by Bill Fawcett
Cwinyd stood up. “The differences scarcely matter,” he said. “What matters is the clan, as both of you have already said. The season has been spent raiding; there will not be enough food for all. The clan’s safety, from now on, depends on Sleisher’s defeat. Even worse, with help of the king of Ar, Sleisher will be able at last to take his army into the highlands.”
At this, there was silence. For a long time the three said nothing, none looking at the others and none moving at all. Cwinyd’s words had cut through Arklier’s thoughts. He refused to believe everything the magician had said, but something in the sandfur’s voice commanded respect. He wondered briefly if the fall of Cragsclaw was as important to the clan as Cwinyd had said, yet that was something he simply did not know. If Cwinyd was wrong, Arklier could not understand how.
The son of the ClanMrem raised his head and announced, “I agree with Cwinyd. We must join our warriors together, Crethok, and march on Cragsclaw as a united clan.” Looking at his brother, he saw Crethok’s head slowly lift.
Crethok nodded, but he did not speak.
The magician spoke for him. “Let it be known,” he said, “that Crethok and Arklier will lead the clan against Lord Sleisher of Cragsclaw. And let it also be known,” he added, “that the sons of Peorlias have put aside their differences, that if a mrem of the highlands speaks against one, he speaks against the other as well.”
Arklier stood. He had gotten what he wanted, but somehow he felt that something still was very wrong. He wondered if he could trust his brother, but finally resolved that the good of the clan must come first. “Yes,” he said. “Let those things be known.”
Again, Crethok simply nodded.
•
“What’s going on?” Crethok demanded, looking up sharply at the figure who stood before him. “Why did you give him precisely what he wanted?”
The magician sighed. “Partly,” he said, “because you need him. The other part, my friend, is much more complex.”
“And I cannot understand. Is that what you mean?”
Cwinyd nodded. “Yes, Crethok,” he replied. “That is what I mean. If it matters to you, I will tell you that even I scarcely understand. Let us say only that the Lords have decided he must accompany us.” He paused. “They want an attack,” he explained at length, “and they want it to succeed.”
He studied the clansmrem’s eyes and shook his head. “You, Crethok, cannot succeed by yourself.”
Crethok rose to his feet. “You have changed, Cwinyd,” he said. “You say now what you would have denied before.” He looked at the floor. “When you first came to me, you convinced me that I was strong. That I would not need my brother’s help. That I could fight Sleisher and Arklier both at the same time. What has happened, Cwinyd? How have I changed?”
The sandfur put his hand on Crethok’s shoulder. “You have not changed,” he said. “I have.” When the clansmrem did not reply, he said, “I have come to understand much better what the Eastern Lords are after. I know now what I must do to accomplish our ends.”
Filled with disbelief and distrust, Crethok simply looked away. Then he lifted the magician’s hand from his shoulder and let it drop. As soon as he did so he wiped at that shoulder as if scrubbing away a stain. He was far from caring if Cwinyd even noticed.
•
In the night Arklier dreamed. At first the dreams were kind, joyful even, in their memories of his father, but as the night went on they turned from dream to nightmare. The beautiful women of the dreams turned to liskash in the nightmare, their skin suddenly scales as the ClanMrem stroked them gently with his hands. Liskash again stared at him from behind, as he turned to face the horror of an army turned reptile. And finally, in utter terror, he awoke, feeling the crawling of millions of tiny reptiles as they slithered on his skin and tore the veins from his body. When he woke, his teeth were clenched in fear.
But he sat up and took a deep breath, and shaking his head he refused to believe. He had heard once that dreams are like magic, that dreams can work only if they are believed. Magic or dream, the visions of the night demanded that belief, and with sheer force of will Arklier fought them back. When the light of morning appeared he sighed deeply. His skills would be needed, and the sleepless night had left him exhausted.
