A heap of broken images, where the sun beats.
And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,
And the dry stone no water. Only
There is shadow under this red rock,
(Come in under the shadow of this red rock),
And I will show you something different from either
Your shadow at morning striding behind you
Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;
I will show you fear in a handful of dust.—T. S. Eliot
Ahira called a halt at midmorning, easing himself painfully out of his fore-and-aft peaked saddle, then turning the horses and his pony loose under a spreading elm. He squatted on the ground, rubbing at his aching thighs. Someday, I'd like to get my hands on whoever invented the horse. For five minutes, that's all. Just five minutes.
"Ahira?" Hakim called out, from his perch on the bench of the flatbed wagon. "You want me to turn these critters loose, too?" He jerked his thumb at the two scraggly mules hitched to the wagon.
Ahira shook his head. "No. I'm tired enough of fighting them back into harness every morning. Set the brake, twist on the hobbles, and slip their bits—you can feed and water them where they are."
Climbing down from his gray mare's saddle, Aristobulus shook his head. "You wouldn't have so much trouble with them," he said, "if we had decent harnesses. Those stupid straps half-choke—"
"Enough." Ahira waved the wizard to silence. Granted, the strap harnesses they had bought in Pandathaway weren't nearly as good as even medieval horsecollars. Given, under Ari's direction—or, more accurately, Lou Riccetti's direction—putting together an efficient horsecollar was a trivial feat of design and engineering, but—
—But do I have to put up with his constant whining about it? "No," he said, "we're not going to turn the mules loose. They might run off again, and we don't want to waste the time chasing after them." Maybe Hakim got along well with the two snorting creatures—Ahira chuckled; even mules got along with him—but there was no sense in taking chances.
Not when you didn't have to. Take the caravan behind them, for example. In the twenty days it had taken them to get from Pandathaway to Aeryk, and the week since they had stopped overnight in Aeryk to finish outfitting themselves and stock up on food and water, the caravan hadn't been more than a couple of days behind; Ahira could see them moving, even at night.
They could be reasonable people; quite possibly it would be in both parties' interests to travel together as long as they were headed in the same direction. But—
Ahira sighed, seating himself on a gnarled root. He propped his back against the tree's rough bark. —But that was only probably, only possibly. Best not to take chances. Best to keep a distance.
Andrea walked over and stretched out on her side on the ankle-high grass. "Nice." She unslung a small waterbag, took a sip, then offered it to Ahira. "I don't guess that it'll be this easy from here on in."
He took a sip and recorked the bag. "Thanks." He gestured at the long slope below them. Perhaps ten miles away, the lush grassland gave way to the Waste, the line of demarcation between dark, water-rich greenery and brown, sun-baked earth as sharp as a knife. Why hadn't the Waste claimed part of the grassland, or vice versa? Or had it—no, that couldn't be: The boundary between Waste and grass curved smoothly away in the distance; a curve as even as that had to be artificial, not natural. It could be involved with the aftereffects of the wizards' battle that had created the Waste of Elrood, but—
—but there's no way of knowing. And it really doesn't matter.
"No, it probably won't be this easy." He handed her the water-bag. "And we'd better start going easy on this; I'm a bit nervous about the water supply."
Her brow wrinkled. "But we bought the two extra barrels in Aeryk. That should be enough, even at the rate Karl and the horses swill it, no?"
He gave her a nod. "It should be. But should isn't always enough." Ahira chuckled, dismissing the subject with a wave of his hand. "Don't pay any attention; I'm just getting cynical." For the thousandth time, he took a mental inventory of their supplies. Twelve healing draughts, sealed in gray metal bottles. Karl had wanted to use one, back in Pandathaway, to fix his sprained knee. But Ahira had overruled him; best to save the potions for emergencies, and rely on natural healing whenever possible. A sprain wasn't like a cut; it couldn't be a path for infection.
There was a score of white woolen blankets, along with the makings of an iron framework, so that they could rig a canopy over the bed of the wagon for travel in the heat of the Waste. The blankets would keep them cool during the day, and warm at night.
And then the food: dried meat and fruit, sweets for variety and quick energy, oats for the animals, a head-sized cube of gritty salt—plenty, surely, for both people and animals. No problems there.
Miscellany: a sewing kit, seven oil lanterns with twenty forearm-sized flasks of evil-smelling green oil, a flint-and-steel kit for every member of the party. A spare crossbow, with a lighter pull than Ahira's; fourscore extra quarrels for that—if Ahira didn't need it, Hakim could handle it without much difficulty. And without much accuracy, for that matter.
And then there was the one magical ingredient he'd bought: a clump of dragonbane, packed carefully in a soft leather pouch. If they couldn't sneak by The Dragon, perhaps the creature's allergy to the mossy stuff would give them time enough to use the Gate.
What else? Spare knives for everyone; several hundred yards of deceptively light rope—a knife could barely cut it; a few pounds of charcoal cubes, just in case they needed a fire when there was no wood available; hammers and spikes to use as pitons, if necessary. And thinking of wood . . . he raised his head. "Karl, Hakim—we're a bit short of firewood, and we're not going to find any in the Waste. Go cut some."
Hakim nodded, getting slowly to his feet; Karl stood quickly and spun around to face Ahira.
"What do we need more wood for?" There was only a trace of challenge in his tone.
Ahira cursed himself silently. Karl wouldn't have raised any objection if Andrea hadn't been nearby. Something had to be done about the relationship—whatever it was—between those two.
But now wasn't the time. Ahira forced a smile and started to raise himself painfully to his feet. "Fine—if you don't think we need it, I'll cut it myself." He unstrapped his axe and propped it carefully against the root he'd just vacated. The battleaxe was a weapon, not a tool. "Who saw where the woodaxe is?"
Doria trotted over, her robes flapping. "Some problem?"
Ahira shrugged. "It's nothing—don't worry about it."
Karl looked sheepish as he raised his palms, shaking his head. "I'm sorry. My fault—I forgot that you and your pony don't get along. I'll cut the wood." He retrieved the woodaxe from the bed of the wagon and followed Hakim out into the woods, away from the road.
Ahira rubbed gently at his thighs. Nice of Karl to remind him. Dammit, dwarves weren't built for riding horses, and that alleged pony was a dappled demon, camouflaged. Just barely camouflaged.
On the other hand, Cullinane had been getting more considerate, ever since that first day in Pandathaway. Which reminds me— "Doria, why don't you and Aristobulus take a waterbag and go see if there's a spring around here. You do the walking through the brush, and let him—"
Doria's brow furrowed. "I doubt that there's a spring. And why me?"
