Vannor had walked for some time before the dreadful truth dawned on him. His scouts were not lost—he was! He had reached level ground long ago, sure he was heading the right way—but there was neither sight nor sound of the rebels. Van-nor’s heart began to thunder, and a clammy sweat trickled between his shoulder blades. When he had been sure he was heading in the right direction, he’d been all right, but now . . . The cloying mist swirled around him, confusing him beyond all hope of finding his bearings. Vannor choked on panic. Was the ground really level beneath his feet? Was he moving in the wrong direction, and heading straight into the arms of the enemy? He fought a desperate battle with himself to keep from running blindly into the darkness, fleeing from the fear that threatened to consume him . . . With an effort, Vannor got hold of himself. Steady, he thought. Calm down, you fool. What would Parric have done in this situation? He wouldn’t have got himself lost, for a start—but that’s no comfort!
He stopped and took a swig from his waterflask, wishing it contained the fiery liquor he used to keep at home. What now? He could wait here until the mist cleared or dawn came, whichever happened sooner. Or he could try to retrace his steps, in the hope that he would blunder into his troop. He knew the most sensible course was to stay put, but the cold was piercing and inactivity galled him, forcing his mind into futile imaginings. Was that a sound over there? Or that way? Was it his people? Or the enemy? Again and again he was on the verge of racing after illusory noises, though common sense told him that he risked losing himself even more completely on these vast stretches of moorland. In the end, with his nerves frayed to breaking, Vannor gave up. Better to be moving, he decided, to try to retrace his steps. At least that must surely bring him closer to his people. Turning himself carefully to face back the way he had come, Vannor set off again into the fog.
Damn and blast it! The tilt of the ground beneath his feet and the strain on his thighs were no illusion. For some time, Vannor had been wandering uphill again—a hill far steeper than the one he’d climbed before! How could it have happened? He’d been so careful! Dismayed and disgusted with himself, the merchant sat down heavily and put his head into his hands. It was no good. Maybe he could think more clearly if he rested a little.
Vannor sat up with a jerk. It was still foggy but there was dingy gray light around him, and he could see yellowish, withered turf for a few feet around where he sat. He must have dozed! Then he heard again the faint noise that had awakened him. From somewhere on the hillside above him, the sounds of fighting carried, through the fog. His fear for his troops churning in his belly, Vannor scrambled to his feet and ran, with drawn sword, up the incline.
The steep slope seemed to stretch on forever, but the clash of battle was growing in his ears. At last,
Vannor saw vague, dark shapes ahead of him. Distance was deceptive in the mist, and he was into their clutching limbs before he knew it. Trees! Thank the Gods! There was only one place on this grim moor that boasted trees. He must be near the edge of the Valley. But he could hear the fighting ahead of him, its noise still undimin-ished. Flinging up an arm to protect his face from the tangle of springy branches, Vannor began to force his way through.
Flinging caution aside, the merchant crashed heedlessly through the undergrowth until finally he broke through into a clearing where the sound of fighting was loud ahead. “Halt, Vannor—traitor and outlaw!” The voice was loud and harsh. Vannor stopped, lowering the arm that obscured his vision. From the trees came a ring of unshaven, flint-eyed mercenaries, bristling with naked steel.
“Drop your sword.” The circle parted and Angos stepped forth, cold, callous amusement on his face. “Some rebel!” he said, sneering. “You never stood a chance, you fool.”
Almost of its own volition, the sword fell from Vannor’s numb hand. He had failed his people! Parric had been wrong to trust him! In the forest, the sounds of battle faltered, and ceased. One by one, the rebels were pushed into the clearing, their numbers fewer than before, the merchant saw with a sinking heart. Their hands were bound behind them, and they were forced to kneel on the ground at swordpoint. Vannor’s gaze searched the demoralized captives, picking out faces—until he saw one face that turjjed him cold with horror. There—uncloaked and unmasked, her long black hair straggling across a bruised and filthy face—was Dulsina.
A blow from a mailed fist caught him hard across the face, sending Vannor staggering. Through swimming eyes, he saw Angos, standing over him, grinning evilly. “The Archmage wants you and Parric for questioning. If you survive, he has a nice little public execution planned.” His cold gaze flicked over the captured rebels. “What, no Parric? Has the little runt abandoned you? Or is he hiding elsewhere?” He shrugged. “If you know, we’ll get it out of you. If not, we’ll find him, never fear. I don’t think we need bother taking the rest of this scum, though. It’s not even worth notching good steel on them. Archers—”
The mercenary’s voice was drowned in a thunder of hoof-beats. Before Vannor’s eyes, Angos jerked and stiffened, his chest exploding in gouts of blood as though he’d been pierced by a sword. His body was tossed into the air, to land in a crumpled heap several yards away. Pandemonium broke out among the mercenaries, but before they could lift a sword or put arrow to bow, the trees around the clearing came to life. Boughs and roots writhed forward, clutching them in a deadly embrace. Thorny twigs gouged at eyes, and branches ripped soft bellies, spattering the ground with offal and gore. Then, drowning the screams of agony and the crack of breaking bones with their wild song of death, the wolves erupted into the clearing in a seething mass of gray.
It was over in seconds, though Vannor, taking in every detail of the hideous slaughter, knew that he had seen enough to furnish himself with endless hours of nightmares. As the wolves finished their bloody work, the frozen calm of shock left him, and he fell to his knees, doubled over with vomiting and moaning in terror.
Vannor opened his eyes to witness what his numbed brain had been trying to tell him for several minutes. The wolves and trees had known which people to take! The bloody remains of Angos and his men were strewn across the clearing. Not one had survived. But in the one clear space, the bound and terrified rebels huddled together, wild-eyed and trembling—but totally unscathed! Beside them stood the biggest of the wolves, alone now, for his companions had melted away into the forest. He pricked his ears questioningly at Vannor, whined—and wagged his tail!
Shaking his head in disbelief, the merchant approached the wolf, his hand outstretched. As he closed the distance between them, the animal backed away, his tail still wagging furiously. Vannor picked up a dagger from the discarded weapons that lay about the clearing, and having wiped it clean of blood on his cloak, he began to free the others. “Nobody hurt the wolf,” he warned in a low voice.
“Nobody hurt it?” someone muttered incredulously. “Nobody’s going near the bloody thing!”
There was a swell of nervous chuckles from among the rebels, and their courage gave Vannor the strength to take charge once more. He yanked Dulsina to her feet. “You,” he said sternly, “have some explaining to do!” He glared at his assembled troops. “In feet, it took a conspiracy to hide her all the time we were marching—so you all have some explaining to do!”