by Dave Duncan
"'Fraid not. You've changed! Quite a lot."
Vaslar was shorter, wider, older. Her eyes were darker, her hair longer. Previously she had been large, so that her claim of being really a man had seemed not totally baseless. Now she looked quite motherly. She was fingering a prominent mole on her lip.
"Not for the better," the Awailscath sighed. "I will never be myself again."
"Have you talked with Jasbur about this?"
Vaslar twisted her pudgy face in disgust and turned away.
"Or Ordur?" Gwin said. "Wait! No, you won't ever be your old self again, but you have the chance to be a thousand other people. Life won't ever be boring, as long as you can accept your fate. Take it as a challenge and make of it what you can."
Vaslar stood in silence for a moment, and then turned to look at her indignantly. "Courage, you mean? You're saying I lack courage?"
"Do you?"
"I never did when I was a man."
"Then use it! No life is worth anything without courage."
"Mm. Thank you! What you say makes good sense." Vaslar squared her shoulders, although they were not very suitable for squaring.
Niad sniveled and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. Bulion came striding over, his face thunderous. He was another who needed comforting. He was never going to forgive himself if Polion had come to harm. Other men drifted toward the gathering group, abandoning the fruitless search. Among them Gwin noticed Wraxal Raddaith, who must have come from the Jaulscath camp to find out what the tumult was all about.
The blond young man was apparently Ordur. He, too, had changed dramatically, even since the previous day. He was glancing alertly around the group as if summing it up; catching her eye, he nodded a respectful greeting and grinned appealingly at her reaction. Jasbur would be pleased, Gwin decided.
"Quiet!" Bulion roared, although hardly anyone was even whispering. "Get ready to strike camp. If Ulpion and Zanion don't find anything, we're going to leave."
Niad wailed.
He glowered at her. "You think I want to desert him any more than you do? But he's obviously been carried off by someone. If he's not dead already, he's being held hostage. We can't search the whole of north Wesnar. We daren't split up. We're going to turn around and head for home. Perhaps that will be taken as a goodwill gesture by whoever has—"
"It's more likely to be suicide, you big oaf!"
Everyone stared in stunned silence at the dumpy matron who had spoken.
Bulion glowered, his beard bristling. "Who the fates are you? And where did you come from?"
"I'm Vaslar Nomith, you rot-brained hayseed!"
"Oh? Oh! And what do you know about it, woman?"
"It's quite obvious. The people who took your grandson are the same people who emptied the farms and villages."
"And I suppose you know who those people are?"
"Of course I do!" The Awailscath planted chubby fists on her hips and stuck out her flabby jaw. "People don't leave their homes voluntarily. Even star sickness would not drive everyone away—a few stubborn souls would stay. The sick would die and leave corpses. The absence of any sign of violence shows that the force available was irresistible; the people had no choice. It could only have been the Wesnarian army, that's who! If it was the Mokthian army, there would have been refugees and we'd have heard news of the invasion."
It made sense to Gwin.
Bulion's obvious fury suggested that it made sense to him too. "Why didn't you say all this yesterday?"
She flashed pretty white teeth at him. "Because you didn't ask me! I'm not a soldier any more, I'm just a foolish woman, so nobody wants my opinions."
Bulion uttered a bull bellow and gazed around to find Wraxal, the other soldier of the group. "Do you agree with this?"
The Muolscath had not yet had time to shave, but he was neatly dressed in the same green smock and breeches in which Gwin had first seen him. Now they had a well-used look, and much of the dye had washed out. He considered the question with his customary air of tolerant boredom. "Certainly. The Wesnarian army has cleared the countryside of eyewitnesses."
"Eyewitnesses? Eyewitnesses to what?"
"To whatever they're planning, which is probably an attack on Daling or Mokth. This land isn't called the Cockpit for nothing. There may be ten thousand men mustering on the far side of that hill."
"And you worked this out yesterday too?"
"I didn't have to work it out. It was obvious."
Bulion tore off his hat and hurled it on the ground. "You're not a woman! So what's your excuse for not telling us, you accursed human statue?"
