Sorcerer's Moon (14 page)

A potboy came up with her meal on a platter and demanded payment. She took coins from her well-filled purse.

'Without Diddly guides, it'd be suicide to go into the morass,' the oldwife observed with a sniff. 'It's not for the likes of us to second-guess kings and war-leaders.'

Rusgann grunted and fell upon the chicken stew like one starving. Her companions finished their own food and drink, and the beldame said, 'Well, it's time my daughter and I were off. Good luck in your journeying, lass. Be glad you're going south, away from Didion and the horrid Salka.'

'Well,' Rusgann said with a wry grin,
‘I
can only hope that my sister's children don't turn out to be monsters of another sort. Farewell!'

The two women smiled at her and left the tavern.

Rusgann sat back, sighing, and took a long pull of ale as she studied her surroundings. The place was clean enough and reasonably quiet. She'd seek a bed and get some sleep, then buy a strong saddle-mule from the adjacent stable. It would take her at least three days to reach Boarsden via Great Pass.

CHAPTER
FOUR

After several days of hard slogging afoot through the dense forest above the western 'ear' of Black Hare Lake, the five-man reconnaissance party led by Prince Dyfrig Beorbrook reached the Raging River. At that point their Didionite guide, a fur-trapper named Calopticus Zorn, took the prince aside, nodded toward the opposite bank of the watercourse, and drew one finger across his throat in an eloquent gesture. 'I go no farther,' he stated.

'You mean the Salka control the country beyond the river?' Prince Dyfrig's skepticism was obvious. 'Have they truly penetrated this far south? That's not what the Didionite wind-searching team at Timberton Fortress told me.'

'I go no farther. Too dangerous.'

'You agreed to guide us to the Gulo Highlands,' Dyfrig said to him in a low, furious voice, 'and this you shall do! Our mission depends upon it.'

So did his own self-respect, for the prince was the one who had proposed this risky enterprise, hoping to prove his valor to his true father the earl marshal - and to the Sovereign, who was someone else.

It was still a source of astonishment to Dyfrig that
Ironcrown had so readily agreed to let him go on the scouting mission. All the High King had said was, 'What will you need?' Dyfrig had asked only that he and his equerry be accompanied by the best scrier and the best windspeaker available, and that he be granted sufficient funds to hire a Didionite guide who was not afraid to venture into the Green Morass. Calopticus Zorn had seemed to be sober, experienced, and reliable - up until now.

'Tell me what you're afraid of,' Dyfrig demanded of the man.

'I seen bad signs.' The trapper sat down on a moss-covered boulder, pulled a strip of smoked elk venison from his pack, and began to gnaw on it. The other members of the party, the prince's equerry Sir Stenlow Blueleaf and the two Zeth Brethren, exchanged puzzled glances.

'Signs of the Salka?' Dyfrig persisted. 'Why didn't you show them to us when you came across them? What kind of signs are you talking about?'

The guide shook his head. 'Very bad.' He was a lanky man some two-score years of age with a long jaw and slitty eyes, who wore greasy buckskin clothing and an incongruously splendid cap made of mink fur, with lappets that would have dangled on either side and behind had they not been tied to a bone button on the crown.

Vra-Erol Wintersett pursed his narrow lips. 'The rascal is lying, my lord prince.' The senior Brother of Zeth on the expedition, he was a man who did not suffer fools gladly and was much aware of his position as Chief Windsearcher in the Army of the Sovereignty. Unlike the other Cathrans, who were dressed drably so as not to attract attention, his hunting garb was of the finest plum-colored leather, cut to show off his muscular limbs
and broad chest. His face was angular and deeply tanned. 'I never perceived any Salka windtraces nor any other indications of the amphibians'
presence - and I've been alert for such things since we left the villages at Black Hare Lake. I think this fellow regrets having agreed to guide us and hopes we'll be frightened into turning back.'

'Zeth knows it's been miserable going,' remarked the second Brother, Vra-Odos Springhill. His specialty was longdistance windspeaking. A tireless older man of less than medium stature and sinewy build, uncomplaining up until now, it would be his job to report the findings of the reconnaissance party directly to Lord Stergos and the Sovereign, bypassing the Didionite wizards who usually gathered and relayed intelligence concerning the Salka horde to the Council of War based at Castle Boarsden.

'We can't turn back, Cal,' Dyfrig said to the guide, striving to hold his temper in check. 'If you force us to go on without you, I'll order Brother Odos to bespeak tidings of your bad faith and cowardice to King Somarus of Didion himself. You could be severely punished.'

