Dragon Sword Series - Dragon Sword Part 16

Absently, she patted his shoulder. "Don't mention it. See you in the morning."

As she sought her place to sleep, she faced north for a moment. Nearby-disturbingly so-was a blackness that blotted out the stars.

Dythragor had all of Gryylth under his thumb, but the 144.

Heath p.r.i.c.ked at him: something he could not understand, something he could not control. "Afraid, Braith-waite?" She half-whispered it under her breath, and she knew that he could not hear.

* CHAPTER 10 +.

The next day dawned warm, with none of the damp mist of the previous mornings. Dythragor took that as a good sign: no matter what the Heath held in store, a bright sun would do much to make it bearable.

But the Heath was a shadow, one that deepened as it was approached, and again he felt the turmoil of unfamiliar and unformed thoughts. He tried to rea.s.sure himself with the fact that the Heath, when viewed from a nearby rise, seemed to be only a few miles in diameter, but the sensation of wrongness increased as he rode toward the faint, indefinable change in the land's appearance that marked its boundary.

Marrget called a halt some fifty yards from it, and the men adjusted their armor, settling the thick leather cuira.s.ses about themselves as though expecting an onslaught.

The captain edged his horse toward Dythragor. "Have you a plan, Dragonmaster?"

He eyed the Heath, looking for an enemy, but he saw nothing save for a change in the color of the gra.s.s as though a cloud were hiding the sun. There was no indication that there was anything frightful just ahead, but a vague apprehension was rising within him. Flashes of images crowded into his thoughts against his will, and he tried to focus only on what was visible with material eyes.

He wanted an enemy. He wanted something definite, 145.

146.

not this insubstantial shade that lay grinning at him like a schoolyard bully. Come on, try me. Go ahead.

"I'd say we should keep the men together as much as we can while fanning out to see what the Dremords were doing here.''

Marrget nodded slowly.

"We don't know exactly what we're looking for."

"That is unfortunate." Marrget's smile was thin. Dy-thragor had seen the expression before, on the eve of many a battle. "It is difficult to look for something that someone else has already taken away."

Alouzon was trotting her horse toward them, Wykla trailing behind her like a child's pull-toy. Her presence today made Dythragor more uneasy than angry, as though there might be things in the Heath that he did not want her to see.

His horse stirred, almost s.h.i.+ed. He looked at it sternly. "Down, sir. You will stay until I say otherwise." The animal quieted, but he could feel its tension.

"Well, lady Alouzon," Marrget said as she reined in. "It appears that you have lasted this far."

She c.o.c.ked an eyebrow. "I wasn't aware that there was any doubt."

Marrget actually seemed to like her. Dythragor had noticed, too, that the entire wartroop tolerated her presence, not as an intruder, but as a guest. His horse tensed again.

"We can't take the horses into the Heath," he said abruptly.

Alouzon looked out at the shadow on the land. "Yeah. Jia's telling me he doesn't like this one bit."

Marrget agreed. "The animals are wiser than those who ride them. But we must to the Heath. If we must go on foot, then . . ." He shrugged. "I have no objection."

"Someone should look after the horses," said Dythragor.

"I see no reason to split my wartroop," said Marrget quietly. "The horses have been trained to take care of themselves."

' 'What about Dremords in the area?''

147.

"There are none. My scouts last night found a camp that has been abandoned for some time-doubtless a relic of the previous expedition-and there are no other traces."

Alouzon was nodding. "Dythragor is still looking for an excuse to leave me behind. It won't work."

"She can't come," he said quickly. "I . . ."

He had, he realized, been speaking too loudly. He caught himself and forced his hands to relax on the reins.

"I am the Dragonmaster," he said evenly. "I forbid it."

Alouzon was studying him critically. d.a.m.n, she seemed so much like Helen at times. There was no resemblance between the two, but their expressions . . .

"I'm a little old for that, Dythragor. This isn't a candy store."

"There'll probably be violence."

Her face hardened, and her voice went cold. "I've seen violence, thanks. I can handle it."

"Look here, girl ..."

Marrget lifted a hand. "It is not well to enter a battle with ill will among the warriors," he said. "I must be so bold as to suggest that the two of you resolve your difficulties for now. I do not wish to endanger my men needlessly."

Dythragor flared. And was Marrget bucking him now? "You forget who you're speaking to."

The captain's gaze was level, uncompromising. "I know very well to whom I speak. Please do not cause me to forget it."

He was speaking formally, and there was a hint of danger in the fact that he had to constrain himself with studied politeness. Inwardly, Dythragor cursed Alouzon for having been the cause of the falling out; but he swallowed his anger, turned to the other Dragonmaster, and extended his hand.

"Alouzon," he said. She was stealing everything else from him; at least he could take the initiative in this.

She reached out and took his hand for a moment. He was startled to find that her grip was firm, strong, di- 148.

rect-not at all what he had expected. "OK, Dythragor. There won't be any conflict between us in the Heath."

He noticed that she had specified the location, and he grinned to show her that he understood. "None."

Marrget nodded. "It is well."

In the still air, Marrget's voice sounded flat and lifeless as he gave the order to dismount. The horses trotted off as though glad to distance themselves from the Heath. The captain watched them for a minute, then signaled the advance.

Again contrary to Dythragor's expectations, there was no definite border to the Heath. Entering it was, at first, like entering a cloud's shadow: a certain dullness came over the colors of the gra.s.s and trees. The land was still rolling and soft, but its outlines became blunted, indistinct.

