Shea tried to leap over Dolon; lost his balance and fell across the magician. Dolon grunted as Shea’s knees dug into him, but he, also, made his hands and knees. The three prisoners set off down the road in that fashion.
Shea looked back. Belphebe was still on her feet, trying to draw the bow, but lacking strength to pull it more than a few inches. She aimed up and let fly at random. The recoil knocked her over backward. The arrow soared in a whispering parabola and thwunked into the seat of Dolon’s pants with just enough force to stick. The magician yelped and increased his speed to almost a mile an hour.
«Hurry,» said Shea. «They’re coming after us.» Belphebe was crawling along at a fair rate, regardless of the abrasion of her bare knees. Behind her, Artegall brought up the rear of the bizarre parade like some monstrous tailless lizard. In his armour he could barely move.
«Belphebe’s gaining,» remarked Shea, after a minute.
«That sorrows me not,» said Dolon, with a nasty expression. He fished a knife from his boot.
«Hey,» said Shea, «not that!»
«And wherefore not?»
While Shea was trying to think of a reasonable answer, a man in a kilt appeared at the side of the road. For a moment he stared in astonishment at the singular procession, then put a willow whistle in his mouth and blew.
«The Da Derga!» gasped Dolon. «Ah, woe are we, to be caught thus!»
A swarm of the wild men came trotting through the trunks. All wore tartan kilts. With them were a number of lean, rough-coated dogs. The five crawlers were efficiently bowled over and frisked for weapons. Shea found himself looking into the ugly, bearded face of a gigantic redhead, who moved a nasty broadsword back and forth an inch from the prisoner’s throat as though he were sawing. The redhead seemed to think it very funny.
«Sure and is it not a strange thing to find them so?» remarked a benign-looking greybeard. «The folk would be taking poison to make them so weak.»
«Do we be takin’ them back entire,» asked another, «or just their heads to put in the hall, now?»
«Shame on you, Shawn! ’Tis a month now since the gods have had a proper sacrifice. ’Tis a lack of proper reverence you show, I’m thinking.»
Shea could have thought of one or two terms more appropriate than lack of reverence. But he was not consulted. He was tied up and suspended from a pole. For the next hour or so, as the carriers of the pole jounced along, the pain in his wrists and ankles was too exquisite for him to think coherently.
They followed deer trails, ultimately emerging into a clearing with tents around it. The Da Derga were evidently on a raiding expedition; there were no women or children to be seen. The captives were dumped in a row near a rough-hewn wooden altar with ominously dark stains down its sides.
Shea whispered: «Can’t you work a spell, Dolon?»
«Aye, as soon as I recover from this curst weakness. Malediction on the bungling knave who clipped us in it!»
«I’m afraid I was. uh. responsible,» said Chalmers humbly.
«May Beelzebub fly away with you then! After this, stick to your dragon-juggling tricks, and leave true magic to the great Dolon. Was it not the grass-and-paper spell?»
«Yes.»
«I trow I recognized the symptoms. Haro! ’Twill not wear off for hours, and by that time we shall be dead as Judas Iscariot. Ah, ’tis foul that the greatest master of magic the world has seen should come to an end thus, like a netted herring! The tragedy of it makes me weep.»
He lapsed into gloomy silence. Shea thought desperately — what could they do? If neither the wily Dolon nor the powerful Artegall could help, the case appeared hopeless. Another last-minute rescue from outside would be too much of a coincidence to hope for.
Three men in long white robes, absurdly garlanded with leaves, came out of a tent. One of them thoughtfully whetted a long knife. The sound it made on the stone was hard to bear.
The one with the knife came over and looked down at the captives. The amiable-looking chieftain remarked: «Sure, ’tis a likely lot they are, isn’t it?»
«They’ll do,» replied the Druid. «For a chance-met lot, they’ll do. The two younger are the handsomest. We take them first. But if it’s so weak they are, how shall we ever get them to walk to the altar?»
«A couple of the lads will support them, Oh, Murrahu! Would you be getting your pipes?»
The Da Derga had formed a circle around the clearing. One of the Druids stood with his arms out and face to the sky, chanting, while another gestured symbolically over the altar. A third marched round the clearing, followed by the bagpiper. The piper cut loose with a sound like a thousand angry beehives. It seemed to Shea that a procession of ghostly figures was following the two marchers, floating in some medium of faint iridescence that made their forms and even their existence uncertain. The Da Derga bowed low as priest and piper passed, and stayed bent over till that trail of misty things had gone by.
It was extremely interesting. Shea wished he were in a position to appreciate it without being dominated by the thought that these were probably his last sense impressions. He wondered if the gods of the Da Derga had something in common with the ancient Celtic deities — By the great horn spoon, he had an idea!
A barbarian was cutting his bonds. Two others heaved him and Belphebe to their feet and supported them by the arms. Their expressions were of rapt ecstasy. Shea muttered out of the.sideofhis mouth: «Hey, Belphebe, if I get you out of this, will you call a truce till we can explain?»
The girl nodded. The Druid with the knife took his place at the altar. Another came over to the captives, faced about, and started to lead them. Summoning all his strength, Shea barked: «Hey, Mr. Priest!»
The Druid turned. He had a kindly expression. «Now, laddie,» he said, «its no good shouting! Sure, ’tis an honour to be the first to go to the gods.»
«I know it. But you don’t think the gods will be satisfied with a bunch of weak fish like us, do you?»
«True enough for you. But the gods do he giving credit when a man offers the best he has, and faith, you are that.»
«You could make us better, though. We’re under a spell. You’re a pretty good magician; why not take this weakness off us?»
The Druid’s expression showed cunning. «I’m thinking you’re saying that for your own benefit and not for ours, but ’tis rare good sense you speak, my boy.» He looked at Shea, then at Belphebe and waved his hands towards them, mumbling. Shea felt the force flow back into his body. The old priest addressed the two with him; «Hold them tight, now, lads. It wouldn’t do at all, at all, if they used their strength to get away.»
* * *
The rough hands of the Da Derga clamped down on Shea’s arms till he winced. He saw that Belphebe wasn’t enjoying their grip either. He held himself relaxed, as though putty in their hands.
The procession approached the altar. The piper was red-faced, but seemed to be maintaining himself by that unique power all pipers have of keeping going long after ordinary people would collapse for lack of breath. Shea’s feet dragged. The Druid with the knife awaited him with the supremely peaceful expression of a man who is rendering his own happiness sure by a great and noble act. The altar was only four paces away. He glanced towards Belphebe. Three. She was looking anxiously at him as though awaiting a signal. Two. He felt what he was waiting for — the relaxation of the tired, sweaty hands of the huskies. One. It was now or never.
Shea snapped his left heel up and back. It hit a hairy kneecap, and the barbarian went down with a yell of pain. He let go. Shea spun around on the other heel, driving his left knee into the other guard and at the same time punching him in the Adam’s apple. The second guard, not expecting this demoniac burst of energy, let go and dropped, strangling in the agony of the throat punch.