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  “Well enough,” Naile agreed. Afreeta, as if she understood all the elf had said and approved of her own role to come, bobbed her head twice, then turned to hiss gently into Naile’s ear—his boar-helm being laid aside, leaving in view for the first time thick braids of hair coiled and pinned to add protection for his skull.

  10

  The Domain of Lichis

  THEY STOOD IN A SHARP CUT OF A PASS. HERE THE AIR WAS THIN, very cold. Snow had drifted down to cloak the heights that walled them in. The edge of frost in the air that flowed about them was so cutting that they had tied over their faces any manner of scarf or strip torn from extra clothing to keep out what they could of the cold.

  Horses drooped, feet spraddled, their limbs shivering from the effort of the last part of the climb. The mountain had been nearly like a ladder, so they had come up it at a crawling pace—dismounted riders leading the animals.

  Frost gathered upon their improvised wind masks, streaked their cloaks. For the last of the upward effort Milo had wondered if Gulth would survive. The lizardman had grown more and more sluggish in his movements, though he had never voiced any complaint. In fact his silence made Milo sometimes speculate as to what thoughts passed through that alien mind. Now Gulth squatted against a small fall of rock, his ice encrusted cloak about him, his head huddled down under the hood until only the tip of his snout protruded.

  Ingrge turned to Wymarc, laying his mittened hand upon the arm of the bard, gesturing with the other to the harp in its bag. It was plain what he wanted of Wymarc. But in this wind and cold—surely the bard dare not expose his fingers to summon up his own brand of magic.

  Yet it would seem that Wymarc was agreeing. He caught the end of his furred mitten between his teeth to yank it off his hand. The bared fingers he inserted under the edge of the binding about his chin and mouth, perhaps to warm them with the scanty breath these heights left in a man’s lungs.

  With the other hand he worried off the bag protecting his skald’s harp. Then he settled down on the same fall of rock behind which Gulth crowded. Milo moved forward as quickly as he could, taking up a position to shield the harper with his body as much as he might. Seeing what he would do Deav Dyne, Yevele and Naile speedily came to aid in making that windbreak. Only the elf stood alone, staring out into the swirl of clouds that screened what lay on the western side of the pass.

  For several long moments Wymarc’s face mask heaved and twisted. Then he brought out his hand to the strings of the harp. Milo saw him flinch and guessed that in this cold he faced a pain as immediate and severe as if the strings were molten metal.

  Touching the harp steadied Wymarc. He began to weave a spell of sound. Wind screamed and moaned, but through that clamor arose his first notes, as clear and well defined as any temple gong. They echoed and re-echoed from the rocky walls, until it seemed that more than one harper plied his art.

  No pain from this playing attacked his listeners. The notes Wymarc repeated over and over again rang through and then out-called the wind, like a summons. Four times the bard swept the harp strings to play the same questing call. Then, once more, he thrust his stiffening fingers beneath the mouth scarf to blow upon them.

  “AYYYYYYY!” Ingrge’s shout could well bring down an avalanche should there be any dangerous overhang of snow and rock, Milo thought apprehensively.

  The elf had cupped his hands to form a trumpet and once more voiced that upsurging shout. Through the grayish roofing of the upper clouds descended a great winged thing. Murky as the pass was, it did not hide those widespread wings. Memory once more moved in Milo’s mind, opening grudgingly another door.

  It was a gar-eagle—the greatest of all winged creatures (save, of course, a dragon) that his world knew. The very beating of those wings churned up snow as the bird descended. And when it came to perch at last on a rock a little farther ahead, closed its fifteen-foot wings, and twisted its head downward toward the elf—over whom it would have towered another head’s length had they been meeting on level ground—even Naile pushed back a fraction.

  The curved beak was brilliant scarlet—the hue of new-spilled blood—and the fierce eyes, which raked them all contemptuously in a single survey, were the gold of flames. But for the rest there was nothing but the white of the purest snow.

