Power of Three (8 page)

So it was, Gair realized. He had made poor work of looking after Ceri. He thrust at the stag with all his strength, but the spearhead met nothing. The huge antlered shape wavered and swirled into mist, darker and grayer than the white mist around. There was a blast of cold air. Gair backed hurriedly round the pool toward Ceri, water squirting in sheets from under his feet, until they stood shoulder to shoulder. There they watched in fascinated horror the gray mist harden into a tall, tall shape covered in dim silvery scales like armor, a pointed head solidify, a pale face with queer yellow eyes, a round shield and a sharp, bent scimitar. Gair could have kicked himself. He had been told often enough that Dorig were shape-shifters. But he had had no idea they looked so dangerous. He hoped it would not notice how both their spearpoints were juddering.

It came toward them in a wafting, gliding way that had both of them sick with terror. “Keep back!” Gair said to it. It took no notice. Gair wondered if it spoke some other language.

Before he could speak again, Gest's voice barked, “Stop that, you!”

The Dorig jumped. Gair, feeling weak and bewildered, found that the entire hunt was back, and surrounding the pond in the mist. As soon as Gest spoke, the dogs began to paw and snarl to get at the Dorig. Those who were not holding dogs had their spears aimed at it. Slowly and haughtily, the Dorig looked round the hostile ring. It was a good head taller even than Gest. But it still said nothing.

“You're outnumbered,” said Gest. “There's nothing you can do. Get out of here.”

The Dorig did not say a word to this, either, but it plainly understood. It simply turned and dived into the pool. It made barely a splash. Smokily, it slid under the surface of the water and was gone, with not much more disturbance than if someone had thrown a small pebble into the pond. Indeed, Gair had the impression that the Dorig did become smaller—almost half the size—before it had quite reached the water.

Gest looked at the rippling white pool for a moment, as if something puzzled him. “Lucky for you two that we missed you,” he said to Gair and Ceri. “Keep up with the rest in future.” He had been pleased to find the two boys standing their ground against a full-grown Dorig warrior, but it never occurred to him to say so.

They felt they were in disgrace. As they moved on again, Ceri burst into tears. He swore to Gair that he was crying out of annoyance. It had never occurred to him to put a Thought on the Dorig. Gair said sourly that it made a good story. He was quite as shaken as Ceri, but he hoped no one had noticed.

“You had a narrow escape,” Brad said, coming up alongside Gair. “Why didn't you keep clear of the water? Didn't you notice the cold?”

“Yes. But I thought that was the mist,” Gair admitted. He liked Brad best of all the boys in Garholt, or he would not have admitted it. “Why do they make it cold? Do you know?”

“Fishiness, I expect,” said Brad. “They're cold-blooded, aren't they? Ask my father.”

Gair left Ceri with Brad and trotted up beside Banot. Banot grinned. “You've got your mother's knack of asking the difficult questions, Gair. I don't think they
are
cold-blooded, but I couldn't say for sure. As for making it cold, they say the shape-shifting does it. It takes a good deal of heat to shift shapes, and they get it from the air. It's like—well, you may find it grows cold when Ceri puts a Thought on someone.”

“Thanks,” said Gair. Banot had given him a great deal to think about, but it did nothing to stop his growing feeling of shame. He had been so stupid! He had walked into standing water with Ceri, and it had taken the whole hunt to rescue them. No wonder Gest was disappointed in him. He longed to prove—to himself at least—that he was not quite that stupid and ordinary. He trotted back and asked Ceri to put a Thought on something.

Ceri, to Brad's keen amazement, obligingly broke his spear in two and joined it again. But, either this was only a very small Thought, or the dawn mists were still too chilly. Gair could not tell if the air round Ceri had gone any colder. Neither could Brad.

“I'll do something else when we get home,” Ceri offered. Gair agreed that would be best. They turned for home soon after, and Gair thought about their narrow escape most of the way. He had been terrified, he had to admit that. The noisy, heavy Giants beating the bank of the dike for him had been nothing to the silent silver Dorig. It was the queerness of the Dorig that made it so frightening. Even Banot did not claim to understand or explain them; and Banot, Miri had told Gair, had made quite a study of the Dorig. Gair thought Banot must be a very brave man. He wished he was more like him. He was so ashamed of himself that he began to think he would like to find out more about Dorig, too, in spite of his horror at the mere idea. No one thought Banot stupid.

Gair never had a chance to find out if Ceri's Thoughts made the air cold. They arrived in Garholt that evening with a fair catch, ravenous for the good supper that was waiting. Gair and Ceri both tried not to fall asleep while they ate and told Ayna and Adara about the Dorig.

“It was tall,” Ceri said, yawning, with his mouth full. “I couldn't believe even Dorig—”

There was a violent hammering at the main gate. A woman's voice screamed,
“Dorig!”

All the chatter at the eating-squares stopped. Before anyone could move, the words had been spoken and the gate rumbled open.

“Dorig!” shrieked Kasta, towing a green-faced, terrified Ondo. “You have to help us, Gest!”

Streaming into the mound behind Kasta came a host of people from Otmound. All were white and frightened. Some were wet; some, Orban among them, were hacked and bloody. They had cooking pots, bundles, spindles, babies and all the gold they could wear. Sheep, dogs and cats came streaming into the mound among them.

For a time, there was desperate confusion. The Garholters had to leave their supper unfinished and find food, beds and medicine for the fugitives. And, as Kasta kept screaming that the Dorig had chased them the whole length of the old road, the Garholt sheep had to be got inside and the doors locked as quickly as possible. Gair found himself with Brad, both of them yawning till their ears cracked, guarding Ayna and the other girls, who were running about by Moonlight, shrieking the words to the sheep, which had scattered for the night nearly as far as the old road itself. They were relieved but puzzled not to see a single Dorig.

