Lyrec (14 page)

Lyrec nodded. “That isn’t surprising. It was so weak. And the call was to me, so you wouldn’t have heard if you were very far away.”

“Lyrec.” He would have gone on, but could not compel himself. Instead, he added, “We have to get away from here.”

“Yes. How are you with ropes?”

“I have paws, what do you think?”

“You also have teeth,” said Lyrec.

“Oh, no. The last time I used my mouth at your instruction, I ate that awful plant juice. If you think for a moment I would fill my mouth up with prickly little pieces of twine—sorry, no.”

“Did you bring my
crex
?”

“Look at me. What am I? A f-f-feline.”

“I’ve never heard you stutter before.”

“What stutter? That’s the word
you
used: f-f-feline. You said it just like that. F-f-feline. If I’m stuttering, it’s because I’m speaking your dialect.”

“Did-you-bring-the-
crex
?”

“No! That’s what I’m trying to tell you. I couldn’t have kept up with you if I had to lug that all over the countryside. I had to abandon it back at the tavern.”

“Then, I—”

“Hey, who are you talking to?”

Lyrec swung his head around so quickly that he struck the back of it against the stone. He squeezed his eyes shut in pain.

“You—I’m talking to you.” A boot caught him in the side. He groaned, opened his watering eyes to see a soldier standing over him with a wooden bowl. The man crouched down. “Talking to yourself?”

“Not exactly. You’ve brought food. How am I supposed to eat it?”

“Hungry, eh? I’m going to untie you from the horse while you eat.” He drew a dagger. “But don’t get any ideas about crawling off. If I’d been against you this morning instead of Abo you wouldn’t be with us now.”

“I understand. And I’m too hungry to argue with you.”

The soldier sneered, then went over and untied the rope from the captain’s saddle. Lyrec picked up the bowl and looked into it. Chunks of meat mixed with a white grain of some kind. He tipped it so that some of the food poured into his mouth. It was hot, not particularly pleasant, but satisfying under the circumstances. The soldier stood by patiently, his dagger laid along his crossed arms. When the bowl was three-quarters empty, Lyrec leaned to his left with some difficulty and set it down. Baffled, the soldier stepped forward. As he did, Borregad emerged from the misty darkness and sat down at the bowl. The Ladomantine uncrossed his arms and took the dagger by its point, raising it up beside his head.

“You,” Lyrec called softly. The soldier glanced at him—and was unable to look away. Eyes, the firelight shining like metal, caught his soul and took command of his body. He lowered the dagger, sat down, and promptly fell asleep.

Borregad finished the meal and sat back. “That was awful,” he announced, licking and preening his whiskers. “Thank you.” He watched the luster leave Lyrec’s eyes, making of them dark pools once again that shifted to meet his gaze.

“They have no intention of taking me before Ladomirus. I gather I’m to be a permanent resident of that great gaping hole over there they call a buttertub. Apparently I won’t be the first. It’s a pit for disposing of unwanted items. This was Fulpig’s request to the captain—they’re friends.”

“What a perfect place for Miradomon,” said Borregad. “These creatures are throat-cutters by nature. It’s instinct. Me, I’m a lower form—it’s expected. I have to live with that. You’ve become infected with the same instinct. You’ve wanted to get free and kill that captain the same way he wants to dispose of you.”

“I have,” admitted Lyrec.

“This entire race is insane.”

“Only by our standards, and that’s a hopeless distinction to maintain. We’ve joined this race in all its parts. Miradomon’s insane and so is this world, and the one before it, and probably all those before that. So he’s here.”

“Thank you. You’ve finally come around to seeing things my way. I told you we were just like them.”

Lyrec recalled the argument they’d had at Grohd’s tavern. He admitted, “Yes, you were right.”

“Of course I was. Now, do we fight or do we go?”

“Go.”

“Back to the tavern.”

“No. To Ladoman, to the city.”

“Don’t join the race so totally. They’d love to have you walk in. That Fulpig is looking forward to seeing you in a very physical way. Have you gone crazy, too?”

“But, Borregad, think. Everything we’ve heard so far that’s wrong with this whole area has been this character, Ladomirus. And Grohd was afraid of these soldiers—no, more than afraid. Something about them bothered him, something he couldn’t account for.”