  Ingrge held up his mittened hands, palm outward and at the level of his own heart in a ceremonial gesture of greeting. The head of the huge bird dipped again, dropping lower so that they were indeed now eye to eye. Milo did not hear any sound save that of the wind which once more howled since the magic of the music no longer battled with it. Their communication must be in the “silent speech,” mind to mind, as the elven folk were able to do not only among themselves but with all the sons and daughters of nature who wore feathers, scales, or fur—or even leaves—for it was rumored that to the elves trees were also comrades, teachers, and kin-friends.

  The gar-eagle’s hooked beak, formed to rend and tear, opened and the bird screeched ear-piercingly. Ingrge moved back to allow it room as it spread once more those near unbelievable wings, rising up into the clouds.

  When their visitor had entirely disappeared, Ingrge returned. “We can move on.” A wave of his hand gestured ahead. “The great one will track us when he has word. And we dare not linger here lest the cold finish us.”

  Luckily the slope downward from the pass was less difficult than the climb. However, they did not try to ride, but stumbled along, stumping on feet numbed by cold. Milo chose to play rear guard, mainly because he feared that Gulth might drop behind and not be noticed. While he had no particular friendship for lizardmen in general, this one was part of their company and deserved an equal chance.

  He had guessed right that the saurian was near the end of his strength, for Milo was not yet out of the pass cleft when Gulth fell forward into the snow, making no effort to rise.

  “Wymarc!” Milo raised his voice. The bard, half-hidden in cloud mist, faced around, returning as quickly as he could. Together they bundled Gulth across his horse and went on, Milo leading the mount, the bard hovering beside to steady the limp body of the lizardman if he showed any sign of sliding off.

  Mist hid the rest of the party ahead, but once they were out of the pass itself the wind ceased to buffet them and Milo welcomed that small encouragement. Luckily there was only one possible path to take. It curved to the right where trampled snow, fast being covered, was their guide. The swordsman longed to speed up, but he was breathing in short gasps, and he could guess their footing was treacherous. Though it was a less exacting a road, it was still steep enough to call forth caution. Soon it became a series of ledges, each a fraction wider than the one above.

  They were below the cloudline now so Milo looked ahead eagerly for their party. Hooves and boots had beaten down the snow—but he could see nothing of those who had made that trail. Confused, he halted, while the horse moved up a step, nudging at him.

  “What’s the matter?” Wymarc asked.

  “They’re gone!” Milo’s first wild thought was of some snare of spell that had netted the rest in spite of Ingrge’s talent at scenting such.

  “Gone?” The bard loosed his hold on Gulth and crowded forward to look over the swordsman’s shoulder.

  Milo examined ledges with greater care. The three immediately below and beyond where they had paused were trail-marked. But only half of the fourth one showed disturbed snow, as if the rest of their company had been snatched up at that point and—

  Before he could share such a suspicion with Wymarc, Ingrge appeared straight out of the mountain wall. The bard’s laugh made Milo flush at his own stupidity. Perhaps the cold had slowed his wits and let his imagination take over.

  “Cave!” Wymarc gave the answer Milo should have known. “Let us get there with all speed. If our friend here still has a spark of life in his body we had better be tending it.”

  Ingrge joined them before they were along a third of the next ledge. The elf’s aid made the rest of their descen
t the easier. Both horses and men trusted him and did not have to pick such a careful path.

  They pushed through a slit in the stone to enter a cave. Despite the narrow entrance, it widened beyond into a space large enough for both men and animals. Nor was that all. A fire blazed on a flat stone, marked with the scorching of earlier flames, and about it sat the others, holding out their hands to the blaze, crowding in upon the small glow of heat.

  With Ingrge’s help Milo and Wymarc carried Gulth to the source of heat. Deav Dyne arose hurriedly. As they pulled away the ice-stiffened cloak, he leaned solicitously over the scaled body. Milo himself could distinguish no sign of life. But the healing spells of priests were well known to be able to save one very close to death.

  Beads in hand, Deav Dyne drew his other palm in long soothing strokes from the lizardman’s domed head to his scaled and taloned feet, then down each arm in turn. The cleric’s voice muttered a chant. Now the elf knelt on the other side of Gulth, joining his long-fingered hands to Deav Dyne’s in the stroking.

