The swamp was silent except for the hissing of the monster and the slow drip of water from its shining hide. It had a strange unearthliness, as if not entirely of the earth nor quite yet of some other place — a moment and a space poised on some freakish borderline between reality and unreality. Tendrils of trailing fog roiled above the black and stagnant water — black molasses water, too thick to be actual water, but a devilish brew that reeked and stank of foul decay. The trees that grew out of the water were leprous, their gray and scaling trunks bearing the mark of an unknown and loathsome ailment with which the entire world on the other side of the borderline might be afflicted.
Then the head came crushing down with the body following, arcing and coiling and striking him as if some giant fist had descended on him, brushing aside his sword-arm, buckling his knees, throwing its smooth and muscular loops about his body, enfolding him in its strength, driving the breath out of his lungs, crushing his ribs, dislocating his shoulders, folding him in upon himself and a voice bawling, “Be careful of that dog. Tie him tight, but don’t put a mark upon him. He’s worth more than all of you together. If he be so much as bruised, I’ll hang the man who does it by his thumbs. ”
There was sand in Duncan’s mouth — sand, not water — and hands that held him, not the great snake body. He struggled, trying to lash out with arms and legs, but the hands held him so tightly that he could accomplish nothing.
There was a knee thrust into the small of his back and another pressing on his shoulders. His face was pressed hard against the ground. His eyes came open and he saw a dead and fallen leaf, with an insect crawling slowly on it, fighting its way across its smooth and slippery surface.
“Tie that big one tight,” said the bawling voice. And then, “That horse. Watch out. He’ll kick the guts out of you.”
Somewhere Tiny was growling fiercely, somewhere Daniel was fighting off, or trying to fight off, his captors. And from all around came thumping sounds and the grunts of struggling men.
Duncan felt heavy cords cutting harshly into his wrists, and then someone jerked him up and flipped him over. He lay on his back and stared up at the sky. At the periphery of his vision he saw the figures of uncouth men looming over him. From somewhere far off came an eerie keening.
He fought his body erect, pushing with hands lashed behind his back to lever himself upright, till he was sitting flat upon his rump with his bound feet thrust out straight before him.
A few feet away lay Conrad, trussed up like a Christmas goose, but still struggling to break free.
“Once I get my hands on you,” Conrad roared at the men who had just stepped away from him, “I’ll rip your livers out.”
“Friend Conrad,” said one of the men, “I extremely doubt you shall have that chance.”
There was something about the man that seemed familiar to Duncan, but his head was half turned away and he could not be sure. Then the man shifted slightly and he saw that it was Harold, the Reaver.
Duncan’s mind struggled to grasp reality. But it was difficult to grasp reality, for the transition had been too swift.
He had been dreaming — yes, that must be it, he had been dreaming — of confronting a snakelike monster that had lunged out of a swamp, the dream more than likely touched off by the similar monster he had seen emerging from the inky pool in the enchantment swamp. And then, suddenly, he had not been dreaming any longer, but was being caught and tied by this vicious, ragamuffin crew.
He glanced around him, trying to take in the situation at a glance. Andrew was tied to a small tree, his hands roped against the tree, other ropes about his middle. There was no sign of Meg, although she must be somewhere, and no sign of Daniel either, but the patient little Beauty stood hitched to another tree, a heavy rope looped, halterlike, about her head and neck. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Tiny, his four feet tied together, his jaws held shut by loops of cord pulled tightly about them. Tiny was struggling fiercely, throwing himself about, but there seemed little possibility the dog could fight his way to freedom. Conrad still lay a few feet away, looking more than ever like a Christmas goose ready for the oven.
They were at the edge of a small grove of trees at the beginning of the strand — the place where they had stopped in early morning light and flopped, without thought of breakfast or of fire, wanting only to catch a few hours of sleep while Andrew stood the guard.
Snoopy was nowhere in sight, nor was Nan, the banshee, nor was Ghost. Which, Duncan told himself, was no more than might have been expected. As soon as his charges were safely at the strand, Snoopy, perhaps accompanied by Nan, would have gone off to collect his band of Little People. Ghost more than likely was out on scout, alert to any danger. Ghost had said last night that he had seen no one during the entire day, that here they would be safe. And if that had been the case, Duncan wondered, where the hell had the Reaver and his men been hiding?
The Reaver was walking toward him, and he watched him as he came, puzzled at the emotions the man evoked in him — some fear, perhaps, certainly some hatred, but the fear and the hatred washed away by the utter contempt he felt for such a rogue. The Reaver was the scum of the earth, a vicious opportunist with no principles whatsoever; a nothing, less than nothing.
The Reaver stopped a few feet from him and stood, with his hands planted firmly on his hips, looking down at him.
“So, m’lord, how do you like it now?” he asked. “The tables now are turned. Perhaps you’d care to tell me what this is all about.”
“I told you,” said Duncan, “that night at the manor. We are bound for Oxenford.”
“But you did not tell me why.”
“I told you. We carry messages.”
“And that is all?”
Duncan shrugged. “That is all,” he said.
The Reaver stooped forward, placed one great hand on the pouch at Duncan’s belt, and with one wrench tore it free.
“Now we’ll see,” be said.
Taking his time, he carefully undid the buckles and opened the pouch. His hand dipped into it and brought out Wulfert’s amulet. He dangled it on its chain, the brilliant jewels set in it turned to fire in the fading sunlight.
“A pretty thing, forsooth,” he said, “and perhaps valuable. Tell me what it is.”
“A bauble only,” Duncan said. “A piece crafted for its beauty.”
And deep inside himself he prayed, Not the manuscript! Please, not the manuscript!
The Reaver dropped the amulet into his pocket, reached in the pouch again and brought out the manuscript.
“And this?”
“A few leaves of parchment,” said Duncan, as smoothly as he could, “brought along for reading. A favorite of mine. I’ve had little time to read it.”
“Bah!” said the Reaver in disgust. He crumpled the manuscript in his fist and tossed it to one side. The wind caught it and scudded it along the sand for a few feet. Then it caught on a small shrub and lodged there, the wind still tugging at it.
The Reaver’s hand went in the pouch again, bringing out a rosary, the cross of ivory, the beads of amber. He examined his find carefully.
“Venerable?” he asked. “Perhaps sanctified by some holy man?”
“By His Grace, the archbishop of Standish Abbey,” Duncan said. “Which makes it only moderately sanctified.”