With the sickness came disorientation. His mind had not yet learned to quickly accept the life experiences of Daubendiek's victims, nor to integrate them smoothly with his own. When the Sword released its hold, he felt fragmented, unsure of his identity.
Tendrils of greed, feelers from the thing that pursued him, nibbled at the edges of his soul. His whole being fought for its existence. In pushing the demon out, his personality reasserted itself.
Maybe he was too weak to cope with magicks of these orders.
They raided again. Both the killing and assimilation became easier. That frightened Gathrid. Over and over, he told himself, "I won't become another Tureck Aarant!" He did not want to be remembered solely as a man who had trafficked in bloodshed.
He and Rogala took what supplies they needed, went to ground during the day. Gathrid found daytime sleeping less punishing. The demon seldom stalked him then.
The third night Rogala insisted on making two strikes. "Why are we bothering?" Gathrid asked. He peered at the ominous comet. It did not seem to be growing larger. "The men and supplies we've destroyed weren't a drop in the river they're moving up to the city."
"Because their logistics are strained," Rogala replied. "The thread we pull may be the one that unravels the whole siege. And because you need educating. This is your novitiate, your apprenticeship. You don't become Swordbearer simply by taking up the blade. You and Daubendiek are like bride and groom. You have to get to know one another. You have to meld into a single inconquerable engine of destruction. That takes time and practice."
"Why?"
The dwarf looked bemused.
Gathrid kept his disgust to himself. Rogala was deaf to any protest.
The fourth night the enemy mounted patrols along the road to Katich. The wagons they attacked were stoutly defended. They spent the remainder of the night skirmishing with and fleeing from patrols which had begun closing in during their raid.
Gathrid could not count his worries. But one old one was important no longer. His body felt healthier than he could remember it ever being. His leg bothered him not at all.
Their fifth night of raiding was one more of confusion than one of action. "Their patrols are everywhere," Gathrid complained.
"You expected them to put up with us forever?" Ro-gala snapped. "Of course they're starting to come back at us."
The youth studied the encampment they were scouting. It was the third they had approached. "We can't take this one either." The guards were numerous and alert.
"We'll try another one." Rogala sounded grim. He was determined to attack. His enemies were not cooperating.
The tale was the same everywhere. Ahlert's people were waiting.
"All right," Rogala grouched, "if you won't play out here, we'll just rag your main camp. You won't be looking for us there."
"Are you crazy? You don't go whacking a hornet's nest with a stick."
An hour later, as they stole nearer Katich and the vast Ventimiglian encampment facing the capital, Rogala yielded to Gathrid's incessant importunities. "All right!" he snarled. And muttered, "Gutless children." He led the way in a long arc around the city, growing sourer by the mile.
Sunrise found them departing desolation for more hospitable countryside north of the Gudermuther capital. An hour later they were hidden in a wood.
"Get some sleep," Rogala said as Gathrid consumed the last of a cold breakfast. "Pretty soon we won't get much chance."
Gathrid needed no more encouragement.
Shouts and the clash of arms wakened him shortly after noon. At first he thought them part of his dreams. When not being stalked by the slain Toal, he relived fragments of the pasts of Daubendiek's victims.
The noise continued after he opened his eyes. He looked for Rogala. The dwarf and his horse had vanished.
Was Theis in trouble?
The racket came from beyond a low rise west of the thicket where they had concealed their encampment. Keeping low, Gathrid scurried to the crest.
Ventimiglian and Gudermuther infantry were locked in a death struggle on the far side. The outcome was beyond doubt. There were fifteen Ventimiglians, only eight Gudermuthers. Men from both companies lay dead or wounded. It looked like the culmination of a hunt for fugitives from some battle already fought. A Ventimiglian junior officer, mounted, watched boredly from a safe distance.
Gathrid withdrew, ran to camp, cinched his recently stolen saddle, mounted, returned-and at the crest, after having revealed himself, had second thoughts. He halted. All eyes turned his way.
The officer drew his sword, spurred his mount in the youth's direction.
Gathrid drew Daubendiek.
He had no idea what the combatants saw. Whatever, they fled, the officer outdistancing them all.
Gathrid slew one Ventimiglian, regretted it immediately. There had been no need. He had accomplished his purpose by scattering the fighters.
He fretted all afternoon. Where was Rogala? Why didn't he show up? What would happen now?
The dwarf sensed trouble the instant he arrived. "What happened?''
Gathrid explained.
"Should've stayed out of it, boy. Now they don't just suspect, they know. Plenty of witnesses. You think we were on the run before, you haven't seen anything." "They were my people."
"You'll learn. You're the Swordbearer. You don't have any people now. You have Daubendiek, Theis Rogala, Suchara and Death."
Just what Tureck Aarant had had. And Suchara promised nothing in return. "But. ..."
"You'll learn. Come on. We've got to get moving. They're probably closing in already."
They were. The first time the pair approached the edge of the wood, near where they had entered, they found a Ventimiglian battalion preparing to sweep through. The ensign of a sorcerer-general accompanied the unit standard.
"Bad," Rogala muttered. "He spots us, our only hope is to outrun them. And that'll be impossible if he's in touch with the others. Better put your scruples away, boy, and get ready for a fights A
real fight this time." "What's wrong with scruples, Theis? They ..." "Because you'd be the only one at the party with them. They're going to get you hurt if you don't turn loose." The dwarf wheeled, led the way to another verge. The enemy had not yet appeared there, but dust clouds were approaching.
Rogala had flown to the spot like a pigeon to its coop, Gathrid reflected as they cantered across open terrain. They escaped the closing circle only a quarter mile ahead of galloping horsemen. In his way, in his field, Rogala was certainly competent. Useful, if one had need of a bloodthirsty dwarf.
"What're we going to do?" the youth asked. "Make a run for the border. Get over into this kingdom you call Bilgoraj. Maybe we can shame your allies into doing something." The dwarf kicked his mount into a gallop.
The chase was on. It continued throughout the night, growing painful and exhausting. Rogala was in his element, running like a fox before hounds, enjoying himself hugely as he matched wits with the Ventimiglian commanders. He strove to keep a southwest heading, toward where the border made its closest approach, but torch-bearing riders kept turning them west and north, toward a border twenty miles more distant. Rogala conceded the ground.
Once they skirmished with a party of four, and took fresh mounts, but lost ground to the growing pursuit. Above the night, a waning moon ghosted westward like a mocking grin in cloth of diamondstudded black felt. The ominous comet led it by thirty degrees. The latter was twice the size it had been when first Gathrid had seen it.
As false dawn sketched the horizon behind them, where fires glowed and pillars of smoke wandered up to mask the lower stars, Rogala shouted, "We're not moving fast enough. They're guiding us.