"Logic and self-preservation," Wraxal said calmly. "Wesnar does not want word of its activities getting out. We come blundering in but are not molested, so it may be that the Wesnarians have no objection to witnesses heading toward Nurz. Had we turned around and gone back, we might have provoked retaliation. It was safest just to proceed. As that was what you decided to do, there was no need for me to comment."
"And Polion?"
"Has been interrogated and is probably dead."
Niad howled. Gwin squeezed her. Men muttered oaths.
"He is," said a new voice.
Gwin did not scream or cry out, but she was almost the only one who did not. A newcomer stood in the trees at the edge of the camp, only a few feet away. His face was hidden by a skull mask, his body was that of an athlete in his prime, wrapped in a strip of leopard skin. He held a tall leather shield, roughly oval but pointed at top and bottom and bearing an emblem of five white skulls. He had apparently materialized out of the air.
"Stop!" Bulion roared, throwing up his arms. All the other men had reached for their swords—but the newcomer had already drawn his, in one brief flash of light on steel.
"Idiots!" Bulion bellowed. "He can take at least four of us before you touch him. Put them away!"
Wraxal had managed to draw; he sheathed his blade. Most of the Tharns had barely started. They released the hilts reluctantly.
"Wise of you," said the stranger quietly. As slickly as a man might bite a grape, he shot his own sword back into a scabbard hidden by his shield. "I was counting on six."
"Monster!" screamed a woman's voice. "You butchered our wounded!" Vaslar Nomith rushed forward, hands raised like claws, heading for the newcomer. "You killed my brothers! Inhuman, verminous—"
With surprising agility, Bulion scooped an arm around her as she went by him. He hurled her backward. Wosion and Zanion caught her and held her. She struggled vainly and then burst into tears.
"Wise again," said the stranger.
Gwin squirmed with sudden horror—the mask was not a mask, and the hole where there should be a nose was a hole. His hair was bleached white and slicked back. Only the ears spoiled the illusion of a skull—but a warrior would need good ears. Had such a monster slain Carp?
The nearer Tharns edged back from apparition. Bulion pushed his way out of the group and walked forward to inspect the visitor at close range. Gwin thought she would not have done that for any money.
"I am Bulion Tharn. You remind me much of my father."
"Rank and sect?"
"Deathleader in the Hearteaters."
That inhuman parody of a face could never show emotion, but some slight movement of the head seemed to indicate surprise.
"I am Frenzkion Zorg, Dreadlord of the Faceless. The boy Polion?"
"My grandson."
"As custom requires, I return these." Keeping the dark eyehole cavities steadily directed at Bulion, the warrior produced a black cloth bag, which he must have been holding in his left hand. He tipped it. Clothes and a pair of boots fell to the grass. "I am proud to tell you that he died with honor."
Niad wailed and buried her face in Gwin's neck. Bulion closed his eyes for a moment, almost as if he were praying.
"Jaul retrograde in the House of Lovers—oaths to enemies." That grating voice had to be Wosion's.
The eyes within the dark blotches flickered in his dir
ection. "Muol in Bones: terror from skulls." The warrior's voice was quieter, almost soft, but it had a curiously flat timbre. Such a man would rarely need to shout.
Bulion opened his eyes and glared. "Did he do this of his own free will?"
"That question I will not answer," the dreadlord said angrily. "And you should know better than to ask it!"
Bulion's shoulders sagged. "He is a fighter," he muttered.
The skull showed its teeth. "Of course. Hear your orders: you will bypass Veriow. You will head west—"
"We want to go home."
"You will do as instructed. Go south of Mount Traphz and cross over to Raragash by High Pass."
Bulion straightened stubbornly, but he looked haggard and aged beside the deadly warrior. The rising sun threw a cruel light on his silver beard and the fringe around his bald pate. "If I refuse?"
The warrior rapped twice on his shield. Another just like him emerged from the trees at his back, although Gwin would have sworn that those spindly trunks would not have concealed a squirrel. He held a spear, the kilt of fur around him had not come from a leopard, and there were only three skulls painted on his shield. Apart from their trappings and a few scars, the two men looked identical.
