“To where the fen begins. I do not go beyond. Very spooky place.”
“And you a spook,” said Conrad.
“A ghost,” Ghost told him primly. “Not a spook. There is a difference.”
“You saw nothing, of course,” said Conrad. “Tiny has been out all day as well.”
“There are those you call the hairless ones,” said Ghost. “A very few of them. To the east, some miles to the east.
Several small bands of them. Keeping pace with you. Traveling in the same direction.”
“How came Tiny not to see them?”
“I flit much faster than the hound,” said Ghost. “Over hill and dale. But frightened. Very frightened. It is not given a ghost should be out in open country. His proper sphere is within a structure, shielded from the sky.”
“Maybe they don’t even know we are here,” said Andrew.
Duncan shook his head. “I’m afraid they do. If not they’d be traveling this same easy route, instead of out there, clambering up and down the hills. It sounds to me as if we’re being herded, somewhat less obviously than Tiny herded in the witch. They know, because of the fen, that we cannot go west. They’re making sure we don’t make a break toward the east.”
Meg, the witch, tugged at Duncan’s sleeve. “Sire,” she said, “those others.”
“What is it, grandmother? What others?”
“The ones other than the hairless ones. They are nearby. They squat in outer darkness. They are the ones who laugh gruesomely even as they proceed with your undoing.”
“If anyone was here,” Conrad objected, “if anyone was near, Tiny would know of them and warn us.”
Tiny lay beside the fire, his nose resting on his outstretched paws. He gave no sign that he knew of anything.
“The dog might not know,” said Meg. “You are dealing here with something that is more subtle and with a greater capacity for evil and deception than the evil things you encounter in the ordinary run of events. They are…”
“But the Reaver spoke of demons and of imps,” said Conrad. “He would know. He fought them.”
“He used the only names he knew,” said Meg. “He had no names for these other ones, which are not seen as often as the demon or the imp. And there may, perchance, have been imp and demon, for the Horde would attract a large gathering of camp followers, all the evil of ordinary kind joining in with them as great gatherings of common people will follow a human army.”
“But you did not join with them,” said Duncan. “And you said that you were evil. A little evil, you said. That you’d have to be a little evil to be a witch at all.”
“Thus you find me out,” said Meg. “I only try to be evil. I would be evil if I could, for then my powers would be the greater. But I only try. At times I thought myself of greater evil than I was and I felt no fear when the Horde came sweeping in, for I said to myself most surely they will recognize me and leave me alone or teach me, perhaps, a greater evil. But this they did not do. They stole all my amulets and they burned my hut and they kicked me in the butt, a most uncourteous way in which to treat someone who is doing her poor best to be even as they are.”
“And you feel no shame in this quest of evil? You feel it is appropriate that you make yourself an evil one?”
“Only the better to practice my work,” said Meg without a trace of shame. “Once a person lays hands upon her life work, then it must make sense that she do the best she can, no matter where her proficiency may lead her.”
“I’m not sure I follow you entirely,” Duncan said.
“I knew you for no evil one,” said Conrad, “when first I laid eyes upon you. There was no evil in your eye. No more evil than one finds in a goblin or a gnome.”
“There are those who believe,” said Andrew primly, “that a goblin and a gnome have some taint of evil in them.”
“But they’re not,” insisted Conrad. “They are Little People, different from us, having little magics while we have almost no magic at all.”
“I could get along quite comfortably,” said Andrew, “without their little magics. Using those small magics they’ve pestered me almost to the death.”
Duncan said to Meg, “You say that there are members of this greater Evil about, even now, outside the camp? That the dog may not be able to detect them?”
“I do not know about the dog,” said Meg. “He may detect them and be only slightly puzzled. Not enough to pay much attention to them, not knowing what they are. But Old Meg detects them, ever so faintly, and she knows what they are.”
“You are sure about that?”
“I am sure,” she said.
“In that case,” said Duncan, “we cannot depend on Tiny alone to stand guard against them, as we might have otherwise. We’ll have to stand watch throughout the night. I’ll take the first watch, Conrad the second.”
“You’re leaving me out,” said Andrew, somewhat wrathfully. “I claim my right to stand my share of the watch. I am, after all, a soldier of the Lord. I share the dangers with you.”
“You get your rest,” said Duncan. “The day ahead will be a hard one.”
“No harder than it will be for you and Conrad.”
“You still will get your rest,” said Duncan. “We can’t hold up the march for you. And your mind must be clear and sharp to point out the way if there should be question.”
“It is true,” said Andrew, “that I know the trail, for I’ve followed it many times when I was younger than I am now.
But it presents no problems. Any fool could follow it.”
“Nevertheless I insist you get your rest.”
Andrew said no more, but sitting close beside the campfire, he did some mumbling.
Andrew was the last of them to go to sleep. Conrad stretched out and pulled the blanket over him and almost immediately began to snore. Meg, curled up in a ball beside the saddle and the packs, slept like a baby, at times making little crying noises. Off to one side, Daniel lay down to sleep; Beauty slept standing on her feet, her head drooped, her nose almost touching the ground. Tiny dozed beside the fire, occasionally getting up to march stiff-legged about the camp’s perimeter, growling softly in his throat, but giving no indication that there was anything requiring his immediate attention.
Duncan, sitting beside the fire, close beside Tiny, found no trouble in staying awake. He was tensed and on edge, and when he tried to smooth out the tenseness, it refused to go away. No wonder, he told himself, with all of Meg’s talk about the Evil being close. But if there was Evil about he could not detect it. If it were there, it rustled in no bushes, it made no noise of any kind. He listened intently for the footstep — or the paw-step or the hoof-step — and there was nothing there at all.
The land drowsed in the liquid moonlight. There was no breeze, and the leaves were silent, unstirring. The only sound was the soft gurgle of the water flowing over a short stretch of shingle between two pools. Once or twice he heard the hooting of owls far in the distance.
He pressed his fingers against the pouch hanging at his belt and heard the faint crinkling of the parchment. For this, he thought, for so frail a thing as these few sheets of parchment, he and the others (the others, with the exception of Conrad, not knowing) were marching deep into the Desolated Land, where only God might know what would be waiting for them. A frail thing and a magic thing as well? Magic in that if it should prove to be genuine, then the Church would be strengthened, and more would find belief, and the world, in time to come, would be a better place.
The Evil Horde had its evil magic, the Little People their small magics, but these leaves of parchment, in the last accounting, might be the greatest magic of them all. Without actually forming words, he bowed his head and prayed it might be so.
And, finally, as he prayed, he heard a sound and for a long moment could not be sure what it was. It was so distant, so muffled, that at first he was not sure he heard it, but as he listened intently, it became more distinct, and he could make it out. The sound of distant hoofbeats, the undeniable hoofbeats of a horse, and now another sound, the far-off baying of dogs.