Hugh scowled. “I’ve thought of it—and there is only one place near to here.”
The other outlaws looked up at him, startled—almost, Dirk might think, scandalized. Then foreboding settled onto their faces, and one muttered; “Hugh—desecration brings curses.”
“Is it desecration to sing at the tomb of a minstrel?” Hugh demanded.
“But we bring the sound of battle,” the outlaw objected.
Hugh flashed him a grin, and rode on.
From the brightness of the light filtering down through the trees, Dirk could tell it was midday. The outlaw Hugh had sent riding back to scout the trail came crashing out of the underbrush. “They’re onto us, Hugh. A mile behind, I could hear the hounds.”
Hugh nodded, and reined in. “We’ve gone as far as we can with horses as is. Come, free your beasts—and, friend Dulain, do you lead our silent one.”
They all dismounted, unbridled their horses, bound the bridles to the cantles.
“Away!” Hugh cried, slapping his horse’s rump. “Be off to your freedom—and leave a good, clear trail for hounds to follow!”
The horse leaped away into the underbrush, and its fellows followed it, inspired by a chorus of shouts from the outlaws. Then they stood, silent, listening to the crashing of the beasts fade away into the quiet, ever-present rustle of the noontime forest.
Dirk looked around him, wondering where they were to hide. They stood on a slope, heavily covered with trees, but with the underbrush thinning, because of the rocky outcrops, which seemed to be growing more frequent. Presumably, there were caves somewhere about—but he certainly couldn’t see any. The leafy trees were growing fewer, and the pines were more frequent.
“Up, then!” Hugh turned his face upslope, grinning. “Ye who are new to our forest, try to keep your steps as much as you can to the rock—no sense to give our hunters any more aid than we need.”
One of the outlaws cut down a pine bough, and slashed and cut at a tree trunk with it. Dirk frowned, not understanding; but he followed Hugh, leading Gar, trying to guide the big body’s feet to rocky steps—and saw the purpose of the bruised bough. The outlaw followed them backwards, dusting the ground behind him with a branch that oozed sap and odor. It might not fool the dogs at all—but then again, it might.
They had been climbing for about fifteen minutes when Hugh suddenly stopped, holding up a hand. “Hist!”
The whole party stopped dead, necks craned around and ears straining. Far in the distance, so faint it might have been imagination, came a burbling yapping.
“Core’s dogs,” Madelon stated.
Hugh nodded grimly. “They have made good time.”
Madelon’s mouth set. She threw back her shoulders and stepped ahead. “We had best move quickly, then.”
“There.” Hugh pointed upward. “That bar of shadow.”
Dirk looked upward. There was an overhang of rock about a hundred yards upslope. He nodded. “They might even pass us by.”
They started hiking again, with renewed vigor. Gar stumbled and slipped, but his body kept up with them. They broke out of the trees and pushed upward over scraggly grass with more and more rock. As they came closer, Dirk could make out the dim outline of a cave mouth beneath the overhang.
Then they forged in under the overhang and into the cave. It was low, barely tall enough for a man, and Dirk had to pull down on Gar’s arm to make the great body stoop.
“It grows chill,” Hugh grumbled. He took off his cloak and slung it over Dirk’s shoulders. “Do not argue, my friend. We can ill afford a sneeze, now.”
Dirk bit back a protest and pulled the cloak more tightly about his shoulders. “Thanks, Hugh.” One of the outlaws took off his cloak and threw it over Gar’s back.
Father Fletcher had slipped ahead and led the way with the air of a man retracing familiar ground. Dirk glanced at his companions and frowned; there was a taut, leashed eagerness about them, overlaid with awe. Just where had they come to, anyway?
The priest led the way to the back of the cave, his dark gray robes growing fainter and fainter as they went further from the cave mouth. Dirk could scarcely see him. Then he couldn’t see him, and felt a moment of panic before he realized the old man had just taken an odd turn.
“Stoop!” Hugh muttered, standing aside; and Dirk saw a cleft in the rock, perhaps four feet high and three wide. It took some maneuvering to cramp Gar through, but they managed it, sideways. Dirk stopped and took a breath on the far side, while he waited for the others to come through, and realized with surprise that he could still see. There was light, very faint, seeping down from above.
“Up!” Hugh ordered; and Father Fletcher’s voice called down softly. “The way is clear.” So they set out again—climbing, this time; the floor sloped up sharply. Moreover, it was very rough; Dirk stumbled a few times, and he had quite a job keeping Gar from falling. The passage turned as they climbed in a long, shallow spiral. Then the light brightened, and the passage widened, its far wall washed with gloomy twilight. Dirk suddenly realized what a great defensive position this was; a single man could hold it against an army—while he lasted. Somehow, he suspected it wasn’t entirely coincidence. He stepped up behind Hugh and turned the corner.
They came out into a sort of natural gallery—a broad, shallow cave, hung with stalactites. Off to the right, a broad limestone arch admitted a startling shaft of sunlight that charged the walls with a glory of rainbow coruscations. Dirk stopped dead, involuntarily catching his breath. “On, on!” Madelon urged behind him. Dirk frowned—there was too much eagerness in her voice—and Father Fletcher stood beside the limestone arch, beckoning, his eyes alight with something like triumph.
Hugh crossed to him, his steps quick. Dirk followed, with reluctance. He turned to look through the arch …
It was a natural cathedral, a vast semicircular cavern, its ceiling lost in shadows, its walls of sunlight lanced in from fissures high on the walls, meeting in a pool of light in the center of the chamber.
In that pool lay the bones of a man.
He lay on a huge stone bier, a great roughly-dressed slab of granite three feet high and eight long. The skeleton seemed almost as large as its bed. He’d been a giant of a man—seven feet tall, or nearly, and three feet across the shoulders. But he had been laid low. The left side of the skull was crushed in, the rib cage was shattered; the pelvis was cracked across, and each of the long bones of arms and legs had been broken at least twice. It was brown and crusted with age.
Beside it lay an eight-foot quarterstaff, three inches thick and bound with brass at the tips, and again where a man that size would naturally place his hands. It was broken in half; the cracked ends lay several inches apart.
Dirk stood staring, awed by the solemn, serene, natural beauty of the cavern.
Then, slowly, he moved forward, tugging at Gar’s hand. The giant shambled after him. Madelon came forward past him, to kneel at the foot of the bier. One by one, the outlaws followed her; even Father Fletcher came to kneel.
Dirk came up behind Madelon, to stand brooding down, beginning to understand what he was up against. Superstition was one thing; but when it assumed the proportions of a religion, it was well-nigh unbeatable.
Madelon looked up slowly, her face grave. “You wished to find our leader. Here he lies.”
Dirk stood looking down at her; then he closed his eyes and turned away.
“I guess your thoughts,” Father Fletcher said softly behind him. “Be assured—this is DeCade. That word has come down to us from those who laid him here. Then, too, who else would be so great, with each bone of his body broken? And who else could he by that staff?”
Dirk let that sink in a moment; then he turned thoughtfully to look at the staff. It was truly a staff for a giant. The brass bands that must have served as handholds were seven inches wide. Dirk’s brows knit. That was strange—metal handholds wouldn’t provide much friction. And the broken ends. Dirk knelt down, to take a closer look. There were little bits of something gleaming in there. He reached out a finger …