Krull. Part 5

"Nonsense," Ergo replied haughtily. "Ergo the Magnifi-cent is not frightenable."

"Nor does he talk very well when he's out of breath. You are sweating, my friend."

"My evening exercise. I never miss it."

"I see," Colwyn turned his attention back to the trail ahead. "Then what brings you so soon into our company again?"

"I just remembered that I have some urgent business in this I direction."

"I daresay, from the way you're breathing." He reached a i hand toward the other man. Ergo hesitated, then took the offer and swung himself up onto the horse behind Colwyn. "What business might that be?"

"Staying alive," Ergo confessed, glancing nervously behind them. Whatever creature it belonged to, the eye stayed mercifully hidden.

Colwyn chuckled. "Then it seems we are in the same business, my friend. And men who work the same business ought to stick together."

"Most a.s.suredly," agreed Ergo quickly.

Lyssa had never thought of a nightmare as having walls and a floor, a21 ceiling and strangely hued hidden lights. A nightmare was thin and wispy, faint and impalpable. It ought not to ring hollowly beneath one's shoes or to twist and turn like the thoughts of an evil courtier.

Was she inside the Black Fortress or inside her own mind? She clung precariously to her sanity as she rushed down weaving, convoluted corridors that seemed spun of gold and ceramic instead of honest wood or stone. She could not imagine how such a place could have been built. Perhaps it had not been built in the sense men thought of as "built." Perhaps it had been grown, for certain of the tunnels and cavernous hallways she raced through resembled far more the inside of some stolid, immobile creature than the corridors of any building ever described to her in her lessons.

Occasionally a wall would ooze shut behind her, forcing her onward, or a tall white Slayer would appear to block her path. Then she would turn desperately down any unblocked pa.s.sageway, her dress whirling around her legs, seeking even temporary freedom.

Freedom: it was little more than an intellectual exercise, since it was clear that even if she stumbled across the right tools she'd be unable to dig herself to freedom. But it was a useful abstract to concentrate on as she ran, and it helped to keep her from going mad.

She thought also of Colwyn and the burning fresh love that had drawn them so close so quickly, saw him buried under a wave of Slayers as he'd tried to hack his way through to her in the castle courtyard. What must he be thinking of her now?

Would he be more at peace believing her still alive, with a chance for rescue, or better off thinking her dead?

No matter. She had no way of conveying a message to him. Her palm burned as she thought of him and she remembered the gentle, comforting heat of the flame she'd taken from the font during the ceremony. It gave her strength, that memory. Strength to keep hoping, strength to run on.

Once, a gown resplendent with jewels and metallic thread appeared like a vision before her. Above it floated a crown of precious metal and strange mien. It held her transfixed with its beauty for a long moment, until she saw the threat that lay beyond. To some it might appear raiment fit for a queen but Lyssa was far more perceptive than that. It was beautiful, yes, but so were many burial shrouds.

She turned from it and rushed on.

There were too many dead trees around for Colwyn's liking. They'd reached a defile in the rocks, a place of desolation and broken stone. At least the morning fog had dissipated. Walls without substance, his father had once called such fogs.

The mark of difficult country.

The sun hung somewhere overhead, masked by the sheer walls that rose around them. Birds and other less wholesome things called out hesitantly, as though uncertain of safety. Lonely sounds fit for a lonely place. He would be glad when they had pa.s.sed beyond.

Something nudged him in the small of the back and he felt his pa.s.senger shifting position. Ergo sat behind the saddle and by now it must be wearying to him.

"How are you doing back there, my magnificent little friend?"

"Not magnificently, I fear. I have spent all morning debating the benefits of riding thus versus walking. My feet opt for their present status but another part of me disagrees most strenuously."

"I'm sorry. When we reach a town we'll have to see about acquiring a mount for you."

"With what? I left my last place of residence in such a rush that I was compelled to leave the bulk of my fortune behind."

"It's your help I need, not your money. I am willing to help those who help me."

Ergo perked up, the soreness that attended his fundament temporarily forgotten. "You have money, then?"

"Enough to provide you with a horse, anyway." That told Ergo little, which was precisely what Colwyn wanted him to know.

Ergo peered around his companion's side, raised his voice. "You are not a great chooser of roads, old man."

' 'Our road has been chosen for us," Ynyr replied importantly.

"I was referring to that which pa.s.ses beneath our horses' hooves, not that22 which conveys our spirits."

"As you prefer," said Ynyr. "To place your question on a less exhalted plain, this particular road avoids the most dangerous bogs and marshlands while saving us half a day of travel. No highways lead to our current destination. I should think that, given your present seat, you would be particularly appreciative of any time saved."

Ergo's muttered reply was somewhat less than grateful.

The canyon narrowed further and Colwyn's unease intensified as it did so.

"Ynyr, shouldn't we be out of these rocks by now? It seems we've been riding through them for ages."

"I'm sorry, my boy, but this is the only way to avoid the marshlands. Rest easy. We'll emerge into more open country soon enough."

