Even the fat cook got out of the wagon to look. Even Towser. The charred stink was strong in their nostrils, clung to their clothing and skin.
As if standing on a green shore, a black tide lapped away from their feet, stretching northwest out of eyeshot. The rolling country was scorched to black loam, though the fire had jumped some hollows and ledges. Big trees had survived, green high on their crowns, but smaller ones had perished like sagging candles. With a clear sky and weeks of spring, the earth sprang back, and green fingers infiltrated the black wastes. After days of marching through the shadowed forest, hot sunshine made the travelers squint.
Gull tested his theory on Towser. In his striped gown, the wizard glowed tike a firework in the sunshine. "We saw a shooting star two moons ago. Could it have started a forest fire?"
"It might have…" said Towser absently, and Gull knew he'd guessed their destination. "Let's move on."
"Still northwest?" persisted Gull.
"Aye." Towser turned toward his wagon.
Felda objected. "We can't camp here. There'll be no water."
Towser waved the objection away. "There'll be mana. Get rolling. We'll figure how to camp once we find-" He stopped.
"Find what?" asked a dozen.
But the wizard climbed into his wagon and drew the curtain.
Wondering, the entourage climbed onto wagon seats and clucked to the stock.
The next day, they found it.
In the blackest, bleakest center of the burned area, devoid of trees or even rocks, the earth suddenly banked, a vast hollow circle. Again, the entire entourage came to peer over this earthen lip.
Perfectly circular, deep as a lake, but dry, was a hole two hundred feet across. Layers of earth showed black loam, yellow sand, gray clay, gray sand.
At the very bottom of the crater was a smaller hole they couldn't see into.
No one spoke. No birds sang, no butterflies fluttered. The soil was sterile, without even anthills. The forest held its breath, as if the shocking violence of the calamity still lingered.
"This is it!" Towser's gleeful chortle startled them. He pointed. "A star fell from the heavens and crashed right there! Fetch the tools!"
"What for?" asked Kem.
"To dig up the star!"
CHAPTER 9
They dug.
Each wagon carried a short-handled spade, and there were two picks and a crowbar. The men were ordered down the slope and into the small hole. They found it bell-shaped, two arm spans across, littered with rocks and branches and leaves damp from rain. Tossing out the debris, they dug.
To begin, all four bodyguards dug as one. When the hole grew too deep to hurl the dirt out, they tied buckets to ropes for hoisting and dumping. Slow work. In a feverish hurry, Towser ordered the dancing girls to help haul. When camp was established a half mile away, near a clear-running stream, the cook's helper and nurse were ordered to help too. Even Knoton the clerk had to dirty his hands and blow on his blisters.
"Whatever's down here," grumbled Gull, "he wants it bad."
Forced to work shoulder-to-shoulder with dangerous tools, Gull and Morven on one side and Kem and Chad on the other formed an unspoken truce. They talked as needed and no more, but neither did they watch their backs for a pickaxe blow.
Gull pointed out, "Towser'd probably turn us into toads if we mucked around belting each other." No one disagreed.
Towser's entourage dug all day, with only breaks for meals and guard duty. Gull was glad of any excuse to stop shifting dirt, and when his turn came, grabbed his longbow and quiver and hurried off.
The new perimeter included both the camp and the crater, a circuit of a mile or more. The blasted forest- withered trees and leaning stumps and new greenery underfoot-let him see a good distance, though some rills and pockets still shut off sight. He crooked an arrow alongside his bow for a quick draw. Tracks showed deer and other beasts were attracted to the tender spring growth.
At one point he heard a sough behind him, and nocked as he whirled.
And almost shot Stiggur, the cook's helper.
"Don't shoot! Don't shoot! I'm sorry!" The boy raised trembling hands.
Despite regular meals, the boy was rail-thin and small. Starved at an early age, Gull assumed, never to grow tall. He wore a plain linen smock, very clean, and hair clipped short to keep lice and dirt out of the food. Felda was hellacious for washing hands, burying wastewater, scrubbing dishes, digging the privy far away. A bout of dysentery or camp fever could wipe out the entourage-and delay Towser's frantic schedule.
"What is it, lad?" Gull snapped. He'd never spoken to the boy much, only to request more food or bid good-morning.
"Uh, I just wanted to walk with you, sir." His voice was warbly, about to break. Gull guessed he was twelve or so-Sparrow Hawk's age, were he still alive.
Gull frowned, puzzled, and the boy backstepped. Realizing it was a compliment, he said, "All right. Stay on my right and behind, clear of the bow. And walk soft. I'm hoping for fresh venison or pork."
"Yes, sir."
Gull resumed walking. "Save the 'sirs' for Towser. I'll be plain Gull."
"Y-yes… Gull."
They walked, clogs and bare feet sinking into the miry loam. Sometimes their passing shook burned bark or branches from trees. Low bushes, recovering, plucked at their ankles. Gull kept his eyes unfocused, to better see movement, and carried his head cocked to hear ahead.
He was startled when the boy spoke. "I admire the way you snap that whip, sir-I mean, Gull."
Annoyed, Gull growled, "Do you?"
Encouraged, he jabbered, "Aye, sir, Gull. It's wonderful you can pop between the mule's ears without hitting. And the way you split Kern's ear-" He stopped, uncertain whether he should criticize another adult.
"Poor Kem's ear must buzz, it gets talked about so." Gull held up a finger for silence as they peered around a tree bole. A brown bear cub underdug a log for grubs.
Stiggur whispered, "You won't shoot it?"
"I could," Gull hissed. "Bear liver's fine eating, especially a tender young one. But I'd have a mother on my back before I could nock again. See there?"
He pointed. Down a slope, a she-bear still shaggy with winter growth rocked an ash tree, trying to dislodge a clinging possum. Gull led the boy in the opposite direction. "Never shoot a brown bear, unless you've a pack of hounds and several lancers."
The boy stared, hanging on every word. Why was it, Gull thought, young boys followed him around? He couldn't walk through White Ridge without tripping over wide-eyed kids.
To stop the staring, he pulled his mulewhip from his back belt. It was oily and heavy and long, more than twelve feet, and always felt alive in his hand, like a snake. "Here. If we can't hunt-because someone's talking-we can practice this."
Sheathing his arrow, he took up the whip. "Hold it loose, then toss it back along the ground. Not alongside, mind, but behind. Straighter the better. Flick it forward, underhand to start. Light, like taking a girl's hand. Hit that bush."
Stiggur took the whip reverently, carefully trailed it out straight. Then he took a huge step, snapped with all his might.
The blacksnake humped, squirmed, slapped him smartly behind the knee. The boy yelped.
Gull nodded. "That's one advantage-if you don't listen, the punishment is automatic. Watch."
Accepting the whip, Gull flicked it easily behind, flicked underhand. Leather sizzled like a dragon's tongue and popped a four-inch branch off a pin oak.
"Wow!" bleated the boy.
Gull handed it back. "That's an easy pull. Your turn."
In four tries, Stiggur tagged his ankle, neck, and rump. But the flail shot pinked a bush. Bounding, the boy showed off the broken twig as if it were a prize swan. Gull laughed.
"A good start. Keep practicing, though. If we drop a deer, we can slice the rawhide and I'll show you how to braid your own whip."