Ware Hawk Read online

  Once more his hands moved. He was again using his fingers, presumably passing them along the cords. These movements were more emphatic, swifter. She watched as best she might, and at the same time she grew to sense, more and more, that outside the ghastly candle pillars of this cage there was another entity at watch. The miasma of evil which encased this place was like a wall. If a would-be rescuer prowled there, the girl could not know, nor dared she strive to learn.

  Alon raised a hand slowly, the fingers moving as if he beckoned. A dark shape obeyed his summons, lifting to follow. Serpent? No, the thing was too thin, it lacked any swell of head she could see, having only a questing tip. The cord! It was taking on a form of pseudo-life, or else Alon had wrought from it an hallucination!

  As the boy spread both hands outward in a vast sweep, the cord end remained aloft, stretching up near as high as his own head from the pavement. It swayed back and forth. His hands met palm to palm and then pushed apart. The tip of the cord swung away from him, flung itself toward the line of pillars, then fell completely out of Tirtha's line of vision. Alon's hands continued to move. Not in the wide sweeps he had first used, rather up and down in small motions, as if, though they were flattened out palm down, still he had grasp of an invisible line that fed along the ground. He had risen to his knees, his back straight, so concentrating on what he did that the aura of his intense effort reached her.

  All Alon's strength was centered on this. She remembered how once she had asked of him and of Nirel that they lend their energy to support her in farseeing. Could she, in some manner, now back Alon in a like fashion? There was the pain ever pushing against what barriers she had set her inner will to hold. Were she to release that will, strive to add its force to what the boy needed, those barriers could well fall entirely.

  Tirtha closed her eyes for a moment, faced firmly what might be the result of such action on her part. Alon was risking much, using full energy on what he strove to do. She could only believe that he was battling their enemy. While Alon himself—she had come to accept that the boy understood more than she could even guess.

  She chose. Will could be aimed, and in that moment before she could shrink from the results of such a breaching of her own defenses, Tirtha did just that. She kept her eyes fast closed, but held Alon clear in her mind, as she summoned up a picture of a touching between them, not for any communication that might arouse a guardian here—rather a picture of her own hand reaching out to clasp the boy's squared shoulder and, down that arm and hand, flooding the strength of her own will.

  The fire of pain leapt in upon her. Tirtha was wrapped in it. Still she fought to keep mental hold on her vision. Might even pain itself be a source of power? That flashed across her mind and she seized upon it, held it, strove to add the force, not of the torment, but of the power that generated it, to what she had to give.

  This was a descent into such agony as she would not have believed anyone could bear. Nor could she even be sure that what she was trying to do met with any success. Had her offering reached Alon—could she spur, energize him further in his strange ordering of the very bonds that had held him prisoner?

  Agony filled her, as if her flesh swelled outward, unable to contain the full force of this. There was a burst of fire in her head. Alon was gone, and then everything. . .

  “Tirtha!” Then again, “Tirtha.”

  Into the great nothingness rang that name. Something answered against its will, fighting, and yet unable to withstand the drawing of that voice.

  “Tirtha!”

  Three was a number of power—an ancient bit of knowledge. Thrice summoned, one could not remain apart. She was drawn—all that remained of her.

  Searing pain came, then it was gone. For another had cut it from her even as one might cut away a tattered body covering. Tirtha was sealed against what her body might strive to raise for her punishment. Also that awakening which had begun in the place of the Dark had carried forward. She knew that she breathed, if in shallow gasps, that she heard with her ears, and now she saw with her eyes, for she opened them.

  Around her there stood no tall pillars of corpse candles. The scent and strength of the Dark was gone. There was light, yes, but it was the true coloring of the sky at sunrise, while over her blew a gentle wind carrying the scent of flowers. Only more important to her, was the face of the one who knelt beside her. Hands a little browned by the sun—long-fingered, slender hands—were outstretched above Tirtha's breast, and she knew that it was those hands that barred the pain from overwhelming her.