They rode on. With a sensitive portion of his anatomy continuing to shout its protests, Ergo finally descended to give his feet some exercise, walking alongside Colwyn's horse. Through sleepy eyes quickly opened he thought he saw a half-solid shape behind the rocks. A man could see anything he wanted to in such a place. Here the boulders became a sculpted horse, there a ship far out at sea, there a man's *contorted face, there another. .. and another.

He stared wide-eyed at the jumble of rocks on either side of the path they trod. Another face appeared briefly alongside the last. It wasn't like stone to repeat its illusions so often or so faithfully. He moved close to the horse and his voice became an anxious whisper.

"Robbers! On both sides, Colwyn."

"I've been watching them." Colwyn's reply was calm. "They've been paralleling us for several minutes now, choosing their spot. Restrain yourself.

They're only men. We don't know for sure that they're robbers. You leap to conclusions."

"I would gladly leap there if I thought it a safer place. Faces as ugly as those I've seen could only belong to robbers. What do you think such men are about, hiding themselves in this kind of country? Picking berries?" Aware of the fear in his voice he hastened to cover it with bravado.

"Well, not to worry. I'll turn them all into pigs. Now, where did I put that porcine formulation?" He started rummaging through his slips of paper.

Two men rose from opposite sides of the trail, flung their ma.s.sive axes toward him simultaneously. Each ax blade locked itself over his neck, their weight pinning the unfortunate Ergo to the ground.

"That does it!" he yelled from where he lay, struggling with the pinioning blades. He was more angry now than frightened. "You'll oink and squeal for the rest of your lives!"

Unfortunately, the only pig that appeared near the trail found itself neatly trapped beneath the interlocking ax handles. It oinked and squealed with considerable vigor.

Contrary to Ergo's prejudicial observation, the man who stepped clear of the rocks to confront Colwyn was not especially ugly, but it was plain for anyone to see that he hadn't lived an easy life at court, either. There were scars on his face that had not been put there by farming implements, and his expression was hard and cold. Muscles rippled beneath his shirt sleeves like snakes dreaming under leather.

"You are surrounded by a hundred men," he informed Colwyn. "Throw down your weapons and surrender your money."

Colwyn dismounted to study his challenger. "A hundred is not enough."

That brought forth an amused smile. "Well, well, what have we here? A fighter?" He looked curiously at Colwyn, then at Ynyr. "A welcome change from the usual quavering traveler. A few moments diversion, they say, is refreshing for the soul."

"I would agree with you, were I not in a hurry. If we are to talk of souls, stranger, have a care for your own, lest it find itself liberated sooner than you think. And if it's pleasurable diversion you intend, you're short about ninety men."

The man laughed good-humoredly. "Not only a fighter, but a counter too!"

A second man stepped out of the fog. His expression was sour, his att.i.tude one of irritated boredom. He was stocky and rotund, but Colwyn could see the muscle beneath the fat. His hand held a peculiar and lethal-looking bolo.

"What is this small talk? Idle chatter is for idle men. Kill them and be23 done with it, Torquil."

"Softly go, Rhun." The man named Torquil was studying the nonchalant horseman cautiously. "I don't kill without reason."

"Nor do I," Colwyn a.s.sured him, eyeing the one called Rhun with unconcealed distaste. "The both of you can be thankful for that."

Rhun took a step forward, brandishing the bolo. It was designed not for bringing down fleeing fowl, but for killing.

"Interesting toy you have there, friend. Take another step toward me and you'd best be certain of its use."

The heavyset man held his ground and continued to eye Colwyn threateningly.

Strong and skillful, Colwyn decided, but tending to the impetuous. The one to concentrate on was the apparent leader, Torquil.

Then he noticed something else: Torquil wore iron manacles on his wrists. In the fog it had been difficult to tell if they were wrist shields, decorative bracelets, or something else. Now he could see that the combative Rhun wore identical manacles. Several links of heavy chain dangled from one.

"You are escaped prisoners." It was not a question.

Nor did Torquil try to deny it. He grinned and gestured into the fog where the rest of his band waited. "Say rather, misunderstood citizens. Society has frowned on our actions, sir. But in essence you are correct. We are that, each and every man of us. Thieves, bandits, tax avoiders, brawlers, stealers of favors from men and women both. Vagabonds forced to eke out a living any way we can."

"Desperate men, I should say. That's quite a litany of offenses, though much was evident from first sight of you."

"Beauty is not necessary to our profession. Aye, we're as desperate as you'll ever set eyes upon, traveler... which is one reason we are not to be trifled with. If you will put your hand away from that fine sword of yours, it will not be necessary for us to demonstrate to you just how desperate we can be.

"As for our appearance, I make no apologies. The life of a fugitive is constrained by circ.u.mstance, which smells pestiferously in our case. No, the only thing you can trust in is our desperation."

"Good." Colwyn moved his sword slightly, noted the slight twitch of Torquil's right hand. Fast, he thought. Fast but controlled. "Those are the kind of men I need."

"You need?" Torquil tried to laugh again, but he was a little confused and his heart wasn't in it. This was not the usual sort of confrontation he and his followers were accustomed to. Trembling in fear was normal. A quick hand-over of any valuables without bloodshed, that was typical. Oh rare occasions some fool resisted, and every such confrontation had ended in the same way.

