Talking of war and of revenge moved Balor to join the battle. Over her objections, he left Kalese behind to look after Sanra and Jonla. He-began to make his way through the thick growth towards the sounds of battle, and soon almost tripped over one of the Little People who seemed to materialize at his feet. The little man beckoned and Balor followed, and soon a path emerged out of the tangle and confusion, where there had not been one before.
They entered a small break in the forest, room perhaps for five of the crouching Little People, though Balor’s giant frame strained its limits. All but one of the small ones stepped back into the forest, and Balor was left facing the old man called Grandfather again. The wrinkled face broke into a smile at the sight of him, and the old man said something in his strange clicking language, and then in the guttural tones of the Cormat. With Balor’s small understanding of that language, and with much gesturing, they were able to understand a little of what the other said.
Grandfather pointed toward the battle and then at the leaves in the tree above and then at himself; then at the stock of the tree, and again at himself. After much repetition of these movements, Balor realized that the man was apologizing—telling him that there were too many Qreq, and not enough of his own people. The Warlord would escape!
Balor bowed respectfully. The little man seemed to understand the motion and bowed awkwardly back. The warrior of Lahar hefted his borrowed sword and also pointed to the battle. The forest man nodded and _ smiled, and they set off for the outcries together. Before they could leave the clearing, Balor heard Kalese call out his name and she hurried up to him. Balor was more impressed with her than he ever had been before. He knew that he could not have followed the wandering trail. She had left the sleeping Companions in the care of the Little People, she explained. She wished to join in the fight.
The Warlord had left a trail of dead behind him* but the Qreq still kept coming, numberless and multiplied from many years in his breeding pens. Toraq did not even seem concerned. Half of his army could be destroyed, and it would still be the greatest, mightiest army the world had ever seen. But Toraq was frustrated by his inability to even see his assailants.
Balor wanted to confront the Qreq, and even the Warlord, but the little forest men would not show themselves. Balor was ineffective with the little*bow, and was frustrated by his inability to get close to the enemy. Kenlahar would have been horrified by his blood thirst, Balor thought with sudden insight. But he had suffered too much at the hands of the Qreq to feel any mercy now.
As the Warlord neared the end of the forest, and view of the plains of Kernback peeked between the last of the trees, the Little People launched their fiercest assault. The last of the Qreq columns were heavily shorn of their marchers. But once the Qreq were milling on the fields, Balor saw from the forest edges that a massive number of the Qreq warriors had survived.
The Warlord surveyed the forest intently for several minutes, then he motioned to one of his commanders. Soon several bands of Qreq dared to approach the forest again, though a barrage of lethal arrows met them. They retreated, carrying with them only wood. A bonfire was lit, just out of range of the bows of the people of the forest, and Balor realized with horror what Toraq was about to do.
The Qreq, by the hundreds approached the massive fire and pulled burning logs from its flames, without regard to their safety. Balor and Kalese watched as the Qreq rushed toward them with the burning embers. The forest did not catch easily, but the Qreq were persistent and eventually the leaves of the trees started to fly into sparks, the trunks into flames. All along the border of the forest the flames were becoming too intense to endure and Balor and Kalese had to retreat. He knew what would happen if he emerged on the plains, so he retreated just ahead of the fire, not away—perhaps incredulous that anyone could do what the Warlord had done. The Companions knew that the Little People would die if they could not extinguish the fire.
The fire seemed to gain in speed, roaring high and loud behind them. Soon Balor saw that the fire would become too fast to escape, and he veered toward the river. There was no time now to look for the others. There may not be enough time to save Kalese and himself, he thought. Finally his steps brought him to and over the banks of Shallowspill. The inferno seemed to be sucking all the air above him, but by lying still and almost submerged in cool water, they were able to survive the heat. As Balor looked back, he saw some of the last survivors of his crew running just steps from the fire toward them. He shouted his encouragement from the banks. Then the fire engulfed them and leapt from the tops of trees to the tops of others on the opposite shore.