  This was the girl she had seen in her mind vision—she who had held the shadow sword. She was not the Great One who had looked upon them with detachment and no hint of pity, rather this one was a Voice, a priestess. In her the human still abode and was alive in her face and in her voice as she spoke.

  “Welcome, Hawk Blood, who kept well the faith. The conclusion of the guardianship is near upon us. We come to an end—and perhaps a beginning—if the Power reckons it so.”

  “Who . . . ?” Tirtha found a weak word.

  “I am Crytha,” the other answered readily. It would seem that there was indeed to be a naming of names. “I serve Her whom you have knowledge of, even though that came to you only dimly. She of the Shadow Sword, the Lady Ninutra.”

  As she spoke that name, it was echoed. In the air over her downbent head appeared the bird that had been born from the dying falcon, or else one so like that there could not be feather's difference between them. It opened its beak to scream. Crytha looked away from Tirtha, her eyes viewing something or someone beyond.

  “Yes, it is truly time,” she said. “Our ingathering begins.”

  18

  THOUGH pain had been walled away, Tirtha had no strength or power to shift her helpless body. She could only see what advanced into a narrow range of vision. Crytha still knelt beside her, but two others now moved forward to stand, one on either side of the priestess, each in his own way memorable to look upon. One was tall, broad of shoulder, thick of body, as befits an axeman. For the weapon he bore two-handed before him was a double-bladed axe. His helm mounted a marvelously wrought dragon from beneath which he looked upon Tirtha with compassion. Yet his eyes moved from side to side at times, as if they were in a place where constant close watch must be kept.

  His companion was younger, more slender, fair of skin, and he held a sword such as was common enough among those who had ridden along the border. He might not be wholly of the Old Race, yet he was plainly human born. It was he who spoke now.

  “There comes a rider. . . .”

  Crytha made a small gesture. “Yes. But there is more than that one. Rane walks . . .”

  The wielder of the axe shifted his weapon as if making sure of its balance. His features lost all softness, his upper lip lifted the way a hunting cat would snarl.

  “We are too close to his source,” he said. “Best we . . .”

  Crytha interrupted him. “She cannot be moved.” Her gesture was to Tirtha. “This must remain our field of battle whether it appears a fitting one or not. For she also has a part still to play.” Crytha got easily and gracefully to her feet. The three of them, Tirtha saw, looked beyond in another direction.

  With infinite care she brought her small strength to bear, willed her head to shift. It lay a little raised, as if there were support beneath. Thus she discovered she could see farther, even look upon what still rested on her breast, her hands frozen so tightly to it they might have become a part of it. The casket was still hers.

  She raised her eyes from it, to follow the others’ line of gaze. So she caught sight of Alon. He was not standing as they did, awaiting what came, rather he raced forward. She heard the high neigh of a Torgian, a cry of triumph from an equine throat.

  There were many rocks about. She still felt a chill issuing from behind. Though they may have, through some trick of power, won free of that Dark cage, yet the newcomers had not transported her too far from it. From the amount of debris lying about,
she could be amidst ruins of either a temple or perhaps a hold or a village. Between two still-standing heaps of time-eaten stone, marking nearly destroyed walls, Alon dashed. Moments later he returned, fingers laced into the mane of a horse, to the riding pad of which clung a man, his body drooping, his dark-haired head bare, half his face masked by a brown crust of dried blood. Yet no mask could ever again conceal him from Tirtha's recognition.

  Within her prison-body, her heart gave a great leap, as if to break all bonds of bone and flesh. She was half—three-quarters dead, yes. But here she saw another dead arise to ride.

  The mount followed Alon, rather than being directed-by its rider. Though his eyes were open, Tirtha wondered how much he really saw of what lay about him. The Torgian came to a halt, its head down, as Alon smoothed its rough forelock, murmuring to the horse the while. Now the rider stirred, strove to straighten. A measure of intelligence came into his eyes, piercing whatever daze he had fallen into. It was plain he both saw and knew Tirtha. Then his gaze traveled to those three who stood by her. She saw his claw waver toward his belt. He wore no sword now, there was no dart gun in its holster, but the glowing pommel of the weapon of power was still within his reach.