“I never heard him talk of it.”

“Well, no, actually I picked it up from him the first time I probed him. I would have told you, but we were too busy getting money and I had no idea to what he was referring then. Later … well, there was no time. But I want to meet Ladomirus.”

“You think this Ladomirus might be Miradomon. And you want to meet him without the
crex
? You are mad.”

“If we took time to go back, the whole countryside would be after us. We wouldn’t have a chance to reach the city. They won’t expect us to go there straight-away.”

“Your plans always sound reasonable when you explain them, but I might point out that the last reasonable plan landed you here.” He glanced over at the soldiers around the fire. The thickening mist made them difficult to see, but they appeared to have bedded down. “What of this one?” he asked.

Lyrec smiled. “He’s supposed to guard me until morning. Everyone else is asleep, or will be soon enough. That gives us a substantial head start.”

“Then, let’s be gone.”

Lyrec crouched beside the soldier, and, careful not to wake the man, relieved him of his sword and dagger. Then he took off his own hat and placed it on the soldier’s head, drawing the brim down low. In this mist no one would notice the difference, provided the soldier himself wasn’t missed.

“Now, look here,” whispered Borregad, “it’s not that I disagree automatically with your intentions, but you’ve already had enough experience with those things to know better. They’ll just get you in trouble.”

“I now know everything this soldier knows about fighting with one of these. Also about throwing this shorter version.”

Borregad looked from Lyrec to the sleeping figure and back to Lyrec again. “Is he good?”

“
He
thought so.”

“Don’t smile like that—they’ll see your teeth two steys away, and then you’ll have to prove it. Here, let me up.” He leaped onto Lyrec’s shoulders. “Remember, you’re not like them—you’re peaceful. No fighting.”

“If I can avoid it.” He took one step toward the horses, but stopped abruptly. Something behind him had kicked a rock. He glanced back. The mist had grown thick—the fire was a bright circle and every shape had a cloudy shadow. Lyrec could not see anyone, but he bent low and moved off behind the nearest stone.

“Lyrec,” Borregad hissed at his ear, “this is a very good time to start avoiding.”

*****

The captain could not sleep. He had something to do and it could not wait.

Earlier, as he sat with his men, he had recognized a controlled mockery in the way they addressed him. And the others, like Elforl, who had disregarded him in every way since morning, slighted him. He sensed their contempt as he did the heat from the fire.

Lying beneath his oiled blanket, he could not stop reliving the disgrace of the morning. Finally, flinging the blanket back, he found his sword belt and stood. The men would not respect him until he had dealt with the pilgrim; and they would respect him even more if he took care of the matter by himself. He would kill the man and toss him in the pit, then wake the men and give them the news.

He peered through the heavy mist, but the firelight actually seemed to make it more impenetrable. Even the horses, off to the right, were nothing but vague shapes. Had he not known for sure what they were, he would have thought them stones. He used the horses as points of reference. The pilgrim would be near. He placed each foot with care, not wishing to awaken the camp before he had killed the pilgrim.

Even with the care he took, his foot skidded on a loose stone, scraping it under his boot. He held his breath, locked into position, and listened for any sound of movement. One of his men was out there in the fog, guarding the camp. The last thing the captain wanted was to be run through by that bold swordsman, mistaken for some enemy. He heard nothing, however; the mist compressed all sound. He decided no one had heard him. He took two more steps. A hand clamped on his shoulder. He leaped around, his hands stretched out to ward off a blow. Then, seeing who had touched him, he straightened up immediately and tried to look dignified.

Elforl stared flatly at the captain. Tall, slender, impassively frightening, Elforl said nothing. The captain shivered under scrutiny.

He glanced at Elforl’s side. The silver ball of the jeit stick glittered with firelight. It, rather than Elforl’s hand, could have touched him, staving his skull in. But the silent mercenary never made mistakes. He wore his taciturnity like a mask, never betraying a thought. The captain hated the man for frightening him, and he’d been certain for some time now that Elforl’s mask disguised a supercilious rebuke of him.

Mustering his sense of command, he asked, “Why are you awake?”

Elforl continued to stare him down until the captain had to look elsewhere. Elforl said, “You make too much noise,” then walked away into a swirl of fog.

