by Andre Norton
The Herald’s would-be assailant was still moving about where Avalon had last disappeared, ramming the cross-pole into bushes, crying out in a high voice words Nick could not translate. His attitude was one of rage fed by bafflement.
At a second hail from behind Nick, he finally stopped beating the bushes and came toward the American in a lopsided gait that still let him cover the ground with speed.
His dress, Nick saw, as he came to a stop, leaning on the pole of his cross, was that of a monk. And the eyes in his grimy face were the burning ones of a fanatic.
“Up!” Pain in Nick’s back. The American got to his feet, raging both at the man behind him and at himself for being so blind as to be so easily captured.
The monk thrust his face close to Nick’s. His breath was foul and the rank odor of his body and ancient clothing was enough to sicken the captive. The fierce eyes swept up and down Nick.
“Demon!” He raised the cross and Nick thought it was about to thud home on his skull. He ducked and was rewarded by a cuff on the side of his head that sent him sprawling to his knees, his head ringing, half-dazed.
They gabbled over him, his captor and the monk. Hands caught and held him, one twisted in his hair so that he could not move his head. Again the cross loomed over him. And this time it was lowered so that its tip bit painfully into the skin on his forehead. The monk held it so for a long moment and then snatched it away, bending close to Nick to survey the result of that contact.
He grunted as if displeased, then gave some order to the other. Nick was pulled to his feet, his hands twisted behind him and secured there by a cord, which cut into his flesh. Then his hitherto-unseen captor came around to face the monk.
Though in build he was much like Stroud, he was far removed otherwise from the Warden in appearance. His face was largely covered with a greasy mat of beard, which climbed so high on his cheekbones that it was nearly entangled with brows as full and shaggy. On his head was a metal helmet, dented, rust streaked, which sprouted a piece to hide his nose. The rest of his clothing was in keeping, rusty mail over leather so old and filthy that it was near black. His slightly bowed legs were covered with tight-fitting but hole-filled hose, and boots that were close to complete disintegration.
But he was armed. A sword was belted on, and a dagger nearly as long as Nick’s forearm balanced that. Over his shoulder arose the curve of a crossbow. He had drawn the dagger and leered at Nick as he set it with the point aimed at the American’s throat.
The monk shook his head with the jerky violence that characterized all his movements and spat some order. The other grinned, his mouth a broken-toothed gap in that noisome brush of beard. Seizing Nick by his shoulder, he gave him a shove after the monk who hobbled on, his cross-pole upheld as if it were both a banner and a threat.
That he had fallen into the hands of a drifter band was plain. Nick, shaken by his own folly in allowing himself to be caught, could not yet think straight. He doubted more strongly every minute that these people could in any way be appealed to as fellow refugees. The soldier, if soldier were his occupation, who kept him going with bruising slaps and punches, exuded such brutality as Nick had never before encountered. And the monk’s attitude was, to his mind, no better.
They came into an open space by a small stream to meet the rest of this company. There were three more of the soldiers, as like his original captor as if they were all brothers. But the authority was not theirs. Rather it seemed divided between the monk and another who sat with her back against a rock. She was tearing at a piece of half-cooked meat from a supply speared on sticks and set to roast at the edge of a fire.
Grease glistened on her chin, dripped to the front of the laced bodice of her gown where it joined and reinforced the stiffened evidence of many other such meals. Her skin was gray with ancient grime, her hair braids lusterless with neglect. But her features were those which, had she been clean and well cared for, might have made her a beauty even in Nick’s world. And her foully used dress was patterned with what once had been fine embroidery, just as her girdle and the rings she wore on each finger and thumb were bejeweled. There was a gold circlet on her head with a setting of a dull blue gem above her forehead. She was like some princess out of a fairy-book illustration completely degraded.
At the sight of Nick she threw away the bone she gnawed. Sitting up straighter, she pointed to him imperiously and uttered some command he could not understand. Yet there were word sounds in it that were familiar. When he did not answer, his captor cuffed him again.
But the monk waved the soldier away, voiced a furious objection. The vicious amusement that had come into the woman’s face at her underling’s correction of their prisoner dulled with disappointment. She shrugged and gestured. One of the other men hastened to uproot another spit of meat and take it to her.
However, the monk planted himself directly before Nick and spoke slowly, spacing a breath between each word. It was all incomprehensible and Nick shook his head. Now his captor advanced again. He addressed the monk with grudging respect, then he turned to Nick.
“Who—you?” The accent was very guttural but the question made sense.
“Nicholas Shaw—and you are?”
The soldier grinned evilly. “Not matter. You demon spawn.” He spat. “We keep—demons see—They give us sword—we give you sword!”
Now the monk broke into speech again, plainly demanding some response from the soldier. The woman, licking her fingers, interrupted. At her words the four soldiers laughed heartily. But the monk whirled to face her, waving his pole. She continued to smile but remained silent under his spate of speech. However, the soldiers stopped laughing.
Nick was jerked over to a convenient tree, his back planted against its trunk and a length of twisted hide rope used to anchor him securely. The monk surveyed the operation with approval and satisfaction. Then Nick was left to his own devices and his thoughts, while the rest tramped back to squat by the fire and eat.
