by Andre Norton
“Chaos,” Ingrge said, and then qualified that identification. “With something else. It is clouded.”
Naile snorted. “It is of the Dark and it watches,” he returned. “While we walk under a geas! I wish I had that damn wizard’s throat between my two hands, to alter the shape of it—for good! It would be an act of impiety to foul my good skull-splitter”—he touched his axe where it hung at his belt—“with his thin and treacherous blood!”
“We are watched.” Milo did not address that as a question to either elf or berserker. “But will it come to more than watching?” He surveyed the crowd, now not seeking the identity of the foe (for unless the enemy made an overt move he knew his skills could not detect the source of danger) but rather noting those places where they might set their backs to a solid wall and face a rush—should that materialize.
“Not here—or yet.” There was firm confidence in Ingrge’s answer.
Seconds later the berserker grunted an assent to that.
“The sooner that we ride out of this trap of a city,” he added, “the better.” His hand rose and he touched with a gentleness that seemed totally alien to his shaggy and brutal strength the head of the pseudo-dragon. “I do not like cities and this one stinks!”
The elf was already on the move, threading a way through the market crowd. Milo had an odd feeling that the three of them were nearly invisible. No hawker or merchant called them to look at his wares, though those about them were sometimes even seized by the cloak edges and urged to view this or that marvel so cheaply offered that no man could resist.
He would have liked to linger by one display where the seller did not raise his head from his work as they pushed past. Here were dwarf-wrought arms—swords, throwing knives, daggers, a mace or two—one large enough even to fit into Naile’s paw. The owner stood with his back to them, his forge fire glowing so that the heat reached out as his hammer rose and fell in a steady beat upon metal.
If what Hystaspes had said was true (and Milo felt it was), even if he had carried twice as heavy a purse as that which the bracelet had brought him, he could not have spent a single piece at this booth. Those rules, dim and befogged, but still available in part to his memory, told Milo that he was already equipped with all that fate—or the sorcery of this world—would allow him.
“This way.” Just a little past the temptation of the sword-smith’s forge, the elf took a sharp turn to the right. After passing between two more rows of booths (these smaller, less imposing than those they had earlier viewed), they came upon the far side of the market itself where there were no more stalls, rather rope-walled corrals and picket lines and some cages set as a final wall. Here the live merchandise was on view.
Camels, kneeling and complaining (placed by market regulation as far from the horse lines as possible), puffed out their foul breath at passersby. Beyond them was a small flock of oriths, their mighty wings pinned tight up their feathered sides by well-secured restraints. Oriths were hard to handle and must be eternally watched. They just might answer to an elf’s commands but for a man to attempt to ride these winged steeds was folly.
There were hounds, their leashes made fast to stakes driven deeply into the ground. They raised snarling lips as Naile passed, but backed away and whimpered when he looked upon them. A berserker was not their meat for the hunt, their instinct told them that.
Some feline squalled from a cage but kept to the shadows so only a dusky outline of its crouched body could be seen. It was onto the horses that Milo, now in the lead, moved eagerly. He began at once to study the mounts, which ranged from a trained war steed, its front hooves already shod with knife-edged battle shoes, to ponies, whose ungroomed hides were matted with mountain weeds and who rolled their eyes and tried to strike out with their hind feet at anyone reckless enough to approach them unwarily. To tame such as those was a thankless task.
Milo wanted the war horse. It was seldom one of those came into the open marketplace for sale, unless some engagement had left an army or a raiding party so bloated with loot they could afford to cull captured animals. But for such an expedition as faced them now—no, that fighting-trained stallion could not last in a long wilderness or mountain haul. They were not even ridden, except in a battle, their owners having them led instead, while riding a smaller breed until the trumpets sounded.
Resolutely Milo turned from that prize, began eyeing critically the animals on a middle line. Beyond was thick-legged, uncurried farm stock—some already worn out and useless, better put out of their misery by a quick knock on the head. But on the outer line he spotted about a dozen ragged-maned, dark grays. Steppe mounts! What chance had brought those here? They were raider-taken probably, passed along across the more civilized country because they had long-use stamina. They would be considered too light for battle except for irregular calvary and too hard to control for farm service. Add to a careful choice from among them some of the better-tempered of the mountain ponies for packing. . . .