He heard Kalese gasp from beside him, then the heat made him duck under the flow of the river. He was certain that all was lost. In those few moments he reached his fullest measure of hate. The Warlord would die for this! He was, crying bitterly, and angrily berating himself over the roar of the fire. Only Kalese could hear him, and she stared dazed, but unhurt as the flames swirled upward into the evening skies.
Balor remembered the Little People’s boast of being the first of all the peoples—and how they would be the last. They had not reckoned with the inhuman and unworldly power of Toraq, he thought with sadness.
The next morning they finally dared to crawl on shore. Overnight it almost seemed as if the Warlord had doubled the extent of his Desolation. Balor and Kalese, with a single mind and purpose pulled still warm stumps out of the soft, crumbled earth. Soon they were paddling up the river on their crude raft, too tired now to even rise from its rough wood planks. Side by side they lay, with their hands and feet trailing in the water.
Occasionally they drew their hands through the water. Their progress was slow, but they continued their pursuit with an unspoken determination. The acrid smoke of the fire, a smell that Balor had once thought benign and comfortable, now assaulted their senses. Soon they could breathe only shallowly through their mouths in a futile attempt to avoid the penetrating smell. Each breath seemed to burn his lungs, and his eyes were often closed for long minutes.
A cool wind began to whip across the water, striking their exposed dry faces like a soft caress. Balor wished they could just drift, close their eyes and drift, but right now the wind was just another hindrance to paddle against. The banks began to rise above them, with soft rolling mounds of earth, covered by feathery tufts of grass. Balor fought the oncoming urge to sleep, to crawl onto that warm carpet of grass and move no more.
Through watery eyes he looked beside him at the battered form of Kalese. Her long dark hair was singed, and curled from the heat, her face and arms smudged from the flying ash and charcoal. Balor noticed with an unwanted and hidden revulsion that her feet were blistered and swollen. But the swampgirl made no complaint, the expression on her stoic face did not change or twist from the pain, nor did she moan or cry out when Balor accidentally touched the infected soles of her raw feet. Balor marveled at her persistence, and vowed to endure the pain as long as she did.
So they went on, crippled and exhausted, only because there seemed to be nothing else they could do. Balor thought his mission a failure. He had heard nothing of Kenlahar since the Companions had been separated in the swamp. He feared that his friend was lost, or captive, or dead. The Warlord would not have dared act otherwise. Of all the original Companions, he thought, he alone had survived. But Balor still had one goal as long as he still lived. He would kill Toraq, he pledged, or never return to the House of Lahar.
They moved upstream steadily, even in the sluggish flow of Shallowspill. Then, to their dismay, Balor and Kalese began to notice that the level of the river was dropping—inexorably—in depth, every few minutes. The rhythmic reduction of water finally emptied the shallow river. At last, as their raft encountered more and more obstacles, they were forced to scramble up the banks. Hastily, they filled their water bottles from the rapidly drying stream.
On foot they continued to follow the path of the Warlord’s horde. The two thirsty trackers soon began to come across small oases in
the flat grassland. Tall trees, filled colorfully with dying leaves, surrounded cool springs of water. But they found each of the springs poisoned, littered with the bodies of small animals. Kalese shook her head in puzzlement. Why would the Sorcerer King make the only water available undrinkable? she asked Balor. It made no sense to him either, especially when they began to come across the bodies of Qreq warriors, dried and shriveled in the glaring winter sun.
Around the last well they sighted a band of Qreq. The warriors were fighting among themselves under the small, sparse trees. The two travelers stood back and watched the battle in amazement until there were only a few, exhausted Qreq survivors. As these tired victors stooped to drink from the little trickle of water, Balor and Kalese crept up on the unsuspecting warriors. Engrossed in the spoils of their bloody fight, the Qreq did not watch behind them—what need?
