Fellowship of the Talisman

by Clifford D. Simak

  Christ, he thought, if I could only know one thing for certain. If I could be sure of only one aspect of this tangled mess.

  Wulfert — he was not even sure of him. Regarded by the village where he’d come to live as a holy man, not correcting the error that the villagers had fallen into. Not correcting it because it gave him safety. A wizard who was hiding out. Why should a wizard be hiding out? And, when one came to think of it, how about Diane? She had known that Wulfert was a wizard, had come seeking word of him. But when she gained the word, she had not followed up on it, but had gone flying off. Where was she now? If he could only talk to her, she might be able to explain some of what had been happening.

  The moon by now was well down toward the western horizon, but there was still no hint of morning light. Were they ever going to stop? They’d been laboring through these hills for hours, and there was no indication that they were about to stop. How much distance did they need to put between themselves and the Chapel of the Jesus of the Hills to be safe from the jealous evil that protected it?

  For some time now Nan had desisted from her wailing. They had emerged from the forest to come on one of the occasional clear spots they had found on the summit of some of the hills. The backbone of the hill reared up in a mass of rocky outcrops.

  Looking up, Duncan saw Nan, a black bat of a woman, flying through the sky, outlined by the faintness of the moonlight.

  What little wind there had been had died down, a signal of the coming dawn. A heavy silence reigned over everything. The only sound was the occasional ringing of Daniel’s or Beauty’s iron-shod hoofs as they came in contact with a stone.

  Then, out of the moonlit sky, it came again, the sounds that Duncan had heard the night before: the sound of hoofbeats in the sky, the distant shouts of men, the distant baying of dogs.

  Ahead of him, Conrad came to a halt and he saw that the others had come to a halt as well. Snoopy stood on a small rocky ridge ahead of them and was staring into the sky. Meg sat bolt upright on Beauty and also stared skyward.

  Andrew remained slumped in the saddle, doubled over, fast asleep.

  The shouting became louder, the baying swelled and deepened, and the hoofbeats were like faint thunder rolling down the heavens.

  A shadowy tracery of something came over the treetops to the north, and as he watched, Duncan saw that there was only one horseman riding in the sky, standing straight in the saddle, brandishing a hunting horn and shouting to spur on the dogs that ran ahead of him — vicious, bounding hunting dogs that slavered on the trail of an unseen quarry. The great black horse galloped through the empty air with no ground beneath its pounding hoofs.

  The horse and rider and the dogs swept toward the group standing on the hilltop and passed over them. There was no way to see the features of the man, the horse, or the dogs, for they all were black, like silhouetted shadows moving across the sky. The hoofbeats pounded so hard that they seemed to raise echoes among the hills, and the baying was a torrent of sound that engulfed them as they stood there. The rider raised the horn to his mouth and blew a single blast that seemed to fill the sky, and then the rider and his pack were gone. They disappeared over the southern tree line, and the sound gradually diminished with the distance until nothing could be heard, although it seemed to Duncan that he still heard the ringing of the hoofs long after the sound of them had gone.

  Nan came tumbling out of the sky and landed beside Duncan. She skipped a step or two to gain her balance, stood in front of him, and craned her head upward. She was jigging in excitement.

  “Do you know who that was?” she asked.

  “No I don’t. Do you?”

  “That was the Wild Huntsman,” she screeched. “I saw him once, years ago. In Germany. That was when I was young and before I settled down. The Wild Huntsman and his hounds.”

  Meg had slipped off Beauty and was tottering toward them.

  “He always was in Germany,” she said. “He never was anywhere else. That proves what I’ve been telling you about all these things of evil gathering with the Harriers.”

  “Was he looking for us?” asked Conrad.

  “I doubt it,” said Meg. “He’s not really hunting anyone or anything. He just rides the skies. He whoops and hollers and blows that horn of his and his dogs make such a racket they scare you half to death. But he doesn’t mean anything by it. That’s just the way he is.”

  “Who is he?” Duncan asked.