'Huh.' The threat did not seem to upset the taciturn trapper. 'The king is far away and the north woods is big. But you better listen to what I say, prince. So far, the bad ones only been watching us. We cross this river, they're maybe gonna attack. Sign says so.'

'Who? The Salka?' Dyfrig demanded. 'For God's sake, man! Tell us plainly what you're afraid of.'

'Not Salka. Something worse.'

'What can be worse than Salka monsters?' asked Sir Stenlow. Dyfrig's equerry was a stalwart, rather solemn knight with raven hair and pale blue eyes. A few years older than the prince, he served as both bodyguard and confidential assistant.

'Come look, all of you.' Zorn climbed to his feet and strolled downstream, searching the muddy riverbank while still chewing. If the trapper was afraid, he didn't show it. The
prince went after him, trailed by Stenlow and the two alchymists.

'Bear prints, lynx prints, reindeer and small animal prints galore,' Vra-Erol pointed out, not bothering to hide his irritation. 'We've kept the wild beasts at bay with our gammadion magic thus far, and we'll continue doing so. What's the bloody fuss?'

Calopticus Zorn peered over his shoulder, smirking. His greenish-yellow teeth were clogged with shreds of tough meat. 'How 'bout this?' he inquired with vulgar relish, pointing to the sodden ground at his feet.

'Bazekoy's Bowels!' Dyfrig crouched to study the sign, and the Brethren did as well, murmuring in astonishment. 'No Salka made these tracks.'

'It looks as though a big log was dragged across the mud into the water,' Sir Stenlow ventured. 'Perhaps by a bear?'

'Not unless the log was flexible,' Vra-Erol said quietly, 'and had clawed feet on either side. See? Here and here and here. These are not bear prints. They're too narrow and the claws are too long.'

'Codders!' whispered the dumfounded equerry. 'What manner of brute could it be, then?'

Dyfrig gave Zorn a stern look. 'Stop playing your silly games, Cal. What made these marks?'

'Worm.' A grimace of morbid satisfaction. 'Morass Worm, supposed to be dead and gone
nigh on three hundred year. But maybe not, eh?' He chuckled.

That's ridiculous!' the prince expostulated. 'I've never heard such bullshite. Worms are tiny things -'

Vra-Odos cleared his throat pedantically. 'The word was used in ancient times for larger mythical beasts.' He looked embarrassed. 'Er
–
dragons, to be specific. During our sojourn
in Didion, I've perused volumes of their old tales that contain
mention of intelligent Morass Worms. The creatures are given varying descriptions and no one seems to know -'

Zorn broke in. 'Back at camp, when we start out this morn, I seen claw-scrapes on tree trunks. More than one worm.'

'Well,
I
saw nothing of the sort!' snapped Vra-Erol. For all his off-putting and haughty manner, he had proved to be an expert in every sort of woodcraft.

'Didn't look high enough,' said the trapper smugly. 'Marks were four, five ells up a buncha big trees next the creek. Way too high for bear scratches.' He tipped his head toward the opposite bank of the strong-flowing river. 'They're yonder. I can smell 'em. The claw marks were a warning.'

Vra-Erol sniffed the air elaborately. 'I smell naught save river mud and conifer sap - and perhaps a whiff of carrion.'

Prince Dyfrig stared at the strange trace with an expression that mingled bafflement and frustration. He was twenty years of age and stood four fingers over six feet in height, having a slender build and quiet manner that belied his considerable physical strength. His hair was tawny and the eyes set deeply in his sun-browned features were an unusual deep brown verging on black, very much like those of the Sovereign. No one who saw the two of them together could doubt Dyfrig's parentage, but to speak openly of the resemblance was to risk the full weight of Conrig's wrath.

Dyfrig believed that his mother Maudrayne was dead, and by law and by love considered himself to be Parlian Beorbrook's son and heir. His being named third in succession to the throne of Cathra was inferred by him and many others to be a mere sop to the Tarnians, his mother's people, subject to annulment at any time by royal decree. Dyfrig had hardly given thought to the matter of his true parentage while growing up far from the court at Cala Blenholme; nor had he sought to impress the aloof king who was obviously his natural father. Up until now.

'Cal,' the prince said at last, 'I've decided that we'll stop here for a time while you do your best to find further signs of these strange creatures. I need better evidence than your tale of claw-marks and a churned-up mass of mud if I'm to report this to Lord Stergos and the Sovereign. None of the wizards at Count Timberton's fort mentioned giant worms amongst the beasts we should beware of.'