Dythragor felt vulnerable on foot, as if being in contact with the ground exposed him to ... something. He half expected that the gra.s.s beneath his boots might suddenly turn into mist, dissolve, and pitch him headlong into darkness. Or smother him in fetid vapor. The others obviously felt similarly, for in spite of the plan to fan out, they stayed close together, hands on sword hilts.

He looked up. There was no trace of the sun: the sky was a milky whiteness without feature, an opalescent swirl of half-seen, half-felt shapes that corresponded disturbingly with the thoughts that he was trying to hold down. Helen's face swam down at him suddenly, and he cringed and almost drew his sword.

Alouzon was looking at him. "What is it, man?"

He shook his head violently and pushed on, resolved to keep his eyes off the sky.

There was an undercurrent of fear among the men, a knowledge that they were in a place where they should not be, and the quiet, businesslike manner of professional soldiers changed in a few minutes to a furtive stealth.

They worked their way over the next rise and found that the gra.s.s gave way to a plain of fine sand that stretched off into the distance until it was lost in the milky .

149.

haze. For a moment, they stood at the crest and looked out. No one seemed willing to take the first step.

He heard Marrget talking to Alouzon, his voice a bare whisper. "I have heard it said that the Heath changes, that two men entering separately will find a different terrain. They might not even find each other."

"So how are we supposed to find out what the Cor-rinians did here?"

Corrinians again. That little b.i.t.c.h.

"I know not. We can but look, Dragonmaster."

"Yeah . . . I know ..."

Marrget started down the slope, and the others followed. Dythragor fought with himself for a moment. Helen ... He could not shake the thought that she was around here, somewhere, waiting for him. Maybe Sil-bakor had brought her to Gryylth, too. What was going on?

Alouzon murmured something under her breath, stooped, and lifted something from the sand. A spear. Parts of it, though, seemed curiously mismatched, as though the shaft was half of wood, half of something that resembled gla.s.s, with a curiously reptilian appearance overall. The tip was patched with fur that sprouted directly from the metal.

Dythragor was reminded of the deformed Dremord at Hall Kingsbury. The man was himself a crazy quilt of textures and substances.

"The style is Dremord," said Marrget, examining it gingerly, as though it held some subtle, contagion. "I cannot speak for its construction, though."

"It's like that man at the hall, Marrget," said Alouzon. "Maybe this was his spear."

"That could well be."

Alouzon's eyes had narrowed. "What . . . finally happened to him, Marrget?"

The captain shook his head. "He spat blood and died shortly after you saw him, lady.''

Dythragor kept his eyes off the spear. "Come on, let's go. We've got things to do. The next thing I know, you'll want to bring Mernyl into this again."

150.

She seemed about ready to say something, but he pushed past her and stalked off across the sand. The images that fluttered across the sky persisted, so he kept his eyes downcast.

He grimaced with contempt. Clouds. If that was all the Heath had to offer, then its reputation had been greatly exaggerated. But he felt something change behind him, and when he turned around, he discovered that the endless sand was now pocked with contorted rock formations. A desert landscape. And when he turned back, he found that it lapped all the way around him, as though the scenery had prudishly waited for his back to be turned before it changed.

He could not see the wartroop or Alouzon. He was alone in a desert, abandoned by those he had thought were his allies.

"Where the h.e.l.l are you?" he called. He fancied them hiding behind rocks and bushes, snickering at the sight of the great Dythragor wandering without companions. And, true, one of the scrubby trees rattled as though someone were concealed in its leaves.

He went boldly up to it, kicked the trunk with a booted foot. The tree screamed, and he found himself confronting a face inches from his own, one that smiled and mocked his predicament. He knew her. She had smiled that way before, when she, with a quick court injunction, had barred him from his own house, keeping his books, his papers, his livelihood out of his grasp, laughing as he tried to argue with the sheriffs.

"Helen!"

She spat in his face, and in a moment, his sword was in his hand and he was swinging at her, hacking at the tree, sending chunks of gray leaves and splintered bark to one side and the other. Imprisoned like a dryad within the wood, Helen bled freely, but still she smiled.

"Dythragor?"

She was standing behind him now, wearing armor like his. A sword was at her side. No matter: she would have no chance to draw it.

He rushed at her, swinging.

151.

"Dythragor!" she cried, but he came on. Hesitating only for a moment, she slid to one side and slammed an elbow into his stomach.

He found himself on his back, struggling, with Alouzon on top of him. She was holding him down with her weight, pinning his wrists with her manly grip. Behind her, Marrget and the wartroop watched, incredulous.

"Get off me, woman," he shouted.

"Whatsamatter, Dythragor? Can't stand to be on the bottom?'' She was angry, and he could not blame her.

"Get off of me." He had the feeling that he had just made a fool of himself in front of everyone, but it had all seemed so real. Helen . . . Helen was out there. He had seen her.

Alouzon let him up, and Marrget helped him to his feet. "My G.o.d," Dythragor said, pa.s.sing a hand over his face. "I can't understand that."

"It is the Heath," said Marrget. "It always attacks the strongest first." There was a stony light in his eyes. "So I have heard."

Dythragor looked at them unsteadily. Disgraced. If Alouzon had not been present, he might not have minded so much. But to have her see. To be bested by a woman . . .

On the dim horizon, a darkness gathered . . .

. . . came closer ...

Dythragor felt a chill wind start up, one that was pushed along by the wave of mud and slime that was suddenly towering above him like a swamp set on its edge. Stagnant water, moss, the blackened outlines of rotting trees, the flicker of marsh-lights, he saw them begin to fall on him, saw also, in the depths of a rank pool, the image of Helen's face.