  “No one knows,” said Nan. “His name has been forgotten. He’s been riding the skies so long there’s no one who remembers.”

  Snoopy came scuttling down from the ridgetop.

  “Let’s get moving,” he said. “It’s just a little farther. We’ll be there by first light.”

  “Where are you taking us?” asked Duncan. “We have a right to know.”

  “I’m taking you to where you should have been all the time. Back to the strand.”

  “But that, or just short of there, is where we ran into enchantment. They’ll be waiting there for us.”

  “Not now,” said Snoopy. “There’s no one there right now. You’ll be safe. They would not think that you would come back.”

  Ghost jiggled in the fading moonlight, just above their heads.

  “That is right,” he said. “All the blessed day not a sign of anyone at all. I’d say the way was clear.”

  “We’ll have to rest,” said Duncan, “before we try the strand. All of us are practically dead upon our feet from loss of sleep.”

  “Andrew’s getting sleep,” said Conrad.

  “He’s the only one of us,” said Duncan. “He’ll pay for it. When we get there he’ll stand guard while the rest of us get some rest.”

  14

  The slimy monster hurled itself out of the swamp, scaly, triangular, horned head, with fringed jaws and darting snakelike tongue, mounted on a barrel-sized snakelike body, towering above him, while he stood thigh-deep in water, the muck of the marsh sucking at his feet, anchoring him so he could not get away, but had to stand and face the monster. He bawled at the monster in anger and revulsion as it hung above him, hissing, dominating him, sure of him, taking its time, not in any hurry, hanging there like a stroke of certain doom while he waited with his toothpick of a sword — good steel, sharp and deadly and well fitted to his fist, but so small a weapon that it seemed unlikely it could inflict more than a scratch upon this scaly monstrosity that eventually would pick its time to strike.

  The swamp was silent except for the hissing of the monster and the slow drip of water from its shining hide. It had a strange unearthliness, as if not entirely of the earth nor quite yet of some other place — a moment and a space poised on some freakish borderline between reality and unreality. Tendrils of trailing fog roiled above the black and stagnant water — black molasses water, too thick to be actual water, but a devilish brew that reeked and stank of foul decay. The trees that grew out of the water were leprous, their gray and scaling trunks bearing the mark of an unknown and loathsome ailment with which the entire world on the other side of the borderline might be afflicted.

  Then the head came crushing down with the body following, arcing and coiling and striking him as if some giant fist had descended on him, brushing aside his sword-arm, buckling his knees, throwing its smooth and muscular loops about his body, enfolding him in its strength, driving the breath out of his lungs, crushing his ribs, dislocating his shoulders, folding him in upon himself and a voice bawling, “Be careful of that dog. Tie him tight, but don’t put a mark upon him. He’s worth more than all of you together. If he be so much as bruised, I’ll hang the man who does it by his thumbs. ”

  There was sand in Duncan’s mouth — sand, not water — and hands that held him, not the great snake body. He struggled, trying to lash out with arms and legs, but the hands held him so tightly that he could accomplish nothing.

  There was a knee thrust into the small of his back and another pressing on his shoulders. His face was pressed hard against the groun
d. His eyes came open and he saw a dead and fallen leaf, with an insect crawling slowly on it, fighting its way across its smooth and slippery surface.

  “Tie that big one tight,” said the bawling voice. And then, “That horse. Watch out. He’ll kick the guts out of you.”

  Somewhere Tiny was growling fiercely, somewhere Daniel was fighting off, or trying to fight off, his captors. And from all around came thumping sounds and the grunts of struggling men.

  Duncan felt heavy cords cutting harshly into his wrists, and then someone jerked him up and flipped him over. He lay on his back and stared up at the sky. At the periphery of his vision he saw the figures of uncouth men looming over him. From somewhere far off came an eerie keening.

  He fought his body erect, pushing with hands lashed behind his back to lever himself upright, till he was sitting flat upon his rump with his bound feet thrust out straight before him.

  A few feet away lay Conrad, trussed up like a Christmas goose, but still struggling to break free.