It would have been impossible to creep up on the Qreq if they had been on watch. The dense growth around the little tepid pool of water was thick and bounded on three sides by an impossible barrier of thorns. The pool was a small remnant of the rainy season, and would soon dry up. But the life in and around it clung desperately to its sustenance. The surface was still, broken only by small insects skittering from on floating bits of slime and moss to another. Normally no one would have drunk from it, but now it was the only water in a waterless land, in a dry season. The Qreq guards were slain easily by the two furious, thirsty Companions.
Again, Balor and Kalese filled their water bags, and in their turn poisoned this spring. Balor did not recognize the figure reflected in the pools. It was a gaunt face; a body no longer stocky and muscular. His blond hair hung around his neck in a tangled mat. His clothes were in tatters. As they went on after the trail of the Qreq, the dead seemed to multiply on the trail of trampled earth. Many of the bodies had already been devoured by scavengers, some dragged far from the bed of Shallowspill. But the trackers saw that the Warlord still followed its course, perhaps hoping vainly that it would begin flowing again. The two Companions tied strips of cloth across their faces to block out the noisome smell of the decaying bodies.
Soon the two knew from the freshness of the dead, that they were at last nearing the Qreq horde. They dropped to the cracked mud of the riverbed, and began to creep toward the undisguised noise and lights of the Qreq army. They watched the procession, waiting for a chance to rush the Warlord’s guard. Balor and Kalese only wished at that moment to get as near to the Sorcerer King as they could before they were sighted and killed. Neither had any hope that they would succeed.
CHAPTER XVI
Kenlahar woke up as if from a very bad dream. It was dark—neither of the Sistern moons had yet risen, and the Bantling would not rise at all that night. The torn clothes left from the House of Lahar provided little material for a bandage, but Kenlahar ripped up the last of his green scout cloak, under his new coat, and pressed it hard as the pain would allow against the arrow wound in his shoulder. Taking out the flask of Cormat’s blood he poured it sloppily onto the grimy bandage and tied it firmly. He shook the jug, and found that it was over half empty.
Suddenly, he heard footsteps going right by the heavy undergrowth he had crawled into before he had collapsed. As the footfalls stopped only feet away, Kenlahar tried to control his breathing and his urge to run.
“We could search for years around here and never find anything,’’ he heard a rough, alcohol-ravaged voice whisper. With a start, Kenlahar recognized the voice of the man who had shot at him from the bank of the stream at Herald’s Manor. “Remember that Gartort boy? He disappeared in the mountains and they never did find him.”
“Him and many others,” another voice answered. This voice was smooth as honey, and it seemed to Kenlahar that he caught a hint of teasing in its tone.
“He was just the last of them. Apparently you haven’t heard about those others.”
There was a silence and Kenlahar imagined them looking furtively around them. “I may be new around here,” the rough voice said. “But I’ve already learned a few things that the Queen’s soldiers might want to hear. Like how some of the local troops never came back from patrols.” There was a dramatic pause as the heavy voice hammed up his knowledge—or was he trying to hint at something to the other man? “Some of them never came back though they had the best local scouts- like you!”
The other man didn’t say anything at first; then under his breath he said, “You should learn to keep what you know to yourself, son.” Kenlahar could tell that the term “son” was not one of good will.
The hard voice came back subdued, but only for a moment. “You know everything around here, old man.” Now the term “old man” seemed full of scorn and menace. “Tell me, what reward is there in staying quiet?” The hint of blackmail was back in the voice.
“Let me tell you something, son” There was the sound of what Kenlahar imagined to be two men squatting on the ground, and a creaking groan from one of them. The man he assumed was the older cleared his throat. “They say that this band of outlaws you hear about are not outlaws at all. The nobles of Kernback may dismiss them a brigands, and hunt them down like animals, but the Mountain Tribes are one of the Five Peoples of Lahar, and, though they do not know it yet themselves, the most dangerous. They do not accept the domination of the Queen. Because they rebel against Her authority, they are called outlaws.”
“Well, why doesn’t the Queen’s Guard clean them up?”