Ingrge had already moved forward toward the very horses Milo had marked down. Elves had the animal speech, he could be communicating with the Steppe mounts.
“Those?” Naile asked. There was a dubious note in his voice and Milo could understand why. In the first place the berserker was the heaviest of their company. There was need for a powerful horse, one used to the weight of a large man, to carry him. Second, allied though such as Naile were, through their own particular magic, to the animal worlds, some horses would not accept a were near them at all—going mad at the scent which no human nose could pick up until the Change—but which seemed always present to animals.
There was swift movement at Naile’s throat. The pseudo-dragon uncoiled with one lithe snap of her slender body. Spreading her nearly transparent wings, she took off before the berserker could reach her with a futile grab, to sail with lazy wing beats through the air toward the horses. She hovered over and between two of the largest. Suddenly, as she had taken to flight, she folded wings again, settling on the back of the mount to the right.
The horse flung up its head with a loud whinny, jerked against the lead rope and turned its head as far as it could, endeavoring to see what had alighted. Then the mount stood still, its wild roll of eye stopped.
Naile laughed. “Afreeta has chosen for me.”
“Your servant, sirs. You would deal?”
Ingrge passed among the horses, slipping his hand lightly over haunch, down shoulder. Those he touched nickered. Milo looked to the speaker.
The man wore leather, with an over-jacket of spotted black and white pony hide. A piece of his long, tousled hair flopped down on his forehead like a ragged forelock, and his teeth showed large and yellowish in a wide grin.
“Prime stock, warriors.” He waved a hand at the horse lines.
“Steppe stock,” Milo answered neutrally. “Trained to a single rider’s call—”
“True enough,” the trader conceded without losing his grin. “Brought them out of Geofp. There was a manhood raid over the border. But the young whelps who tried that had no luck. Forstyn of Narm was doing a little raiding himself along the same general strip. He got some Nomad skins to cover his storage chests and I got the horses. Forstyn heard the old tales, too—’bout a Steppe man and his chosen horse. But you’ve an elf with you. Never heard tell that any one of them couldn’t get into the skulls of anything that flew, crawled, or trotted, always supposing they were both of the Law. And the Nomads—they give lip service to Thera. Not since I heard tell has the Maned Lady ever bowed head to Chaos.”
“How much?” Milo came directly to the point.
“For how many, warrior?”
An old trick of the mountain country, again a memory that was only a part of him, took over Milo’s mind. There were seven of them, a dozen of the Steppe mounts. For two reasons it might be well to buy them all. First, it might possibly confuse that watcher or watchers, whom they all sensed, about the eventual size of their own party, though that, Milo decided, was probably a
very faint hope. Second, once out in the wilderness, the loss of a single horse might mean disaster unless they had a spare, for none of them, even the cleric who wore no armor, could be mounted on a pack pony.
“For the lot,” Ingrge, back from his inspection, returned quietly.
Naile stood to one side, it would seem that they were willing to leave this bargaining to the swordsman.
“Well, now . . .” There was a slyness near open malice in the dealer’s never-ending grin. “These are seasoned stock, good for open country traveling. Also, this is a town where there are a-many who come to outfit a company—”
“Steppe stock,” repeated Milo stolidly. “Are all your buyers then elves—or dwarves, perhaps?”
The trader laughed. “Now you think you got me by the short hairs with that one, warrior? Maybe, just maybe. I say ten gold for each; you won’t find their like this far east. Of course, if you plan to take them west—I’d go south of the Steppes. The Nomads are blood feuding and won’t take kindly to see a kinsman’s mount carrying a stranger.”
“Five pieces,” Milo returned. “You’ve just talked yourself into another ill thought with that warning, trader. The Nomads may have already taken sword oath for the trail. Keep these and they could be willing to hunt the new riders down to meet Thera’s Maidens.”
