therer and if that light’s coming from right in the middle of them
wouldn’t it almost have to be coming from the pillars?’
The man was crazy, Talen,’ Kalten objected.
‘Maybe,’ Sparhawk disagreed, ‘but everything he described is
right where he said it would be. Let’s take a chance on it. It’s
still the right direction.’
‘About the only thing that might cause us any trouble would
be if we stumbled across a helpful Cynesgan patrol and they
decided to escort us back to that caravan we’ve been following
for the last few days,’ Mirtai observed.
‘Logically, our chances of coming across a patrol out there on
the flats are very slim,’ Bevier suggested. ‘Cynesgans would
normally avoid that waste in the first place, and the war’s probably
pulled almost everybody off patrol duty in the second.’
‘And any patrols unlucky enough to cross us won’t be making
any reports in the third,’ Mirtai added, suggestively putting her
hand on her sword-hilt.
‘We’ve tentatively located the pillars,’ Sparhawk said. ‘And if
Ogerajin knew what he was talking about, we’ll have to take a
line of sight on them to penetrate the illusion. Now that we’ve
found them, let’s not lose them. We’ll just have to take our
chances out there on the flats. If we’re lucky, nobody will even
notice us. If not, we’ll try lying to them, and if that doesn’t
work, we still have our swords.’ He looked around at them.
‘Does anybody have anything else to add?’
‘I think that covers it,’ Kalten said, still somewhat dubious.
‘Let’s get started, then.’
‘They just broke off and ran away, friend Vanion,’ Kring said a
day or so later. Kring’s face was baffled. ‘We were using those
tactics Tikume and I came up with, and everything was going
more or less the way we expected, and then somebody blew a
horn or something, and they turned tail and ran – but
where? If what we’ve been told is true, there’s no place in the whole
world they can go to catch their breath.’
‘Did you have anybody follow them?’ Vanion asked.
‘I probably should have, I suppose, but I was concentrating
on luring the Cyrgai across the border.’ Kring smiled at
Sephrenia. ‘That Styric curse doesn’t seem to have worn thin in
the last ten thousand years, Lady. Three full regiments of Cyrgai
went down like newly-mown wheat when they crossed the
border.’ He paused. ‘They’re not really very bright, are they?’
‘The Cyrgai? no. It’s against their religion.’
‘You’d think that at least a few of them would have realized
that something was wrong, but they just kept running across
the border and falling over dead.’
‘independent thinking isn’t encouraged among them. They’re
trained to follow orders – even bad ones.’
Kring looked at the bridge crossing the Sama. ‘You’ll be
operating from here, friend Vanion?’ he asked.
‘i’ll put a force on the other side of the bridge,’ Vanion replied.
‘But our main camp will be on this side. The river marks the
boundary between Tamul Proper and Cynesga, doesn’t it?’
‘Technically, I suppose.’ The Domi shrugged. ‘The curse-line’s
a couple of miles further west, though.’
‘The boundary’s changed several times over the years,’
Sephrenia explained.
‘ticume thought I should come up here and talk things over
with you, friend Vanion,’ Kring said then. ‘We don’t want to
interfere with Sparhawk, so we haven’t been going too far into
Cynesga, but we’re running out of people to chase.’
‘How far in have you been going?’ Vanion asked.
“SIX or seven leagues,’ Kring replied. ‘We come back to Samar
every night – although there’s no real reason for it now. I don’t
think there’s any danger of a siege any more.’
‘No,’ Vanion agreed. ‘We’ve pushed them enough so that
they can’t really concentrate on Samar now.’ He opened his map
and frowned at it for a few moments, then he dropped to one
knee and spread it out on the winter-brown grass. ‘Step on that
corner, please,’ he said to Sephrenia. ‘I don’t want to have to
chase it again.’
Kring looked puzzled.
‘Household joke,’ Sephrenia explained, putting one small foot
on the corner of Vanion’s map. ‘Vanion’s fond of maps, and an
errant breeze turned his current favorite into a kite two days
ago. ‘
Vanion let that pass. ‘i’ll agree that we don’t want to crowd
Sparhawk, Domi, but I think we’ll want to build some fortified
positions out there in the desert. They’ll give us jumping-off
places when we start our advance on Cyrga.’
‘I had the same thought, friend Vanion.’
‘Let’s establish a presence across that border,’ Vanion decided.