The smell of the meat made him hungry. The stew Linda had given him now seemed very far in the past. But he was even more thirsty than hungry, and to see the ripple of water beyond was an aggravation that increased as the afternoon passed.
It would seem that this party was in no haste to travel on. One of the soldiers (or, Nick decided, they might better be termed “men-at-arms” since their shabby trappings were certainly more akin to that time labeled “Middle Ages” than his own) went behind a screen of bushes to return leading a heavy-footed, uncurried horse, its ribs too plain beneath its hide, and a mule with one lop ear. These he guided down to the water and let drink, before herding them back into the bushes again.
The monk stretched out on the ground well away from the fire as the heat of the afternoon increased. His hands were crossed on his breast, under them the pole of his strange weapon. The men-at-arms, drawing away from their betters, did the same, though they took turns on guard, prowling in and out of the bushes.
Having finished her meal, the woman wiped her hands on a tuft of grass, the first gesture toward cleanliness Nick had seen her make. She went to the brook, drank from her cupped hands, wiped them this time on her skirt. She stood, eyeing the sleeping monk and the soldiers. Then she gave a quick glance at Nick before returning to her rock-backed seat.
But she did not settle to rest. Instead she lounged at ease, playing with one of her long braids, humming. Now and again she glanced at Nick meaningfully, as he was fully aware.
As he had felt the brutality of the men-at-arms, the raw fanaticism of the monk, so the evil that was in her was like a scent, rank and horrible. Nick’s reaction to this party he could not understand. Never before had he had such an aversion to any person or persons, the sensation that he knew their feelings. It was like his comprehension that Jeremiah could understand him, a heightened power of which he had never before been aware. And this added to his fear.
That he was in a very bad situation there was no denying. They would slit his throat with ease and
needed no urging to it. In fact he would swear the woman would relish it. He could gather only one idea—that he was to be kept as a bargaining point with those they called “demons.” And since the monk had screamed that at the Herald, it was the People with whom they intended to bargain, to so threaten by their usage of Nick. The thought was freezing. For what would the People care if he were murdered here? He had refused the Herald’s offer—or at least delayed answer to it—so he was no concern of Avalon’s. The terms had been made plain to him: Avalon defended its own, the rest could meet the fate they had chosen.
Now Nick wished he had answered differently. It seemed to him that the Vicar’s talk of changing, of the wrongness of that choice, was as nothing compared to being in these hands. Yet—there was in him a stubbornness of which he was aware—he would not be forced to a choice he did not freely give.
This whole venture had begun because he had wanted to get away, to be himself without outside pressures, without interference. Yet he had met with nothing but that. He had been swung by duty into guiding Linda. After their meeting with the English party they had to conform to their type of existence, simply because he was not informed enough to take risks—
The monk was snoring, but his small snorts were nearly drowned out by the deeper chorus from the men-at-arms. Their comrade on guard duty came into view and the woman beckoned to him, gave an order. He touched his rusty helmet with a forefinger and went off in the direction of the animals. She watched him go, then arose and went to the stream.
Cupping her hands she dipped up as much of the water as she could, and came, swift-footed, with dripping fingers, to Nick.
“Aqua—” She held it out just a little beyond his reach.
Latin! She had spoken Latin!
Her hands moved closer. His thirst was torment now that the water was here. But he did not trust her in the least. He did not believe that she had a sense of compassion. This was a game she wanted to play.
The moisture dripped on his shirt, he could dip his head and drink. But something in him said “no,” and he heeded it.
Her smile pinched into nothingness. She flung what remained into his face. Then she went back to her rock, to return as swiftly with a small whip, its stock tarnished but set with rough-cut stones. Raising it she struck him across the face, the lash as sharp as a knife stab, leaving a hot line of pain behind.
Now she laughed, for in spite of his control Nick had gasped, and stood flicking the lash back and forth, watching him to see if he understood the threat of that. But if she planned other mischief she was again defeated by the monk.
He had sat up, now he gave voice to what could only be a roar of rage. One so vehemently expressed that it brought the men-at-arms awake and their hands to their weapons, pulled their fellow back through the bushes at a run to join them.
The woman stood her ground, waiting for a lull in the monk’s shouts. Then she replied with a matching sharpness. But she left Nick. Apparently the monk’s wishes still ruled. Nick only wished fervently he knew what those were.
As the shadows of evening drew in he thought of the cave. They must have missed him by now, but even if they found his exit they would have no idea of where he had gone. And for their own sakes they would not venture into the open without a guide. He knew he could not hope for any chance of rescue.
He had been trying at intervals to loosen the ties about his wrists. But they were past dealing with. His hands were numb, and the lack of feeling was spreading up his arms. The support of the tree trunk against which he had been lashed kept him upright, but his feet were also numb. And he was not sure he could move with any speed even if he were now, by some miracle, set free.
With the coming of twilight the men-at-arms were busied. They had had one fire during the day. Now they were bringing wood, making a second some distance away. The monk labored with some lengths of dried branches he had chosen with care. He chipped away with his belt knife, used twists of grass in a way to suggest that he had done this many times before, and fashioned some more crosses of wood.
