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  Now Milo himself studied the stone. All he could pick out was a meaningless wandering of thread-thin lines with a pinpoint dot, near too small to distinguish with the naked eye, here and there.

  “What do you see then?” He did not want to confess his own ignorance, but rather pry out what the cleric found so unusual.

  “It is a map!” There was such certainty in that answer that Milo knew Deav Dyne was convinced.

  “A map.” Now Naile and Ingrge moved closer.

  “It is too small, too confused.” The berserker shook his head.

  But the elf, inspecting the ring closely, reached for a small stick of the drift they had piled up to feed the fire and with his other hand smoothed a patch of the earth in the best light those flames afforded. “Hold still!” he commanded. “Now, let us see—”

  Looking from stone to ground and back again he put the point of his stick to the earth and there inscribed a squiggle of line or a dot. The pattern he produced showed nothing that made sense as far as Milo was concerned, but the cleric studied the drawing with deep interest.

  “Yes, yes, that is it!” he cried triumphantly as Ingrge added a last dot and sat back on his heels to survey his own handiwork critically. However, nothing in that drawing awoke any spark of memory in Milo. If it had been of some value to the swordsman part of him, that particular memory was too deeply buried now.

  “Nothing I’ve ever seen.” Naile delivered his verdict first.

  It was the bard who laughed.

  “And, judging by the expression on our comrade’s face,” he nodded to Milo, “he is as baffled as you, berserker, even though he seems to be in full possession. Well, will your prayers”—now he turned to Deav Dyne—“or your scout eye,” he addressed Ingrge, “provide us with an answer? As a bard I am a far wanderer, but these lines mean naught to me. Or can the battlemaiden find us an answer?”

  There was a moment of silence and then all answered at once, denying any recognition. Milo twisted free from Deav Dyne’s hold.

  “It would seem that this is a mystery past our solving—”

  “But why do you wear it?” persisted the cleric. “It is my belief that you would have neither of those on you”—he pointed to the rings—“unless there is a reason. You are a swordsman, your trade lies with weapons, perhaps one or two simple spells. But these are things of true Power—”

  “Which Power?” Yevele broke in.

  “Not that of Chaos.” Deav Dyne made prompt answer. “Were that so, Ingrge and I, and even the skald, would sense that much.”

  “Well, if we have in this a map which leads nowhere,” Milo shook his right thumb, “then what lies within the other?” He stuck out the other thumb with the dull and lifeless stone.

  Deav Dyne shook his head. “I cannot even begin to guess. But there is one thing, swordsman. If you are willing, I can try a small prayer spell and see if thus we can learn what you carry. Things of Power are never to be disregarded. Men must go armed against them for, if they are used by the ignorant, then dire may be the result.”

  Milo hesitated. Maybe if he took the rings off—he had no desire to be wearing them while Deav Dyne experimented. Only, when he endeavored to slip either from its resting place he found they were as firmly fixed as the bracelet. The cleric, witnessing his efforts, did not seem surprised.

  “It is even as I have thought—they are set upon you, just as the geas was set upon us all.”

  “Then what do I do?” Milo stared at the bands. Suddenly they had changed into visible threats. He shrank from Things of Power, which he did not in the least understand, and which, as Deav Dyne had pointed out, might even choose somehow to act, or make him act, by another’s control.

  “Do you wish me to try a Seeing?”

  Milo frowned. He did not want to be the focus of any magic. But, on the other hand, if these held any danger, he needed to know as soon as possible.

  “All right—” he replied with the greatest reluctance.

  6

  Those Who Follow—

  TWILIGHT DIM DREW A DARK CURTAIN WITHOUT. NOW GULTH heaved up from his place a little behind the rest of the company. His claws settled his belt, the only clothing that he wore, more firmly about him. From it hung a sword, not of steel, which in the dankness of his homeland might speedily rust away, but a weapon far more wicked looking—a length of heavy bone into the sides of which had been inserted ripping teeth of glinting, opaline spikes. He had also a dagger nearly as long as his own forearm, more slender than the sword, sheathed in scaled skin. But his own natural armament of fang and claw were enough to make any foeman walk warily.