  He dismounted, perhaps would have fallen had he not caught at the mane of the Torgian to steady himself. Crytha took a step or two ahead of her companions.

  “Long awaited, come at last . . .” It was as if she recited part of a ritual. “Brother of the winged ones, you to whom the weapon, Basir's Tongue, has cleaved and made choice, we give you welcome, even though it be not to your rest but perhaps your bane and ours.”

  The Falconer stared at her. Now he loosed his hold upon the horse's coarse upspringing hair, raised hand toward his head in an uncertain gesture.

  “You—are—the—night—walker. . . .” He spoke hoarsely, as if against his will. “You came to draw me back from death.”

  “From death?” Crytha said, as his last pause lengthened. “No, you were not dead, Falconer. They left you for such, but while you serve the Great Ones, then death comes not so easily.”

  “I serve the Lady.” There was a tightness about his mouth. Flecks of dried blood fell from his jaw as he spoke. His hair, as Tirtha could see in the ever brightening day, was matted with dust and blood along his skull over the left ear. “This lady . . .”

  His claw pointed to Tirtha where she lay. “What would you do with her? Does your Great One claim her, too?”

  “She does,” Crytha answered promptly. “And you, also, for what you carry.”

  It was her turn to point, and her fingers did not indicate the sword whose light gleamed bright enough to contrast even with the day, but rather the dart-looped belt about his shoulder. He looked down, following the line of her finger. Then he reached up slowly and clasped what he had carried out of Hawkholme—that rod with its concealed roll of the unreadable.

  “How . . .” He looked totally bemused, as if this were the last thing he expected to find.

  “By the wit of your lady,” Crytha told him briskly. She crossed to stand before him, holding out her hand. He fumbled, freeing the dead man's legacy, then gave it to her.

  The younger man who had joined her had half turned his head, looked over his shoulder to where Tirtha believed might be the site of the cage from which she had been brought.

  “There is a stirring . . .” he cautioned sharply.

  He of the axe laughed, giving a small flourish of his ponderous weapon. “When is there not, Yonan? Let it stir. It must come to terms sooner or later—its or ours. And I will wager the weight of this”—again he gave a short dip and lift of his weapon—“that the result will not be altogether to the Dark's liking, if at all.”

  “He who comes is Rane.” Holding the tube of parchment, Crytha had moved back toward them.

  “Meaning, Lady of the Shadow Sword, that I am too hopeful? Ah, when has it ever bettered a man to foresee an ill end? Such foreboding will sap strength before the contest even begins. And this is a foreseen meeting—what of your Great One?”

  Crytha frowned. “You are bold, Uruk. One of the Four Great Weapons may be yours, but that fact does not open all gates for you.”

  The man, still smiling, made her a half salute. “Lady Crytha, as a twice-living man I have seen much, heard much, done much. There is little left of any awe in me. I have been a god to the Thas, those underground dwellers of the Dark Rule, and I have twice been a war captain. We are facing now a battle, so I ask you frankly, what may we expect in the way of allies?”

  It was not the priestess but Alon who answered him. The boy had advanced a little, the Torgian following him, and Nirel, one hand again on the mount's neck for support, pacing along.

  “You have us . . .”

  Uruk turned his face toward the boy, and his smile grew the wider.

  “Well said, youngling. Having seen how you broke from Rane's cage and drew this lady with you, I give you good credit as one to stand beside in line of battle. And”—his gaze swept on to the Falconer who met it head up, back straight, with a lifted chin—“any man who carries one of the Four is a shield to the arm, a stout wall to one's back. Welcome, you to whom Basir's Tongue gives willing service. And”—now his eyes dropped to Tirtha—“Lady, you are of the Old Blood, and it is plain that this was a meeting planned out of the time we know and bow to. I know not what your weapon may be—is it left to you to be able to wield it?”