‘I’ll send word to Betuana, and she’ll do the same.’
‘How deep in should we go?’ Kring asked.
Vanion looked at Sephrenia. ‘Ten leagues?’ he suggested.
‘That’s not so deep that we’ll be stepping on Sparhawk’s heels
but we’ll have room to maneuver, and it’ll give you some elbowroom
for that spell of yours.’
‘Using the spell’s a good plan, friend Vanion,’ Kring said a
bit dubiously. ‘But you’re deliberately drawing the best our
enemies can throw at us to yourself – and to Lady Sephrenia.
Is that what you want? I don’t mean to be offensive, but your
fight with Klael’s soldiers seriously reduced your ranks.’
‘That’s one of the reasons I want forts out there in the desert,
Domi,’ Vanion said wryly. ‘if worst comes to worst, I’ll pull back
into those positions. I’m almost sure I can count on some dear
friends on my flanks to come to my rescue.’
‘Well said,’ Sephrenia murmured.
‘Stop,’ Khalad said sharply, reining in his horse when they were
perhaps five miles outside Vigayo.
‘What is it?’ Berit asked tensely.
‘Somebody named Ramshorn died,’ Khalad said, pointing. ‘I
think we should stop and pay our respects.’
Berit looked at the crude grave beside the trail. ‘I looked right
through it,’ he confessed. ‘Sorry, Khalad.’
‘Pay attention, my Lord.’
‘It seems you’ve said that before.’
They dismounted and approached the rude ‘grave’.
‘Clever,’ Berit murmured quietly. It was probably not necessary
to lower his voice, but it had gotten to be a habit.
‘Talen’s idea, probably,’ Khalad said as they both knelt beside
the mound. ‘It’s a little subtle for Sparhawk.’
‘isn’t that supposed to be two words?’ Berit asked, pointing
at the weathered plank with ‘Ramshorn’ roughly carved into its
face.
‘You’re the educated one, my Lord. Don’t touch those rocks.’
‘Which rocks?’
‘The yellow ones. We’ll mix them up as soon as I read them.
‘You read rocks? Is that like reading seagulls?’
‘Not exactly. It’s a message from Sparhawk. He and my father
worked this out a long time ago.’ The short-bearded young man
leaned first this way and then that, squinting at the mound.
‘Naturally,’ he said finally with a certain resignation. He rose
and moved to the head of the grave.
‘What?
‘Sparhawk wrote it upside down. Now it makes sense.’
Khalad studied the apparently random placement of the yellowish
rocks on top of the predominantly brown mound. ‘Pray,
Berit,’ he said. ‘Offer up a prayer for the soul of our departed
brother, Ramshorn.’
‘You’re not making any sense, Khalad.’
‘Somebody might be watching. Act religious.’ The husky
young squire took the reins of their horses and led them several
yards away from the ill-defined trail. Then he bent, took Faran’s
left foreleg in both hands, and carefully inspected the hoof.
Faran gave him an unfriendly stare.
‘Sorry,’ Khalad apologized to the bad-tempered brute, ‘it’s
nothing important.’ He lowered the hoof to the gravel again.
‘All right, Berit,’ he said then, ‘say “Amen”, and we’ll get going
again.’
‘What was that all about?’ Berit’s tone was surly as he remounted.
‘Sparhawk left a message for us,’ Khalad replied, swinging
up into his saddle. ‘The arrangement of the yellow rocks told
me where to find it.’
‘Where is it?’ Berit asked eagerly.
‘Right now? It’s in my left boot. I picked it up when I was
checking Faran’s hoof.’
‘I didn’t see you pick up a thing.’
‘You weren’t supposed to, my Lord.’
Krager awoke with the horrors to the sound of distant screaming.
Days and nights had long since blurred in Krager’s awareness,
but the sun shattering against his eyes told him that it was
a full and awful morning. He had certainly not intended to drink
so much the previous night, but the knowledge that he was
reaching the bottom of his last cask of Arcian red had worried
at him as he had grown progressively drunker, and the knowledge
that it would soon be all gone had somehow translated
itself in his fuddled mind into a compulsion to drink it all before
it got away from him.
Now he was paying for that foolishness. His head was throbbing,
his stomach was on fire, and his mouth tasted as if something
had crawled in there and died. He was shaking violently,
and there were sharp stabbing pains in his liver. He sat on the