Because I think I'd better have a private talk with Andrea, and this is a convenient excuse to get you out of the way for a minute, and do I have to be argued with about every damn thing? No, he sighed, that wouldn't do. "Because of your robes." He picked up a pebble and fingerflicked it at her sleeve; it bounced off as though it had struck a solid wall. "We don't have to worry about you getting scratched by brush."
She gave him a nod and a half-shrug, then walked away.
Ahira turned back to Andrea.
She smiled knowingly, brushing hair away from her face. "Alone at last, eh? Although"—she reached out and patted him on the shoulder—"I think you're a touch too short for me. No offense."
The way she put it, it was impossible to be offended. "None taken. But that's not what I wanted to talk to you about." He hesitated. The personal relations among the group really weren't any of his concern, not unless they affected their chances of surviving, of reaching the Gate.
Then again, anything could affect their chances. "What's the problem between you and Karl? He isn't too short for you, is he?"
She gave him a clearly pro forma grin. "No."
"Well, you don't blame him for our being here, do you? If wanting this has anything to do with that transfer's working, it's my fault, not Karl's." To Cullinane, it had always been a game, no more. And from the way Karl's demeanor kept improving, as they got closer to Bremon, it was likely he'd be happier when it was just a game once again.
"No." She looked away. "I'm not that stupid."
Ahira snorted. "You're not stupid at all. You've been treating him like a leper. I'm sure you've got your reasons; I'd like to know what they are." Andrea, I don't care who you sleep with, or who you don't sleep with. But Cullinane's all bent out of shape over you, and that could blunt him as a warrior. I want him thinking about our survival, not about you. "Maybe there's something I could do?"
"No." She shook her head slowly. "There's not a whole lot that can be done about it." Her fingers grasped the air clumsily. "He's kind of . . . I don't know—how well did you know him, back on the other side?"
"Not all that well. I don't think I saw him more than three, four times outside of the games." Ahira smiled. "And we didn't take any of the same classes—I don't think Karl's gotten around to majoring in computer sciences, yet."
"Not yet." She sighed. "But give him time. He keeps getting involved in different things."
"A dilettante. Can't stick to one interest."
"No. Well, yes, but it's more than that. He's . . . sort of a monomaniac, gets completely, intensely into whatever he's interested in . . ." She rubbed at her temples with stiffened fingers. "And he kind of extracts whatever he got into it for, then drops it and goes on to something else." She let her hands drop into her lap, then raised her eyes to meet his. "I know I'm not expressing myself well, but do you understand?"
"It sounds like you're scared of being, err, seduced and abandoned. No?"
"I knew I wasn't explaining it well—it's not like that at all." Her pursed lips spread into a broad, self-assured smile. "Do you think I'm the sort of woman who gets seduced and abandoned, Ahira?" Extending a finger, she waved it under his nose. "Do you?"
Her tone was light and playful, but he sensed a serious undercurrent. "No, I don't. I think you can handle any sort of relationship, whether it's whatever you've got going with Hakim or"—he chuckled—"something a bit more distant with a neurotic dwarf."
She laughed. "Thank you. But you and Walter aren't the problem. It's Karl and his goddam—"
"Ahira!" Doria ran toward them, her robes flapping, breathlessly waving a dripping scrap of cloth, and—
Dripping? He jumped to his feet. "What is tha—"
"We found it!" She stopped in front of him, taking a few moments to catch her breath. "Aristobulus and I—we found the spring, back in the brush." She shook her head. "It's amazing—it just burbles out of a crack in the rock, and then drains back into another one. We couldn't even see it until we were practically on top of it. How in the world did you know that there'd be one?"
Andrea hid a chuckle behind her hand. Sending Doria and Aristobulus off to find a spring had been a distraction.
Ahira looked at her and shrugged. "Serendipity, Doria." Well, there'd be a chance to try to straighten out Andrea later. "Simple serendipity."
"What?"
"It's when you dig for worms, and strike gold." He raised his voice. "Hakim, Karl—they found a spring. It's water this morning, soup for lunch, and baths for dessert." No need to worry about the water supply, not anymore. With seven full barrels, all people and animals well watered, the week-long trek across the Waste should be easy.
Well, relatively easy.
Doria shook his head. "I don't understand."
"Don't worry about it." He looked at Andrea, spreading his hands as though to say that they'd finish the discussion later, when they again had a little privacy; she nodded. Ahira turned back to Doria and pulled a trick from Hakim's repertoire: He breathed on his fingernails and buffed them lightly across his chest. "Sometimes I'm so clever I don't even understand myself."
* * *
Karl and his horse were the first to reach the Waste; Ahira had let him range ahead a bit, and he liked that. He was relaxed, even comfortable on his large, reddish-brown mare; the fore-and-aft peaked saddle supported him well. But it wasn't just the saddle. Karl was taking full advantage of having his Barak persona to draw on: His thigh muscles held him firmly to the seat, his hips shifted automatically to keep him firmly astride, instead of bouncing on his tailbone, the way that the rest had been for most of the trip, until they gradually learned how to ride.
Except for Walter, of course. Karl turned to give a nod to the thief, who was basking comfortably in the late-afternoon sun on the blankets he had used to pad the cart's seat, guiding the mules with only an occasional twitch of his lazy fingers. Probably some of Walter's avowed affection for the mules was honest; certainly he'd staked out the cart at least partly from concern for his own tender buttocks, leaving his swayback gelding hitched behind with little to no regret. "Enjoying the ride?"
Walter responded with a nod and a wink. No, no doubt about it at all.
Aristobulus' whine drifted forward. Complaining, as usual. Karl urged his mare farther forward. A good horse; she needed only a touch of his heels to break into a canter, and then a light flick on the reins to slow her back down to a walk.
He stroked her reddish-brown neck, solid and dry under his palm. "Good girl—you don't even mind hauling my weight, do you?" She raised her head a bit higher, and snorted.
Ahead the Waste of Elrood stretched out across the horizon; a flat brown ocean of sunbaked mud, random cracks in the hard surface covering as if it were a fine netting that had been woven by a mad giant.
Ahira's voice boomed from behind him. "Karl—wait a moment."
Shrugging, Karl let the dwarf, bouncing on the back of his little pony, catch up. "Problem?"
Ahira shook his head. "No, I need some advice. The rest of these . . . animals seem to be kind of spooked by the terrain. Do you think we ought to walk them a while? Maybe that way they can get used to it?"
Karl turned to look behind. The others' horses were twitchy, all right; what with the snorting and skittish steps they were taking, it could easily tire the animals out much sooner than it should.
"I don't think so," he said. "Look at them. Hell, look at you. You're the worst."
