Part 10 (1/2)

Her voice carried such conviction that Hargoth hesitated over whatever words he had been about to say.

”My place is with the Promised One,” said Gerrith. ”My path lies northward. And I tell you there will be blood and enough to feed Old Sun before this is finished.”

She held the skull higher in her two hands, over the fire, and the flames turned a sullen red, staining them all with the color of death.

Now Hargoth looked uncertain. But he was proud and obstinate. ”I am king,” he said. ”And high priest. I know what must be done for my people.”

”Do you?” asked Stark quietly. ”Can you be sure? You know only the dream. I am reality. How do you know that I am truly the Promised One?”

”You come from the stars,” said Hargoth.

”Yes. But so does the stranger who was brought to the Citadel, and he is the one who tells the s.h.i.+ps to come, not I.”

Hargoth stared at him for a long moment in the red glare of the fire.

”He has that power?”

”He has,” said Stark. ”How can you be sure that he is not the Promised One?”

Gerrith lowered her hands and stepped back from the fire. The flames returned to their normal color. She said calmly, ”You stand at the crossroads, Hargoth. The path you choose now will determine the fate of your people.”

A heavy and sententious statement, Stark thought, but he felt no desire to smile at it. It was the simple truth, and it involved his own and Ashton's fate as well as that of Hargoth's people.

His hand closed over the hilt of the sword taken from one of Amnir's men. He waited for Hargoth's answer. If the stupid man insisted on sacrificing Gerrith and going south, Old Sun was going to have some victims here and now.

Hargoth's gaze flicked uncertainly between Stark and Gerrith-the chill, flat, s.h.i.+ning gaze of madness, of fanatic conviction. The lesser priests who had a.s.sisted him at Amnir's camp were gathered nearby, their masked faces immobile, watching. Suddenly Hargoth turned on his heel and joined them. They went apart. Their backs formed a wall that hid whatever they might be doing, but the movement of their shoulders indicated that some sort of ritual was being performed. They chanted, a low sonorous murmuring.

”Lacking a live victim,” Gerrith said, ”they're consulting some other augury.”

”It had better be favorable,” said Halk, and drew his swordblade hissing from the sheath.

The silence lengthened. The guttering fire hissed as snow and frost fell into it. The People of the Towers stood in the blowing darkness beyond, and waited.

The priests made one long moaning sigh. They bowed to some invisible Presence. Then they returned to the fire.

”Three times we have cast the sacred finger-bones of the Spring Child,” said Hargoth. ”Three times, they pointed north.” His eyes showed a desperate, thwarted rage. ”Very well. We will go up against the Thyrans. And if we win past them, do you know what waits beyond Thyra, to keep us from the Citadel?”

”Yes,” said Stark, ”I know. The Northhounds.”

A shadow crossed Gerrith's face. She s.h.i.+vered.

”What is it?” asked Stark.

”I don't know. It seemed-that when you spoke that name, one heard it.”

Across the desolate miles to the north, a great white shape had paused in its measured padding through blowing snow. It turned and swung a huge, fanged muzzle southward, questing across the wind.

16.

As Hargoth had said, the broad land narrowed. It began to rise sharply toward a series of ridges, and on either hand were rough hills and deep gullies choked with tumbled ice. The track of Amnir's wagons still followed the ancient road. Apparently the summer thaw was strong enough to cut the road in many places. It had been remade across the beds of wider channels, the narrower ones filled in with stones, a tribute to the hard work and enterprise of Amnir's men. And much good it had done them in the end.

With Hargoth's people, the party now numbered thirty-six: two tens of fighting men and their captain, armed with slings and javelins; the Corn King and eight priests, armed with magic; and the original six from Irnan, counting Stark, who would just as soon have dispensed with his new allies. The force was too large to move easily in secret, and too small to be effective as an attack unit. Still, he thought the Corn King and his priests might be useful in one way, when they came to meet the Northhounds. The breath of the G.o.ddess might at least slow down these legendary demons. In any case, he had had no choice.

The narrow men in gray proved to be nearly tireless. Their marching gait was a sort of springy trot that was difficult at first for Stark and the others to keep up with after the long days of captivity. But they fell into the pace gradually, feeling strength and elasticity returning. Only Halk, who had suffered the worst confinement, stumbled along at the rear, sweating and cursing. He was so vile-tempered that Breca gave up trying to help him and rejoined the others.

”How far to Thyra?” asked Stark.

”Three long marches.” Hargoth had not been to Thyra himself, but Kintoth, captain of the fighting men, had. He wore lightning-strokes on the cheeks of his mask and he carried an iron sword.

”We go there somewhiles to trade for tools and weapons,” Kintoth said, slapping his sword-hilt. ”The Thyrans are great smiths. We always go in force. We trade them dried meat as well as hides and cloth, but in the old days before the trader we were afraid of being added to their feedstocks ourselves. Now that Amnir is dead, we shall have to start worrying again. The Thyrans keep beasts and trade knives to the lichen-gatherers for fodder but there's never enough in the starving times.”

”We trade women, too,” said Hargoth. ”A matter of necessity, though neither we nor the Thyrans like it. We must both have fresh blood to survive. There was a third city once that neighbored us, but the people kept too fiercely to themselves and finally they died.”

He trotted on for some time in silence. Then he added, ”Sometimes the Wandsmen bring us women from the south. They don't live long here. Usually we give them to Old Sun.” And he looked at Gerrith.

”What about the Citadel?” asked Stark, not missing the look.

”We've never seen it. No one has. Not even the Ha.r.s.enyi. There are the Northhounds, to guard against strangers. And there is the mist.”

”Mist?”

”Thick mist that boils like steam above a cauldron and never lifts. It is a strong magic. The Citadel is always hidden.”

”But you know the way there?”

”I know what the Ha.r.s.enyi have said. Some of their people serve the Wandsmen.”

”But you don't really know. Do the Thyrans?”

”I have told you. The way is known, and not known.”

”What about the women from the south?”

”The ones they give us are never taken to the Citadel, but brought straight on.” Hargoth's mouth was a thin line. ”The gifts of the Wandsmen! They bring us more than women. Small phials and pretty powders, joy and dreams for all, and perpetual slavery. They tempt our young ones to go south and join the Farers. We are not fond of the Wandsmen.”

Hargoth studied the strangers. Old Sun was above the horizon now, and his gaze moved from one face to another, not hurrying, seeing in the rusty daylight what he had not seen by starlight or by the flickering gleam of the fires.

”You have come a long way to destroy them. Why?”

They told him.

Hargoth listened. When they had finished he said, ”You Southrons must be soft indeed to let yourselves be so badly ruled.”

Gerrith held up a hand to forestall Halk's angry outburst. She looked coldly at Hargoth and said, ”You've heard of the Farers. You've never seen them. You've never seen a mob in action. Perhaps you will before you're through. Tell me your opinion then.”