by Andre Norton
“Ahhhhh!” Now the head had swiveled about, the eyes tried to catch the swordsman’s. The other hand came into view, the sleeve falling back and away. It clawed with fingers that were nearer to long-nailed talons, swooped at Milo’s face, his eyes—
Between him and that awful gaze swept Afreeta. The pseudo-dragon snapped at the descending hand with a faster movement than Milo could have made. A gash appeared in the flesh, dark blood followed the line of it.
The arm Milo still held jerked and fought against him. It was as if he strove to imprison something as strong as a north-forged sword governed by a relentless will. Afreeta dove again at the other hand. For the first time the druid flinched. Not from the swordsman, but from the pseudo-dragon’s attack. It was as if his will now locked on his other and smaller opponent.
In Milo’s grasp the right arm went limp, so suddenly he near lost his own balance. His hands slid down the arm which was no longer crooked against the body but hung straight, sleeve-hidden hand pointing to the gravel. From that hand fell an object.
Milo set his foot on what the druid had dropped. That it was the other’s weapon he had no doubt at all.
“Milo, let go!”
Just in time he caught the berserker’s cry and loosed his hold. There was a kind of dark shimmer, so close that he felt the terrible chill in the air which must have been born from it. Afreeta shrieked and tumbled, to catch her foreclaws in Milo’s cloak and cling to him. He stumbled back.
Where the druid and his horse had been there was, for one long moment, a patch of utter darkness, deeper than any a lightless dungeon or a moonless night could show—then nothing.
Naile splashed back across the river. Afreeta, gathering herself together, flew straight for him. Milo, recovering his senses, had gone down on one knee and was examining the ground. Had the druid pulled with him into that black nothingness what he had dropped? Or was it still to be found?
“What’s to do?” The berserker loomed over Milo.
“He dropped something—here.” Milo’s hand darted forward at the sight of something black, dark enough in the gravel to be easily seen when he looked closely enough. Then caution intervened. He did not touch it. Who knew what power of evil magic (for it had been plainly meant to be used against them) was caught up in this thing.
The force of his foot pressure had driven it deep into the sand and fine gravel. Now he grabbed at a fragment of driftwood nearby and gingerly began to clear it. Two sweeps of the stick were enough.
It was a carving, perhaps as long as his palm had width. The thing was wrought as a stylized representation of a creature that was not demonic as far as he could judge, and yet held in it much of menace. There was a slender body, a long neck and a head no larger—almost the likeness of a snake which was more mammalian than reptile. The thing’s jaws gaped as wide as could Afreeta’s upon need, and small needlelike teeth appeared set within them. The eyes were mere dots, but the whole carving carried a suggestion of ferocity and fury.
“The urghaunt!” Naile’s voice had lost some of its grunt. “So that was what that son of a thousand demons would bring upon us.”
His axe swung down, slicing the carved thing into two pieces. As he broke it so, a puff of evil stench arose to make Milo cough. That carving had been hollow, holding within it rotting corruption.
Once again the axe fell, this time flatside, so that the two pieces broke into a scatter of black splinters, shifting down into the sand, lost except for a shred or two in the gravel.
“What is it?” Milo got to his feet. He felt unclean since first that stench had entered his nostrils. Though he drew deep breaths, he could not seem to clear his nose of its assault.
“One of Carlvols’s toys.” Though he had made a complete wreckage of the carving, Naile now stamped hard upon the ground where it had lain as if to hide the very last of the splinters forever.
“You knew him—”
“Well,” growled the berserker. “When I was with the Mage Wogan we marched against the Pinnacle of the Toad. That was,” he hesitated as if trying to recall something out of the past, “some time ago. Time does not hold steady in my mind any more. This Carlvols was not of the Fellowship of the Toad. In fact he had reason to fear them, since he had poached on their territory. He came crawling to Wogan and offered his services. His services—mind you—to an adept! Like a lacefly offering to keep company with a fire wasp!” Naile grinned sourly.