The dwarf scowled. "What about me?"
"The purpose of riding isn't to keep as much air as possible between your backside and your saddle, you know—the reason you have to spend so much time walking your pony is that you don't have the slightest idea of how to ride him. Same for the rest, although they're not as bad."
Aristobulus' mount stepped to one side to avoid a rut; as usual, the wizard tried to overcontrol the little mare, frustrating the horse almost as much as himself.
Ahira's right hand slipped to the hilt of his axe. That was probably unconscious; Karl resisted the urge to loosen his sword from its saddle-bound scabbard. Easy, you're among friends.
"Dammit, Karl, have a bit of sympathy. How long did it take you to learn how to ride?"
Karl shrugged. "I just seemed to pick it up."
"Came with the territory, right? Sort of like Hakim's ability to move silently and—and my darksight, no?"
"So?"
The dwarf threw up his hands, startling his pony. "Easy, you damned little—easy, I said. So, it didn't come naturally to me. Or Andrea, Hakim, Doria, or Ari. Don't put on airs because you ride better than we can; it's just a lucky break. For you. It's not a virtue." Ahira reached behind himself, rubbing vigorously.
"Don't."
"Don't what?"
Karl sighed. "Don't twitch in the saddle like that. Your pony doesn't know what you're doing, and he doesn't like it."
Ahira opened his mouth as though to say something to the effect that he really couldn't care less what his animal liked or didn't, then shrugged. "You still didn't answer my question."
Karl thought it over for a moment. At least Ahira's idea would give the riders some time off their mounts, give them a chance to work out some stiffness. "Actually, I've got a better idea."
Ahira's mouth quirked. "Let me guess: We get the critters used to the different surface by galloping them for a few miles, right?"
"Wrong. A horse isn't an automobile; you can kill it if you push it too hard. No, how about this? We pitch camp here until dark, then travel at night. At least for tonight—we can pitch those blankets as tarps, keep the sun off. I know you don't think that water's a problem anymore, but we might as well save all we can. And this way the horses, at least the ones who need it"—he patted his mare's neck—"can take some time to get used to this surface, just by standing around on it."
"Done!" The dwarf jerked his pony to a halt and bounced to the ground. "Everybody, time for a break."
Andrea slumped in the saddle. "Thank goodness."
"About time." Aristobulus slid off his horse.
"Fine with me." Doria levered herself out of her saddle and dropped lightly to the ground.
Walter reined in the mules, shrugging. "I don't see what the problem is. But I'm easy." He tied the reins to the back of his seat and vaulted to the sunbaked earth. "What's the plan? We've got another couple of hours until sundown—shouldn't we get some traveling done?"
Now free of his pony and any necessity of following Karl's advice not to spook the animal, Ahira rubbed viciously at the base of his spine as though trying to scour the pain away. "This surface is so flat that it won't be dangerous to travel at night. So that's what we'll do, at least for tonight. We'll pitch the tarps for shade, catch some sleep, then start up again around midnight, when the ground's cooled off enough."
Doria nodded. "You're still worried about the water."
"Not worried. Just cautious." Ahira stretched broadly. "Once we hit the far side of the Waste, I want to have as much left as possible. We don't know how deep in Bremon the Gate is, and we may need all we can carry."
Karl nodded. A good point, and one he hadn't thought of. Then again, knowing how to deal with tunnels probably came naturally to the dwarf in the same way that riding came easily to Karl.
Ahira pulled the thin white blankets out of the back of the wagon. "Hakim and I can pitch these as puptents. Do we have any volunteers for first watch?"
Andrea smiled. "You sure do." She walked over to Karl and tapped him on the chest with an extended finger. "I think Karl's had an easy enough time in the saddle; time to put him to work."
The dwarf nodded. "Fine. The two of you are on watch until it's been dark for at least a couple of hours. Walter and Ari replace you then."
"Now wait a minute—" she started.
"The two of you."
Karl's forehead wrinkled, almost painfully. Now that was strange. Ahira had been keeping Andrea and him away from each other. Which made sense. But—never mind. If I understood people, I'd have stayed in psych.
He cast an eye at the setting sun. Well, he'd already put up with worse than a few hours of stony silence.
* * *
Andrea stared out at the Waste of Elrood. By starlight, it reminded her of the pictures the Apollo astronauts had brought back from the moon, the ones from the Mare what's-its-name, the Sea of something-or-other.
She sighed. I was supposed to have that quiz the morning after that night at the Student Union, and that probably would have been on it.
Stars twinkled over a scarred wasteland. Just flat, cracked ground, gray in the dark. The sorcerers who fought here must have been very powerful, and more than a bit mad; what sane person would want to turn greenery into this?
She turned around to look at the others. Under the bed of the wagon, Walter snored quietly. She couldn't make out his features, but she knew that his broad face would be creased with a light smile. Still maintaining the image, eh? The fight back in Lundeyll had scared him badly, but Walter Slovotsky wouldn't reveal that, not even in his sleep.
Doria curled next to him, tossing fitfully. Look, Andrea wanted to say, I don't know what's gone on with you and Karl, but . . .
But what? That was the problem.
Under their respective puptents, Aristobulus and Ahira slept quietly. There was something similar about the two of them. Maybe it was that they were both so one-directional. Ari just wanted to get some spell books, and this trip across the Waste seemed to him to be a way to do that. Period.
Ahira was different, though. He was just pushing to get them home. Just the rest of us, James Michael Finnegan. And who do you think you're fooling? The dwarf had never said so, but anyone could see that he was just along to get the rest of them through the Gate; once that was done, Ahira would turn and run. You don't really expect any of us to believe that you're going back to being a cripple, do you? Not when he could be healthy and strong here.
She nodded in admiration. Not for the first time. A sense of responsibility, that's what Ahira had. Ahira felt guilty about the rest of them being here. No, not guilt; she was right the first time. Responsible, that was it.
She turned back. Karl was still looking at her out of the corner of his eye, pretending to be ignoring her. Maybe that was for the best, at least for the time being.
At least, that's what I keep telling myself.
He got up from his seat on a stack of blankets and walked over. "Enough games, Andy. We've got to talk."
She jerked her chin at the plain. "Then let's move away a bit. No need to wake the others."
He smiled thinly as he followed her. "I wasn't planning on yelling and screaming. Were you?"
She shook her head. "Not really. I think this is far enough. Do you want to sit down?"
He snickered. "I'd better be sitting for this? Okay." They sat tailor-fashion on the cracked ground, Karl balancing his sword across his lap.
"Do you have to have that with you? I don't think anyone's going to steal it, out in the middle of nowhere."