“Not even sword oaths are going to bring them to Greyhawk, warrior. And I don’t propose to ride west again neither. But you’ve a tongue on you, that’s true. Say eight pieces and I am out of purse in this bargain.”
In the end Milo got the mounts for six. He had a suspicion that he could have beaten that price lower, but the uneasiness that was growing in him (until it was all he could do to not look over one shoulder or the other for that watcher or watchers) weakened his resolve to prolong the bargaining. He also bought five pack ponies, those Ingrge methodically selected, counting upon the elf’s skill to control that wilder, mountain-born stock.
Naile’s Afreeta returned to sit on his shoulder, crouching there alert, her bright beads of eyes missing nothing. Ingrge had indicated his choices and Milo was counting out a mixture of strange coins to equal the price of their purchases, when the elf’s head swung left, his large green eyes set aslant in his narrow face opened wide, his nostrils flared.
There had been other men, among them a dwarf and a cloaked figure, whose species was well concealed by his body covering, drifting or walking with purpose through the animal lines. Neither Ingrge nor Naile had shown any interest in these. Now a man approached them directly, and it was plain he was seeking them in particular.
His clothing was made of supple leather, not unlike that worn by the elf. However, it was not dyed green or dull gray-brown such as became a ranger. Rather it was a shiny, glossy black from the high boots on his feet to a tunic which had a flaring collar standing up so high about the back of his head as to form a dark frame for his weather-browned face. Over those garments (which reminded Milo of the shiny body casing of some great insect and might have been fashioned from such, as far as the swordsman knew) he wore a single splash of vivid color—a sleeveless thigh-length vest, clipped together slightly below the throat with a round metal clasp, and made of short, plushy fur of a bright orange-red. A skull cap of the same fur covered the crown of his head, allowing to escape below its edging oily strands of hair as dark as his jerkin.
There was an odd cast to his features, something that hinted of mixed blood, perhaps of the elven kind. Yet his eyes were not green but dark, and he wore a half-smile as he came up to them with the assurance of one certain of welcome.
Milo glanced at Ingrge. The elf presented his usual impassive countenance. Yet even without the use of any recognition spell, Milo knew (just as he had been able to sense the watchful waiting that had dogged them through the market) that this new-comer did not have elf favor.
The stranger sketched a gesture of peace—his open palm out. He wore weapons—a blade, which was not quite as long as a fighting sword nor short as a dagger, but somewhat between the two, and a throwing axe, both sheathed at his belt. Coiled on his right hip, showing only when his vest swung open a bit, was something else, a long-lashed whip.
“Greetings, warriors.” He spoke with an assurance that matched his open approach. “I am Helagret, one who deals in rare beasts . . .”
He paused as if awaiting introductions from the three in turn. Naile grunted, his big hand had gone up to stroke Afreeta, and there was certainly no welcome in his lowering scowl.
Milo tried to sharpen his sense of uneasiness. Was this their watcher come at last into the open? He glanced at Ingrge. From a fleeting change of expression on the elf’s face, the swordsman knew that this was not the enemy.
The swordsman dropped the last counted piece into the trader’s grimy palm. Then he answered, since it would seem that the others left reply to him.
“Master Helagret, we have no interest in aught here save mounts.”
“True,” the other nodded. “But I have an interest in what your comrade has, swordsman.” He raised his hand, gauntleted in the same glossy leather, to point a forefinger at Afreeta. “I am gathering specimens for my Lord Fon-du-Ling of Faraaz. He would have in his out-garden the rarest of beasts. Already”—now he waved towards the line of cages—“I have managed to find a griff-cat, a prim lizard, even a white sand serpent. Warrior.” Now he addressed Naile directly. “To my Lord, money is nothing. A year ago he found the hidden Temple of Tung and all its once-locked treasures are under his hand. I am empowered to draw upon them to secure any rarity. What say you to a sword of seven spells, a never-fail shield, a necklet of lyra gems such as not even the king of the Great Kingdom can hope to hold, a—”
Naile’s hand swept from cupping Afreeta to the haft of his axe. The pseudo-dragon flickered out of sight within the collar of his boar-skin cape.
