They stayed well inland, avoiding the coast and Malachai’s ill-omened mansion on its barren promontory. From the direction of that edifice, a huge plume of black smoke twisted into the sky, testifying that the conflagration still raged in the magician’s cellars. Or had it escaped to the mansion itself, rising level by level, to engulf the entire structure?
Perhaps, if they were very lucky, the fire had caught Malachai in a deep state of trance and consumed him along with his property. If not, his wrath would be incalculable. He might be, at this very moment, taking measures to avenge his loss.
It was time to put a great distance between themselves and Malachai’s domain.
The summer days were long that far north. Full dark lasted perhaps two hours, so they rode late into the night, allowing themselves only the shortest snatches of sleep before pressing on once again. The vernal sun failed to produce much warmth, and a cold wind blew lonely snowflakes into their faces.
The landscape was gray, bleak, monotonous, just a flat, windswept grasslands broken here and there by low, rocky hillocks. Cold and treeless, almost devoid of wildlife, and silent save for the mournful shriek of an occasional seabird.
They were a sorry, ragged lot. Their wounds had stiffened and throbbed more painfully than on the previous day. Those who had partaken too liberally in last night’s merriment now leaned in their saddles to vomit fisheye beer. All were exhausted and out of sorts.
They headed west rather than straight south, hoping to avoid the tribal lands of the Blue Horse People. Grinder’s brothers, maybe even Brodar and the entire tribe, might still be on their trail. All day they rode without encountering another human soul. This was good. The Adventurers had no desire for company as they made their way toward home.
Though utterly worn out, they paused only to keep the horses from dying beneath them. At noon, Roscoe approached Drax.
“We been headin’ west now for a day and a half. Is this still Blue Horse land, or have we crossed over into somethin’ else?”
Drax scratched the back of his neck as if carefully considering the question.
“Years ago, the Slow Worm River was always the boundary line ‘tween the Blue Horse and the Snow Panthers. You’ll know it when we come to it—it’s the most beautiful color blue you ever saw. All milky lookin’. It don’t even look like it’s made of water.”
“And when can we expect to come upon this amazin’ spectacle, if I might ask?”
“Any time now, best as I can recall.”
“Once we cross it, we’ll be safe on the other side?”
Drax made a wry face.
“Hell, no. Nobody’s safe in these parts. First off, tribal boundaries always shift, dependin’ on who won the last war. So that river might not mean nothin’ to nobody these days.”
“Second, the Panthers don’t take to uninvited guests any more than the Blue Horses does. Some might’ say they’re worse. And you better pray none of ‘em recognize me as the one who killed their old warchief.”
Roscoe did his best to conceal his apprehension. Behind them, an infuriated magician was perhaps summoning demons to rend their souls. Hordes of savage horse-barbarians lurked on all sides, lusting for their blood. At home, a fiend-possessed rock was inciting riot and invasion in their city. And if that was not yet trouble enough, they carried a powerful demon locked in a casket in Sarah’s saddlebags.
“Friend Drax, what do you suppose we should do next?”
“Keep low, keep quiet. Cross the river and turn south. Hope nobody sees us.”
“Do you suppose Grinder’s brothers are still out huntin’ us?”
“Not a doubt in my mind. Blue Horses got long memories. They’ll be holdin’ a grudge against us for a hundred years, maybe more. Their poets will make up songs about how Thurmond snuck up and stabbed Grinder in the eye while the poor guy was sleepin’.”
The old Adventurer grew indignant.
“Didn’t happen like that, not at all.”
“That don’t matter, they’ll remember it like they want to. By now, the whole tribe remembers it like that.”
They reached the Slow Worm at early evening. It was, as Drax had described, a most striking shade of milky blue. Wide and shallow, it oozed through the flat, barren steppe in a multitude of sleepy bends. The party splashed across without incident.
On the other side, Roscoe again sought Drax’s counsel.
“All right, Drax, we’re across. What now?”
“Keep goin’ west ‘til we’re out of sight of the river, then turn south and ride like hell for home.”
“If Grinder’s people find our tracks, will they cross the river?”
“Certes! They’re always raidin’ other tribes’ territories. And there’s a fair good chance they will pick up our trail at some point. Blue Horses are expert trackers. So we gotta keep movin’.”
Another night of short sleep, another long day in the saddle. At mid-afternoon, they paused atop a low ridge that afforded a good view of the flat, grassy expanse over which they had traveled. With a cry of alarm, Sarah pointed into the distance. Her voice was shrill with urgency.
“Look straight out, just to the left of that rocky outcrop.”
Sure enough, a clump of dark dots was moving steadily in their direction—riders. They watched with dismay as the dots followed their trail with unerring accuracy.
Torgul’s voice was a low, disgusted growl.
“Buggers are on our track all right. There’s a lot of ‘em, must be close to a hundred.”
Roscoe’s reply was sharp and decisive.
“Mount up! We’ve got to keep ahead of ‘em. Maybe we can lose ‘em in the dark, it’s our only chance.”
Thurmond took a last look before stepping into his stirrup.
“Who are those guys?”
Roscoe was already spurring his horse. He shouted back over his shoulder.
“Don’t make no difference, boyo. Blue Horses or Snow Cats—none of ‘em are gonna be friendly, so hold your gab and just ride.”
They rode and rode, then rode some more. At every rise and hillock they cast anxious, searching eyes over the landscape behind them. The dots were always there, gradually growing larger and more distinct as the pursuers drew inexorably closer.
Finally, in the gloaming of the evening, Roscoe called a halt. Horses and riders alike were on the quivering edge of collapse.