“He had not pledged himself to Chaos, but he would have to save his own dirty skin. We all knew it. We also knew what he had in his mind—the Toad Kind had their secrets and he wanted a chance to steal a few. Wogan ordered him out of our camp and he went like a hound well beaten. He dared not stand up against one so far above him in learning.
“We took the Pinnacle—that was a tricky business. Wogan saw what lay within it destroyed—giving Chaos one less stronghold in the north. What Carlvols may have scrabbled out of the ruins. . . . Anyway, this is beast magic. He summoned, or was summoning, death on four legs with that thing.”
Milo was already on the back trail. They had found and somehow, between them, confounded the druid. But what if he had joined the two Yevele held. That fear sent the swordsman plunging along, no longer cautiously but running openly. He heard the pound of Naile’s feet behind him. The berserker must have been struck by the same thought.
They came around a slight curve in the river to see the two prisoners still frozen on their mounts. Yevele leaned against a tall rock, her eyes fast upon the men. There was a bared sword, not a spell hoop, now in her hand. Milo thudded on. He needed only to note the tenseness of her body to realize that the spell must be about to fade.
Breathing fast he came up to the right of the mounted men, while Naile moved in from the left. Would Carlvols suddenly also wink into view, even as he had vanished, to add to the odds?
One of the frozen mounts bobbed his head and whinnied. Milo, just as he had sprung for the druid, caught at Helagret. Exerting strength, he pulled the man from his horse, dumping him to the ground, his sword out, to point at the beast tamer’s throat in threat. He heard a second crashing thump and knew that Naile was dealing similarly with the other.
Helagret’s eyes were still afire with the fury they had shown when he was ensorceled. Now, however, his mouth writhed into a sly parody of a smile and he made no move.
Yevele came to them, her own sword ready. “The other one?” she asked.
“For the nonce gone,” Milo replied shortly. “Now, fellow, give me one reason why I should not blood this point.”
Helagret’s smile grew a fraction wider. “Because you cannot kill without cause, swordsman. And I have yet to give you cause.”
“You’ve tracked us—”
“Yes,” the other admitted promptly. “But for no harm. Do you smell aught of the dark forces about me or Knyshaw here? We were bound to the service of him who follows us—or did follow us. Mind bonds were laid upon us. Since mine, at least, seem to have vanished, perhaps he is tired of this play. Look at me, swordsman. My weapons are not bared. I was pressed into service since I know somewhat of this country. Knyshaw has other talents. Not magic, of course, that was only the learning of the druid.”
Milo backed a step or two. “Throw your weapon,” he ordered. “Throw it yonder!”
Helagret obeyed promptly enough, sitting up to do so. But Yevele was at his back, her steel near scratching his neck as he moved.
A moment later the weapon of Naile’s captive also clattered out on the gravel. In spite of the cruel strength one could read in his face he apparently was willing enough to prove his helplessness.
“Why do you follow us?” Milo demanded.
The beast tamer shrugged. “Ask no such question of me. As I told you, I know something of this land. When I refused to be recruited as guide by that shave pate, he laid a journey spell on me. Already he had Kynshaw bound to him in the same manner. But he did not share with either of us the reason for our journey. We were to be used
; we were no comrades of his.”
Plausible enough and, Milo was sure, at least half a lie. The glare faded from Helagret’s eyes. It was plain he was putting much effort into his attempt to establish innocence.
“A likely story,” snorted Naile. “It will be easy to ring the truth out of you—”
“Not,” Yevele spoke for the first time, “if they are indeed geas bound.”
Naile peered at her from under the edge of his heavy helm.
“An excuse, battlemaid, which can cover many lies.”
“Yet—” she was beginning when, out of the brush behind them, arose a neighing that held in it stark and mindless terror. The two mounts of their captives shrilled in answer, wheeled and pounded in a mad stampede across the river, running wildly as the neighs from the woods rose in a terrible crescendo of sound.
Helagret’s face twisted in a terror almost as great as that of the animal.
“Give me my sword!” he demanded in a voice that rose like a matching shriek. “For the sake of the Lords of Law, give me my sword!”