He shrugged, and pulled the blade a few inches from the scabbard. "It's a fine piece of steel, isn't it?" Silvery metal gleamed wickedly in the starlight. "And I've got this habit of losing things. I guess I'm afraid that if I ever let it out of my hands, that'll be the end of it." He slipped the blade back. "But you're changing the subject. Deliberately?"
"I'm not sure. Do I have to be?"
"No. I don't make the rules. Sometimes I don't even know what they are."
She bit her lower lip. "As in what the rules for you and me are."
He nodded, looking her square in the eyes. "Exactly. If I didn't know better I'd swear you're trying to get me to hate you, or at least dislike you one hell of a lot. And I'd kind of like to know why that's a stupid idea of mine." He shrugged. "I am stupid sometimes. Ignorant, too. I have it on good authority."
"Doria?"
"Not quite." He folded his fingers behind his head and stretched back. "I have bad breath or something?"
There was a lot different about Karl now, beyond the physical changes. We could have had almost exactly this conversation a few months ago, and Karl would have been trembling inside that I'd turn him down. He isn't anymore.
"Did anyone ever tell you you're always too goddam intense about everything?" The violence of her own words surprised her. "About whatever you happen to be majoring in at the moment, about whatever diversion you're into, about—"
"About you?" He chuckled thinly. "Is this going to be another episode of Slovotsky's Laws?"
"What?"
Karl shook his head, his eyes closed tightly. "One of Walter's ideas about life. It runs something like: 'Whatever you want too much, you can't have, so when you really want something, try to want it a little less.' Is that what this is all about?"
"No. It's not that. It's just that I'm not sure I'm ready for all that intensity about me." She reached out to take his hand; he pulled it back. "Can you understand that? It's not that I don't like you, it's not that I'm not attracted to you—"
"Now, that is." He raised an arm and flexed his biceps. "What with the new, improved body, and all." Karl lowered his arm. "Which is one thing I'm going to be sorry to give up, once we get back."
"You're going to be sorry to get back?"
"Don't be silly." He sneered. "I like the good things in life. Bathing regularly, television, dentistry, not having a price on my head. Stuff like that. And you're changing the subject again. Which suggests that once we get back, and I'm short, skinny Karl Cullinane again—"
"Shut up." Sometimes he made her so mad. "It isn't that at all. Women aren't as shallow as men."
"Thank you, Betty Friedan."
"It's just that you're incapable of keeping things . . . casual. No, that's not the word. What I'm trying to say is—"
Fear touched the back of her neck. Ignoring her natural reflexes, she closed her eyes. Her aura wrapped her thinly; it was easy to see Aristobulus' glowing strongly, a few hundred feet away, blazing in the night like a red beacon.
But there was something else, too. Not quite distinct enough to see with her inner vision, but there. "Karl." She opened her eyes. He was shaking his head, as though to wake up, his eyelids sagging shut, despite himself.
"Andy, I—" He slumped over.
Invisible fingers wrapped themselves around her throat, cutting off her air. She tried to pry them away, but they were like steel bands.
"Don't let go of her, Ohlmin," a harsh voice whispered. "Not until she's safely gagged."
"And then," another voice answered, "we can enjoy ourselves."
She opened her mouth to scream, but a cottony softness filled it. A rough hand clutched at her breasts. She struggled uselessly.
"I want this one first. There's still a lot of fight left in her."
* * *
Karl awoke slowly. And that bothered him, even in his half-awake, just-a-few-more-minutes-please state. He brought his hand down to wipe at his eyes.
His hand stopped short; his wrist was tangled up with something cold and hard.
Wait a minute! I was just talking to Andy—I never woke Walter. His eyes snapped open. "What the hell—"
A small fist came out of nowhere and struck him on the cheekbone. Pain lanced through his skull. He brought his hands down in a practiced—
—his wrists jerked in their iron cuffs, fastened in heavy chains to something over his head and behind him.
"I told you that nobody ever beats me," Ohlmin rasped. "Ever."
Karl shook his head, trying to clear it. Slowly, his eyes focused, becoming accustomed to the gloom. Hakim and Ahira sat beside him on the narrow bench of the small room, both still unconscious, both chained at wrists and ankles.
And in front of him, leaning over him close enough so that Karl could smell the reek of garlic and wine on his breath, Ohlmin stood, smirking.
"Sleep spells are handy things, no?" He slapped Karl lightly on the cheek. "Even if the wizards are resistant to them." Ohlmin smiled. "But spells of invisibility can fool their eyes, too."
"What are you—" A boot drove into his belly; Karl gasped for air.
"You speak when you are spoken to. Understood?" Ohlmin's voice was calm now, and somehow that was more frightening than his earlier rasp. "But I won't hurt you very much, Karl Cullinane. I've got to save you for Pandathaway. You're going to make me a rich man."
Karl tried to spit at him, but couldn't muster the breath to do it. Or the saliva, for that matter. His mouth was as dry as the Waste.
Stop reacting for a moment, and think. He fingered the chains. Slight ridges along the links proclaimed that they were cast iron, not forged. And that was good, possibly. If he had enough strength, if he had enough leverage, he could shatter them. Maybe. Cast iron was more brittle than forged. Just maybe . . .
His Barak-self didn't think much of that idea. They're far too thick. But the wall behind you is wood. You may just be able to jerk them loose from the wall.
"Feel free to continue thinking about escaping, Karl Cullinane." Ohlmin chuckled. "They always do. But"—he tapped at the wall— "the wagon is belted with iron straps, which is what the chains are bolted to."
Wagon? It wasn't a small room, then. They were in a wagon. No advantage there.
Better find some advantage, quickly. Ohlmin was close enough, just maybe. Karl lashed out with his right foot.
The cuff scraped his ankle as his foot was jerked to a halt, inches from Ohlmin's leg.
A chuckle. "We are professionals. And, just for your enlightenment, the rest of your party is well secured. Both of the wizards and the cleric are gagged. We may have to cut out the old man's tongue, eventually, but I'm sure we'll work out something else for the women. It would be a waste, wouldn't it?" He smiled, reached out, and patted Karl's head. Somehow that was more frightening than being struck. The light pat said that Karl was a harmless nothing, well secured. No danger at all.
Karl forced himself to keep his voice level. "Are you going to tell me how you found us, or are you trying to have me die of curiosity?"