“It’s getting’ dark, so our friends back there will have a harder time followin’ our tracks. We’ve been goin’ straight south, but now it’s time to veer off. Maybe we can at least confuse ‘em for a bit and delay ‘em. Dismount—we’ll lead the horses for a while. Single file, now—follow me.”
Roscoe led them in a zigzag course, bearing generally west by southwest, but veering at times toward every point of the compass. They came at last to a dry watercourse whose rocky streambed would show little evidence of their passing. Here they mounted and began picking their way through the loose, clattering stones.
Thurmond was astounded when he realized that the old Adventurer had turned them north rather than south.
“Roscoe, what are you thinking? You’re taking us away from home, back toward the barbarians.”
“Only for a wee bit, laddie. If they follow us as far as this streambed, they’ll have a hard time findin’ any tracks. So they’ll probably assume we’re still goin’ south, the way we’ve been headin’ all day.”
“We’ll fool ‘em by going the opposite way?”
“That’s the idea, boyo, so it is.”
They rode for some time. A cold wind rose, tearing at their faces like the claws of a small, angry animal. They drew their cloaks around their shivering bodies and continued on.
The streambed abruptly petered out, leaving them once more on the soft, sandy soil of the steppe where their tracks would be easy to follow. It would soon be daylight.
After days of hard riding and so little rest, neither man nor beast could go any farther. Roscoe scanned the surroundings for some place of concealment in the barren wasteland. In the distance, he spotted a small, round hill topped by something that resembled a structure.
They made their weary way to the top of the mount, where the emerging dawn revealed the crumbling remains of an ancient ringfort with a wall something higher than a tall man’s head. A ragged opening was all that survived of what had once been a gate. Inside, stone foundations told of the houses that had once circled the inner wall. All other traces of human habitation had long since disappeared.
As a defensive position, the fort left much to be desired. The ancient walls were of unmortared stone and broken down in many places. They might delay an attacker slightly, but they were too low to be much of a hindrance. There was no way to barricade the broken gate.
But at least the walls offered welcome protection from the biting northern wind that had made the day’s ride so miserable. And they would conceal them from probing barbarian eyes.
“I’m against it!”
Torgul’s voice was harsh, his tone adamant.
“You never want to hole up in a buildin’ when somebody’s after you. First place they’re bound to look. Better to lay down flat in the grass.”
Sarah was of a different mind.
“The horses can’t go any further, not even to find a patch of tall grass to lie down in, and I can’t either. I’m so tired, and the wind is so cold—it seems like it’s biting right into my bones. At least this wall will protect us from it.”
Torgul remained unmoved.
“Better cold than dead, girl.”
Thurmond rose in her support.
“Sarah’s right. I’m done in. I’m so tired that my body can’t seem to warm itself. Let’s stop here.”
Roscoe pondered a moment before coming to a decision.
“All right, the fort it is. We’ve got to stop—all of us is plumb wore out. We won’t linger here long in any case.”
Torgul harrumphed.
They pulled the saddles from their horses and turned them loose to nibble the grass that grew inside the enclosure. Thurmond tied a rope back and forth across the gate to keep them from wandering out.
They would sleep for four hours. Pairs of sentries were assigned one-hour shifts, pairs because they could help keep each other awake. They would mount the parapet on the top of the wall and keep watch. With any luck, their pursuers would lose the trail in the dark. By the time they found it and resumed the chase, the Adventurers would have rested and moved on.
Thurmond and Torgul took the first watch, using a small hourglass to mark the time. Roscoe and Sarah were to take the second, but when the old Adventurer was roused to start his shift, he refused to have his watch-partner awakened.
“Let the girl sleep—she needs it. I’ll be fine on my own, so I will.”
Good to his word, Roscoe stood his watch alone and duly awakened the next pair of sentinels, a pair of Bart’s mercenaries known as Toss-Pot and Goose. Then he rolled up in his cloak for some desperate rest.
Perhaps it was the secret flask of uisge that Toss-Pot kept hidden in the bottom of his saddlebag. Or it might have been that the weariness of the preceding days was just too great. Whatever the reason, both sentries were soon snoring at their posts.
Malachai’s eyes were unexpressive, his countenance vague, as he surveyed the smoldering remains of his workshop. The destruction was total. His potions and compounds had burned very hot, so anything flammable was reduced to ash. Non-combustibles—metal, glass, crockery—were either melted into puddles or fused into unrecognizable lumps.
Even the psychic signatures of the intruders had burned away. Not that it mattered. He knew exactly who had invaded his cellars and destroyed his property.
He should, he knew, be furious, but he was involved at that moment in a matter of such greater import that the burning of his workshop seemed trivial. The old man—Roscoe, he was called—must bring the girl and the instrument safely to the Stone. Then she must employ it correctly. If all went according to plan, he would no longer require a workshop for the quickening of dead tissue.
Indeed, the fire was a useful thing, for it had swept away the accumulated baggage of the past. There were many side tunnels lined with iron-barred cells in which some of his early experiments had wailed, flopped, and beat the walls with their skulls. He should, he supposed, have disposed of them decades ago, but he had never quite gotten to it. Well, they were gone now.
There was, of course, the matter of the book. His personal notebook, bound in an enchanted hide that only an infernal flame could ignite. It would have unquestionably withstood the blaze, and yet it was gone. Taken by the intruders.
He would have it back. Let them first return home and employ the instrument. But afterwards—aye, afterwards—he would have it back, and they would learn the error of their thieving ways.