"Fearmaster Zilion will escort you," the dreadlord said harshly. "He has orders to punish disobedience with death."
Bulion sighed. "You are true Zarda!"
"How would a farmer know? Which one is Ordur?"
The onlookers had been standing in frozen trance. Now the fair-haired man strode forward. He seemed more intrigued than intimidated.
Zorg pulled a small scroll from his belt and handed it over. Ordur walked away, unrolling it. For a moment all eyes were on him...
Silent as shadows, the two Zarda had gone.
"Curse of Poul!" Bulion muttered, and wiped his forehead with a hairy arm.
"I saw the Faceless fight at Tolamin," Wraxal said. "After five minutes or so, I knew the war was lost. Other Wesnarians are nothing special, but one Faceless is worth ten ordinary men."
"They are not men," Vaslar screamed, "not human. They are brutes. Less than brutes!"
"They are pure fighters. They live to kill. Do not waste your hate on them, Vaslar Saj. The crimes done at Tolamin should be blamed on Hexzion Garab. The war was his idea, and his alone. God will judge him for it."
Bulion came trudging back through the crackling leaves to where Gwin still comforted Niad. He hesitated, then stooped and laid an outsize hand on the girl's shoulder. Speaking very softly, he said: "Polion is not dead."
Niad looked up in disbelief.
"That was a ritual. When a Zardon enrolled in a warrior sect, he was dead to his family and friends. That was why his clothes and belongings were returned to them."
"No!" Niad broke loose from Gwin's arm and jumped up. "Polion wouldn't! He loved—"
"He would have had no choice!" Bulion insisted, still keeping his voice low. "On the face of it, he's at least three years too old, but somehow they knew he had killed a man. That qualifies him!"
Gwin rose also. "And the talk of dying honorably?"
"It is a ritual prophecy. There is no other way for a warrior to die! You heard when I said he was a fighter? The dreadlord said, Of course. Polion is alive!"
"Polion would not do this!" Jukion cried, plunging forward like a distraught bull. "They must have forced him! He will escape! He will—"
His grandfather struck him across the face and said, "Idiot!" through clenched teeth. Jukion reeled back in amazement.
Then the old man raised his voice, shouting so that the whole camp could hear him. "This is wonderful news! Don't you understand? Polion has been accepted into a noble sect of Zarda warriors! He is being true to his Zarda blood. He goes to an honorable death and we are ennobled by it! We mourn our loss and thank the fates for the glory he brings to the whole family."
Blank looks of disbelief faded one by one as understanding came to his listeners. They scanned the surrounding trees uneasily.
Blinking, Bulion gave Niad a hug. Gwin gave him one, sure that he was suffering more than anyone. He had failed one of his chicks.
He stooped to retrieve the hat he had discarded. Thumping the dust off it, he set it squarely on his head. "Saddle up! Grab some food quickly and we will be on our way."
Ordur had finished reading. He strolled through the crowd to Tibal Frainith and passed him the message. Tibal glanced at it and nodded as if recognizing what he must have known he would read. Then he in turn walked over to the fire and dropped the scroll into the flames. Not a word had been spoken. Why had the dreadlord brought a letter to the Cursed? The Tharns scowled suspiciously.
Dragging Niad with her, Gwin intercepted the lanky Shoolscath as he strode toward the horses. He regarded her distrustfully.
"Well?" she demanded. "Can't you give Niad some comfort? You will not change the future if you can just tell her than her husband will return to her!" Surely he could tell a lie or two at a time like this?
Tibal shook his head and walked on.
She wheeled around to look at Ordur, that strangely transformed young man. "Did that letter explain? What can you tell us?"
Ordur grinned. Sunlight blazed on his golden hair. "Just that's it's nice to be back."
41
It was a subdued party of travelers that saddled up and rode out of the copse. Having told Wraxal to follow with the cart and take no nonsense from the horses, Bulion led the way himself with Wosion at his side, heading north. They had not ridden a hundred paces before an ominous, near-naked figure appeared in their path, spear raised in warning. He had stepped out of scrub that it did not seem capable of hiding a starling. He was more sinewy than muscular, perhaps no older than Polion, and his shield bore a single skull emblem.
