The gully, little more than a weedy depression carved in the ground, opened before them, and Quentin slid down the side to lay panting on his back when they reached it. His head ached and dark shapes, like the wings of ravens, swarmed before his eyes.
“Listen,” Toli said. He crawled to the rim of the gully to look back toward the wagons. “I think they may have discovered our escape. Someone is moving around the wagon. We must move on quickly.”
He lifted Quentin to his feet and, crouching as low as could be managed, they staggered off again.
Quentin concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other and staying upright; Toli bore the responsibility for keeping them moving. It was all Quentin could do not to cry out with pain when his shoulder was jostled.
“There are trees up ahead. If we can reach them, perhaps we can rest again.”
As Toli spoke they heard a shout behind them and the rattle of armed men running. “They know!” cried Toli pulling them forward.
The trees loomed up as a black mass hurled against a black sky. The moon had set long ago; Toli had chosen this, the darkest hour of the night, for their escape. Twice Quentin stumbled and fell full-length to the ground, and Toli could not prevent it. Each time Quentin gamely hauled himself back to his feet, though the agony blinded him.
Somehow they reached the trees. Toli propped Quentin up beside a fallen trunk and left him there holding his arm with his good hand. Though the night was cool Quentin swam in his own sweat and tasted its salty tang on his lips. He fought to remain conscious when he saw the black wings fluttering closer. He felt as if he did not have a single bone that had not been wrenched out of joint. Toli was back beside him in an instant. “They are looking for us. They know you have escaped. They have not yet turned toward the trees, but it is only a matter of time. They will find the gully, and they will follow it as we have. We cannot stop here.”
Quentin gasped and nodded. His temples pulsed with the pain as it twisted deeper and deeper into him. He could feel his strength slipping away. With Toli beside him he started off again, blindly; for between the sweat running in his eyes and the darkness of the wood he could see nothing.
There were torches wavering over the landscape now. The soldiers were searching for them in knots of three or more, spreading out over the land. Soon Quentin could hear their voices echoing behind them as they dodged and floundered through the trees. Once he thought he saw the flare of a torch off to his right moving even with them. The voices of their pursuers, excited by the chase, sounded closer.
“I have a horse waiting-” Toli said. “Down there.” Quentin realized dimly that they were standing at the top of a low bluff whose slope was clothed in brambles. Before he could speak Toli had them plunging down the slope and into the thickets heedless of the barbs tearing at their flesh.
Quentin fought his way through and, with Toli ever at his side, had almost reached the bottom when his foot struck against a root and he was flung headlong down the slope. He landed hard, unable to break his fall with his hands, and heard a sickening snap as he felt something give way in his injured shoulder. Daggers of pain stabbed into the wound. A startled scream tore from his throat before he could stifle it.
Toli darted past him, and Quentin felt a rush of movement just in front of him and realized he had landed almost underneath the horse Toli had somehow acquired and hidden for their escape.
Then he felt Toli’s strong hands jerking him once more to his feet. He was pushed into the saddle to hang like a sack of barley, head on one side and feet on the other. Toli was instantly behind him, holding him on with one hand and snapping the reins with the other.
The horse jumped away, and Quentin saw the earth spin aside in a jumble of confused shapes: branches, rocks, sky and ground. He saw a light and then another. He heard a shout close at hand and an answer not far away. His teeth ground against each other as he clung helplessly to the saddle.
Now the shouts of the enemy were all around. A dark shape rushed at them from out of the brush. Toli slashed down at it with the reins. Suddenly the copse was ablaze with torches. Toli jerked the reins hard and turned the horse toward the slope, but it was too steep for the frightened animal The horse struggled, slid, pawed the air and then fell back, legs pumping furiously.
Quentin was flung to the ground and Toli on top of him. In an instant they were ringed in by soldiers and seized. Quentin saw the flash of a torch and the awful scowl of a face leering over him; then black hands grabbed him and began dragging him away. He heard a voice shouting in desperation and realized it was his own. But he could not make out the words.
