Once they had gathered atop the ridge, Hal took charge. "Mark," he said, "you water the horses. Half a bucket to each horse, no more. After that, take them down to grass. Have them back before dark, and keep a sharp lookout. Mary, you'll be on watch. Watch in all directions. Scream if you see anything at all. The rest of you gather wood from that clump of trees. We'll need a lot of it."
When Cornwall got back to the ridgetop with the horses, the campfire was burning brightly, with a bed of coals raked over to one side, with Mary cooking over them. Sniveley and Oliver were on watch. Hal picketed the horses.
"You go over and have some food," he said to Cornwall. "The rest of us have eaten."
"Where is Gib?" asked Cornwall.
"He's out scouting around."
The sun had gone down, but a faint light hung over the landscape, which had turned to purple. Gazing out over it, there was nothing to be seen. It was a land of shadows.
"The moon will be coming up in an hour or so," said Hal.
At the fire Cornwall sat down on the ground.
"Hungry?" Mary asked.
"Starved," he said. "And tired. How about you?"
"I'm all right," she said. She filled a plate for him.
"Cornbread," she said, "and some bacon, but a lot of gravy. Aw- fully greasy gravy, but maybe you won't mind. No fresh meat. There was nothing for Hal to shoot. Nothing but those jackrabbits, and with them he had no chance."
She sat down beside him, moved over close against him, lifted her face to be kissed.
"I have to talk with you," she said, "before the others come back. Oliver talked with me, and he was going to talk with you, but I told him no, let me talk with you. I told him it would be better."
He asked, amused, "What did Oliver have to say to you?"
"You remember back at the tent?"
'Til never forget it. And you? How about you, Mary?"
"I can't forget it, either. But it can't go on. Oliver says it can't. That's what he talked about."
"What the hell has Oliver got to do with it—with you and me? That is, if you feel the same as I do."
She grasped his arm, lay her head against it. "But I do. There were all those days you never even noticed me, and then suddenly you did. When you did, I could have cried. You are the first one—you must understand that—you are the first. I was a tavern wench, but never…"
"I never thought," he said, "I never thought back there at the tent, I never thought of you as an easy tavern wench."
"But Oliver…"
"I don't see what Oliver…"
She let go of his arm and turned to face him. "He explained," she said. "He was most embarrassed, but he did manage to explain. He said I had to stay a virgin. He said he'd talk to you, but I said—"
Cornwall started to spring to his feet, sending the plate of food flying to the ground, but she caught him by the belt and pulled him back.
"Now see what you've done!" she cried.
"That goddamn Oliver," he said. "I'll wring his neck, just like a chicken. What right has he—"
"The horn," she said. "The unicorn horn. Don't you understand? The magic of the horn."
"Oh, my God," he said.
"I took it from the tree," she said. "The only one who could and only because I'd never known a man. The horn carries powerful magic, but only in my hands. Oliver said we have so little going for us that we may need that magic badly, and it can't be spoiled. I told him I'd try to tell you, and now I have. It's not been easy, but I have.
I knew what would happen if he talked to you about it. And we couldn't let that happen. We have to stick together. We can't be fighting one another."
"I'm sorry," he said. "Sorry that you had to tell me. I should have known myself. I should have thought of it."
"Neither of us thought of it," she said. "It happened all so fast there was no time to think. Does it, my darling, always happen to everyone so quickly?"
She leaned against him, and he put his arms around her. "No," he said, "I don't suppose it does. But I couldn't help myself."
"Nor could I," she said. "I wanted you so badly. I didn't know it until then, but then I did. There is a buried slut in every woman. It takes the touch of the right man's hand to bring it out."
"It won't last forever," he said. "There'll be a time when the unicorn magic will not be needed. We can wait till then."
She nestled close. "If the time should come when we can't," she said, "when either one or the other of us can't, we'll forget about the magic."
The fire flared as a stick of wood burned through and slumped into the coals. In the east the sky brightened as a signal to the rising moon. Stars pricked out in the heavens.
Feet scuffed behind them, and then she rose. She said, "I'll get you another plate of food. There is plenty left."
26
On the afternoon of the fourth day they came in sight of the Castle of the Chaos Beast. They first saw it after climbing a steep, high ridge, which broke sharply down into a deeply eroded valley-eroded at a time when there had been water in the land, the naked soil exposed and crumbling, the sun highlighting the many-colored strata, red and pink and yellow.
The castle had a mangy look about it. At one time it must have been an imposing pile, but now it was half in ruins. Turrets had fallen, with heaps of broken masonry piled against the walls. Great cracks zigzagged down the walls themselves. Small trees grew here and there along the battlements.
They stopped atop the ridge and looked at it across the deep and scarred ravine.
"So fearsome a name," said Sniveley, "and what a wreck it is."
"But still a threat," said Oliver. "It still could pose great danger."
"There is no sign of life about," said Gib. "It well could be deserted. I'm coming to believe that nothing lives in this land. Four days and we haven't seen a thing except a jackrabbit now and then and, less often, a gopher."
"Maybe we should try to go around it," suggested Mary. "Double back and…"
"If there is anyone around," said Hal, "they would know we're here."
Mary appealed to Cornwall, "What do you think, Mark?"
"Hal is right," he said, "and there seems to be some sort of path across the ravine. Perhaps the only place it can be crossed for miles. Gib may be right, as well. The place may be deserted."
"But everyone back where we came from talked about the Chaos Beast," she said. "As if he still were here."
"Legend dies hard," Sniveley told her. "Once told, a story lingers on. And I would think few cross this land. There would be no recent word."
Hal started down the path into the ravine, leading one of the horses. The others followed, going slowly; the path was steep and treacherous.
Cornwall, following behind Hal, looked up at Coon, who maintained a precarious perch atop the waterbags carried by the horse being led by Hal. Coon grimaced at him and dug his claws in deeper as the horse lurched on uncertain ground, then recovered and went on.
Coon looked somewhat bedraggled, no longer the perky animal he once had been. But so do all the rest of us, thought Cornwall. The days and miles had taken their toll. It had been a hard march, and no one knew when the end would be in sight, for the geography of the Wasteland was guesswork at the best. It was told in landmarks, and the landmarks were often ill-defined and at times not even there. First the Witch House, he thought, counting off the major landmarks, then the Blasted Plain, and now, finally, the Castle of the Chaos Beast and after this, the Misty Mountains, whatever they might be. He remembered he had been told there would be He Who
Broods Upon the Mountain, wondering rather idly if one of the Misty Mountains could be the one he brooded on.
But once the Misty Mountains had been reached, the Old Ones could not be far—or so they had been told by Jones, and, once again, what Jones had told would be no more than hearsay gained from his little people. There were no hard facts here, thought Cornwall, no real information. You pointed yourself in a certain direction and you stumbled on, hoping that in time you might find what you were looking for.