  “Once I get my hands on you,” Conrad roared at the men who had just stepped away from him, “I’ll rip your livers out.”

  “Friend Conrad,” said one of the men, “I extremely doubt you shall have that chance.”

  There was something about the man that seemed familiar to Duncan, but his head was half turned away and he could not be sure. Then the man shifted slightly and he saw that it was Harold, the Reaver.

  Duncan’s mind struggled to grasp reality. But it was difficult to grasp reality, for the transition had been too swift.

  He had been dreaming — yes, that must be it, he had been dreaming — of confronting a snakelike monster that had lunged out of a swamp, the dream more than likely touched off by the similar monster he had seen emerging from the inky pool in the enchantment swamp. And then, suddenly, he had not been dreaming any longer, but was being caught and tied by this vicious, ragamuffin crew.

  He glanced around him, trying to take in the situation at a glance. Andrew was tied to a small tree, his hands roped against the tree, other ropes about his middle. There was no sign of Meg, although she must be somewhere, and no sign of Daniel either, but the patient little Beauty stood hitched to another tree, a heavy rope looped, halterlike, about her head and neck. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Tiny, his four feet tied together, his jaws held shut by loops of cord pulled tightly about them. Tiny was struggling fiercely, throwing himself about, but there seemed little possibility the dog could fight his way to freedom. Conrad still lay a few feet away, looking more than ever like a Christmas goose ready for the oven.

  They were at the edge of a small grove of trees at the beginning of the strand — the place where they had stopped in early morning light and flopped, without thought of breakfast or of fire, wanting only to catch a few hours of sleep while Andrew stood the guard.

  Snoopy was nowhere in sight, nor was Nan, the banshee, nor was Ghost. Which, Duncan told himself, was no more than might have been expected. As soon as his charges were safely at the strand, Snoopy, perhaps accompanied by Nan, would have gone off to collect his band of Little People. Ghost more than likely was out on scout, alert to any danger. Ghost had said last night that he had seen no one during the entire day, that here they would be safe. And if that had been the case, Duncan wondered, where the hell had the Reaver and his men been hiding?

  The Reaver was walking toward him, and he watched him as he came, puzzled at the emotions the man evoked in him — some fear, perhaps, certainly some hatred, but the fear and the hatred washed away by the utter contempt he felt for such a rogue. The Reaver was the scum of the earth, a vicious opportunist with no principles whatsoever; a nothing, less than nothing.

  The Reaver stopped a few feet from him and stood, with his hands planted firmly on his hips, looking down at him.

  “So, m’lord, how do you like it now?” he asked. “The tables now are turned. Perhaps you’d care to tell me what this is all about.”

  “I told you,” said Duncan, “that night at the manor. We are bound for Oxenford.”

  “But you did not tell me why.”

  “I told you. We carry messages.”

  “And that is all?”

  Duncan shrugged. “That is all,” he said.

  The Reaver stooped forward, placed one great hand on the pouch at Duncan’s belt, and with one wrench tore it free.

  “Now we’ll see,” be said.

  Taking his time, he carefully undid the buckles and opened the pouch. His hand dipped into it and brought out Wulfert’s amulet. He dangled it on its chain, the brilliant jewels set in it turned to fire in the fading sunlight.

  “A pretty thing, forsooth,” he said, “and perhaps valuable. Tell me what it is.”

  “A bauble only,” Duncan said. “A piece crafted for its beauty.”

  And deep inside himself he prayed, Not the manuscript! Please, not the manuscript!

  The Reaver dropped the amulet into his pocket, reached in the pouch again and brought out the manuscript.

  “And this?”

  “A few leaves of parchment,” said Duncan, as smoothly as he could, “brought along for reading. A favorite of mine. I’ve had little time to read it.”

  “Bah!” said the Reaver in disgust. He crumpled the manuscript in his fist and tossed it to one side. The wind caught it and scudded it along the sand for a few feet. Then it caught on a small shrub and lodged there, the wind still tugging at it.

