The creature flopped to the ground. Conrad brought his club down on the remaining head and the thing skittered about the clearing, twisting and turning, hopping in the air and somersaulting like a chicken with its head lopped off.
Duncan saw that his blade was smeared with the sticky black ichor he had seen when he’d killed the squalling, flapping thing in the fight at the castle mound.
He threw a quick glance skyward and saw that another of the flying rugs had cleared the trees and hung above the clearing, but even as he saw it the rug veered off, heading back across the trees.
Meg and Andrew, he saw, were standing side by side, facing the opposite side of the clearing, Andrew furiously shaking his staff and bawling out his Latin, while Meg waved her arms in cabalistic gestures and cried out a high sing-song of words so twisted and kinky that they seemed to Duncan, listening to them, to be beyond the range of human tongue.
More fog was rolling into the clearing. Between the trees, low down against the ground, came a pointed head with a cruel beak, sinuous, like a snake, scuttling forward on little lizard’s feet. The head reared up, surging from side to side, as if seeking, rearing itself to strike. Diane leaped forward and the glistening blade came down in a long, smooth swing.
The beaked head popped into the air, fell to the ground and bounced, a flood of thick, blackish ichor pouring in a flood from the severed neck. But the long, twisting, snakelike body, propelled by its many little feet, kept on coming out. As its forepart fell to the ground, the rest of it, emerging from the trees, piled upon itself.
The trees were whipping violently, as if beaten by a vicious wind, the mouths still open and working in their silent screaming, the branches swaying furiously, the hands making grasping motions. At times screams, often cut off abruptly, sounded from the depths of the woods. One giant branch, with a dozen hands attached, heaved into the air.
Grasped by the hands was the twisting, broken body of a hairless one. Another hairless one staggered through the trees, going to its knees, then rising swiftly, shuffling toward them, a club gripped in its hand.
Duncan sprang forward to meet it, but Conrad was there before him. Before the hairless one could lift its club, Conrad aimed a blow at it. The sound of a crunching skull sounded distinctly and the hairless one staggered forward, falling, but behind it was another one and another and another. The hairless ones had broken through the woods and were coming with a rush.
Duncan saw a lifted arm, with a club poised in its fist, and swung his blade in instinctive defense. The arm came off and the falling club struck his left shoulder a glancing blow. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Diane to one side and slightly behind him, her sword flashing as it struck. A hairless one came at him and he skipped aside to dodge the swinging club, caught the charging enemy in the throat with his sword point. But there was still another one behind the one that he had stabbed, and this time, he knew, the club would find its mark before he could lift his blade. And even as he thought this, two plunging, striking hoofs came across his shoulder, one of them striking the hairless one squarely in the face. Daniel’s body crashed into Duncan and he went down on hands and knees, with the great horse’s body looming over him, snorting with rage, striking with his hoofs and teeth.
Conrad, he saw, also was on the ground, crawling, with his right arm dangling limply. Standing on spraddled legs above him was a hairless one, with the club already lifted and starting to come down. Duncan lunged upright, hurling himself forward, but he knew he’d be too late. Before he could intervene, the lifted club would come thudding down on Conrad’s head. Out of nowhere, a dark, stout body was suddenly between Conrad and the hairless one, the trident thrusting upward, propelled by both hands and with all the power in Scratch’s muscular body. The tines caught the hairless one squarely in the throat, just below the chin, driving deep, the full length of the tines.
A bellow rang out — Andrew’s voice—”A path! We have got a path!”
Duncan now was on his feet, his attention divided between Andrew’s sudden bellow and the harpooned hairless one, which slowly tipped backward, its club fallen from its hand, as Scratch still clutched the trident’s shaft, tugging furiously to disengage the tines. Just beyond Conrad, Tiny leaped from the body of a hairless one that he had downed, crouching for a new attack.
For the moment, it seemed, there was nothing to attack. There were no more hairless ones. Rolling fog still poured from out the forest and the trees still were thrashing furiously, but the small band of hairless ones who had broken through now were lying on the ground, either dead or dying.
Andrew still continued shouting, “We have a path! We have a path!”
“Head for that path,” yelled Duncan. “All of you. Get out of here.”
He took a quick stride to one side, grasped Conrad around his massive body and heaved him to his feet. Even as Duncan lifted him, the big man still was scrambling wildly to retrieve his fallen club. He grasped it in his left hand and staggered forward, his right arm still dangling at his side. By main strength, Duncan awkwardly got him turned around.
“Andrew has a path,” he told him. “Get out there and follow it.” Tiny came up, his face wrinkled in doggish worry.
He pushed himself close against the tottering Conrad, trying to support him.
Scratch was there, too, dragging the trident with one hand, wedging himself between Tiny and Conrad.
“Here,” he said to Conrad, “lean upon my shoulder.”
Duncan reached out and took the club from Conrad’s hand.
“I’ll carry this,” he said. “Lean on the demon. He is stout and strong. He can give you help.”
“I need no help,” growled Conrad.
“The hell you don’t,” said Duncan.
Conrad put his left hand on Scratch’s shoulder, started hobbling away.