The captain made a contemptuous face at the point where Elforl had vanished. His jaw quivered from the effort of restraining an angry reply. Right then he would have preferred to throw Elforl into the pit rather than Lyrec. But that jeit stick stayed his hand. He’d seen dozens of people struck down with it. Under his rage, he knew coldly that he could not defend himself against it.

Into the fog he continued, picking out his way. His sword rested in his hand. Very soon he came to the place where the pilgrim huddled sleeping. There was the body, there the rope leading to it. The body shifted, a groan came from under the wide hat. This was not going to be a fair fight.

Quickly, before the prisoner could wake up, the captain thrust. The body bucked once. Both hands came up, clawing at the air. They fell suddenly and the dark shape collapsed on its side. The captain withdrew his blade and cleaned it before resheathing it. He yanked the body up and shoved his shoulder under it, hoisted it up, his arm wrapped around the dark cape. Behind him, the wide-brimmed hat dropped to the ground. Lumbering beneath the weight, the captain carried his victim to the edge of the buttertub, being very careful not to walk over the edge himself. He could picture the mask of Elforl’s face cracking into a broad smile at the news that the captain had accidentally fallen into the pit.

On the lip of the chasm he simply bent forward and shoved with his shoulder. The body slipped into the darkness. The sound of an impact echoed up from below, followed by sprinkling stones. Satisfied, the captain backed away, and walked toward the glow of the fire to wake his men. On the way, he retrieved the pilgrim’s hat for proof.

As he was bending down, he heard a horse shy uneasily. He paused to listen. It was nothing, of course—he had taken care of their only problem. But the captain was prideful now, arrogant with power, and contentious. If that guard was off sleeping or disturbing the horses, he would be on guard duty for the rest of his life. The captain marched quickly around the stones blocking his way to come up behind whoever was by the horses. He didn’t care about making noise now.

He saw someone move in the fog, dodging between the horses. The captain circled past the last large stone, then commanded, “You, there. Come here this instant.”

The figure froze, and turned around slowly. “Don’t think I don’t know what you’re up to,” the captain warned, “and don’t expect to get off lightly, either. I want you over here immediately.” The tall silhouette came forward. The tiniest voice in the back of the captain’s mind told him that he had no soldiers that large. For a second, firelight flashed on the hilt of a sword hung low off the figure’s left hip; this silenced the voice of alarm—that was the way the fellow wore his sword, the captain knew it.

Then the figure closed the distance. Even in the fog the captain recognized him: It was the pilgrim, Lyrec. It could not be! The man had to be a … “A ghost!” shrieked the captain. He threw himself into flight, and ran smack into the stone behind him. He crumpled on his face, with one arm extended as if offering the battered hat he held.. Lyrec went over and picked up his hat. “Thank you,” he said contemptuously to the unconscious man. “Thank you so much.”

The first shout sounded. Others answered. The entire camp came awake. Elforl marshaled them together, calling them all to him. He counted heads. “It was the captain who screamed,” said Abo. “What’s happened?”

Elforl almost smiled. “What do you suppose? The prisoner’s loose, and I wouldn’t doubt that the captain caused it, either, the damnable caitiff. We’ve an enemy out there in the fog. The first thing to do is stop him from taking a horse if he hasn’t already. Stay together, whatever else you do—otherwise, he’ll take us down one by one.”
 
He started off immediately to the horses.

Lyrec heard them coming and moved off into the darkness. He crouched low behind the next stone along, close enough to make out what the soldiers decided to do.
 
Borregad, be careful.

The soldiers checked the horses, found them all in line, though edgy. They found that one had been saddled. “We stopped him, at least.” At that point, one man spotted the captain, and unthinkingly ran over to him. Lyrec leaned out from his hiding place and whispered, “You,” loud enough for just the one man to hear. The soldier jumped up, shouting, “Here he is!” and charged at Lyrec. He leaped past the stone, landing in a crouch, ready to attack. In that instant a small black shape flew at him from the top of the stone.

As he tried to ward it off, Lyrec’s blade brushed his aside and impaled him. Before the body hit the ground, Lyrec vanished into the fog with Borregad at his heels.