He jerked his head around to see what had become of Toli, but could only see the swinging torches behind him. How bright the flaming brands are, he thought. It hurt his eyes to look at them. Run, get away! another voice told him, this one inside his head. Yes, he must escape. If only they would release him, he would run and run and not stop running until he was far away.
Where were they taking him? he wondered. What would happen to him? The questions framed themselves in his mind, but no answers came. Very well, it did not matter. Nothing mattered anymore. He had ceased to feel anything at all. Numb with pain, he was transported into a hallucinatory vision.
There was a rush of black wings and suddenly he was soaring, falling, tumbling, floating high above the earth. Quentin looked down and saw a strange procession of torchbearers marching through a wooded dell. They carried with them the bodies of two unfortunates. Who could they be? Quentin was sorry for them.
Sadly, be turned his eyes away and saw the dark edge of the night sweeping toward him.
It was as if a silken veil had passed before his eyes removing all from view. He let it touch him and enfold him in its dark embrace. Quentin felt the last fine threads of strength and will leave him and he knew no more.
SEVENTEEN
THE CANDLES burned low in their tall holders; several had sputtered out and the inner chamber of the Elders smelled of hot beeswax and tallow. The Elders sat stonelike, each one hunched over, head bowed and hands clasped. All was silent, but for the rhythmic sigh of their breathing.
The night had drawn full measure, and still they sat. Waiting. Listening. Searching within themselves for an answer to Yeseph’s dream-a most disturbing dream.
Then at last the waiting was over, for Clemore raised his hands and began to sing. “Peran nim Panrai, rigelle des onus Whist Orren. Entona blesori amatill kor des yoel belforas.” He sang in the ancient tongue of the Ariga. “King of Kings, whose name is Most High, your servant praises your name forever.”
The three others slowly raised their heads and looked at Clemore. His eyes were closed and his hands raised to either side of his face.
“Speak, Elder Clemore. Tell us what has been revealed to you,” Patur said quietly. The others nodded and leaned back in their high-backed wooden chain; the vigil was over.
Clemore, eyes still closed, began to speak. “The river is Truth and the water Peace,” he said. “And the river runs through the land giving life to all who seek it, for Truth is life.
“But the storm of war descends, and its evil defiles the water. Truth is poisoned by the lie and is choked off. When Truth perishes and Peace dries up, the land dies. And the gales of war blow over the land filling the sky with clouds of death, which is the dust. Then darkness-Evil-covers all, blotting out the light of Good.
“The child who cries out in the darkness is a Child of the Light who has lost his father, the ways of righteousness. His father’s sword is the knowledge of the Truth, which has been destroyed.
“But there are some left who do not go down to death and darkness, who still remember the River and the Water and the Living Land. They are the man who weeps. The tears are the prayers of the Holy who mourn the coming of Evil.
“The prayers are poured out and become a Sword of Light which is Faith. The Sword flashes against the darkness of Evil because it is alive with the Spirit of the Most High. The Sword is to b
e given to the Child, but alas! the Child has been overcome by the Night and is carried off.”
When Clemore had finished his retelling of the dream they all spoke at once, joining in agreement with the interpretation. Yeseph’s voice rang above the others. “Brothers! We must not forget that dreams may have several meanings and all of them true. I do not doubt that the interpretation we have just heard is truly of the Most High. But I am troubled by one thing.”
“What is that?” asked Jollen. He opened his hand toward Yeseph, inviting him to speak freely. “It was your dream, after all”
“I feel as if there were some more present danger yet unspoken.”
“Certainly the dream is dire enough, Yeseph,” said Patur.
“And its interpretation is clear warning,” added Clemore.
“Yes, a warning of something to come,” said Yeseph slowly, “but also a reflection of something even now taking place.”
“Well said, Yeseph. I think so, too.” Jollen reached across and touched his arm. “The interpretation was given to us that we might be ready for what is to come. The dream was given to us that we might know there is peril even now upon us.”
