Simon kept the dart gun, but he handed the knife to Loyse.
“Do not follow on any log until I have already cleared it,” he ordered. “We may be only going deeper into this sink, but I do not propose to try the water way.”
“No!” Her agreement was quick and sharp. “Take care, Simon.”
He summoned up a tired smile which hurt his bruised face. “Be very sure that this is advice I shall hug to me now.”
Simon caught a branch of a moss-wreathed tree which stood at the edge of the grass plot. A measure of the ancient bark powdered in his grip, but there remained still a hard core firm to his testing. Holding to that, he swung out, to land on the first of the logs. The wood did not give too much, but bubbles arose in the water, breaking to release so vile a stench that he coughed. Still coughing he worked his way along to a mass of upended roots where he rested. Not that the mere walking of that way was fatiguing in itself, but the tension in his body had stiffened his joints to make every effort twice as hard. To climb over the roots, find footing again beyond was a task which sapped his strength yet more. He stood there, to watch Loyse come the path he had marked, her pale face set her body as stiff as his. How long did it take, that crisscross trailing from log to log? Twice Simon looked back, sure that they must have come some distance, only to see the flyer still far too close to hand. But at last he did leap to another grass-covered ridge, hold out his hands to Loyse. Then they sat together, shivering a little, panting and rubbing the hard muscles of their legs which seemed to have locked during that ordeal.
“Simon—”
He glanced at the girl. Her tongue moved across her lips as she stared at the stagnant water.
“The water—it can not be drunk—” But that was not a statement, it was a question, a hope that he would say she dared. His tongue moved in his own dry mouth as he wondered how long they would be able to stand up to temptation before they were driven by thirst to scoop up what could be rank poison.
“It is foul,” he replied. “Perhaps some berries—or a real spring later on.” Very pallid hopes, but they could help to stave off temptation.
“Simon—” Resolutely Loyse had raised her gaze from the slimy pool, was gazing back over the path they had come. “Those trees—”
“What about them?” he asked absently.
“The way that they grew!” Her voice was more animated. “Look, even with those that have fallen, you can see it! That was no grove! They were planted—in lines!”
He followed her pointing finger, studied the logs, the few trunks still standing. Loyse was right, they were not scattered. When they had been rooted firmly they had stood in two parallel lines—marking some long lost roadway? Simon’s interest was more than casual, for that way ended at the islet where they rested.
“A road Simon? An old road? But a road has to lead somewhere!” Loyse got up, faced away from the trees at the island.
It was little enough to cling to, he knew. But any clue which might be a signpost in this unwholesome bog was worth following. A few moments later in a line from the trees Simon came upon evidence to back their guess. The coarse grass was patchy, rooted only here and there, leaving bare expanses of stone. And that stone was smoothed blocks, laid with a care for the joining of one to the next—a pavement. Loyse stamped upon it with the heel of her boot and laughed.
“The road is here! And it will take us out—you shall see, Simon!”
But a road has two ends. Simon thought, and if we have chosen to go the wrong way this could be only leading us deeper into Tormarsh, to confront what or whom dwells there.
It did not take them long to cross the ridge of higher ground come once more to where water spilled across a dip. But on the other side of that flood stood a tall stone pillar, a little aslant as if the boggy ground had yielded to its weight. On top of that was a ragged tangle of vine, the loops of which drooped in reptilian coils about a carven face.
The beaked nose, the sharply pointed chin, small, overshadowed by that stronger thrust above it, the whole unhuman aspect—
“Volt!” So had that mummy figure they had chanced upon in the sealed cliff cavern appeared in those few minutes before Koris made his plea and took from its dried claws of hands the great ax. What had the seneschal said then? That Volt was a legend—half-god, half-devil—the last of his dead race, living on into the time of human man, giving some of his knowledge to the newcomers because of his loneliness and his compassion. Yet here had once been those who had known Volt well enough to raise a representation of him along some highway of their kind.
Loyse smiled at the pillar. “You have seen Volt. Koris has told me of that meeting when he begged of the Old One his ax and was not denied. There is none of the Old One lingering here, but I take his stone as a good omen, not one of ill. And he shows us that the road runs on.”
There was still that stretch of water ahead. Simon searched the bank of the island and found a length of branch. Stripping away its rotten parts for a core tough enough to serve his purpose, he began to sound that waterway. Some inches of ooze and then solid stone, the pavement ran on. But he did not hurry, feeling for each step before he took it, having Loyse follow directly behind him.
Below the pillar bearing Volt’s head the pavement emerged on the higher land once more, and as they went, that strip of solid surface grew wider, until Simon suspected that this was no small islet but a sizable stretch of solid ground. Which would provide living space, and so they could not fear discovery by the Tormen.
“Others have lived here.” None of the vegetation grew tall and Loyse pointed out the blocks of stone which vaguely outlined what had once been walls, stretching away from the road into spike-branched brush. One building? A town or even the remains of a small city? What pleased Simon most was the density of the growth about those blocks. He did not believe that any living thing, save a very small reptile or animal, could force a path through it. And here, on the relative open of the ancient road, he could see any attacker.
The road, which hitherto ran straight, took a curve to the right and Simon caught at Loyse to bring her to an abrupt halt. Those blocks of stone, which had elsewhere tumbled into the negation of any structure, had here been moved, aligned into a low wall. And beyond that wall grew plants in rows, the tending of watchful cultivation plain to read in the weedless soil, the staking of taller stems.
It seemed that here the sunlight, pale and greenish within the swamp world, focused brighter on the plants where buds and blossoms showed as patches of red-purple, while winged insects were busy about that flowering.
“Loquths,” Loyse identified the crop, naming a plant which was the mainstay of Estcarp weavers. Those purple flowers would become in due time bolls filled with silken fibers to be picked and spun.
“And look!” She took a step closer to the wall, indicating a small hollow niche constructed of four stones. In that shelter stood a crudely-shaped figure, but there was no mistaking the beaked nose. Whoever had planted that field had left Volt to protect it.
But Simon had sighted something more—a well-trod path, which was not a part of the old road, but ran away from it to the right, winding out of sight on the other side of the field wall.
“Come away!” He was sure that they had made the wrong choice, that the road had brought them into Tormarsh and not toward its fringe. But could they retrace their trail? To return to the vicinity of the flyer might be going directly into enemy hands.
Loyse had already caught his meaning. “The road continues—” Her voice was lowered to a half whisper. And the way ahead did look rough and wild enough to promise that it was no main thoroughfare for those of Tor. They could only keep on it.
There were no more fields walled and planted. And even those scattered blocks of ruins disappeared. Only the fact that now and then they spotted a bare bit of pavement told them the road still existed.