Duncan swung around. Diane, he saw, had hold of Daniel’s forelock, was leading the big horse across the clearing, toward Andrew’s path. Off to one side, Snoopy was racing toward the path, driving Beauty before him.
For one last look, Duncan swung around. The wood still was in violent commotion and the fog still was seeping out of it. But coming out of it were no more hairless ones, no more snaky creatures with cruel beaks.
They had to get out of there fast, he knew. The magic built into the forest by the gnomes might not hold much longer, and once it failed the way would be open for the Horde to come down upon them.
Give us time, he prayed. Time to get through the woods and to reach the fen.
For once they reached the fen, they probably would be safe. Even if the hairless ones or others of the Horde tried to follow them across the water, defense against them would be relatively simple.
He felt a hand upon his arm.
“Come on, Duncan,” said Diane. “The others all are on the path.”
Wordlessly he turned and followed her.
The path was narrow, with only scant room for one person to push his way through. Daniel, Duncan thought, might have some trouble.
Ahead of him he heard the others making their way down the path. Snoopy had said, in his anger, he remembered, that the stupid gnomes had built a trap that could not distinguish between friend and foe — and in this Snoopy had been wrong. It had not yielded to the magic of the Horde, but had paid attention to Meg’s witchery and Andrew’s howled-out Latin.
Slowly he backed down the path, watching behind him. And as he backed the path closed in behind him. Trees materialized or shifted to block the way and heavy growth closed in.
He turned and said to Diane, “Let us run for it.”
Ahead of them he saw open sky, and a moment later they burst from the woods. The others were ahead of them, running down the slope, Conrad loping in the rear, using his left hand to cradle the useless right arm.
Scratch ran ahead of all of them, racing for the fen. At its edge, he halted for a moment and looked about, as if searching for a landmark. Then he ran along its shore for a little way and
plunged into the water, the others following.
When they reached the shore, Diane and Duncan walked out into the water, which came barely to their ankles. As they went farther, in places it became deeper, but never more than knee-deep. Ahead of them lay a small rocky island, and when the others reached it they clambered over it and disappeared. A few minutes later Diane and Duncan reached the island, climbing over the piled-up rocks. On the other side they found the rest of them, huddled out of sight — Daniel standing in the water just beyond the island, effectively hidden by the tumbled rocks.
Scratch reached up and pulled them down. “We’ll hide here,” he said. “if the Horde doesn’t see us, they probably will not try to venture out. They’ll have no idea the fen can be crossed.”
They lay behind the rocks and watched. The woods still existed, although from their distance, there was no sign of the commotion within it, except for tiny puffs of fog still issuing from it.
Again they could hear the wailing. At times it was fairly clear and loud, at other times faded.
Snoopy came crawling up the rocks to stretch himself beside Duncan.
“Those crazy gnomes,” he said, “built better than they knew. Even the witch could not detect the magic of the woods. And they still are standing up.”
Even as he spoke, the woods vanished, disappearing in their entirety. The slope on which they had stood lay quite bare except for a scattered band of hairless ones, and behind them other creatures half obscured by fog.
The hairless ones moved down the slope, shambling along. At the edge of the fen they stopped, staring across the water, then began running up and down the shore, like quartering dogs seeking out a scent. After a time they went back up the slope, walking through the fog bank, which moved to follow them. In a little time they and the fog bank disappeared over the crest of the slope and did not reappear.
“We’ll wait here until evening falls,” said Scratch. “It won’t be long. The sun is not far from down. Then we’ll move out. It never gets quite dark out here. There is always some reflection from the water.”
Conrad was sitting on a rock near the edge of the island, hunched over, hugging his injured arm close against his body. Duncan made his way down to him.
“Let me see that arm,” he said.
“The damn thing hurts,” said Conrad, “but I don’t think it’s broken. I can move it if I have to, but it hurts when I do.
A club caught me, on the fleshy part of the arm, just below the shoulder.”
The upper arm was so swollen that the skin was shiny. An angry red welt, beginning to change to purple, covered the area from the shoulder to the elbow. Duncan squeezed the arm gently and Conrad flinched.
“Easy there,” he said.
Duncan took the elbow in his palm, worked it slowly up and down.
“It’s not broken,” he said. “You’re a lucky man.”
“He should have it in a sling,” said Diane. “It’s easier that way.” She reached into the pocket of her new buckskin jacket, brought out the filmy green gown she’d worn.
“We can use this,” she said.
Conrad looked at it. “I couldn’t,” he moaned. “If back home, the word got out…”
“That’s nonsense,” she said. “Of course you can.”
Duncan laid the club beside Conrad. “Here’s your club,” he said. “Thanks,” said Conrad. “I would have hated to lose it. The best of wood, well seasoned. I spent hours shaping it.”
Working swiftly, Diane fashioned a sling from the gown, eased it around the arm, tied it at the shoulder.
She laughed gaily. “A bit too much material,” she said. “It’ll hang on you like a cape. But you’ll have to put up with that. I will not tear it up. There may be a time I’ll need it.”
Conrad grinned at her.
“Everyone must be hungry,” he said. “Beauty’s down there with Daniel. Someone should take off her packs. We have some food in there.”