But this stranger's casual demeanor was unsettling. It implied confidence and knowledge. It bothered Torquil. There was no sign they were preparing to flee, either.

And then there was this odd talk about followers. Torquil continued to study his confident young opponent. He certainly didn't have the look of a thief. If he was, he displayed strange taste in henchmen: one little fool full of braggadocio and one quiet old man. Odd too the way the old man seemed supremely indifferent to the whole discussion, as though the weather and the terrain ahead were more important than whatever Torquil and his band might try.

It was all very much out of the ordinary, and Torquil hadn't kept his neck intact this long by rushing blindly into inexplicable situations. His sword hand itched. He had to make a decision soon. Back in the woods Bardolph and Kegan must be fingering the triggers of their crossbows nervously, wondering at the delay. Something kept him from giving the attack signal.

In the presence of indecision, he chose to stall. He gestured toward the trees. "These men follow no man but me, and I follow no man at all. There are no men left in this world worth following. So I am sorry to have to decline your offer, stranger, but you'll have to seek help elsewhere. After you've handed over your money, that is."

"I do not blame you for what you say. Truly there are few men worth following. But would you not follow a king?"

Torquil squinted at the rider. Nearby Sweyn was muttering, "I grow tired of this discourse, Torquil. Let's finish them before some other garrulous fools come along and increase our risk."24 "Hold your guts." He kept his eyes on Colwyn. "There are plenty of lunatics wandering the countryside claiming to be kings. We live in times that seem to encourage such idiocy. Such folk prey on the fears of the credulous. I am not credulous. Neither are my men."

"You have not answered my question: would you not follow a king?"

"Perhaps, though I've had nothing from kings but ill."

Colwyn smiled. "A common complaint, often justified. A king is often too distanced from his people. Blame him not for the occasional excesses of minor bureaucrats. Answer me, man. Would you follow a king to the Black Fortress?"

At that Torquil relaxed, smiled at Sweyn. "See? I told you. You worry too much. We've nothing to fear from these three." He turned back to Colwyn. "I confess you had me going for a while there, stranger, with your facile chatter of kings and followers. You play neat with words, but now I know that you're a lunatic. The Black Fortress!" He and Sweyn silently shared the grim joke.

"I wouldn't follow my own father to the Black Fortress, stranger. Not that he'd be fool enough to go there. Even if it could be reached, there's nothing to be found there save death and destruction, and those I can find in more manageable quant.i.ties right here. D'you think I'm as mad as you, that I'd flee civil war in order to meet a worse death than any captain of guards could mete out?"

"Is it mad," Colwyn asked softly, "to want to defend your world?"

"World? What is this talk of a 'world'? Once I had a village to call home. A warlord burned it to the ground. Now I have no home, and certainly no 'world.' "

"All Krull suffers at the hands of the Slayers."

"All Krull suffers at the hand of winter," Rhun snapped mockingly, "but we don't try to fight the seasons. We'd fare as well if we went against the Slayers."

"It's true the Slayers are different from ordinary warriors, but they are mortal. They can be slain."

"So what?" Torquil challenged him. "Kill a Slayer and ten more appear to avenge him."

"All the Slayers come from the lair of the Beast, which is the Black Fortress. Defeat the Beast and you defeat all the Slayers."

"You talk more foolishness."

"Is it foolish to fight for your homes and families? Is it foolish to fight for your children's sake? If that's not worth fighting for, what is? If these invaders conquer, you won't even keep the independence of escaped prisoners, for all men will become prisoners."

"n.o.ble sentiments," said a new voice as its owner showed himself, "except that we fight for profit. Gold-that's worth fighting for." Murmurs of a.s.sent sounded from the rocks. Not many, Colwyn thought. Certainly far fewer than a hundred. Perhaps no more than a dozen.

"Where is the profit in your fight?" the man asked.

"The profit is freedom," Colwyn told him, "and fame."

"Freedom we have," Torquil replied, "and fame is an empty purse. Count it and go broke, eat it and go hungry, seek it and go mad. Fame is what fools yearn for and wise men shun."

Ynyr turned in his saddle and spoke for the first time. To those who had never heard the old man speak, there was a peculiarly arresting quality to his soft, cutting tone. Torquil and his followers listened in spite of themselves.

"Fame is what you leave to your children."

Torquil gaped at him, tried to see through the white-haired figure straddling the other horse. "You know nothing of me. How did you know I have children?"

"I know many things."

"Save us," Rhun grumbled tiredly. "Not another wise man. They afflict the earth these days as badly as would-be kings."

"I know of your children," Ynyr explained, "because of the way your eyes move when you speak of homes. I know of your children because of the way you stand and the way your lips and tongue curl round certain words and phrases. I know of them because of the inflection in your voice and the distant mistiness in your eyes when you say the word.

"I tell you that there is no future for them in a world controlled and ravaged by the Beast and his creatures. There is no safety for them, nowhere to hide, no future for them to look forward to. You say you have freedom? That is25 foolish talk indeed. You are slaves already, just as we are, for all that you may choose to ignore the chains that bind you. Time now for men of bravery to act. Time now to break those chains so that children may mature in ignorance of them."