Naile’s head swung around. He grunted loudly and then his body itself changed. Axe fell to the ground, helm and mail imprisoned, for a moment only, another form. Then distinct in sight, a huge boar, near equalling in height the heavy horse Naile had earlier ridden, stood pawing the gravel, shaking its head from side to side, the red eyes holding now nothing of the human in them, only a devouring rage and hate.
Milo jumped toward the woods. From the frenzied screaming of their horses, he knew whatever menace came was a threat of death. The horses must be saved. To be set afoot in this country could mean death.
He had not quite reached the line of twisted trees when the first of the attackers burst into the open. It was plainly an animal, near eight feet long, four-footed. Body, neck, and head were nearly of the same size. The black thing that he and Naile had destroyed was here in the flesh far worse than even that nasty carving had suggested.
The creature reared up on stumpy hindlegs, its head darting back and forth as might that of a snake. The were-boar charged as the thing opened a mouth that extended near the full length of its head and showed greenish fangs.
Milo caught up his shield. His patchy memory did not recognize this creature. He was dimly aware that Yevele moved in beside him, her steel as ready as his own. Their two captives had to be forgotten as a second serpentlike length of dull fur slithered out to front them.
The things were quick, and, whether or no they had any intelligence, it was plain that they were killing machines. As the were-boar charged, the first flung itself forward in a blur of movement almost too quick for the eye to register. But the boar was as fast. It avoided that spring by a quick dart to the left. One of its great tusks opened a gash along a stumpy foreleg.
Then there was no watching of that duel, for the second creature leaped, leaving the ground entirely, and landed in a shower of sand and gravel, its head shooting out toward Milo and the girl.
The thud of its strike against his shield nearly sent Milo off his feet. He choked at its fetid odor.
“Horrrue!” The battle cry of the women clans cut across the hissing of the creature. Milo thrust at that weaving head. He scored a cut across its neck, but only, he knew, by chance. He saw that Yevele was lashing out at its feet and legs as it spun and darted. The swordsman strove to land a second blow on the neck, but the thing moved so fast he dared not try, for anything now but the bigger target of the body. Then there came a warning cry. He looked around just as a third black head pushed through the thicket to his right.
“Back to back!” he managed to gasp out. Yevele, who had shouted that warning, leaped to join him. So standing they each faced one of the nightmare furies.
8
Black Death Defied
MILO SMASHED HIS SHIELD INTO THE GAPING, LONG-FANGED mask of beast fury, at the same time thrusting with his sword. Then, out of nowhere Afreeta spiraled, darting at the bleeding head as she had when harassing the druid. The urghaunt drew back on its haunches, its head swung up to watch the pseudo-dragon for an instant. Milo took advantage of that slight second or two of distraction, as he had during their struggle with the master of these things. He launched a full-armed swing at the creature’s column of neck.
The steel bit, sheared halfway through flesh and bone. With a shriek the urghaunt, paying no attention to its fearful wound, launched itself again at Milo. Though the swordsman brought up his shield swiftly, the force of its body striking against his bore him back. He felt Yevele stumble as his weight slammed against her. Claws raked around the edge of the shield, caught and tore the mail covering his sword arm, pierced the leather shirt beneath, bit into his flesh with a hot agony.
But he did not lose grip of his sword. Nor had the fury of that attack wiped away the practiced tactics his body seemed to know better than his mind. Milo thrust the shield once more against that half-severed head, with strength enough to rock the creature.
In spite of pain, which at this moment seemed hardly a real part of him, he brought up his sword, cutting down at the narrow skull. The steel jarred against bone but did not stop at that barrier. He was a little amazed in one part of his mind at his success as the besmeared steel cut deeper.
Despite wounds that would have finished any beast Milo knew, the urghaunt was near to charging again. Now the swordsman’s hand was slippery with blood until he feared the hilt would turn in his grip. Shield up, and down, he beat at the maimed head with crushing blows.