Ohlmin laughed. "Ah, you did that very well. If I didn't know better, I'd think that you weren't terrified." He shrugged lightly. "But I don't see why not. The Guilds' Council finally prevailed on one of the grandmaster wizards to bring out his crystal ball, to find out who had stolen their dragon." Again, he patted Karl's head. "And you, my friend, are worth twenty-five hundred pieces of gold to me. My wizard—Blenryth; I don't think you've met him—is charging me quite a lot for those sleep and invisibility spells we caught you with, and quite a lot more for the one that kept us on your trail. But I'll still come out ahead." He spat in Karl's face. "I always come out ahead."
Karl couldn't quite reach his hand down to his face; the gob of spittle dripped slowly down his cheek.
Ohlmin sighed. "But enough of this. I had better get back to the women. The dark-haired one was quite good; I think I'll try the other. And besides, I'd better make certain that Hyrus doesn't damage them. Must keep them in shape for the block." He frowned. "No, one more thing." Ohlmin walked to the far corner of the wagon and rummaged through a pile of swords, knives, and crossbows.
Our weapons. And just about three yards farther than I can possibly reach. They might as well have been light-years away; it would take more than a sword to cut through the chains. He felt at the cuffs around his wrists. Damn. Even if Walter still had a lockpick on him, it wouldn't matter; the cuffs were riveted on.
Ohlmin extracted a long black scabbard from the pile. "I believe that this is your sword?" He slipped it out of the scabbard, examining the blade in the dim glow of the overhead lamp. "Very nice work. I don't think I've ever seen a sharper edge. No doubt you value it highly?"
Karl straightened his back. I'm not going to beg for my life. It wouldn't help, anyway.
"Oh, no," Ohlmin said, smiling. "No need to pretend to be brave." He set one foot on top of a box, grasped the flat of the blade carefully, and brought it down on his knee.
The sword snapped.
"You don't die that easily." The two pieces clattered on the floor. "Public executions in Pandathaway take a good long time." Ohlmin opened the door. "Think about that, for a while."
The door whisked shut behind him.
"Dammit, wake up," Karl hissed. He couldn't reach Walter, and the dwarf was chained beyond the thief. Raising his voice was certain to draw attention; whispering was all he had left.
With a rattle and a shaking, the wagon started moving:
Walter opened a lazy eye. "Will you please shut up?" His voice was calm and flat. As always. "We both woke up before you did," he said, his voice barely carrying over the wagon's clatter.
"Then why?"
Ahira shook his head. "Because I thought that there might be some advantage in playing possum." He shrugged. "It didn't work out that way—but conceivably it might, so keep your voice low."
"But we did hear something useful, at least," the thief said. "We're not going directly back to Pandathaway. One of his men said that Ohlmin figures to make a better profit on . . ." He swallowed, he face still impassive. " . . . on the women in Metreyll than he could in Pandathaway. So we'll be skirting the edge of the Waste."
Ahira nodded. "Metreyll has a road to the Hand tabernacle, the one in the Waste. The Society might ransom Doria for a decent price."
"If she's still alive when they get there." And the same for Andy-Andy.
"Don't be silly." The dwarf scowled. "These folks are professionals, remember? They'll keep the women alive. And that's academic; apparently the Matriarch of the Healing Hand can even raise the dead. All of which doesn't do us any good here."
Karl spat. "And what else do you know that's not going to do us any good?"
Ahira shook his head. "Not a lot. There's ten to fifteen of them, including Ohlmin and his hired wizard. I also know that these chains are too damn thick, that Hakim and I are eventually headed for the block in Pandathaway. I also . . ." He trailed off, and shook his head. "I also know that either Doria's or Andrea's gag was a bit loose, for a while."
"Huh?"
"I don't know which one," Ahira said, white-lipped, "because I can't tell Doria's screams from Andrea's." He raised an eyebrow. "You want me to draw you a picture? Fine. From the sounds out there, they've been taking turns before finally deciding to—"
"Shut up." Karl clenched his hands around his chains, and pulled.
Nothing.
He tried again, holding his breath and pulling on the chains. Sweat beaded on his forehead, lights danced in front of his eyes. The skin of his right palm split open, wetting the chains with his blood.
Karl ignored the pain, ignored the way his head was threatening to break.
He pulled.
Nothing. The chains didn't shatter, didn't stretch, didn't give. Nothing.
"Stop it." Ahira rattled his own chains. "These weren't built by amateurs."
"Amateurs?"
"Yes, amateurs—like an idiot who didn't wonder why there was a caravan following us. Like a stupid amateur who let his group take a break when he knew that there was a price on one of the members' heads." The dwarf cursed himself bitterly. "But I had to leave you on watch. Let Karl and Andrea try to straighten out their relationship, I said. And while you were doing that, they snuck up on you." He snapped a glare at Walter. "You were about to say something?"
"I wasn't," Karl said. "If I hadn't freed Ellegon, if I hadn't beaten Ohlmin, none of this would have happened. It's my fault."
Off in the distance, a scream trilled, fading quickly into a muffled whimper.
Walter spoke quietly, with a calm that horrified Karl more than the scream. "I think we can save the who's-at-fault session for some other time. You didn't know, Karl didn't know, and Andrea isn't as sensitive to magic as Ari is—even if they were both paying attention to keeping watch, she might not have felt that invisibility spell being used. So the two of you just shut up and figure out what we do next. Understood?"
Karl and Ahira drew twin breaths. They nodded.
The dwarf pointed his chin at the door. "How long do you think it's going to take them to settle in for the ride?"
"What do you mean?" Karl found his voice becoming shrill.
"I mean," the dwarf said, from between clenched teeth, "that they're all . . . enjoying themselves right now. They're all charged up. We need them to be relaxed, and a bit tired."
What you're asking is how long it will take for fifteen men to rape Andy-Andy and Doria. "A couple of hours, probably. Why all the interest?"
Visibly, Ahira forced himself to relax. "Then we wait for a couple of hours." Another muffled scream broke through the wagon's clatter. "We wait. Not a chance otherwise."
"And then?"
The dwarf nodded. "And then, I go berserk."
* * *
Ahira sat back in the flickering light of the overhead oil lamp, ignoring the fire in his shoulders. The chains' mounting had been designed for security, not the comfort of its victims; hours of keeping his arms over his head had left his shoulder joints painfully inflamed.
We wait.
It couldn't be helped. Even if they could break out of their chains earlier, retrieve the weapons, and charge outside, the odds were just too heavily against them. Ohlmin was probably their best warrior, and almost certainly the rest weren't anything near as good as Karl or Ahira, but it was still fifteen to two—Hakim wasn't very good in a fight; he'd be needed to find and try to free Aristobulus.
And if he can do that, maybe we have a chance.
But there had to be some time for the slavers to drop their guard. Just a bit. And the screams from the wagon ahead of them? Ignore them, or try to, at least. This wasn't the time for a gesture; it had to work.