In that morning, with the wind mercifully still in the cold air high in the mountains, the warriors of the highlands marched sharply down the hillside and eastward along the foothills. Where they went, no mrem doubted. To the east lay Cragsclaw.
•
“Together they will be strong,” said the voice. “Against Cragsclaw, such strength will be needed.”
Cwinyd lay in the darkness, his open eyes staring at nothing at all. He could see nothing, and even if he could he would have recognized nothing he saw. When the voice entered his brain, all his strength went toward listening. Fierce and cold, the voice disarmed him. He knew he must work to keep his guard, for if he did not the power behind that voice would shred his mind.
But the guarding spells took strength, more strength than he thought he had. For almost a month he had found sleep nearly impossible, so that his fatigue was reaching a frightening level. Without sleep he could not replenish himself, and every spell he cast seemed to drain more blood from his body.
He had lost the female. At other times, he would have sought her until he found her, then ravaged her mind and her body until she died in her own terror, then sought out the gods to take her soul into hell. But he had no strength to find her, and the Lords did not give him the time. Sometime soon she would pay for escaping him, he promised himself. It gave him no satisfaction.
When the Lords have made him a king, he kept repeating to himself, but more and more he doubted they would leave it at that. Repeatedly now he wondered about the pact he had made with them. What they had promised was strong, and he would give his being again to gain the supreme power owed him. They had helped when his own power had been insufficient, but at many other times they drained him of whatever strength he possessed. If they did not release him soon, he would almost certainly die. Then they would owe him nothing.
Amid a flaring pain that started between his eyes and spread until he was half-blind, a voice boomed inside Cwynid’s head.
“You will attack Cragsclaw,” the voice demanded, “on the fourth morning following this day. It will not surrender, because you do not have the strength. When the attack fails, you must put the fortress under siege, and wait for the forces of the east.”
“Siege?” Cwinyd said aloud. Then, only with his mind, “We have no resources for a siege. We have too few mrem, and far too few supplies. And it is winter.”
The voice replied, “In winter, the siege will have greater effect. Cragsclaw will receive no food from outside.”
“It doesn’t have to,” the magician shot back. “It has its food already stored. All Sleisher need do is wait until we die.”
The voice answered harshly. “Cragsclaw’s supplies are diminished,” it said. “Two things have occurred. A raider from the grasslands has disrupted the caravan routes, and the winter has arrived early. You have aided both.”
Cwinyd sat up sharply. “Aided both?” he asked aloud. “How?”
But the voice did not answer.
“We will get you back your plaything,” the voice promised suddenly—even, almost amused. “For we have a use for it.” The image of the village girl he had enchanted hovered a few inches before Cwynid’s face.
“Use her? In what way?” the wizard demanded, feeling somehow as if they were taking something from him.
Instead of answering the voice hissed, “You are in our service, furred parasite. Do not forget that. We hold, as always, your being in our hands.” It paused, then added sternly, “Make what plans you need. But be at Cragsclaw on time.” There was a burst of unbearable pain, every hair on the wizard’s neck and tail stood straight out, and then it
was gone. He collapsed in a heap, unable to even crawl to the bed.
As the red haze left behind by the pain cleared, Cwynid knew he would obey. He would be on time.
He had to be.
•
“Sleep, Talwe. Sleep.”
Felior looked at the darkfur, and thought of their recent mating. So intense he had been, so unwilling at first even to touch her, and when he had fallen off her and into sleep she saw tears streaming from his eyes. But she thought she saw, too, the muscles in his forehead at last begin to loosen. As he dropped into sleep, he looked for a moment at peace among the thick pile of sleeping furs.
The band was camped in a series of caves halfway up a mountain. The snow line started just a few paces above the entrance to this cave. A fire burned in the entrance. Outside she could hear Paralan training the new recruits. It promised to be a hard winter, and more and more homeless villagers joined every day, attracted by Talwe’s restraint in dealing with the remaining villages and his growing reputation for repeatedly outwitting Keth Sleisher. She shook her head. Even at peace, Talwe seemed ready to jump up and take command. It was as if his mind never rested or his thoughts gave him no peace.
