouth, “I have a lot of trouble with him. He thinks it’s disgraceful to be a ghost.”
Slowly Ghost took shape above the cabinet, then floated to floor level. He was a classical ghost, white sheeted. The only distinguishing mark was a short loop of rope knotted about his neck, with a couple of feet or so hanging down in front.
“I’m a ghost,” he said in a hollow, booming voice, “with no place to haunt. Usually a ghost haunts his place of death, but how is one to haunt an oak tree? The Harriers dug my poor body out of the thicket in which I hid and forthwith strung me up. They might have paid me the courtesy, it seems to me, to have hung me from a mighty oak, one of those forest patriarchs that are so common in these woods of ours, tall trees standing well above the others and of mighty girth. But this they did not do. They hung me from a scrawny, stunted oak. Even in my death I was made sport of. In my life I begged alms at the church door and a poor living I made of it, for there were those who spread the rumor that I had no reason for the begging, that I could have done a day’s work as well as any man. They said I only pretended to be crippled.”
“He was a fraud,” the hermit said. “He could have labored as well as any other.”
“You hear?” the ghost asked. “You hear? Even in death I am branded as a cheat and fraud. I am made a fool of.”
“I’ll say this for him,” the hermit said. “He’s a pleasure to have around. He’s not up on all the ghostly tricks that other ghosts employ to make nuisances of themselves.”
“I try,” said Ghost, “to be but little trouble. I’m an outcast, otherwise I would not be here. I have no proper place to haunt.”
“Well, now you have met with these gentlemen and have conversed with them in a seemly matter,” said the hermit, “we can turn to other matters.” He turned to Conrad. “You said you had some cheese.”
“Also bacon and ham, bread and honey,” said Duncan.
“And you’ll share all this with me?”
“We could not eat it ourselves and not share it with you.”
“Then I’ll build up the fire,” said Andrew, “and we shall make a feast. I shall throw out the greens I gathered. Unless you should like a taste of greens. Perhaps with a bit of bacon.”
“I do not like greens,” said Conrad.
4
Duncan woke in the night and for a moment of panic wondered where he was. There were no points of reference, just a musty darkness with some flicker in it—as if he might be in some limbo, a waiting room for death.
Then he saw the door, or if not a door, an opening, with the soft wash of moonlight just beyond it, and in the fire-lit flicker, the bulk of Tiny, lying st
retched out before the opening. Tiny had his legs pushed out in front of him, with his head resting on his paws.
Duncan twisted his head around and saw that the flicker came from a low-burned fire upon the hearth. A few feet away lay Conrad, flat upon his back, his toes pointing upward and his arms flung out on each side. His great barrel chest went up and down. He was breathing through his mouth, and the sucked-in then expelled air made a fluttering sound.
There was no sign of the hermit. Probably he was on his pallet, over in the corner. The air smelled faintly of wood smoke, and over his head, Duncan could make out the indistinct shapes of bunches of herbs the hermit had hung up to dry. From outside came a soft stamping sound. That would be Daniel not far away.
Duncan pulled the blanket up beneath his chin and shut his eyes. More than likely it was several hours till dawn, and he could get more sleep.
But sleep was reluctant to come. Much as he tried to shut them out, the events of the last few days kept parading up and down his mind. And the parading of events brought home again the rigors of the adventure he had embarked upon. In this hermit cave it was snug enough, but beyond the cave lay the Desolated Land with its freight of evil, with the burned-out village only a mile or so away, the church the only building standing. Not only the Evil, he reminded himself, but a band of evil men headed by the Reaver, who were out to track down his little party. For the moment, however, he could forget the Reaver, who had gone blundering off somewhere ahead of them.
Then his mind went back to that last day at Standish House when he’d sat with his father in the library, that same room where His Grace had told the story of the script writ in Aramaic.
Now he asked of his father the question that had been roiling in his mind ever since he’d heard the story. “But why us?” he asked. “Why should the manuscript have been in Standish House?”
“There is no way to know,” his father said. “The family’s history is a long one and not too well documented. There are large parts of it that have been entirely lost. There are some records, of course, some writings, but mostly it is legend, stories from so long ago and so often told that there is no way to judge the truth that may be in them. We now are solid country folks, but there was a time when we were not. In the family records and in the legendary tales there are many wanderers and some shameless adventurers. It could have been one of these, traveling far, who brought home the manuscript. Probably from somewhere in the east. As part, perhaps, of his portion of the loot from a captured city or stolen from some monastery or, less likely, honestly purchased for a copper or two as a curiosity. There could not have been much value placed upon it, and rightly so, of course, for until it was placed in the hands of the fathers at the abbey, there was no one who could have known the significance of it. I found it in an old wooden crate, the wood half gone with rot and with mildew on the documents that it contained. The manuscript was tossed in among other odds and ends of parchment, most of which were worthless.”