So we wait.
But not until dawn; Hakim's skills weren't nearly as useful in daylight. In the day, bowmen could spot them easily, fill them all full of arrows before they were halfway out the door.
In the day, a dwarf's darksight was superfluous.
So we wait. But not long, now.
In the game, going berserk would have been a simple procedure. "I'm going to try to go berserk," you'd announce, rolling a four-sided die. If it came up with a zero, one, or two, the attempt would fail. You'd try again, next turn, if you wanted to.
And if it came up with a three, it would still be simple: Your Strength would double, going well past the maximum possible for a mortal, under normal circumstances. Intelligence and Wisdom would drop drastically, as would Manual Dexterity and Weapon Proficiency. Speed would be unaffected, as would Charisma—but your Endurance level would rise to the point where only a deathblow could slow you down.
There'd be a penalty to pay later, of course. For many turns after you had slipped out of your berserk state, you would be weak as a kitten.
But until you slipped out of it, you'd destroy, and break, and smash.
Or die trying.
Ahira fondled the thick chains. Possibly he couldn't break them, even berserk.
Never mind. It's h—it's our only chance.
He raised his head. "Karl. It's time."
"Right." Cullinane nodded slowly. "Try to remember to break us loose, too."
"I will. But one thing: While I'm out of it, you're in charge. Make sure you get everyone away you can. But don't worry about me; I'll—"
"No."
"Don't argue with me." This wasn't a game anymore. Amateur heroics were fine for around a mahogany table at the Student Union. But not here. "Once I set myself off, you won't be able to reason with me. I won't run. I won't be able to run."
Cullinane chuckled thinly. "I thought you said that once you're out of it. I'm in charge."
Ahira sighed. "Hakim, reason with him."
The thief shook his head. "I won't have to. Once he's got your responsibilities, he'll see it for himself. Which is why you picked him to take over, instead of me. Eh, m'friend?"
"Sure." Ahira leaned back against the rough surface of the wall. "It's time; we've waited long enough. Take care."
There was only one way to do it. Reach deep inside, find a core of hot anger, of raging fury . . . And let it burn.
* * *
Special classes—that's what they called them. As though being a feeb were some sort of prize. Special classes, exceptional children—didn't that sound just dandy?
Mrs. Hennessy—that was her name. A short, pinch-faced redhead, always dressing just a little too well, oozing the slimy unction that the best special ed courses could teach. But the courses had never been able to purge from her noble head the reflexive notion that a bent body must hold a crippled mind.
She raised her head from the desk next to him, where she'd been patiently explaining to little Jacqueline Minelli, probably for the thirtieth time, that the little purple block indeed went into the little purple hole. "What is it, Jimmy?"
He always hated that nickname. Even his parents had started calling him James Michael when he began first grade. And that was six years ago.
But you didn't call a retard by his proper name. A nickname, preferably one that ended in a vowel—that was the protocol. And if the retard happened to be a mentally normal boy with muscular dystrophy? Didn't that call for a different protocol?
No, of course not. "I'm done with this nonsense." With the heels of his clumsy hands, he pushed at the math problem, sending the papers fluttering to the floor.
She stalked over and wearily began collecting the scattered sheets. "Jim-my, that was a bad thing to do."
"My name is James Michael. And I've been solving simple goddam algebra problems since I was ten years old."
"That isn't a nice word to—"
"And I'm goddam tired of being treated like I was half a person. Fuck you, bitch."
She slapped him.
And, of course, clapped her hand to her mouth in self-disgust, then spent the rest of the school day apologizing.
On reflection, that slap was the nicest thing a teacher had ever done for him.
* * *
Ahira tugged lightly at the chains. Then harder, and harder. No, not yet.
* * *
There was a shout out in the dorm hallway. "Hey! Anybody want to go out for a beer?"
His roommate-slash-keeper had already tucked him into bed, then headed out to the library. Granted, he could ask someone to help him out of bed again and dress him, but James Michael had invested many uncomfortable hours in the common room downstairs, putting up with corner-of-the-eye stares and hidden shudders until some of them had started to see past the crumpled body in the wheelchair.
But his roommate was gone. And if he went out for a beer with the rest, he'd have two choices when they came back. Either ask someone to carry him to the toilet three, maybe four times until the beer worked its way through his system, or . . .
Or spend the next few hours lying in his own urine.
* * *
Not yet. Try harder. Get through the wall of fire, and into the core.
* * *
Doria dropped into a chair, visibly considered the possibility that it would seem to him to be too far away, took a half-second to fight her own fear of James Michael Finnegan, and compromised by wiggling herself a scant inch closer.
Damn it, Doria, can't you treat me like a person?
* * *
Nothing. He tugged at the chains. Not even a dwarf's normal strength could break them, and he couldn't go berserk, he couldn't do it.
Here I am, just as helpless now as I've been all my life—
Just
his heart pounded, a beat like a bass drum
as helpless
a red film descended over his eyes, a fire in his head
as I've been
his skin tingled with a rush of blood, his tendons sang a hymn of power
all my life.
he went berserk.
* * *
There was an annoyance about his wrists. Ahira wanted to bring them down, to rip, to tear, to smash. But something restrained his hands.
It was an annoyance he didn't have to bear. Not bothering to clench his fists, he brought his arms down.
Metal squealed and shattered, and his arms were free. Free. He bent and ripped his ankle chains from the floor.
Two humans were chained on the bench next to him. Why didn't they free themselves? Didn't they want to smash, to break, to destroy? Maybe they were just too stupid. He reached up, grabbed the arm chains of the nearest, and pulled. Metal squealed and snapped.
Why were his hands so wet and sticky? It doesn't matter—pull, and again, and again.
Sounds came from their mouths, but they didn't make any sense.
"Walter—take some knives, and go find Ari. He's probably in the wizard's wagon, whichever one that is. I'll get the others."
"You'll need help. I'd better—"
"Move, dammit, move."
One of the humans picked something from the corner and bolted out the door. As though in retaliation, three others lumbered in.
"Ahira—take them. I've got to get Andy, Doria."
Words, they were just words. Didn't mean anything.
But the biggest of the three new humans was pulling a sword. That was something he could understand.
Ahira clutched the dangling end of his wrist chains and whipped the loop of chain across the face of the swordsman. The unshaven face shattered; bits of tooth and bone rattled against the wall, blood bathed Ahira in salty fountain.
He shoved the falling body out of the way. Two of the enemy to face. Just two humans, with swords thrusting for him.