  On the opposite of the fire, feeding it from time to time from a pile of sticks heaped between two outflung spurs of rock, squatted Naile. And almost nosing into the meager flames was Afreeta, low upon her belly, her wings outspread as if she would take into her body all the warmth she could. Wymarc rubbed the hand he had bared to the wind in the pass, alternately blowing upon the fingers and holding them to the fire. Yevele had pulled open one of their supply bags to bring out a roll of the most strength-providing food they carried—dried fruit beaten into a thick pulp and then crumbled to be combined with coarsely ground dried meat.

  For a time the mere fact that they were out of the breath of the mountain wind, under cover and in shelter, was enough for Milo. He watched the labor of the elf and the cleric apathetically, wondering if their efforts were not already in vain.

  Neither Ingrge nor Deav Dyne were willing to concede such a defeat. In the end, their efforts were rewarded. There was a hiss of pain from the lizardman. His horn-lidded eyes opened slowly, and now Milo could see the rise and fall of his arched chest. Deav Dyne stopped his stroking, searched again within his robe and brought out a small curved horn stoppered with a metal cap.

  With infinite care he loosed the stopper while Ingrge raised the heavy saurian head upon his own knee, working his fingers between the fearsome fangs of Gulth’s jaws to open the half-conscious alien’s mouth. Onto the purplish tongue thus exposed, Deav Dyne dropped four small measures of the liquid the horn contained, then made haste to shut the container before he turned back to his patient.

  Gulth blinked slowly. His head settled a little to one side in Ingrge’s hold. Then his eyes closed. The cleric sat back on his heels.

  “Cloaks!” he demanded without looking at the rest of them. “All covering you can spare!”

  Only when his patient was wrapped in a layer of cloaks, with even the horse blankets heaped over him, did Deav Dyne relax. He spoke to the elf. “If he stays in the mountain cold we cannot answer for his life. His people are of the steaming swamps—not conditioned to such trails as these.”

  “Then let him return whence he came,” broke in Naile. “I know of old these snake-skins. They are as full of treachery as a drinking horn of ale in an indifferent inn. We should have been the better, priest, had his spirit departed from him!”

  “You forget,” the battlemaid answered him. “Is not the same fetter on him as the ones we must wear?” She thrust her arm farther into the firelight, where the flames awoke to glinting life the reddish gleam of the bracelet. “I do not know by what method we were chosen, but it is plain that he was meant to be one of our company.”

  Naile snorted. “Yes—to betray us, perhaps. I tell you, that one I shall watch, and should he in any way raise doubts of his actions he will answer to me.” His lips flattened against his tusk-fangs.

  Milo stirred—this was no time for the berserker to allow his change-making rage to take control of his human part. He inched forward and dared to lay hand on the massive arm within his reach. “There is more wisdom in what she says than in your doubts, warrior.”

  Naile’s head swung in his direction. The berserker’s small eyes already held a warning light. “I say—”

  “Say—say—say—” Wymarc repeated. But he made of that single word a singsong of notes. His uncovered harp rested on his knee, and now he fingered one string and then another, not as if he chose to use his song magic, but rather as if he tried each in turn to make sure of its strength, even as a warrior before battle looks to the state of his weaponry. Yet even such a seemingly idle plucking carried with it sounds that echoed softly through the cave.

  Milo, who had been about to tighten his grip on Naile’s arm in perhaps a futile attempt to bring the berserker to his senses, found his hold broken. His hand fell away to rest on his own knee. Just as the warmth of the fire sank into his chilled body, so did those random notes warm his mind, bringing a release from tension, a gentle dreaminess from which all that might harm or threaten was barred.

  The swordsman chewed away at the bit of rolled journey-food Yevele had handed him, content with the warmth and that ease of mind, though an instinct buried deep inside him still was wary enough to cry out that this easement was of magic and would not long hold.

