"Hold tight!" he said. "They're galloping. They'll probably spread out, thinking to catch us with one quick rush. Off!"
The brief rest had given the animals back some of their strength. Jorian led the way at an easy canter, curving around obstacles, swaying and ducking, while the ass rocked along behind. Groaning, Karadur bounced along on the ass, clutching the saddle. He had little control over the animal; but the ass, being used to following the horse, did so with little guidance.
The sounds of galloping diminished as the pursuers spread out. There were more trumpetings, but farther away, as the elephants were left behind in the pursuit. After Jorian had cantered for some time in silence, he held up an arm and slowed. He led the way to the far side of an enormous tree, whose trunk at the base measured over twenty cubits through.
"There's but one man close behind us," he said. "The others have spread too far and lost touch with each other. They'll have to rally back at the elephants to pick up our trail again. Here, take your cursed Kistf."
"What mean you to do?"
"To await our pursuer behind this tree, whilst you go on. I can't shoot, with this polluted hand, but I can still handle a sword. Not, however, with that thing on my back. Get along!" he snarled as Karadur started to protest.
The ass trotted off, with Karadur bouncing in the saddle and the Kist, slung over one shoulder by its rope sling, bumping against the wizard's back. Unable to grasp the reins firmly enough with his swollen hand, Jorian wound them around his left forearm and drew the sword Randir. Then he waited.
Nearer and nearer came the galloping horse. When it seemed as if Jorian could bear the suspense no longer, the rider appeared: a Mulvanian trooper in scarlet silken pantaloons, hauberk of silvered chain mail, and spired helmet. A quiver of light twirl-spears hung across his back, and he balanced one of these darts in his right hand.
Jorian kicked his horse's flanks. The roan started forward, but not so quickly as Jorian intended, because its rider was not wearing spurs. The delay gave the soldier time to twist about in his saddle and fling his javelin.
Jorian, bouncing in the saddle as Oser broke into his rough gallop, ducked down behind his horse's head. The missile hissed past, missing him by a fingerbreadth.
The soldier made a tentative snatch at his quiver, then changed his mind and reached instead for the scimitar at his hip. But his horse, seeing Oser bearing down upon him, shied a little. Lacking stirrups, the soldier was shaken in his seat. His hand missed the hilt, and he was forced to grab at one of the hand-holds on the saddle to steady himself. He was still fumbling for his sword when Jorian's point took him in the throat. He fell into the leaf mold, while his horse, snorting, galloped off.
When Jorian caught up with Karadur, the wizard looked up at him from under his sweat-stained turban. "Well?"
"Dead," said Jorian, "thanks to the fact that I had stirrups and he did not. The way this nag bounces one, 'tis a wonder I hit the fellow at all. I'll relieve you of that chest now, if you like. Curse it, my hand is hurting again."
"Have you thought of the moral aspects of your slaying that trooper?" said Karadur. "Doubtless he was as good and pious a man as yourself— "
"Oil" cried Jorian. "I save your wretched neck and your box of worthless spells, and you read me a damned sermon! Dip me in dung, but if you do not agree it was he or us, you can turn back and give yourself up."
"Nay, nay, my son, be not wroth with me for indulging my bent for speculation. The question of what to do when one is confronted by a man no worse than oneself, and whom one must slay to achieve a goal as worthy as his, has long beguiled me. Portentous questions, like that of war and peace, hinge upon it."
"Well," said Jorian, "I don't go out of my way to kill King Shaju's soldiers; but when 'tis a question of him or me, I strike first and argue ethics later. Did I not, I should not be here to discuss the matter. Meseems that, when one takes the king's coin as a soldier, one accepts the risk that, sooner or later, one may suddenly depart this life. None compelled that ill-starred horse-darter to chase and shoot at me. Having done so, he has no legitimate complaint—assuming his spirit will be vouchsafed a chance to protest in one of your multifarious Mulvanian afterworlds."
"The trooper's officer compelled him to pursue and attack you, so he was not a free agent."
"But he put himself under the officer's orders voluntarily, when he joined the army."
"Not so simple, my son. In Mulvan, all must follow their sires' occupations. So this man, born the son of a soldier, had no option but to become a trooper in his turn."
"Then the blame lies, not on me, but on your polluted custom of hereditary occupations."
"But that, in turn, has many advantages. It provides a stable social order, lessens the bitterness of competition for advancement, and furnishes each man with a secure position on the social stair."
"All very well, Doctor, when the sons' natural bent lies in the same channel as their sires'. But when 'tis otherwise? I know from my own life. Esteeming my father as a good and kindly man, I had been well content to follow his trade of clockmaking; but whilst my mind could grasp the principles, my hands proved too clumsy for the practice. In Mulvan, I had been bound to this profession for aye, and starved in consequence."
Karadur: "But even when there's a free choice of livelihood, as in the Twelve Cities, the same dilemma presents itself, when the general levy is called up for war. Then you will find yourself opposed to another, each of you convinced his cause is just, and no way to settle the question but spear and sword."
"Well, when one fighter is slain, he ceases to have any cause at all, just or otherwise. So justice resides ipso facto in the winner."
"A frivolous answer, O Jorian, unworthy of one who has ruled a state! Well you know that, for all your prayers to your various gods, the winner is determined by strength, or skill at arms, or luck—none having aught to do with justice."
"Holy Father," said Jorian, "when you persuade all my quarrelsome fellow-Novarians to submit their disputes to a tribunal of the wisest and most learned minds and to accept without cavil this court's decisions, I will gladly bow to such judgments. But behemoths will fly or ever that happens, and meanwhile I must fend for myself as best I can. But hold! Here's a dingle athwart our path, with a brook running through it. I'll wade the stream for a few furlongs, to see if I can throw them off the scent again. You may follow if you like."
He turned his horse's head downstream and set off at a rapid amble, water splashing in fountains about the roan's fetlocks. Karadur followed.
The stream gathered volume as it flowed, and around noon it joined another. Below this confluence, the united stream formed a small river, a fathom or two in width—small enough for easy fording but too voluminous to use as a path. Because of the density of the vegetation along the banks, Jorian and Karadur followed the stream at some distance, glimpsing the water through the trees.
"Methinks this is an affluent of the Shrindola," said Karadur. "The Shrindola flows into the Inner Sea, they say, albeit no man to my knowledge has ever followed it to its mouth to make sure."
"Then it must curve northward somewhere, in which case we're on the right side to get to Halgir," said Jorian. "Stop and hush for a moment whilst I listen."
There was no sound save the hum of insects and the chatter of birds and monkeys. They rode on. Then Jorian noticed something about his surroundings. Stones or small boulders appeared, scattered about the forest floor. Presently, as these objects became more frequent, he realized that they were too regular in shape and arrangement to be products of nature. Although often half buried and covered with patches of moss, algae, and lichen, they still showed flat faces at right angles, evidently the work of a mason's chisel. Moreover, they lay in lines—wavering, broken lines, but lines nonetheless.