  Now he hissed out in the common speech, “I guard.”

  Naile half heaved himself up as if to protest the lizardman’s calm assumption of that duty. His scowl was as quick as it always was whenever he chanced to glance at Gulth. Wymarc had risen, too, his shoulder so forming a barrier before the berserker. Even though the bard was by far the slighter man, yet the move was so deftly done that Gulth had become one with the twilight before Naile could intercept him.

  “Snake-skin?” Naile spat out. “He has no right to ride with real men!”

  Afreeta wreathed about the berserker’s throat, where her head had been tucked comfortably under his chin, swung out her snout, opened slits of eyes, and hissed. Straightway, Naile’s big hand arose to scratch, with a gentleness foreign to his thick, calloused fingers, the silvery underpart of her tiny jaw.

  “Gulth wears the bracelet,” Milo pointed out. “It could well be also that he likes us and our company as little as you appear to care for him.”

  “Care for him!” exploded Naile. “Tarred with the filth of Chaos they are, most of his kind. My shield brother was dragged down and torn to pieces by such half a year gone when we ventured into the Troilan Swamps. That was a bad business and I am like never to forget the stink of it! What if he does wear the bracelet—the lizardfolk claim to be neutral, but it is well known they incline to Chaos rather than the Law.”

  “Perhaps,” Yevele said, “they find their species do not get an open-handed reception from us. However, Milo is right—Gulth wears the bracelet. Through that he is one with us. Also the geas holds him.”

  “I do not like that—or him,” Naile grumbled. Wymarc laughed.

  “As you have made quite plain, berserker. Yet you are not wholly adverse to all of the scaled kind or you would not have Afreeta with you.”

  Naile’s big hand covered part of the small flying reptile as if the bard had threatened her in some manner.

  “That is different. Afreeta—you do not yet know how well she can be eyes, yes, and ears for any man.”

  “Then, if you trust her, but not Gulth,” Milo suggested, “why not set her also to watch? Let the guard have a guard.”

  Wymarc’s laugh was hearty. “Common logic well stated, comrade. I would suggest we cease to exercise our smaller fears and suspicions and let Deav Dyne get on with what he would do—the learning of what kind of force our comrade here has wedded to his hands.”

  Milo felt that Naile wanted to refuse. Reluctantly the berserker held out his hand and Afreeta released her hold about his throat to step upon his flattened palm, her wings already spreading and a-flutter. She took a small leap into the air, soared nearly to the roof of the rock over their heads, then was gone after Gulth.

  The cleric had paid no attention to them. Instead he knelt by that same patch of earth on which Ingrge had drawn the map and was now busy emptying out the contents of the overlarge belt pouch that he wore.

  He did not erase the crude markings the elf had made, but around them, using a slender wand about the length of palm and outstretched midfinger, he began to sketch runes. Though Milo found stirring in his mind knowledge of at least two written scripts, these resembled neither.

  As he worked, Deav Dyne, using the dry and authoritative tone of a master trying to beat some small elements of knowledge into the heads of rather stupid and inattentive pupils, explained what he
did.

  “The Word of Him Who Knows—this set about an unknown, draws His attention to it. If He chooses to enlighten our ignorance, then such enlightenment is His choice alone. Now—at least this is not of Chaos, or the Word could not contain it intact, the markings would be wiped away. So—let the rings now approach the Word, swordsman!”

  His command was so sharply uttered Milo obeyed without question.

  He held his two thumbs in the air above those scrawls on the earth, feeling slightly foolish, yet apprehensive. Deav Dyne was certainly not a wizard, but it was well known that those who did serve their chosen gods with an undivided heart and mind could control Power, different of course from that which Hystaspes and the rest of the adepts and wizards tapped, but no less because of that difference.

  Running his prayer beads through his fingers, the cleric began to chant. Like the symbols he had drawn which were without meaning to Milo, so were the words Milo was able to distinguish, slurred and affected as they were by the intonation Deav Dyne gave them. But then the ritual the cleric used might be so old that even those who recited such words to heighten their own trained power of projection and understanding did not know the original meaning either.