“No cooking, though,” said Duncan. “We can’t show any smoke.” Conrad grunted. “No wood to burn, anyhow.
The packs must have something we can choke down without cooking.”
As evening came down Duncan and Diane sat together on a boulder at the water’s edge. They had been silent for a time. Finally Diane said, “Duncan, about that sword. The one that Snoopy gave me.”
“Yes. What’s wrong with it?”
“Nothing. Absolutely nothing. But it’s strange.”
“It’s unfamiliar to you.”
“It’s not that. It’s — how do I say this? It’s as if someone’s helping me. As if another arm than mine is wielding it. As if someone steps inside me and helps me handle it. Not that I haven’t control of it, for I have. But as if someone’s helping.”
“That’s your imagination.”
She shook her head. “I don’t think so. There was a sword that was thrown into a lake…”
“That’s enough,” said Duncan sternly. “No more fantasy. No more.”
“But Duncan, I’m afraid.”
He put an arm around her, held her close against him. “It’s all right,” he said. “Everything’s all right.”
28
It was, Duncan told himself, like walking through a painting, one of the blue pastel landscapes with an overtone of faery that hung in one of the sitting rooms at Standish House, precious little canvases that had been painted so long ago and hid away so long that no one now could remember who the artist might have been. Not much contrast in color, all executed in various hues of blue, with the only other color a pale moon of rather sickly yellow glinting through the blue of clouds and sky. No contrasts, nothing but subtle gradations of color, so that viewed from a distance the canvas seemed to be little more than a smudge of blue. Closer up one could make out the details and only then could there be some appreciation of what the painter might have had in mind. There had been one of them, he remembered, very much like this, a flat watery landscape showing little but the expanse of water, with deeper tones that hinted at a distant shoreline, and in the sky, as here, the sickly yellow moon.
They had been making their way through the water for hours, keeping very much in line, following close upon one another’s heels, each turning as the one ahead of him turned in order to stay on the narrow underwater ledge of rock along which Scratch was feeling his way at the head of the column.
Besides the moon, there were a few stars in the sky, although at times the drifting, filmy clouds blotted out the most of them. But the flat, smooth surface of the fen, acting like a mirror, picked up and reflected every splinter of light that fell upon it. With eyes now well adjusted to the dark, it did not seem that they were moving through night at all, but through twilight, through that time of day, that particular moment, when the last deepening of twilight gives way to final night.
Diane was at the head of the column, close behind Scratch, while Duncan was last in line, with Andrew just ahead of him. The hermit, it seemed to Duncan, was becoming tired. He stumbled every now and then and was doing a lot more splashing with his staff than seemed necessary. Before too long, Duncan knew, they would have to stop to rest.
He hoped that soon they would reach another of the little rocky islands. Since they had left the first island, they had come to and passed over two others. He had no idea if there were more ahead. He hoped there were, for Andrew certainly had need of rest, and perhaps some of the others as well. Conrad, despite his rugged strength, must be experiencing heavy going with his injured arm.
The water was not deep, seldom more than above his knees, but the going was slow and laborious, for with each step it was necessary to reach out and feel for solid footing before putting down one’s weight.
There had been no interruptions. Twice great bodies had hurled themselves out of the fen, but had been prevented from reaching those upon the ledge of rock by the shallowness of the water. One of them Duncan had not seen, since it had hurled itself at the head of the column. He had only heard the furious splash
ing as the creature fought to drive itself across the ledge. The other he had seen only momentarily and in the poor light had been unable to gain more than a fleeting impression of it. The body had been huge and thick, the head vaguely toadlike. His strongest impression had been of the single, list-sized eye that for a moment had been caught in the moonlight, blazing red like an angry jewel.
All the night they had heard the far-off wailing for the world, and now it seemed to Duncan that they must be getting closer to it. It was louder and did not fade in and out as it had before. Now it kept on and on, the wailing varying in pitch but never going away. If one concentrated on it, Duncan told himself, it could be not only an annoying, but an unnerving sound. In the last hour or so it had seemed to him that he was, in a degree, becoming accustomed to it. One can get used to almost anything, be thought. Or maybe he only hoped so.
Ahead of him Andrew stumbled and went to his knees. Moving quickly, Duncan seized him and pulled him to his feet.
“You’re getting tired,” he said.
“I am tired,” whined the hermit. “Tired in body and in soul.”
“I can understand about the body,” Duncan said. “What’s this business of the soul?”
“The good Lord,” said Andrew, “has been pleased to show me that through all my years of unremitting and conscientious labor I have acquired some small measure of a certain holiness. And how have I used it? How have I put to use this feeble power of mine? I’ll tell you how. By freeing a demon from his chains. By overcoming, or helping to overcome, a vicious and a devious heathen magic, but only with the aid of one sunk deep in witchery. It is an evil thing to collaborate with a witch or any other force or practitioner of evil, my lord. It is worse to take some credit to myself for something that well might have been done by witchery alone, for I have no way of knowing to what degree, if any at all, I was responsible for the opening of the path that freed us from the forest.”
Fellowship of the Talisman Page 27