That was terrible enough. But following exposure to the man came immersion in the thing that possessed his body. It was a thing so evil and alien that Daubendiek itself was repelled. The blade sprang back. It glowed. Steam and noisome smoke trailed from the wound it had rent.
Gathrid watched the Toal collapse. It began burning as it fell. A tower of black srnoke rose above the clearing, its top taking on hints of the shape of a terrible face. From the remaining Toal came what sounded like a chorus of sighs.
Gathrid wasted no time. In spite of, or perhaps because of, the horror worming through his brain, his reason seized control. The other Toal would not wait long. Nieroda was near. In his weary, bemused state he could not hope to survive. That he had done so till now was a miracle.
He had to run again.
Daubendiek agreed, though it groaned its reluctance to leave a fight. Gathrid whirled to flee.
Rogala seemed trapped in some interior universe of fear and pain. He, too, had gotten a taste of the thing that had possessed the Dead Captain. Gathrid considered abandoning dwarf and sword-if the latter would permit it-before he realized just how much he needed both. Rogala knew the caverns. They were his only hope. And Daubendiek he needed for protection.
Shoving Rogala ahead of him, he ran for darkness.
As he plunged into the cave, he glanced back. His gaze crossed that of Nevenka Nieroda. That cold, cold feeling hit him again, and he knew the horrors had only just begun.
Chapter Four
Caverns These caverns run for miles," Rogala said. A sourceless glow lighted their way. The dwarf was evasive when Gathrid asked about it. Rogala was evasive about everything. He either knew no answers or just hated questions. He ignored or sidestepped every query. Gathrid had a thousand.
The dwarf continued, "I know most of them."
He did seem to know where he was going.
"Whenever an inappropriate Candidate stumbled onto us, we had to move," Rogala said. "Furniture and all. That damned coffin weighs a ton. But that's all over now, Suchara be praised. The time has come. The blood will flow again. What's the matter?"
"Did you hear something?" Rogala had remarkably acute senses when he bothered to pay attention.
"No." The dwarf listened intently. "I don't hear anything."
"Maybe I didn't either, then. I thought something was behind us." Gathrid now wore Daubendiek scabbarded down his back. It no longer fed him false courage. He was just a confused, frightened boy pretending self-assurance. He prayed Rogala would not sense his growing dependence.
The dwarf, bad company as he was, kept the youth from dwelling on his family's fate. Yet Gathrid could not force Anyeck out of mind completely. Poor spoiled child... .
Oh, but his leg ached. He wanted so badly to rest.
Rogala's grim eyes probed the darkness behind him. "I don't think they're down here. They could be following upstairs. Don't worry. We'll shake them."
Later, Gathrid asked, "Why did you pick me?"
"Daubendiek chose." It was the same answer to the same question asked the dozenth time. There were many more that Rogala simply refused to hear. How long ago had he been chosen? Plauen seemed to have suspected something. Had the blade drawn him to it? Had it drawn the Mindak to Kacalief ?
Rogala would not talk.
"Why me?" Gathrid demanded.
"The will of Suchara."
That was all he could get.
About who or what Suchara might be the dwarf remained determinedly vague. Gathrid did learn that Suchara was female, probably creatrix of the Sword and possibly a goddess. She had something to do with seas, or overseas, and was bloodthirsty.
Though Suchara was mentioned in the legends of Tur-eck Aarant, she was even more vague there.
Gathrid was bewildered by all the mystery.
The dwarf did not make the ideal traveling companion. He would not talk for conversation's sake.
He spoke only to give instructions or to ask about the world to which he had awakened. His few waste words were complaints about his own lot. "The curse," as he sometimes muttered.
With every minute and hour that passed Gathrid felt more empathy for Tureck Aarant. Aarant had had to endure the dwarf for more than a year.
Time lost meaning. Gathrid kept track by sleeps. Those were not pleasant. Though he collapsed in exhaustion when the dwarf permitted a break, he never slept the sleep of the innocent. His dreams were nightmares in which some formless, shadowy evil stole after him, always seeking a chance to devour his soul. He could not identify the stalker.
Sometimes he thought the dreams symbolic of his association with the Sword, or with the puppet master Theis Rogala, or with the mysterious Suchara. As often, he suspected his subconscious was reacting to being hunted by Nevenka Nieroda.
Whatever, it cost him invaluable rest. He became nervous and irritable. He engaged in growling matches with Rogala. The dwarf began watching him closely, obviously puzzled.
Shortly after the eighth sleep, Rogala announced, "We go topside in an hour."
"Finally. I hope it's daytime." His spirits rose. His strength and will returned. "I've had enough of these caves to do me the rest of my life."
"Don't get your hopes up, boy. We might have to come back down." Rogala always looked on the dark side. "Daubendiek. ..."
"Has its limitations. It's not ready for another of those ... those ... whatever possessed that man. We have to stay out of their way till it is."
Gathrid thought of Anyeck, of Kacalief, and grew angry. Yet the pain and loss had begun to pale.
Others of his feelings seemed oddly weak too. The effect puzzled him.
"Theis," he asked, "does the Sword? ... Will it kill my emotions?"
"Eh? The contrary, I'm told. Makes them more intense."
"Then why don't I feel? ..."
"Ah. How much can a man bear? How much of the agony of another life can he assimilate? You'll feel it later, boy. When there's time. The mind is remarkable that way. Knows when it can indulge and when it can't. It can't now. It's got to worry about staying alive. That what's been bothering you?"
"No." He did not elaborate. His nightmares seemed foolish by day.
Day was hurrying into bloody sunset when they resurfaced. A thick layer of smoke deepened the red.
Around the horizon, like the pillars of the sky, smoke rose from countless fires.
"They're burning Gudermuth to the ground!" Gathrid cried.
"Quiet!"
Then Gathrid, too, heard the faint sound of approaching hooves. A Ventimiglian patrol passed nearby and continued on toward a small encampment near the smouldering ruins of a village. A
picket of crucifixes surrounded camp and town. The easterners had shown no mercy.
After a long look, Rogala asked, "It's always like this?"
"I guess. The stories out of Grevening were grisly."
The dwarf had seen grim doings during the Brothers' War, yet the savagery of the Ventimiglians seemed to shake him. "But why? Why slaughter a beaten people? Especially harmless peasants?"
"The Mindak swore he would destroy or enslave everyone. The only buy-off was to surrender the Sword. We didn't believe it existed."
Rogala's face twisted into the cruelest expression Gathrid had ever seen. It smoothed out in an instant. "He'll get it. Between the ribs. But that'll wait. Where are we?"
"I don't know."
"It's your country, isn't it?"
"I never traveled much."
"What's forty miles southwest of the place where we met?"
"The grain-growing counties. Small towns, small castles. We didn't do anything big, though. Katich is the only real city in Gudermuth."
"Don't apologize. There's a lot to be said for the rural life. The city. What direction is it?"
"West. Thirty or forty miles more, I guess. I don't know for sure. I'm sorry."
"Another apology. The Swordbearer doesn't apologize. Men apologize to him. Remember that. Be arrogant. It's expected. So. Make it forty miles just to be sure. I've had enough walking. We'll steal horses. Can you ride?"