These in hand, he approached the tree and Nick and proceeded to set them in the ground, as if by doing so he erected a barrier about the captive. As he worked he muttered, and Nick thought that he recognized now and then a Latin word. Having set up the crosses the monk methodically paced along that line, touching each with the metal of the one on the pole, chanting aloud as he went. Behind him the others drew together and their voices were raised now and then in response to the ceremony he was performing.
They then lit the second fire, which gave a light that grew as the darkness increased. The horse and the mule were brought out, once more watered, and then tethered between the fires, while their guardian hung about their bony necks cords with bits of broken metal fastened to them. Into the light between the fires moved the whole company. The men-at-arms drew their daggers, kept them in their hands as if they settled in to await a siege. But the monk thrust the pole of his cross into the ground and stood not too far from Nick.
Their whole attitude was one of expectancy, and Nick found himself listening, though for what he could not imagine. From time to time the monk muttered, those between the fires shifted, or showed other signs of fatigue, but they lost none of their vigilance.
Nick became aware slowly of a foulness like the odor that wafted to him from the members of this camp. Only this was not a foulness born of the body, but rather of the spirit. That was another sensation he had never known, yet was able to recognize it for what it was. Just as the farmhouse wherein they had sheltered had been a haven of good, so did that which was closing in now advertise its threatening evil.
And the others must have expected its coming. It was not of Avalon, Nick was as sure of that as if the fact had been shouted aloud.
Dank, heavy, a cloud of corruption— Then Nick heard the rasp of something ponderously heavy moving through the brush—a panting breath.
Those in the firelight raised their hands—the iron they held there visible. While the monk freed his cross-pole from the ground and made ready to use it, as he had tried to club the Herald.
Closer—Nick saw a bush quiver to his left. He turned his head to face what might issue from there. In the midst of the branches was a head. He made himself eye it, though fear battled his control and he shivered.
Gray-white, bestial, twisted—it was obscene, the epitome of every night terror. It leered, showed fangs, was gone. A serpent, or something with a serpent’s body, writhed out from another direction. It had a serpent’s body, but the head was that of a woman. And, as the thing came, it called in a hissing voice words that those in the firelight must have understood, for with a cry of horror and hate one of the men-at-arms plunged forward, aiming at the creature with his knife. It sliced into the body behind the smiling head.
But there was no wound and the man cowered back, with a crowing sound, his knife forgotten, his hands before his eyes, huddling in upon himself, while the serpent woman coiled and reared—until the monk lashed out with his pole and she vanished utterly. That was only the beginning of the siege.
11
There were monsters pacing on all fours, others humanoid in shape. They leered, hissed, spat, called, menaced, only to slip back into the shadows and let others come. So far none of this hideous crew attacked the firelit party. But their very appearance rasped the nerves, kept one tense. And it was plain that the nerves of the party were already badly worn, perhaps by earlier meetings with the same threat.
When something with a goat’s head but very human body, save for a tail and hoofed feet, gamboled into the light, prancing and beckoning to the men-at-arms, one of them threw up his head and howled like a dog. The one who had captured Nick rounded on his fellow and knocked him flat. The man lay whimpering on the ground. Goathead snickered, leaping in the air and clapping his hoofs together.
The monk thrust out with the cross-pole and Goathead uttered a thin scream, staggered back as if in that lay dire threat. But there shot up
in his place another with a human body that glowed with golden radiance, having white wings stirring from the shoulder blades. Mounted on the broad shoulders was the head of an owl. Its left hand lay loosely on the back of a wolf as large as a horse.
“Andras!” The monk appeared to recognize this apparition. “Demon!” Again he struck out with his weapon.
But this time his attack was not so efficient, for the owl beak in the feathered visage uttered a sound. The noise swelled higher and deeper, filling the night, one’s head—Nick flinched from the pain as that cry went on and on.
The agony grew worse, until he was aware of nothing save that. And he must have been close to losing consciousness when he saw, dimly, that those between the fires had dropped their weapons, even the monk his cross-pole. They were holding their hands to their ears, their faces betraying their torment, and they tottered to their feet and staggered forward.
Not to meet the owl-headed one, for he was gone. No, they wavered and stumbled into the bushes, drawn by some force they could not withstand. Men-at-arms; the woman, stumbling in her long, dragging skirt; last of all, the monk, his face a tormented mask wavering out into the haunted dark. Nick felt the force, too, and struggled against his bonds, the cords cutting deep into his flesh as he sought to obey the command of that screech.
He fought desperately. There was no respite from the pain unless he obeyed that summons—he must go! Yet he could not. And at last he slumped, exhausted, only the punishing cords keeping him on his feet.
His captors had disappeared. The bony horse and the dejected mule remained. And both animals were attempting to graze as if nothing had happened. His own head was free of the pain, though he could hear, fading away, that torturing sound.
What would be the fate of those answering it? Nick did not know. But that any would return to free him, or kill him, he did not believe. He was dazed from the assault upon his ears, but he began to realize he was still trapped.