Through the left-hand door Orlandus called: "Open up, here!"
Thorolf hauled Yvette over to the picture and pulled it out from the wall. But how to get his recalcitrant victim into the hole?
Holding the picture away from the wall with his head, he clamped both hands on her slender waist, preparatory to heaving her up and in. Then he heard the sounds of a chant, followed by the clank of a withdrawn bolt.
Thorolf whirled. In the doorway stood Orlandus in a nightrobe, below which his shanks and feet were bare and above which his scalp was bald save for a narrow fringe of mouse-colored hair. Evidently the Psycho-mage was wizard enough to force a door to unbolt itself, even if not enough to grow hair on his pate, which Thorolf had always seen concealed beneath a wig of glossy black.
"Who the devil—" began the Psychomagus, starting forward. Then he checked. "Sergeant Thorolf again, I see. And wearing one of our habits!"
Thorolf's attention was distracted long enough for Yvette to whirl out of his grasp and run toward Orlandus, trailing the strip of cloth by which Thorolf had tried to control her.
As the Countess approached Orlandus, the cultist threw an arm around her. With his other hand he whisked a dagger out of his robe and placed the edge against her throat.
"Yield!" said Orlandus. "Or your jade's dinner for my hounds!"
Thorolf measured the distance between himself and the pair. He could doubtless whip out his sword, cross the distance in two bounds, and smite Orlandus to earth. But it would take even less time for the Psychomagus to slash open that slender neck.
"Throw down your sword, scabbard and all, unless you're fain to see her weazand slit!" barked Orlandus.
Thorolf hesitated, frantically weighing alternatives. Then he took the one that seemed to offer the likeliest chance. He hoisted his baldric over his head and, stooping, laid the belt and scabbard on the floor, at the same time easing his dagger from its sheath.
When he straightened up, the dagger was in his right hand, away from Orlandus. It was a sizable weapon, weighted for throwing, and he threw. The fact that Orlandus was a full head taller than Yvette gave Thorolf a reasonable target.
He hoped to drive the blade into the magician's eye. Instead the dagger, turning in its flight, buried itself in Orlandus' shoulder. The mage's right arm sagged, and his dagger clattered to the floor.
Thorolf scooped up his scabbarded sword, drew, and leaped toward his enemy. The cultist, releasing Yvette to reach for his dagger with his unwounded arm, cried:
"Hold! Be reasonable, man! Think of what I offer you—"
As he spoke, Orlandus abandoned his quest for his dagger and, beginning an incantation, backed hastily away from the charging Thorolf. Unaware of his direction, the cultist backed, not out the door, but into the frame of one of the diamond-paned windows. The casement flew open at the impact of the magician's shoulders, and Orlandus fell out backward. Thorolf glimpsed the mage's bare feet inverted and heard a hoarse cry. Then came the sound of a body striking the bailey below.
Thorolf put his head out the window. He could see nothing in the darkness; but the cry and the thud of the fall had alerted the guards on the outer wall. One called:
"What was that? ... Let us go down for a look ..."
Yvette stood with her hands still bound behind her, looking dazed. Thorolf said: "Are you free from the spell, Countess?"
She stared at him but made no answer.
Evidently she was not yet free. Thorolf sheathed his blade, donned his baldric, and carried Yvette over to the picture. This time he hoisted her, unhelpful but unresisting, into the tunnel and scrambled after her. As the picture swung back into place, shouts and clatter of armed men came through the canvas, together with a curious intermittent hiss, like the sound of a monster breathing.
Thorolf knew he should flee without pause, but his curiosity proved too great. Placing his eye to the tear in the canvas, he saw two of Orlandus' mailed guards glancing wildly about the room. One, just then peering under the divan, bore a halberd; the other carried a cylindrical device with a handle at one end, while the other end tapered to a slender orifice. The guard was rhythmically pulling the handle out and pushing it back in. With each push, a pillowy puff of flour spouted from the orifice. The clouds of flour dust rapidly fogged the room until vision was useless.
Smiling quietly, Thorolf picked up his pack and cloak and herded Yvette down the tunnel.
IX – The Disappearing Delta
Thorolf lay close beside Yvette in the darkness of his little tent, which accommodated two sleepers only by crowding. The cold compelled them to sleep in their clothes, he in his Sophonomist robe and she in her nightwear, with his cloak over both.
Once they were out of sight of Zurshnitt, he unbound her hands, warning her that, if she tried to flee back to Castle Hill, she would get lost and perish. She had obeyed in a dazed sort of way, as if Orlandus' death had robbed her of all volition. Thorolf could understand how her delta became quiescent when its sorcerer-master was no longer present to command it; but still he was wary. The spirit might force Yvette to do something utterly unpredictable.
When they retired, Thorolf had tied up his sword with his scarf and lain down upon the bundle, so that Yvette could not draw the weapon without arousing him. His dagger had gone out the window with Orlandus.
The lumpy bundle, together with the cold, made sleep hard to come by, despite the fact that the night had been well along towards dawn before Thorolf halted their flight to set up the tent. A nasty little thought kept stealing into his mind: If he tried to futter her now, she would probably not resist, at least not hard or long. Feeling ashamed of himself, Thorolf banished the idea; but it kept creeping back.
He was lying in the dark, concocting and discarding plans for taking care of Yvette until she was restored, when he became aware of a faint illumination that was not dawnlight. A little twinkling point of blue light, like that of a firefly, appeared over Yvette's face. It rose, danced about for a few heartbeats, then streaked out the crack in the tent flap.
Thorolf raised himself on one elbow to watch the apparition's progress. The movement aroused Yvette, who sat up crying: "Where am I?"
"In my tent," said Thorolf, "on our way to the Sharmatt Range."
"Your voice doth sound familiar—are you Sergeant Thorolf?"
"The same, madam." He gathered himself to rise. "Let me strike a light."
Soon he had a rushlight sending up its feeble flame. Yvette reached out and touched his face. "I do perceive that you are in sooth Thorolf! I recall your taking me from Castle Zurshnitt when something befell the Psychomagus; but all is confused. Is he dead?"
"I have reason to think so. And the delta that possessed you, left masterless, has departed your body."
"Ah, it all comes back! To you I owe my liberation; you are a true hero even if a Rhaetian." She seized his head between her hands and kissed him. "A pity you are of your class, or I should know how truly to reward you. And now I can talk again!"
"Why couldn't you before?"
"When the Master asked me how you escaped from the castle, my delta would have answered; whilst I stood firm against exposing the secret, lest you essay another rescue and be trapped. So bitter was this opposition internal that I found myself stricken dumb. How came you to my chamber so timely? By the tunnel again?"
"I followed the sketch of the interior made under your direction. Finding the room empty, I sat down to await your return."
"I was with that beast Parthenius."