Talisman came down out of the night on small bat’s wings, then extended human legs to find a footing in the mud, and bear a man’s full weight. He was sure of the identity of the sodden figure collapsed at streetside even before he turned it over on its back. When he saw the old man’s face, stupefied and ugly, he felt his own fingers talon and go reaching for the throat; but with an effort of will Talisman mastered the impulse to kill. No doubt the powers guarding this fifteenth-century version of the old man’s self were dormant, but they would still be very powerful and capable of being roused by real peril. Instead, Talisman spoke a soft, compelling order to awake.
The man who would one day call himself Hawk stirred, sat up at last, then tugged drunkenly to free himself when Talisman would have pulled him to his feet.
Grimly, Talisman heaved him erect anyway. The old man staggered, wiped his face with a sleeve of filthy medieval rags, then leaned for support against a wattle-and-daub house wall.
“What are you? Don’ tell me you’re a man.” The old man’s French was perhaps even a little better than Talisman’s.
Talisman, wondering how best to proceed, almost despairing, growled at him.
“Speak up. You know, when I wake up tomorrow, I’m not gonna remember any of this. Are you perchance acquainted with the Lady?”
“Lady?…”
“The Lady of the Lake. Didja know she was my lover, once? Well almos’. These fingers right here…” The old man held up a gnarled claw. “I once almos’ got these very fingers right on ‘er little…” The alcoholic bass voice dissolved in a chuckle, half agony, half gross obscenity.
“I know about that, old man. Or I have guessed. But right now something else is more important. I am looking for a Sword.”
“But whooinell are you, anyway? Tell me, are you from my past? Or my future? I have days, guess this is one, when the creatures of either may come ‘round to ‘flict me.”
Talisman clenched his hands, to keep them from reaching out again. “You have made me a creature, as you put it, of both, you son of the devil and a whore. Now where is the Sword? It’s near here somewhere, else why are you here now, and why am I here to meet you? Yours is the magic that concealed it, am I not right?”
“Dunno any sword.”
“You lie. This is Orleans. Will not the Maid herself have the Sword in hand, nine years from now, when she comes here to lift the British siege?”
“The Maid? Who—?” The old man, appearing honestly puzzled, shuddered. “No, I’m not looking ahead tonight. Jus’ gimme another drink, that’s all I want. Safer that way. Wish I could still feel good when I wake up again, but I can’t. Can’t even remember feelin’ good.”
“Then it will be hidden again. As it was hidden before. But you can tell me where it is now. And you shall.”
“Tell you nothin’. What are you, anyway?”
“Tell me, you ancient madman, tell me—” Talisman’s taloned hands reached out.
Effortlessly the old wizard’s defensive powers struck out at him. Talisman was swept back into the pyrotechnic swirl, outside of space and time.
TWENTY-TWO
In pastel sunlight the paved road was a flow of stone that had been moving for hours in a hypnotic rhythm, almost without pause. The surface that flowed backward underneath Margie’s stride was for the most part of flat paving stones. Underneath them was another layer, that in the frequent unrepaired breaks showed as some kind of rough concrete. Beneath the scuffle of marching feet, these surfaces gave up dust. The dust tended to drift up in a fine cloud, and by midmorning all of the trudging Ladies were white with a layer of dust on top of the flaxen off-whiteness of their dress. The dust grayed the clothing of the other villagers who trudged with them, and added a touch of stage makeup to the faces of everyone.
Artos had got this march, this flight, started well before dawn, just as the lad who’d brought the warning to the village had advised. When the House of Ladies was aroused (overhearing speech now with new understanding, Margie had soon learned that was their proper name) they had, like well-trained troops, mobilized themselves at once. There were about a dozen of the Ladies, mostly young, but led by a First Lady of strong middle age. Under her direction the evacuation of their House had gone like clockwork. A few belongings were packed on backs, some loaded on a donkey. The remainder were left behind without a second glance.
The couple of dozen other people who inhabited the village had been just as brisk in getting ready to hit the road. If the road was narrow, the column of refugees was narrow too, and short. There were fewer than forty people in it altogether.
At the first indications that people in the House of Ladies were waking up, Talisman had vanished back into the night, leaving in Margie’s ear the whispered hope that he’d be able to rejoin her later, probably at night. Meanwhile he was going to learn what he could about the enemies of Artos.
By now, midmorning, Margie herself still hadn’t been able to find out much about the enemy—or very much about her companions, either, except for noting a small collection of unfamiliar names. Among the feared and detested leaders of the foe were people called Falerin, Comorr, Nimue, and someone whose name sounded like Medrow, the last especially despised as traitor.
She puzzled continually and uselessly over where her newfound ability to understand these people’s language had come from. She had not yet revealed her new understanding, though she felt intuitively that she would be able to speak as well as understand, whenever she chose to try. And, without appearing to listen, she continued to absorb the talk of those around her, picking up what information she could. She learned less than she would have thought, for the people who spoke to each other were always assuming background knowledge that Margie simply didn’t have.
And Margie was tired. A little lightheaded, not at all confident that she was thinking straight. She had retired early to her pallet last evening, but sleep had been uneasy and interrupted. And now she’d had to keep up for hours with what she considered a damned hard hike. It was a good thing that she’d been in shape when this whole crazy experience started.
There were three or four donkeys, used as pack animals. The only horses were carrying half a dozen fighting men. These were all evidently leaders, and there was no chivalrous nonsense out of them about offering weaker folk a ride. This small cavalry squadron, wearing chain mail over regular clothes, was led by the short, forceful man, Artos—that had turned out to be his name and not the name of the village. Armed with short spears, knives, shields, and the only two swords that Margie had seen since her arrival, the cavalry since dawn had been maneuvering in and out of sight of the trudging foot column. Sometimes they went trotting ahead to scout the way. At other times they dropped back, or vanished along hedgerows to one side of the road or the other, Margie supposed to look out for ambush or pursuit. Among the people on foot, ten or a dozen men and boys were carrying spears and short blades, serving as immediate armed escort.
Margie had heard frequent mention of something called the Strong Fort. It was the place they were trying to reach, and she gathered that they might possibly get there sometime tomorrow. She supposed that meant at least one night spent in the open, in what promised to be an uncomfortable camp. Margie wasn’t looking forward to the night.
A distant whistle, intended as a signal, broke in on her thoughts. Everyone around her was galvanized by the sound.