  The Reaver’s hand went in the pouch again, bringing out a rosary, the cross of ivory, the beads of amber. He examined his find carefully.

  “Venerable?” he asked. “Perhaps sanctified by some holy man?”

  “By His Grace, the archbishop of Standish Abbey,” Duncan said. “Which makes it only moderately sanctified.”

  “Still a splendid piece of work,” the Reaver said affably, dropping it into his pocket. “I might get a copper for it.”

  “It’s worth much more than that,” said Duncan. “You’d be a fool to sell it for a copper.”

  Next the Reaver came up with a clinking doeskin bag. “Now this,” he said, a grin exposing his snaggle-teeth, “is more like it.” He opened the bag and poured some of the coins into an open palm, poking at them with a finger of the hand that held the bag.

  “A goodly sum,” he said, “and welcome to a man in as straitened circumstances as I find myself to be.”

  He poured the coins back into the bag and dropped it, as well, into the pocket of his jacket.

  Opening the pouch wide, he peered into it, reaching in a hand to explore the remaining items.

  “Junk,” he said contemptuously and tossed the pouch aside.

  “And now the sword,” he said. “A blade carried by a gentleman. Much better, I suppose, than the poor iron that we carry.”

  He stepped to one side and drew the blade from Duncan’s scabbard. Squatting down in front of Duncan, he examined it with a practiced eye.

  “Good steel,” he said, “and serviceable. But where is the gold, where are the jewels? I would have expected a scion of the nobility to carry a better piece than this.”

  “Gold and jewels are for ceremony,” Duncan told him. “This is a fighting weapon.”

  The Reaver nodded. “What you say is true. Sharp and with a needle point. Very good, indeed.”

  He flicked the sword point upward, thrust it forward an inch or two to prick against Duncan’s throat.

  “Let us now suppose,” he said, “you tell me what is really going on. Where is the treasure that you seek? What kind of treasure is it?”

  Duncan said nothing. He sat quietly — quietly while every instinct screamed for him to pull away. But if he flinched from the pointed steel, he told himself, there would be no purpose served. Flinch away and one flick of the Reaver’s wrist would have the point against his throat again.

  “I’ll have your throat out,” the Reaver threatened.

  “If you do,” said Duncan, “you’ll foreclose ever finding out.”

 
“How true,” the Reaver said. “How very true, indeed. Perhaps skinning you alive would be a better way. Tell me, have you ever watched while a man was skinned alive?”

  “No, I never have.”

  “It is not a pretty sight,” the Reaver said. “It is done most slowly, a little at a time. There are various methods of procedure. Beginning at the toes or sometimes at the fingers. But that is tedious work for the skinner, who must be very careful since the technique is quite delicate. I think I might prefer, if I were the skinner, to begin at the belly or the crotch. Although quite complicated, I think I would prefer beginning at the crotch. That is a very tender region and it usually brings fast results. If we were to do it on you, where would you prefer we start? We’ll accord you the courtesy of making your own choice.”

  Duncan said nothing. He could feel the sweat popping out along his forehead and he hoped it didn’t show. For this, he sensed, was not idle talk. It was not meant to frighten him into talking. This butcher meant to do it.

  The Reaver appeared to be in deep thought, mulling over the situation.

  “Maybe it might be better,” he said, “if we did it first on someone else and let you watch a while before we started in on you. Perhaps that great oaf over yonder. He’d be a good one to do it on. He has such a splendid hide. So much of it and in such good condition. Once a man had it off him, he could make a jacket of it. Or that piddling hermit, tied against the tree. He would scream louder than the oaf. He would squirm in agony. He would scream and ask for mercy.

  He would call most piteously on the Lord. He’d put on quite a show. Although I am undecided. The hermit’s skin is so wrinkled that it would seem scarcely worth the effort.”

  Duncan still said nothing.

  The Reaver made a deprecating gesture. “Oh, well,” he said, “it’s too late in the day to talk about it now. To do a first-rate skinning job good light is needed, and the sun’s about to set. First thing in the morning, that is when we’ll start. So we’ll have the full day for it.”