'Most wizards don't know,' Zorn said. 'Those that know, don't believe. Gang of fools.' He cocked his fur-capped head. 'Mind you, worms were all supposed to be dead.' He pulled off another chunk of dried meat and champed it noisily. 'Guess I'll take a hike along the riverbank. See what I can see. Should be safe enough. But don't any of you lot go wandering off into the trees.'

He ambled away.

'Insolent whoreson,' Vra-Erol muttered. 'Wonder if he could be right about the dragons?'

'I've also kept alert to our surroundings,' Vra-Odos said. 'I detected no creatures save the wildlife we might expect to find. If the Morass Worms do exist, I can only conclude that our windsenses and the gammadion sorcery of our Order are inadequate to disclose their presence.'

'You could be right, Brother,' Erol said. 'They might possess uncanny shielding talent of their own, as do some of the Salka.'

Sir Stenlow gave a slow whistle. 'Then ... if there be numbers of the things lurking in this wilderness, it could explain the great mystery of why the Salka advance has stalled!'

The others stared at him for a long moment, speechless.

Dyfrig clapped the knight on the shoulder. 'Well said, Sten! You may have hit on it exactly. Our guide thought the worms died off centuries ago. Perhaps the Salka invaders believed the same thing - until a throng of the bastards popped up
out of nowhere and gave battle around Beacon Lake. And won.'

'We must be absolutely certain this is true,’
Vra-Odos cautioned, 'before passing the information on to the Sovereign. Even then -' His mouth twitched.

'There is a problem with credibility,' Dyfrig conceded with a sigh. An idea came to him. 'Vra-Erol, you were unable to scry anything of the Salka position from our previous campsite. But since then, we've come over a high ridge into more level country. Might it be possible to oversee something useful from here, provided there's no intervening high ground between the river and Beacon Lake? You might catch some sort of glimpse of the Salka and their presumed antagonists.'

'One could try.' The veteran windsearcher was dubious. 'The overview, if there is one, would be indistinct. Perhaps useless to our purposes. We had hoped to discover whether the Salka plan to hibernate near Beacon Lake and resume their march in spring. Signs of that would be too subtle to ascertain at this distance. We are still over thirty leagues from their estimated position, nearly at the limit of my perception. Any landform blocking the line of sight would muddle the wind-picture significantly.'

'Please try anyhow,' the prince urged.

'To increase the chance of success, I could climb one of the taller trees.'

Sir Stenlow regarded the dignified alchymist with surprise. 'You'd be able to manage such a thing, Brother Erol?'

A disdainful smile. 'I work for the army. I've climbed more trees than you've had hot dinners, boy.'

Dyfrig and Vra-Odos laughed. The prince said, 'Speaking of food, we're overdue for our own cold lunch.'

They found reasonably comfortable rocks to sit on and opened their packs. By the time they finished a brief meal of hardbread and ham, Calopticus Zorn had come back into
view, trotting at a fair pace. They were relieved to see that nothing seemed to be following him.

The prince rose and called out. 'Ho, Cal! What did you find?'

Maddeningly, the trapper slowed to a deliberate walk. His long face wore a superior smile. As he drew closer, they could see that he was carrying a good-sized bone.

'More worm sign,' he declared, handing his evil-smelling trophy to the prince, who accepted it without demur. 'See them teeth marks? This is a big brown bear's upper armbone. Found a stripped carcass by following the carrion stink. Skull crushed like an egg to suck the brains.'

'But couldn't the bear have been attacked by a tundra-lion?' Dyfrig peered doubtfully at the deep gouges. The bone was at least several days old. 'I admit these wide-set marks are persuasive, but -'

'That don't convince you, lord prince?' Calopticus Zorn rummaged in his capacious belt-wallet. 'Maybe this will.' He held up an object that gleamed in the afternoon sunlight like a thick dagger-blade smoothly carved from topaz. 'Bastard broke it off in the bear's skull. Hardheaded beasts, bears.'

'God's Truth!' Vra-Erol exclaimed, seizing the thing from the trapper. 'Look at the size of it! Half a foot long or I'm buggered, and bits of tissue still clinging to the cracked root.' He turned to Dyfrig. 'No man can gainsay this. We have our proof, and we must hasten back to Boarsden to show it to the Sovereign and his generals.'