The body twisted. Broken-headed, blind, the thing still fought to reach him. It might not be dead but it was nearly out of the fight. Milo swung around. It had taken his full strength to play out that encounter—strength that until this very moment he had never realized he possessed. Yevele—weaponwise as she was—how could she fare?
To his surprise the battlemaid stood looking down at a second heaving body. Implanted in its elongated throat was her sword. One forepaw had been severed. From the stump sputtered dark blood to puddle in the gravel. Milo drew a deep breath of wonder. That they had won—almost he could not believe that. The raw fury radiated still by the dying creatures struck against him, as if they could still use fang and claw. He heard a heavy grunting and glanced beyond. The giant boar, its sides showing at least two blood-welling slits made by claws, nosed a pile of ripped skin.
The urghaunt Yevele had downed snapped viciously as the battlemaid cooly drew her steel free of its body. She avoided a small lunge, which sent the blood pumping faster from the wounds, and used the edge of her weapon, striking full upon the narrow head with two quick blows.
But even then the thing did not die. Nor was Milo’s own opponent finished. Only the torn body the were-boar had shredded lay still. The boar trotted to the water’s edge. For the first time Milo remembered their captives.
Neither man was in sight, and their weapons were gone from where they had thrown them. He swung around to look into the fringe of trees. The crossbow had vanished, still strapped to the saddle of the horse that had fled, so they need not fear any silent bolt out of cover to cut them down.
“Ware!” Milo turned swiftly at that warning.
Naile Fangtooth, not the boar, stood there once more, his axe in his hand. But his warning had been needed. The mangled thing Milo had thought in the throes of death—which should have been dead—was gathering its body for another spring. Axe ready, upraised, the berserker advanced a couple of strides. His weapon rose and fell twice, shearing both heads from the bodies.
As the last flew a foot or so away from the fury of that blow, Naile gave an exclamation and one hand went to his side, while Milo was aware that his sword arm now burned as if a portion of it had been held in the flames of an open fire.
“Marked you, too?” The berserker gazed at Milo’s mittened hand. Blood showed in a rusty rim about the edge of that mitten. “These beasts,” he kicked the head he had just parted from the body away from him, “may have some poison in them. So they are gone, eh?”
/> He had apparently noted the absence of their prisoners also. Yevele answered him. “To be set afoot here is no fate I would wish on any—even of Chaos.”
Milo remembered the screaming of their own hidden horses which had alerted them to the attack. The three might now be faced by an ambush in the net of trees, but it would be well to find their mounts and ride.
Afreeta had been dipping and wheeling out over the water, her hissing sounding like self-congratulation at her own part in their battle. Now she came to Naile. He winced again as he raised his fist for her to perch upon, holding her near the level of his eyes. Though Milo caught no rumble of voice from the berserker he was sure the other was in communication with his small companion.
The pseudo-dragon launched from his fist, whirled upward in a spiral, and then shot off under the trees.
“If those skulking cowards plan to play some game,” Naile remarked, “Afreeta will let us know. But let us now make sure that we are not also afoot.”
Milo wiped his sword on a bush and sheathed it with his left hand. It hurt to stoop and pick up his battered shield on which most of the painted symbols had now been scratched and defaced. The fire in his arm did not abate, and he found that his fingers were numb. He worked his right hand into the front of his belt to keep the arm as immobile as he could, for the slightest movement made the flame-pain worse.
Grimly he set his thought on something else, using a trick he had learned when he had marched with the Adepts of Nem, that pain could be set aside by a man concentrating on other things. How much they could depend upon the pseudo-dragon’s scouting he was not sure. But Naile’s complete confidence, and what he himself had seen this day when she had flown with intelligence and shrewdness to aid in their battles, was reassuring.
They cut through the trees to where they had left their mounts, only to face what Milo had feared from the first moment he had heard those screams. A sick taste rose in his mouth as he saw the mangled bodies. The urghaunts had not lingered at killing, but the mauling of unfortunate horses had been coldly complete. Not even their gear could be sorted out of that mess.