Clemore nodded gravely, and Patur pulled on his gray beard.
“What does your heart tell you, Yeseph? What are we to do?” asked the latter.
“I hardly know, Patur. But I feel a great torment in my spirit. It has grown through the night as we have sat here.” He glanced at the others. “I feel that we must even now pray for the Child of Light whom we have sent out from among us.”
“Who is that, Yeseph?” asked Clemore.
“Quentin.”
“Quentin? But he is in Askelon.”
“Quentin, yes. And Toli, too. They are in desperate need; I feel it.
“Then it may be,” replied Jollen, "that our prayers are needed at this moment if the dream is to have an ending.” He turned to the others. “I, too, am troubled about Yeseph’s dream. It does not suggest an end, which means that the end is still in doubt. Therefore, we must unite our spirits, and those of our people, to bring about the ending which the Most High will show us.”
“Your thoughts are mine,” said Yeseph.
“Then let us not waste another moment. Our prayers must begin at once.” Jollen raised his hands and closed his eyes. The others followed his example.
In moments the temple chamber was filled with the murmur of the Elder’s prayers ascending to the throne of Whist Orren. Outside the temple the silvery light of dawn was tinting the gray curtain of night in the east
Dawn brought with it a sullen chill. The horizon showed an angry red, dull and brooding, though the sky seemed clear enough overhead. The wind had changed with the coming of morning; Toli had noted it as he lay bound beside his master. Quentin hardly breathed at all. He clung to life with a tenuous grasp. Several times before dawn Toli had had to place his ear against Quentin’s chest to see if he still lived.
In the camp the soldiers were busy making ready for their day’s march. Toli, whose eyes missed nothing, had a presentiment that he and Quentin would not be making the trip with them, for he had seen a group of soldiers readying ropes and harness, and the three guards who now stood over them laughed and pointed at them. Toli knew that the means of their execution was being prepared.
The cooking fires sent white smoke drifting through the camp. The guard was changed on the prisoners, so those who had watched through the night could be fed. When all the soldiers had eaten and were ready to march, reckoned Toli, they would be assembled to view the execution as an entertainment, something to dwell on as they marched that day.
Toli spent his last moments of life praying for his master, who could not pray for himself.
He was roused with a sharp kick to his back. The blow rolled him over, and Toli looked up into the hate-filled face of a giant who held a battle-axe with a head blade as wide as a man’s waist.
The giant, whose face was seamed with criss-crossing scars, pointed at the captives and growled. The guards seized them and dragged them out into the meadow where the army had camped, pushing through the mass of thronging soldiers who formed a solid wall around some object which held their attention.
Toli and Quentin were pushed through the assembled host and thrown down at the edge of a wide ring formed by the shields of the soldiers. In the center of the ring stood two horses, one facing east and the other west. Between the horses lay a tangle of ropes and two heavy yokelike objects. At the farther side of the ring stood the warlord’s black steed tossing his head and jerking the arm of the soldier holding his bridle.
As Toli watched, a ripple coursed through the ranks at the edge of the ring, and a wide avenue opened through which came a man wearing a breastplate of bronze and a helmet of bronze which had two great plumes like wings affixed to its crest. A cloak was clasped at one shoulder, beneath which protruded the thin blade of his cruelly curved sword. Toli had no doubt that he was seeing the warlord.
The warlord approached his courser and paused momentarily while two of his men dashed forward and flung themselves at his feet. One lay prostrate and the other crouched next to him on hands and knees. The warlord proceeded to climb to his saddle upon the bodies of his men. He then raised his hand in signal.
Toli swallowed hard, inwardly shuddering. He cast one last look at Quentin, unconscious on the ground beside him. “Stay asleep, Kenta,” he whispered to himself, “and fear nothing. I will go before you.”
But it was not to be. Two soldiers came forward at the warlord’s signal; one carried a gourd full of water. They rolled Quentin over on his back none too gently; a moan escaped his lips. Toli struggled against his bond and was struck on the head by a guard behind him
The soldier with the gourd knelt over Quentin and placed the vessel against his nose and poured.