  Having made the complete circuit of the beads on his chain, Deav Dyne slipped it back over his wrist, and picked up from where it lay by his knee the same rod with which he had drawn the patterns. Leaning forward, he touched the tip of it to the map ring.

  Milo heard Yevele give a gasp. The rod took on a life of its own, spinning in Deav Dyne’s hold until he nearly lost it. Quickly he withdrew. There were drops of sweat beading his high forehead, rising on the shaven crown of his head from which his cowl had fallen.

  Mastering quickly whatever emotion had struck at him, he advanced the rod a second time to touch the oval. The response this time was less startling, though the rod did quiver and jerk. Milo had expected some backlash to himself but none came. Whatever power the cleric had tapped by his ritual had reacted on him alone.

  Now Deav Dyne settled back, returning the rod to his bag. Then he caught up a branch, using it to wipe away the drawing.

  “Well?” Milo asked. “What do I wear then?”

  There was a glazed look in Deav Dyne’s eyes. “I—do—not—know—” His words came as if he spoke with great effort and only because he must force himself to utter them. “But—these are old, old. Walk with care, swordsman, while you wear them. There is nothing of evil in them—nor do they incline to the Law as I know and practice it.”

  “Another gift from our bracelet-bestowing friend perhaps?” Wymarc asked.

  “No. If Hystaspes spoke true (and by my instincts he did) that which has brought us here is alien. These rings are of this space, but not this time. Knowledge is discovered, lost through centuries, found again. What do we know of those who built the Five Cities in the Great Kingdom? Or who worshipped once in the Fane of Wings? Do not men ever search for the treasures of these forgotten peoples? It would seem, swordsman, that this Milo Jagon, who is now you, was successful in some such questing. The ill part is that you do not know the use of what you wear. But be careful of them, I pray you.”

  “I would be better, I think,” Milo returned, “to shed them into this fire, were I only able to get them off. But that freedom seems to be denied me.” Once more he had pulled at the bands but they were as tight fixed as if they were indeed a part of his flesh.

  Wymarc laughed for the third time. “Comrade, look upon the face of our friend here and see what blasphemy you have mouthed! Do you not know that to one of his calling the seeking out of ancient knowledge is necessary to maintain his very life, lest he fade away like a leaf in winter, having nothing to sharpen his wits upon? Such a puzzle is his meat and drink—”

  “And what is yours, bard?” snapped Deav Dyne waspishly. “The playing with words mated to the strumming of that harp of yours? Do you claim that of any great moment in adding to the knowledge of men?”

  Wymarc lost none of his easy smile. “Do not disdain the art of any man, cleric, until you are sure what it may be. But, in turn, I have another puzzle for you. What do you see in the flames, Deav Dyne?”

  Milo guessed that was no idle question, rather it carried import unknown to him. The irritation that had tightened the cleric’s mouth for an instant or two vanished. He turned his head, his hand once more swinging the chain of his prayer beads. Now he was staring into the fire. Ingrge, who had drawn a little apart during their delving into the mystery of the rings, came closer. It was to him that Naile addressed another question.

  “What of it, ranger? You have certain powers also—this shaven addresser of gods is not alone in that.”

  “I do not rule fire. It is a destroyer of all that my kind holds dearest. For those of your kin, were, can flee when such destruction eats upon their homes and trails. Trees escape not . . .” He stared also at the leaping of the flames, as if they were enemies against which he had no power of arrow shot or chanted spell.

  Deav Dyne continued to stare at the flames as intent as he had been moments earlier when he had attempted to use his knowledge of wand and rune.

  “What—?” began Milo, at a loss. Wymarc raised a finger to his lips in warning to be silent.

  “They come.” Deav Dyne’s tone was hardly above a mutter.

  “How many?” Wymarc subdued his own voice. His smile vanished, there was an alertness about him, no kin to his usual lazy acceptance of life.