“I say, trapper of beasts, shut your mouth, lest you find steel renders it unshutable for all time!” There were red sparks in the berserker’s deep-set eyes. His own lips pulled back, showing fangs that had given him his war name.
Helagret laughed lightly. “Temper your wrath, were-man. I shall not try to wrest your treasure from you. But since this is my mission there lies no great harm in my asking, does there?” His tone was faintly derisive, suggesting that Naile was too closely akin to those bristled and tusked beasts, whose fury he could share, to be treated with on the true human level.
“If you will not deal with me on one matter, warriors, perhaps we can bargain on another. I must transport my animals to Faraaz. Unfortunately, my hired guards indulged too deeply in the wine the Two Harpies is so noted for. They now rest in the Strangers’ Tower where they have been given a period to reflect upon their sin of indulgence. I have cart men, but they are no fighters. If your passage is westward I can pay fighting wages until we reach the castle of my lord. Then he may well be so delighted with what I bring him that he will be even more open-handed.”
He smiled, looking from one to another of them. Milo smiled in return. What game the other might be playing he had no guess, but no one could possibly be as stupid as this beast trainer presented himself. Though Ingrge had passed the sign that this was not their watcher, yet the very way he attempted to force himself upon their company was out of character.
“We do not ride to Faraaz.” Milo tried to make his voice as guilelessly open as the other’s.
Helagret shrugged. “It is a pity, warriors. My lord has had unusual luck in two of his recent quests. It is said that he is preparing for a third. He has been given a certain map—a southward map . . .”
“I wish him luck for the third time then,” Milo returned. “We go our own way, Master Trainer. As for your guards—there are those in plenty here who need fill for their purses and are willing to take sword oath for the road.”
“A pity,” Helagret shook his head. “It is in my mind we might have dealt well together, swordsman. You may discover that pushing away the open hand of Fortune may bring ill in return.”
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“You threaten—beast chaser?” Naile took a step forward.
“Threaten? Why should I threaten? What have you to fear from me?” Helagret moved both his hands wide apart as if displaying that he was not in the least challenging a short-tempered berserker.
“What indeed.” Ingrge spoke for the first time. “Man of Hither Hill.”
For the first time that smile was lost. There was a spark for a second in the dark eyes—quickly gone. Then Helagret nodded as one who has solved a problem.
“I am not ashamed of my blood, elf. Are you of yours?” Yet he did not wait for any answer but turned abruptly and moved away.
Milo felt a faint warmth at his wrist and looked hurriedly to the bracelet. It was glowing a little but none of the dice swung. An exclamation from Naile brought his attention elsewhere. Ingrge held out his hand. There was a bright blaze of color and he was staring hard at the dice which were awhirl for him, using, Milo guessed, every fraction of control he could summon to aid in their spin.
The glow flashed off, yet Ingrge continued for a long moment to watch the dice. Then he raised his head.
“The half-blood did not succeed—in so much is the wizard right.”
“What was it?” Milo was irritated at his own ignorance. It was plain that Ingrge had encountered, or perhaps they had all faced, some unknown danger. But the nature of it—
“He keeps company.” Naile had softened his usual heavy growl to a mutter. From under the shadow of his helm he stared across the length of the market. There the circle of flares and lanterns gave a wavering light—perhaps not enough to betray some lurkers. But the burnished shine of Helagret’s clothing had caught a gleam. He must have retreated very quickly to reach that distance. He stood before another now, who wore a loose robe that was nearly the same color as the drab shadows. Since the hood of the robe was pulled well forward, he was only a half visible form.
“He speaks with a druid,” Ingrge returned. “As to what he tried—he is of the half-blood from the Hither Hills.” The cold note of repudiation in that was plain enough to hear. “He sought to lay upon us a sending—perhaps to bend us to his will. But not even the full-blood can work such alone. There must be a uniting of power. Therefore, this Helagret merely furnished a channel through which some other power was meant to flow. He established eye contact, voice contact—then he struck!”