“You will drown him!” shouted Toli, receiving another blow on the head for his trouble. He lunged at the soldier and was kicked in the ribs.
Quentin coughed violently and choked. Water spouted from his mouth and nostrils, and he awoke sputtering. His eyelids flickered, and he turned cloudy eyes upon Toli who now knelt over him. “My friend…” Quentin gasped, “I am sorry.”
Quentin seemed to know what was about to happen.
Both prisoners were jerked to their feet; Quentin was made to stand supported between two scowling soldiers, one of whom grasped a handful of hair in order to keep the captive’s head erect.
The warlord gave a second signal, and there was a sudden scuffle behind the two captives. A third prisoner was flung forward into the ring. He was a soldier, bound hand and foot as Quentin and Toli were. “One of the sentries of last night,” whispered Toli. He guessed the warlord would make him the first victim.
The man’s face was gray, he trembled all over. Sweat soaked his hair and ran down his face-a hideous mass of ugly purple welts, for the man had already received a sound beating. The luckless trooper was quickly wrenched to his feet by two other guards who then stripped him naked, cutting away his clothing with their knives. The soldiers looking on laughed.
The unfortunate was marched to the center of the ring, where the giant with the broadaxe waited between the two horses. He was pushed down to the ground where he writhed in anguish as his arms and legs were securely tied to the heavy wooden yokes. Then, upon signal, the two horses, harnessed to the yokes, were led slowly away in opposite directions.
The ropes pulled taut. The giant stepped into place over his prey. The victim was lifted off the ground to hang in agony while his body stretched by slow degrees. The horses leaned into harness and the man screamed terribly. The awful popping sound of joints and ligaments giving way seemed to fill the ring. As the victim screamed his last, the giant, quick as lightning, spun the broadaxe in a flashing circle about his head and with one hand brought the blade down with a mighty stroke.
The jolt of the blow almost felled the horses, who stumbled to their knees as the ropes suddenly went slack. The poor wretch was he
wn neatly in half as the host wildly clamored their approval, rattling their weapons and cheering.
Toli glanced fearfully at Quentin, who stared emptily at the horrible spectacle; though his master’s eyes were open, Toli could not tell if they saw what had been played out before them. His look was vague and faraway.
The warlord ordered the corpse to be removed from the yokes and then led his steed across the ring to where Toli and Quentin waited. Toli gritted his teeth and stared stubbornly ahead. The warlord glared down at his prisoners for a moment. He spoke something in an unintelligible tongue. Toli raised his eyes, snapping with defiance, and for a brief instant their gazes met. The warlord grasped his reins and struck down at Toli and slashed him across the face-once, twice, three times.
Blood spurted from a gash over his eye and ran down his face. The warlord barked at him and shot a quick glance at Quentin, who still seemed not to know what was happening around him. Then the warrior chief swung his mount around and trotted back to the center of the ring.
He looked slowly around the entire circle of faces in his army and then spat out a short speech to them which, from the somber mood which suddenly fell upon the host, Toli guessed to be on the order of an official reprimand. When he finished the warlord nodded and soldiers began readjusting the yokes and harness. Toli believed the moment to be his last. He closed his eyes and sent aloft a prayer for strength and dignity in his moment of trial.
Across the ring a blast of a horn sounded. Toli opened his eyes to the far hills and trees, intent that his last memory should not be of his executioner or the grotesque corpse lying in two pieces beside the wicked blade. He felt a twinge of regret that he would not be able to comfort his master in his last moment, nor even say his leave as a man would, but he doubted whether Quentin would know or understand anyway.
The soldiers on either side of him tightened their grasp, and suddenly he was being dragged forward. His heart raced madly in his chest, and his vision suddenly became remarkably acute. He saw every blade of grass under his feet, and every leaf on every branch of nearby trees stood out in breathtaking clarity.
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