He batted the swords out of the way with his loop of chain, then released the end of the chain from his hands. That was the trouble with the chain: It wasn't satisfying enough. And there were two left.
A few moments later, that wasn't true: There weren't any humans, just pieces of them, scattering the room. Ahira staggered out into the night, spitting out a warm gobbet of flesh.
There must be more to smash. There had to be.
* * *
Easy, Karl—you've got one chance at this, and you had better make it good. The hilt of Walter's scimitar felt odd in his hand; the balance of the curved sword was all wrong.
So don't try anything fancy. It was easy to tell which of the four boxlike wagons held Doria and Andy-Andy; the drunken laughter and muffled whimpers called him.
He sprinted across the broken ground. Three long strides brought him to the back door of the slowly rolling wagon. From behind him came the clatter of steel, the screams of the injured, and a constant, deep growl.
Never mind. Ahira can handle them. He jerked the door open and dived in.
And was blinded by the bright lanternlight. So go by touch. His questing fingers nested in a beard; he gripped it tightly and pulled it down while bringing his knee up, the man's jaw crumbling like a fleshy bagful of glass. Don't go for the kill. A quick disable, then on to the next. He threw the body behind him, out of the wagon.
Karl's eyes cleared, faster than he would have thought possible. Three left; two men rising slowly from the bruised naked bodies of—
Save it. There's one coming at you with a knife. Karl dodged to one side and chopped down with his sword, rewarded by the unmistakable feel of steel cleaving flesh, and a thump as the knife-wielder hit the ground outside.
Two more, drunkenly fumbling for their swords. He dropped the scimitar and grabbed the two men by their hair. Karl brought his hands together swiftly; two skulls shattered, as if they had been eggshells.
He seized Andy-Andy and flipped her onto her belly as though she was weightless.
Not now, his Barak-self said. Take out the driver, first.
No, not a second more. For either of them. His hands trembled too badly for him to deal with the knots. He searched the floor, found a sheathed knife, and slashed the leather straps that bound her hands behind her back. A moment later, Doria was free, too.
No time for the gags, best to let them handle that themsel—wait!
He slipped the knife between Andy-Andy's gag straps and her cheek, and twisted the knife's edge out. "Your sleep spell. Use it on the driver, then go invisible, and use this on him," he said, pressing the hilt into her hands.
Wild eyes looked back at him, out of a bruised face. Her left cheek was so purply inflamed that he could barely see that eye.
No answer.
"Doria." No, Doria was worse; either unconscious, or pretending to be. He turned back to Andy-Andy. "I can't wait—just do it." He shook her. "Do it."
She bit her lip so hard that blood began to flow. And then nodded.
He couldn't wait. There just wasn't any time. He had to find Walter and Aristobulus, and then get them all in one wagon. That was it—they'd take this wagon. Easier than moving Doria.
Doria's robes lay crumpled in a heap on the floor. He picked them up and wrapped them around his left arm before retrieving the scimitar.
"I'll be back." Walter and Ari first, then, if he could—
He dived out of the wagon, and hit the ground rolling.
* * *
Crushing a human's face with the outspread fingers of one hand, Ahira stumbled in front of an open wagon. The two mules reared up, hooves striking out.
He batted the hooves away with the limp form of the dead human, using the body like a flail. Ahira moved in on the driver, letting the other fall in a crumpled heap. The slim blond man raised a crossbow, pulled back the string with shaking fingers, and dropped a quarrel into the bow's groove.
Ahira laughed. And bounded to the seat of the wagon, his hands reaching for the driver's throat.
The bowstring sang.
* * *
Time, Karl thought, time was the problem. Surprise was on their side. It hadn't been more than a couple of minutes since Ahira had freed them. The enemy would be disorganized, startled. But that wouldn't last long. The drill was obvious: Find Walter and Ari, load them into the wagon with the two women, and vanish into the night.
But where the hell were they?
He ran toward the forward wagon, but stopped short. Six—no, seven men were hurriedly dismounting from the wagon's back door, swords in hand. No time to waste—Walter and the wizard weren't there.
He turned and ran, past the wagon carrying Doria and Andy-Andy, its sleeping driver lolling on the seat. The next wagon was just creaking along; no sign of any activity. He kept running.
"Greetings, Karl Cullinane," Ohlmin's voice rasped from behind him.
Karl spun around. Standing next to Ohlmin was a short, fat man in wizard's robes. The wizard raised his hands, and smiled with a wine-stained mouth.
"Leave him be, Blenryth," Ohlmin said, his eyes never leaving Karl's. "This one is mine."
Ohlmin drew his sword and lunged, in full extension. Right into Karl's left arm, the one protected by Doria's robes.
The blade tinged, and bounced off, as though it had hit a wall.
Before Karl could strike, Ohlmin backed away. The slim man pursed his lips. "In that case, you do it, wizard."
Blenryth raised his arms higher, a rush of harsh syllables issuing from his wine-stained mouth—
The darkness shattered as a bolt of lightning crackled past Karl from behind, streaking through the air, striking the wizard square in the center of his chest.
Blenryth exploded, spraying Karl with gobs of flesh and shards of bone, knocking him to the ground, out of breath.
Move. You don't know where Ohlmin is—
Hands grasped his shoulders; Karl reached back and up.
"Easy," Walter's voice whispered. "It's just the, umm, cavalry."
Karl bounced to his feet. Standing next to the thief, Aristobulus, looking much the worse for wear, rubbed his smoldering hands together.
And grinned.
"No time for congratulations," Karl snapped, jerking a thumb in the direction of the wagon carrying the others. "They're in that one. Get in, and get moving. I'll catch up with you." He quickly scanned the vicinity. No sign of Ohlmin. The bastard was smart enough to know when to run.
For a moment, the other two stood still. "Now," Karl said. A shove sent Walter stumbling in the right direction. "I've got to find Ahira." And Ohlmin. He clutched the scimitar tightly. Definitely and Ohlmin.
* * *
The world was an incredibly deep, impossibly dark pit. Or well, Ahira?
No, I'm not well. I'm dead, aren't I?
"Pass me that last bottle." Hakim's voice was calm. As always, or almost always. "I'm going to pour a little more in the wound before it closes altogether."
"His mouth's moving," Aristobulus said. "Pour it down his throat, instead."
"But if he doesn't swallow—if it goes down the wrong tube . . ."
"Don't be silly. Those are healing draughts—the only way you could hurt him with that is if you hit him with the bottle."
A gentle hand behind his neck forced his head forward; a sickly-sweet, syrupy-thick liquid washed the taste of blood from his mouth. Ahira raised a distant palm, forcing the neck of the bottle away. "Save. For later." He opened his eyes. In the dim light of an overhead lamp, Aristobulus and Hakim knelt over him. "We." He swallowed, and started again. "We are not moving."