  Outside the cave, darkness gathered. Only Ingrge arose now and then to feed the fire, but no longer with wood. Rather he brought lumps of coal from some inner bay to be set with skill among the brands so that in turn those kindled, giving new life and strength to the flames. Now and then one of the horses or ponies, tethered farther in, stamped or snorted, but those by the fire were sunk in the silence born of their own thoughts or dreams.

  Once Milo roused enough to mention the need for a sentry, but Naile, his voice a whispering rumble, pointed to Afreeta, saying, “She will give voice in warning. Her senses are better than ours for such service.”

  The pseudo-dragon had waddled so close to the fire that Milo wondered if it would not singe her. Her long neck uncoiled, her head darted forth and her jaws clamped upon a bit of glowing coal. She crunched it, as if it were some dainty to be relished, and pounced upon a second. What Milo knew of her kind, even of the greater, true dragons, was very little. He had always supposed that their legendary fire-eating was just that—a legend with no truthful foundation. But it would seem that it was true.

  Naile made no attempt to prevent her epicure feast, even though there was a faint puffing of smoke trails from her throat.

  “Eat well, my beauty,” the berserker half whispered. “You will need such fire within you if we stay long in this land.”

  To stare into the fire brought drowsiness. Naile might believe that his winged companion was adequate protection for their camp, but the tested soldier within Milo could not quite accept that. Finally he got up and went to the mouth of the cave.

  In doing so he seemed to pass through an actual wall. The heat that hung so comfortingly around the fire was lost instantly. He shivered and drew closer his cloak, as he peered out into a night so dark and starless that he had to depend upon his ears rather than his eyes to guess what was beyond.

  The sound of the wind among the peaks made a threatening cry, like that of a hunting beast prowling the mountains. It shrieked and puffed fine snow into his face, which stung his flesh like needles of ice.

  By all the sounds he could identify, a storm had closed in upon the high country. Perhaps only the cave shelter had saved their lives. Even magic could not withstand such raging of nature. Milo stepped back. The others, even Ingrge, slept, but the swordsman found himself shaken out of the charmed contentment Wymarc’s harping had produced.

  Though he settled down once more by the fire he could not drowse. Rather he tried to order his thoughts, looking from one to another of his strangely assorted company. Each represented certain abilities and strengths (also, probably, weaknesses), which differed. Even though he, Naile, and Yevele were fighters, they were far from being alike. The cleric, the bard
, and the elf commanded other talents and gifts. The lizardman—like Naile, Milo wondered why the alien had been added to their motley company. It was true that the saurian-ancestored ones were swamp dwellers, needing both water and turgid heat about them to function best. Yet Gulth, uncomplaining, had ridden into the near waterless plains and climbed as long as he could into what must be for him a hell of cold.

  The lizardfolk in their own lands, and with their own weapons, were warriors of high standing. Therefore, there must be some reason why Gulth should ride with them now, not just because he also wore the bracelet which was the badge of their slavery to some unknown menace. As he gazed into the fire Milo was once more plagued by fleeting memories of that other world. He stirred uneasily. Those—he must seal them away for his own sake. To be divided in mind when danger stalked (and when did it not here?) was to be weakened.

  He slept at last. This time he dreamed vividly. A dark stone wall loomed large. About the base of the wall grew greenery, a greenery that was not natural—that was too bright—that shuddered and shook, as if the plants themselves strove to drag their roots from out the soil and charge at him.

  Gray wall, green that had a life he could not understand and—

  There was a piercing shriek. Milo roused. For a moment he was so completely bewildered at the breaking of his dream that he only stared bewilderedly at a fire. Gray walls—fire. . . . No, the walls had not been composed of flames, but rather of solid stone.

  Again that shriek. Now Ingrge moved lightly toward the outer entrance. The others stirred, sat up. Naile’s hand gripped his axe and Afreeta perched on his shoulder. Though her mouth was open and her tongue darted in and out she did not hiss. Milo, hand about sword hilt, moved out behind the elf.

  There was no dark ahead now, rather the gray of an overcast day. But their view of the dull sky was nearly hidden by the vast form of the gar-eagle who had settled on the ledge without, its head lowered so that it might look into the cave.