“Why, son, what I told you is only rumor! To send Her armies would be to admit that they exist. It is also a rumor that those who go up to the mountains never go back—and that includes soldiers.”
“Give me a few troops and I would take care of them!”
“You would need more than a few soldiers. Whistler and his gang have more than ten thousand men and they know these mountains like you know your own home. They probably have their eyes on us right now.”
The rough threatening voice was a little uneasy. “How come you know so much, old man? You know, I bet there is a big reward for one of those outlaws!” The menacing voice had finally made his threat known.
“You shouldn’t ask so many questions, son,” the smooth voice said, dismissing the other man in his tone. There was a silence, then a quick rustle of steel on leather. Then there came noise of what sounded to Kenlahar uncomfortably like flowing water. Kenlahar felt himself about to pass out again, but just before he did he heard, “I told you that those who go to the mountains don’t go back! You should have listened to the rumors, son.” There was the sound of soft, unmelodic, whistling that faded, then disappeared. It was the last thing Kenlahar heard before his awareness slipped away.
When he awoke once again it was morning. Immediately and instinctively, he put his hand down to his wound and felt the dried blood. He had stopped bleeding and his fever was gone. He wondered if he had dreamed what he’d heard the night before. His mind seemed to be working clearly again—the pain seemed to make him more aware. But he distrusted the feeling. It was not difficult to know that he needed water most, and, after that, food.
When he tried to remove the bandage, he found it caked to his skin. He feared that if he persisted, the wound would start bleeding again. His attention turned entirely to his thirst. His mouth was dry and he had an idea that he needed a great deal of moisture after losing that much blood. His mind continued to build up reasons why he needed water, even as the overpowering urge got him to his feet and started him in the only direction of which he was capable—back downhill.
He had only gone a few steps before he stumbled on the body of a man. So he had not been delirious the night before! He looked about him expecting to see brigands surrounding him. Running from the body in horror, his caution was forgotten. He staggered and rolled and collapsed again and again, amazed that he was not being injured by the constant falling. But his thirst overwhelmed any scratches and bruises he might be getting. It was forested country, with outcroppings of rocks that he maneuvered around wildly. Looking
back down the mountain, he was surprised at the distance he had traveled the day before. Now the same instinct for survival propelled him downhill.
Kenlahar knew the creek was there before he actually heard it. A few short days before he would not have believed that he would smell water, but the scent of it now was strong. The stream was at the bottom of a steep gorge. A small glacier filled the little valley. The water of the creek had carved graceful bows in the snow, the red sunset shone through its rare arches. This time though, the beauty of the mountains was lost on him.
He contemplated the steep slope, knowing that he would have to climb down it soon or he never would manage it. Then he heard off to his left a trickle of water. Within seconds, his mouth was underneath the small waterfall. It was only a choking fit that caused him to quit drinking.
Later, he was able to concentrate on what he should do next. His mission had been a failure. He could not return to the House of Lahar without help, nor did he know the fate of Balor and Sanra. But before he started thinking of long-range plans, he told himself, he had best dwell on his immediate needs. The water was a real find. It would keep him alive for a few days, if he didn’t freeze first. But he would not last very long without food. He reached over to the comforting water a few inches from his head and took another long drink, but already another need had replaced his thirst. The water could not fill his empty stomach.
Then he heard the familiar sound of somebody whistling a tuneless melody. Whoever it was, was coming downhill on the same trail Kenlahar had made going down! Kenlahar hesitated, then making more noise then he wished, crawled under another patch of dry bushes.
This time he got a look at the man. The stranger was dressed in a material that Kenlahar guessed was made from one of the local animals. On his belt was a knife and a row of pouches. His knee-high boots were of the same tanned leather. He walked easily down the same slope that Kenlahar had stumbled down earlier, and though he was not a small man, he had a small man’s economy of movement. Kenlahar was startled to see that except for a mane of white hair, the man looked no older than middle-aged.
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