Hakim raised a palm. "No problem. We're far enough away now." He raised his head. "Karl—he's awake."
Far enough away? There wasn't such a thing as far enough away. "Who," he said, his voice a harsh croak, "who says so?"
Karl Cullinane leaned in through the open door, his face splotched with dried blood and streaked with soot. "I say so. They're going to be having other problems than chasing us in the dark."
"How about . . ." He gasped for breath. "How . . ."
"Shh." Karl leaned out for a moment, then returned. "They're both . . . here, anyway. Andy's not doing too badly." He shrugged. "All things considered. Doria's still kind of . . . rocky. Not physically," he said, with a wan smile. "They've both had enough of that stuff. But they've been through a hell of a lot."
"What . . . happened?"
"Later." Karl nodded reassuringly. "The main thing is that we got away. You took a bolt in the lung; if Ari hadn't found that cache of healing draughts in a box strapped under the wagon, you'd be dead. But he did, and you aren't. How's that for now?"
Ahira tried to shake his head vigorously. It just came out as a twitch. "How did I . . . get here?"
Walter patted his shoulder, then moved away, seating himself on a bench on the far side of the wagon. Idly, he picked up a crossbow, then took a quick fingercount of the quarrels in its strapped-on quiver. "Karl found you on the ground, if that's what you mean. Carried you—on a dead run, you should pardon the expression—until he caught up with the rest of us." He looked over at the big man, who was still braced in the doorway. "Eleven bolts—that's not going to be enough, not with my aim."
"Strap another quiver to your leg. And don't forget the cloth, and the lamp oil," Karl said.
"And the flint-and-steel."
"Right." He looked over at Ahira. "The other two are outside, in case you're wondering. They . . . want to be left alone for a while. And I can't say that I blame them." Karl patted Aristobulus on the shoulder. "Are you sure that you're up to keeping guard while we're gone?"
"Count on it." The wizard clenched his fists. "I've still got my Flame spell—anybody except you two who gets close, gets burned. And speaking of burned, do you think that Blenryth's spell books are still back there?"
Karl shook his head. "I doubt it. The wagon we torched was probably his. But if we get the chance, I'll check."
"Fine. And if you don't get the chance, don't worry about it."
Hakim laughed. "Ari, m'friend, I'm beginning to like you."
The wizard scowled. "Just be careful."
Ahira struggled to rise, to get his arms to push him upward. But he couldn't. Easy. He forced himself to relax. It's just temporary. It's just the aftereffects. "You two aren't going anywhere. Not back there."
Karl stepped all the way into the wagon, bending his neck to avoid bumping against the ceiling. "Out." He jerked his thumb at Hakim and Aristobulus. They stepped silently through the door; Karl sat next to Ahira. "We are going back. Just Walter and me."
"No—" Ahira tried to shout it.
"Shh. I'm going to give you the rational reasons first. One." He held up a finger. "There are two-count-them-two water barrels on the side of this wagon. That's about five too few. Two." Another finger. "We don't have our supplies here—no food, no rope, this one lamp and one oil flask—and that bottle there is the last of the healing draughts." He patted at Hakim's scimitar, which was stuck through a sash at his waist. "Three. This sword isn't worth much; I may need a decent one later on. I kind of like Ohlmin's—and once I'm done with him, he won't have any use for it.
"And lastly," Karl continued, "there's five, maybe six of them left. If they have any sense, they're not going to try to chase us, but I don't want to worry about their having any sense. Understood? We're the fox; the only good hounds are dead hounds."
"Give me the real reason. You want to play hero?"
Karl held his breath for a long moment before answering. "This isn't for show." He toyed with the iron cuffs and dangling bits of chain that were still around his wrists. "Those bastards raped two ladies I care about. Two of my friends, dammit. And right now, both Andy and Doria are . . . in kind of . . ." He trailed off. Cullinane closed his eyes and tightened his fists. "They're hurt, and they're scared. And if I—damn. The next time I talk to them, I'm going to be able to say that the animals that hurt them are dead." He opened his fists and rested his face in his hands. "I want to tell them that they're safe, but that'd be a lie in this goddam world. God, how I wish I were home." He took a woolen blanket from the floor and, with the scimitar, began to cut it into strips. "And if the truth be known, my little dwarf friend, Ohlmin scares the hell out of me. I want him dead."
"No. You're not going. Can't let you." Couldn't Karl see that it was just too much of a risk? The thing to do was make a run for the Gate, not try to hunt down the surviving slavers.
"You can't stop me." Karl tied the dangling chains from his left cuff to his arm, weaving the strips of cloth through the links. He shook the arm vigorously. No sound. "And don't bother calling Walter and trying to talk him out of it." He repeated the process with his right cuff's chains, then started work on his leg irons. "You left me in charge, remember?"
"That was just while—"
"Too bad." Karl shrugged. "As far as I'm concerned, you're still out of it." He grasped Ahira's shoulder with a strong hand. "We'll be back in a while. Take care." Two steps to the door, and Karl Cullinane was gone.
* * *
Aristobulus kept watch until dawn, sitting tailor-fashion on the flat roof of the wagon, a blanket underneath him, a waterbag at his side, his Flame spell at the surface of his mind.
At daybreak, a speck appeared on the horizon. He stood, readying himself. If it was Karl and Hakim returning, that was fine. And if not, well then that was fine, too, in another way. Out of bow range, there was no way that a small group of humans could harm him before he blasted them.
The speck grew larger, until it became their flatbed wagon, now drawn by a team of eight horses. Karl and Hakim sat on the wagon's seat, sooty but otherwise unharmed.
"Karl, Hakim," he called out, "is everything . . ." Aristobulus let his voice trail off. He couldn't think of an appropriate word.
Cullinane pulled firmly on the reins. "Easy, easy," he murmured to the animals. Taking a leather bag from the bed of the wagon, he dismounted, pausing only to pat the large mare that was his usual mount, not one of the lead horses. "No more being hitched in front of a wagon for you. It's back to the saddle, tomorrow."
He stopped on the ground in front of the wizard and craned his neck to look up at Aristobulus. "We killed all of them," he said, his voice as matter-of-fact as if he were reporting the time of day.
"You're certain?" Aristobulus asked. "Including Ohlmin?"
Cullinane reached into the leather bag. "Including Ohlmin." He pulled his hand out.
Dangling by the black hair that was gripped in a trembling hand, Ohlmin's bodiless head swayed, as though nodding in agreement.