Talking with him was torture. He would mutter rather than speak, and often he would smile crookedly in an acknowledgement of what she said. Very occasionally he would try to explain himself to her, but no sooner would he start than he would simply narrow his eyes and look toward the east. Then he would snarl, and his claws would start to show.
Once he had mentioned a name, and that name was Morian. But he said nothing about her, only enough to let a cloud pass his eyes and block him from her once more. Never once did he mention Sruss, and Felior wondered at this. She had been told by the Council that the princess had claimed she knew him well.
Somehow, she knew that Sruss had told the truth. Talwe, for whatever reason, had blocked the Dancer from his mind.
Now he slept. And when she looked down at him, she smiled.
•
“Warriors,” Paralan said. “Approaching from the west.”
Felior nodded. “I will tell Talwe,” she said, “as soon as he awakens.”
Starting, Paralan said, “Awakens? We don’t have time to wait for him to wake up.” He stared into her eyes. “These are warriors,” he said, “and they will not be friendly. We need orders, and we need them now.”
“How far away are they?” she asked.
“Not far. They will arrive before morning.”
She nodded. “How many?”
“We’re not certain,” came the reply. “We don’t even know whom they belong to, Cragsclaw or the highlands. Our lookouts are finding out now.”
“Then I’ll wait,” she said, “until we know.”
Paralan felt himself growing angry. “We don’t have time to wait,” he repeated harshly. “We have to get ready.”
“Then get them ready,” Felior shot back. “Talwe has not slept for days. He is asleep now. I will not wake him.”
Paralan felt his eyes burning, but he knew he could do nothing. He stared hard at the young enchantress, wondering if she had cast a spell on their leader. But then he turned away and began organizing the mrem. They had to be ready to either fight or flee. He would have to deal with this female soon. Not yet, though. After the darkfur wakened, he would tell him of her refusal. Until then, he would take her advice. For the first time, he alone would ready the warriors.
SARKARIEN LED well, but Sruss did not like him.
For one thing, he marched his soldiers much too slowly. Cragsclaw lay many miles from Ar, and time was short. Sruss followed the army wondering if they would ever arrive.
For another, he had none of Talwe’s fire. Not that she had really expected it of him, but after spending so much time traveling with the darkfur she was finding adjustment difficult. Exasperating though the grasslander had been, he had also been unpredictable, filled with an intensity she could barely understand. Even before they had discovered Morian’s fate, that intensity had been there; Cwinyd’s crime had merely magnified it. Now, suddenly, there was Sarkarien, and Sruss could scarcely believe his sheer lack of concern.
This wasn’t fair, of course. Sarkarien was concerned. He simply didn’t show it. But Sruss had grown impatient, and the army’s every stop grated on her nerves. Why, she wondered silently, couldn’t they just keep marching?
Lastly, she despised Sarkarien’s treatment of her and Morian. From the outset he had made clear his displeasure at their company, and as each day passed he transformed that displeasure into a combination of disgust and indifference. Often she had tried to engage him in conversation, but he would draw himself away from her after only a short exchange. Wanting nothing more than reassurance that they were moving on Cragsclaw as quickly as possible, she found his aloofness infuriating.
To make matters worse, aloofness had also overtaken Morian. Since that night in front of Ar, when the two women had wept together to free Morian’s soul, an impossible bond had linked them. Linked them, that is, until they had left Ar with Sarkarien’s army. The moment that happened, Morian had drawn away. By day she walked silently, sullenly, keeping her place as if marching in her sleep. By night, and this was worse, she wept continually. No sobs came from her, but three times Sruss had awakened and watched the tears flow from her eyes.
Between Sarkarien’s indifference and Morian’s new depression, Sruss’ stomach constantly rebelled. Unable to sleep, and almost unable to eat, she felt hopeless and sick. Something, she knew, would have to be done soon.