“Just as well,” said Brad. “I think I'd snore in their faces. What do you think happened?”

Gair wanted to know that, too, but he had to wait until the sheep were in, the doors locked, watch posted and the fugitives all settled in somewhere. Orban, Kasta and Ondo were, of course, settled in Gest's house. Ayna, Gair and Ceri all gathered to watch Orban, with his wounds now bathed and bandaged, drink mug after mug of beer and explain what had happened. The long and short of it was that the Dorig had driven them from Otmound. That afternoon, the wells of Otmound had begun to overflow. While the Garholt hunt had been peacefully making its way home, Og's people had been struggling to hold back a flood which no words would stem. The water ran from the wells, filled the mound and went on rising. By Sundown, the flood had reached the rooftops and everyone was forced to go outside. And outside, the Dorig were waiting.

“Crafty swine!” said Orban. “It was just like smoking out bees. They hid in the Haunted Mound and waited for us to come out.”

Orban and Og rallied those who could fight and attacked the Dorig, while the rest got away with their possessions. The fight had gone very badly. Og was killed. Orban had been forced to run for it with the rest of the fighting men, and the Dorig had pursued them. But the Dorig had not been anxious to go beyond the thorn trees along the first Giant road—Kasta, as usual, had overstated the case—and had turned back to Otmound. Orban had caught up with the rest and they had come on to Garholt as fast as they could.

“And you'd better watch that they don't try that trick with the wells here,” Orban said, passing his mug to Miri for more beer.

“They can't,” Gest said confidently. “All our wells are protected.” He pointed to the nearest, with its rounded stone hood and the twig-shaped writing on the stonework, which was the indoor equivalent of a thorn tree.

“I hope you're right,” Orban said glumly.

Gair looked from his uncle's weary face to the tears running down his mother's. In a shocked, distant way, he knew there had been a terrible disaster. War, he thought. But it did not feel like that. He could not imagine Otmound as an underground lake or think of more than one Dorig at a time. As for Og, it was a shame, but to Gair he was a fussy old grandfather whom Gair had not known very well, or to tell the truth, liked very much. He looked at Ayna and Ceri's sober faces and saw they felt the same. The important thing to all three was that here was Ondo back again after only two days, and the important question was when was he going?

Chapter

5

THAT NIGHT, ONDO HAD GAIR'S BED AGAIN AND
he had to share with Ceri. Neither of them slept as well as they wanted. Gair woke feeling gloomy and apprehensive. He could hear the double flock of sheep bleating, the girls at the lookout posts calling to one another and Orban snoring. That in itself would have made anyone gloomy. But Gair felt uneasy too, in a way he could not explain. He forgot that he had intended to find out whether Ceri's Thoughts made the air cold, and hung about with most of the rest of Garholt, waiting for news.

Gest had sent Banot over to Otmound in the early hours of the morning. He came back, red-eyed and fagged, soon after midday. Gair and Ceri wriggled near enough to hear what he said. It was not cheering. Banot had gone right up to Otmound to find water running out of it and the fields beyond it turning into a marsh. He could see it was still flooded.

“Then the Dorig saw me,” he said. “They came running out of the Haunted Mound—they seem to have made a camp there. And the captain—he was a long, tall one with a big opinion of himself—called out to know what I wanted.”

“You were lucky they didn't kill you first and ask after,” Orban said. Gair was chiefly surprised that Banot and the Dorig could understand one another.

Banot winked and tapped his harp. “Dorig love music,” he said. “He waited till I'd finished playing, and then I asked what was going on. Told him I was making inquiries from Garholt. He didn't say too much, but he told me they were going to live in Otmound in the future. They want to keep it for themselves.”

“Let them try!” Orban said angrily. “What then?”

“He went away for a bit and set a guard over me,” said Banot. “I began to wonder whether I would come back. But he must have gone to ask advice, I think, because he came back and said two things. One was that they'd got their revenge for that battle the year Gest did those tasks. The other was that their King was not going to attack Gest. May I get some sleep now? I'm worn out.”

“What did he mean by that?” Orban demanded.

“He didn't say,” said Banot, who seemed to be falling asleep where he stood.

Gest smiled and signaled to Tille to get Banot away to bed. Then, still smiling, he turned to Orban. “This is a very sad business,” he said. “But don't think you and your people have nowhere to go. You must make your home with us for as long as you need.”

Ceri gave a small moan of dismay. Gair crossed his fingers and prayed to the Sun that Orban would refuse. There must be an empty mound somewhere where the Otmounders could live.

But Orban laughed and clapped Gest on the shoulder. “Thanks. I was hoping you'd say that, Gest. You're such a good fellow. We'll fight the Dorig together, then. Drive the brutes out of Otmound and then out of the Moor!”

Gair wondered how his father could smile like that. He wondered how he was going to bear having Ondo living in Garholt. He felt miserable, and also indefinably uneasy, worse than he had done when he woke up that morning. He tried to explain to Adara how he felt.

“Don't be stupid, Gair,” said Adara. “What else could Gest have said?”

The next few days were very difficult. As there seemed no danger of a Dorig attack, the Otmounders settled in, and the Garholters began to resent them exceedingly. The mound was uncomfortably crowded. New houses had to be built—and it was the Garholters who did the building, the Otmounders being exhausted after their tribulations. The sheep got mixed up. The Otmound smiths set up their forge where they were most in the way of the Garholt smithies, and the Otmound ladies put up their looms where they cut off the light from the Garholt weavers. Adara protested about it to Kasta. “Really?” said Kasta. “What a silly fuss about nothing!” And the looms stayed where they were, to Adara's fury. Much the same happened over the forges when Gest protested to Orban.