Part 18 (1/2)

Gerd spoke in his mind. N'Chaka. Wandsmen-'

He saw white in his mind and knew that Gerd meant the Lords Protector. The hounds did not distinguish between Wandsmen.

Wandsmen say kill you.

He had expected this. The hounds were loyal to the Wandsmen. How strong was his own hold over them? If the Wandsmen were stronger, he would finish here as the blank-faced men had finished.

He turned to Gerd, looking straight into the h.e.l.l-hound eyes.

You cannot kill N'Chaka.

Gerd stared at him steadily. The bristled lips pulled back to show the rows of fangs. There was still blood on them. The pack whined and whimpered, clawing the stones.

Who do you follow? Stark asked.

We follow the strongest. But Flay obeyed Wandsmen- I am not Flay. I am N'Chaka. Shall I kill you as I killed Flay?

He would have done it. The sword point was aimed straight for Gerd's throat and he was as hungry for blood as they were.

Gerd knew it. The fiery gaze slid aside. The head hung down. The pack became quiet Send fear, Stark said. Drive away all but the Wandsmen and the human. Drive away the servants who kill you. Then we will talk to the Wandsmen.

Not kill?

Not the Wandsmen, not the human. Talk.

But Stark's hand gripped the sword.

The Northhounds obeyed him. He felt the air vibrate with their sending.

He led them up the stair.

Some men were at the top. Terror was on them, an agony in the gut. The Northhounds tore them leisurely. Gerd picked up the leader and carried him in his jaws like a kitten.

No one else stood against them. All the others had had strength enough to run.

Stark came at length into another hall, higher than the one that held the records but not so long, with windows open onto the eternal mist. It was spa.r.s.ely furnished, ascetic, a place for meditation. Kell a Marg, spiteful daughter of Skaith, had been wrong. There was no hint here of secret sin and luxury, either in the hall or in the faces of the seven white-robed men who stood there in att.i.tudes of arrested motion, overwhelmed by the swiftness with which this thing had happened.

There was an eighth man, not wearing a white robe.

Simon Ashton.

Gerd dropped what he was carrying. Stark put his left hand on the hound's great head and said, ”Let the Earthman come to me.”

Ashton came and stood at Stark's right hand. He was thinner than Stark remembered and he showed the strain of long captivity. Otherwise he seemed unhurt.

Stark said to the Lords Protector, ”Where is Gerrith?”

The foremost of them answered. Like the others, he was an old man. Not aged or infirm, but old in work and dedication as well as years. His thin hard jaw and fierce eyes reflected an uncompromising and inflexible toughness.

”We questioned her, and the wounded man, and then sent them, south with Gelmar. It was not believed that you could survive the Children in the House of the Mother.”

He looked at the Northhounds. ”This too would not have been believed.”

”Nevertheless,” said Stark, ”I am here.”

And now that he was here, he wondered what he was going to do with them. They were old men. Unyielding old men, devoted to their principles, ruling with the iron rod of righteousness, cruel only to be kind. He hated them. If they had killed Ashton he could have killed them, but Ashton was alive and safe and he could not see himself slaughtering them in cold blood.