  She looked down at the casket between her locked hands. “I do not know”—she spoke for the first time—“whether what I bear is weapon or prize. I only know that of it I am the set guardian, and this geas has not been lifted from me. I think that if you depend upon me for any weaponry you must plan again. This body is dead and I remain in it still only through a power I do not understand.”

  She heard a breath quickly drawn and saw the Falconer's claw swing forward and then back again against his body. Just the claw, she did not look higher to his face.

  “Rane!” The younger man appeared to pay but little attention to the rest of them, his concentration was on what lay behind, which she could not see.

  There came a crackling in the air about them, a feeling of Power gathering, sweeping. Not yet at them, rather for him, or that, which summoned. Uruk glanced once in the same direction his companion watched, and then he spoke to Crytha. His smile had vanished; there was a sharpness in his voice.

  “I have asked—what of your Great One?”

  “She shall do as she desires.” The girl was abrupt in her reply. She was angered, Tirtha thought, by his question or his insistence upon an answer to it.

  Uruk shrugged. “It is true that the Great Ones make it a habit to conceal their plans from their servants. Well enough. If this is to be our force, then make you ready.” His sweep of eye passed over them all. “Rane, I do not know in person. In the telling any story grows the greater with each repeating of it. He is a Dark One who has his own strengths. It would appear we are about to test them.”

  The short sword to which Crytha and Uruk had given a name was free in the Falconer's hand. He stood away from the horse, came to Tirtha after the proper fashion of a shield man serving his employer. She looked up the length of his lean body. The tattered cloak had disappeared, along with his battered helm, his long sword, and dart gun. Now he worked his arm through the useless dart belt, tossing it from him. His hand showed blue as if the light of the sword pommel pierced his flesh.

  Tirtha felt a new warmth. Her hands that had been so useless and dead—were they coming alive again? Between them, the casket blazed. Alon had come up on her other side. Even as the other three appeared to draw together into a unit, so were they also forming a common bond. The boy made a summoning wave with one hand. From the ground where Tirtha had not noticed it lying, there arose, swaying back and forth serpent-fashion once again, one of those coils of leather rope. The end of it swooped forward into Alon's grasp. He twisted a goodly length of it about his bruised and blood-stained wrist as if to give it sto
ut anchorage, and then he raised the loose-hanging portion to swing it back and forth.

  Uruk's axe was in plain sight, Yonan had drawn his sword, touched its point to earth, grasping its hilt in both hands. But Crytha seemed not to note all those battle preparations. Instead she had drawn the skin of symbols forth from its carrier, letting the rod fall free, and was studying it with care. Tirtha saw her lips move as if she shaped sounds, but there was also a frown of puzzlement between her eyes. Then, with a quick step, she was at Tirtha's side, had stooped and laid the roll of skin on the lid of the casket. Once more back among her companions, the priestess then held out her empty hand.

  Mist whirled, gathered, intensified. What she held was the Shadow Sword, save that Tirtha would now swear that blade had real substance and was of the same strong steel as she had seen in many a warrior's scabbard. Along it runes glowed brightly, faded, then glowed again, as they might if they winked in and out of another time and space.

  This Great One who might be moved to join with them or not—Tirtha's thought went to her. It would seem that perhaps her active help was not to be counted on. Surely they had come out of the sealed room at Hawkholme with her aid, only then to fall straightway into the hands of the enemy. Or had that been all a part of a plan? Perhaps they were of no value for what they were, only for the services they rendered. Perhaps she and Alon had been deliberately given into captivity that they might be brought to this place at this hour. Tirtha was sure she could not depend on any concern for her as a person, she was but the means of controlling what was frozen into her grasp.

  Controlling? Why had that particular word come into her mind? She had no control over the box or what it might contain. Hers was only the guardianship. Yet in her dreams the Lord and Lady of Hawkholme had known . . .