The sun descended on a cold world that night, and as Sruss watched her tent being pitched she knew no fire would keep her warm. To her left she saw Sarkarien ordering his scouts to move to the north and east, and to her right she saw Morian make her slow way toward the tent. All around her the army cast themselves down around the fires that lighted the darkness, and she could tell from their movements that they were unmistakably tired. Why was it, she wondered, that she felt no fatigue at all?
For several minutes she sat outside the tent, drawing her cloak around her. Closer to the fire she edged, until finally she could feel its heat against her face. A soldier turned and looked at her, but when he smiled she simply turned her head. Welcome though she would be, she had no desire to become one of their number.
Suddenly she heard Morian’s voice. Soft and melodic, it came from inside the tent. Sruss glanced around to see if anyone else had noticed it, and when she saw they hadn’t she rose and headed away from the fire. By the time she reached the tent, the voice had turned from sighs to tears.
She opened the flap. Before her, lying on the ground, Morian slept fitfully. Her head rolled, and her hands wandered her body. She was fully dressed, yet she moaned with her touch.
Sruss watched, enchanted and appalled. All through their stay in Ar, Morian had shown no signs of relapse, but suddenly her aloofness on the grasslands came clear. As they went further and further from Ar, and drew closer and closer to Cragsclaw, the lingering effects of Cwinyd’s macabre spell began to make themselves known. Whether or not Cwinyd himself knew it, Morian was once again his.
And this time Morian’s pleasure was great.
Sruss strode over and shook her. “Wake up,” she ordered, but it did little good. Morian half-opened her eyes for a time, then closed them and moaned even louder. Again Sruss shook her, and again Morian simply slipped back further. Finally the Dancer slapped the grasslander’s face, and with a piercing hiss Morian bared her teeth and aimed claws at the whitefur’s face.
Rolling back, Sruss jumped and landed on all fours. Morian was on her in an instant, her claws raking the Dancer’s back even through the thickness of the cloak. A high-pitched shriek escaped Sruss’s mouth, as with a jerk she rolled away once more. She started to rise, but as she took a step she felt Morian’s body tackle her from behind. With a grunt she hit the ground, her head and s
houlders now outside the tent, and when she looked up she saw Sarkarien standing above her.
Again she felt the grasslander’s claws, this time slicing the muscles of her calves. Kicking and hissing, she tried to break free, but Morian’s grip seemed to strengthen with each blow. At last she felt Morian’s teeth in her leg, and with the force of the bite she began to scream.
Sarkarien leaped into the tent. In an instant Sruss felt the pressure leave her legs, and she pulled them out of the tent. They bled from the calves, and were numb with cold and with pain, and she pulled them to her and began to massage them with her hands. But then she heard the sounds of fighting from inside the tent, and trying to forget the pain she crawled back inside.
What she saw she would not soon forget. Sarkarien lay in the middle of the floor, his legs twitching and his arms beating down on the ground. On top of him knelt Morian, her hands pressed hard against the soldier’s throat. Her legs useless, Sruss pulled herself toward the scene, and with a cry of pain she flung her arm out toward Morian’s leg.
Her claws pierced flesh, and the leg snapped away. Lunging forward, Sruss caught the woman’s right arm and held it with all her strength. At long last Morian’s arm loosened its grip from Sarkarien’s throat, and in that instant the Dancer braced herself and pulled as hard as she could. The grasslander plummeted down at her side, and Sruss clubbed her hard on the side of the head. With a whimper, Morian passed into unconsciousness.
Sruss rose to her knees and crawled to Sarkarien. He lay still, his face covered with blood. Wiping his body clean with his cloak, Sruss saw the wound she knew could not heal. Morian’s claws had ripped his throat, and the Dancer understood that what blood pumped now would not pump long. Already he was unconscious; in minutes he would die.