  “Three—two only who can be read, for they have with them a worker of power. Him I perceive only as a blankness.”

  “They are of Chaos?” Wymarc asked.

  A shadow of impatience crept back into the cleric’s voice.

  “They are of those who can be either. But I do not see any familiar dark cloaking them.”

  “How far behind?” Milo tried to keep his voice as low and toneless as Wymarc’s. His body was tense. Their mounts along the river—Gulth—Was the lizardman a good guard?

  “A day—maybe a little less—to measure the march between us. They travel light—no extra mounts.”

  Milo’s first thought was to break camp, ride on at the best pace they could make in the dark. Then better judgment took command. Ahead lay another stretch of plain, perhaps a day’s journey, if they pushed. Then came a tributary flowing north. There was a second dry march after that, before the third stream, which was the one they sought, leading as it did into the mountains, enough below Geofp so that they might avoid any brush with the fighting there.

  That particular stream was born of a lake in the mountains which cupped the Sea of Dust itself. They had decided earlier that it would be their guide in among the peaks where they might or might not be able to discover Lichis’s legendary lair.

  But the marches from one river to the next, those were the problem. Deav Dyne blinked, passed his hand across his sweating forehead and moved away from the fire. He reached for his bottle of water newly filled from the river, took a long swallow. When he looked up again his face was gaunt and drawn.

  “Once only—”

  “Once only what?” Milo wanted to know.

  “Once only can he scry so for us,” Wymarc explained. “Perhaps it was foolish to waste . . . No, I do not believe it is wasted! Our protecting wall of illusion is exhausted. Now we know that there are those who sniff behind us, we can well take precautions.”

  “Three of them—seven of us,” Naille stretched. “I see no problem. We have but to wait and lay a trap—”

  “One of them possesses true power,” the cleric reminded them. “Enough to mask himself completely. Perhaps enough to provide them all with just a screen as has encompassed us through this day.”

  “But he cannot draw upon that forever.” Yevele spoke for the first time. “There is a limit to all but what a true adept can accomplish. Is he an adept?”

  “Had he been an adept,” Deav Dyne returned, “they would not need to cover the ground physically at all. And yes, the constant maintenance of any sp
ell (especially if the worker has not all his tools close to hand, as did the wizard who drew us into this misbegotten venture) is not possible. But he will be gifted enough to smell out any ambush.”

  “Unless,” the girl pressed on, “it takes all his concentration and strength to hold the spell of an illusion.”

  For the first time Naile looked at her as if he really saw her. Though he had showed antagonism toward Gulth, he had refused to notice Yevele at all. Perhaps the near-giant berserker held also a dislike for Amazon clan forces.

  “How much truth in that?” he now rumbled, speaking at large as if he did not quite know to whom of their party he should best address his demand.

  “It could be so,” acknowledged the cleric. “To maintain a blockage illusion is a steady drain on any spell caster.”

  “With our illusion in turn broken, we should be easy meat,” Milo pointed out, “not only for an open attack, but for some spell cast. The way before us is open country. Therefore, we must make some move to halt pursuit. Let Ingrge in the morning lead on with Deav Dyne, Wymarc, Gulth—”

  “And we of the sword wait?” Yevele nodded. “There are excellent places hereabouts to set an ambush.”

  Milo’s protest against her being a part of it was on his lips, but died away before he betrayed himself. Yevele might be a girl but she was a trained warrior, even as were he and the berserker. Though he did not deny that the other four of their party each had their own skills, he was uncertain as to how much those would matter in a business that was a well-known part of the battles he had been bred and trained to.

  “Good enough,” Naile responded heartily. “Tonight we shall divide the watch. I go now to relieve snake-skin—”

  Milo would have objected, but the berserker had already left their improvised shelter. Ingrge raised his head as the swordsman moved to follow Naile.

  “Words do not mean acts, comrade,” the elf said. “There is no love for Gulth in him—but neither will he raise hand against him.”

  Wymarc nodded in turn. Deav Dyne seemed to have sunk into a half-exhausted sleep, huddled beyond the fire.