Thunder shied at the apparition. Bulion wrestled him back under control.
"We're just looping around the wagon!" he shouted. "It has Jaulscaths in it. We want them to follow behind."
The warrior seemed to consider for a moment, then he stepped aside and let the cavalcade pass. When the first few riders swung around to the west, he walked away as if satisfied, and soon disappeared again.
He could not have gone very far, as Wraxal Raddaith discovered when he drove the cart by that spot a few minutes later, with Jojo and the two children. The three Jaulscaths erupted in screams of terror. The Muolscath hastily calmed them—and himself, for he was infected by their fright. Then, in among their puzzled queries, he heard the gruesome thoughts of the killer, contemplating the sport he could have with the cart's occupants if the fearmaster would only give the signal.
Wraxal had met many violent men in his time, but that lust after destruction for its own sake shocked him. He remembered Tolamin, and the friends who had fallen around him before the frenzied assault of the Faceless.
Tolamin? The warrior's thoughts came to him—alien, almost metallic, although part of that sinister amusement came from Wraxal's own calming influence. He could not aim it in any particular direction. He was suppressing the warrior's emotions as well as Jojo's and the children's, and even a Faceless was not immune to a Muolscath. Yet the content of the ideas was unchanged, and the lack of passion made them seem utterly inhuman.
You were in on the fun/exercise/celebration at Tolamin? We danced death and our enemies sang. Happy visions of slaughter and rape and barbarism oozed out like pus from a wound. Wraxal lashed the horses forward and increased his efforts to suppress the horror that threatened to explode again from the passengers. The mind of a Zarda warrior was a landscape of nightmare: pain, cruelty, mutilation.
In a few minutes it faded out of range. Wraxal was astonished to discover that he was shaking and sweating. It was an hour before he could start to relax his hold on his companions' emotions.
#
Gwin rode alongside Niad, keeping a watchful eye on her. Niad had been stripped of all the progress she had made since Polion had come into her life. Her husband had deserted her a week after their mar
riage. Her self-esteem had collapsed; again the fates had cursed her. An unhappy Ivielscath might be a very dangerous companion.
The Tharns were brooding over their loss. The leaders must all be blaming themselves for not setting more guards in the night, although the enemy's uncanny ability to move unseen and unheard would probably have defeated all twenty sets of eyes and ears.
Polion might have been forced into joining the Faceless, or have done so voluntarily. The whole story could be a lie, with him a prisoner or even already dead. Whatever the truth, he was obviously lost to the family. Inevitably they blamed themselves for not appreciating him while he was around. They groaned at the memory of every harsh word ever spoken, and writhed in guilt over the Bad Cove escapade. Jukion was in shock, sitting his horse like a corpse. Bulion was grim and inconsolable. Gwin cursed herself for ever having suggested this disastrous honeymoon.
Real or ritual, Polion's death was the sharpest pain, but not the only one. The travelers were being driven westward like cattle. Tharns were as attached to their home as snails, but now their beloved valley lay on the far side of a hostile army. How or when could they ever return? Yesterday's cheerful adventure had become a journey into exile.
Mostly the riders just rode, staying in the same pairings and talking very little. Soon, though, Gwin noticed that Wosion working his way back down the line, pausing to talk briefly with each couple on the way. Eventually he moved his horse into position alongside Niad's. The trail was barely wide enough for three. No one could tell what lurked now behind hedges, but conversation on the move ought to be safe from the dreadlord's efficient scouts.
"Niad Saj," the pastor said in his rasping voice, "I have spoken with Awailscath Ordur. He will say very little about that letter. He won't say who sent it, or why it was addressed to him. But he assures me that Polion had no choice. He took the oath with a knife at his throat."
Niad sniffed loudly. "Then he will escape! He will find his way home again, or go on to Raragash."
Wosion's eye met Gwin's, asking for her opinion. She thought she knew what was going to come next. She saw no advantage in crushing the girl's faith. She shook her head gently.