“Watch and see,” I murmured.
I had relaxed all my muscles, so that the loops of rawhide embraced me a shade less firmly. And now I began moving my arms and hands up and down inside their bonds, striving to work the loops down toward my hips.
The sun declined toward the west, the flies buzzed, the Wizard sat still as a statue; and still I worked at the loops, sweat pouring down my face and my mouth a cavity full of desert dust. And at last one loop shifted down to where I could engage it with the nail of my right little finger. This was not much, but with further shrugging motions I managed to get the nails of the first and third fingers over it, and then at last that of the middle finger.
No longer having to go round my right hand, the loop relaxed a trifle, and soon I was able to work it down below my left hand as well.
The afternoon wore on; a flight of hundreds of ducks soared over the swamp; but still I chafed and worried at my bonds. And then I found one forearm free, and then another. With my freed hands I worked the loops that bound my upper arms up over my shoulders… And then I was free!
I stood for an instant, rubbing my limbs and wincing at the prickly pains. I looked toward the Wizard, but he moved not.
A faltering stride took me to the side of Hakon. His bindings were even more complete than mine had been. Having been stripped, I had no knife wherewith to cut him loose. As I worked at his thongs, he muttered:
“We shall be all night at this rate, Gault. See if you cannot find a blade of some sort.”
I gnawed at his bonds, but progress seemed as slow that way as trying to slide them off him. Then I took his advice and searched the huts, one after another.
But the Wizard’s guests had taken all their gear with them. In the Wizard’s own hut I found simple cooking utensils and a lot of magical paraphernalia; but naught with a real cutting edge. The only weapon was a bow of curious design and a quiver full of arrows. When I examined the arrows, I saw that they would be of no use. They had chisel-shaped heads of stone and were evidently meant for fowling, not for bringing down bigger game like men.
I remembered that the Wizard wore a knife at his girdle. This, it seemed, was the only real weapon left in the Wizard’s isle. There was nothing to do but try to take it from him.
As I stole up, the Wizard still sat in his trance. Moving stealthily, I snatched a handful of his white hair, jerked his head around, and dealt him a mighty buffet on the jaw with the fist of my free hand.
The blow knocked the old man over. For an instant his body twitched and thrashed, like that of a beheaded serpent; but then it began to move with purpose. By this time I had clamped my hands upon his throat and squeezed with all my might. But the Wizard struggled up, with more strength than one would have believed his skinny frame could hold. He punched and clawed and kicked, seeming to be made of steel wires and rawhide thongs. His dirty thumbnail groped for my eyes until I sank my teeth into his thumb.
For an instant his deep-set eyes met mine, and suddenly I felt my soul being drawn out of my body. Something within me told me that I was on the wrong side.
It told me to release my hold and do whatever the Wizard asked, for he was my rightful master. But I closed my eyes and continued to squeeze.
We were up, then down, then up again, rolling over and over. He fumbled for his knife and got it out, but by that time he was fast weakening and only succeeded in giving me a scratch along the ribs. Then I got my knee on his knife hand and forced it into the dirt. All this while I continued to squeeze his windpipe, lest he utter some frightful spell and damn my soul to hells everlasting.
Little by little the thrashings of the Wizard died away. Even after his body lay limply in the dirt, I continued to press my thumbs into his throat, not wishing him to come to life of a sudden after I released him.
When I could no longer detect any heartbeat or other sign of life, I took the Wizard’s knife and cut his throat. Then I hastened to free Hakon. He stood for a moment, rubbing his limbs and cursing.
“What was in that bag?” I asked.
“The Wizard put all the demons of the swamp in it,” he said. “When the Picts rush the fort, they will thrust that long pole over the stockade. Then one of them will pull one of those trailing thongs, and the bag will open. The swamp-demons will swarm out and slay every human being they see who is on his feet.”
“Why will they not also slay Valerian and his savages?”
“The Wizard has also put a spell on the demons, so they will attack only those who are upright. Therefore, as soon as the bag is opened, the Picts will throw themselves flat on the ground, until the massacre is over and the demons have departed for their swampy home.”
“We must still try to stop them,” I said. “But Mitra curse it, there is not a weapon in the place, save the old man’s knife here. I do not count a bow with a set of birding arrows in the Wizard’s hut.”
“Those were better than naught,” said he grimly. “Even a fowling shaft can inflict a nasty wound, if driven hard from close range. You must carry the bow, though. The Picts twisted my arm when they captured me so that I could not draw a steady shaft just now.”
And so Hakon and I, naked but for our loincloths and moccasins, set out across the causeway in pursuit of Valerian’s savage army. I bore the Wizard’s bow, and Hakon his knife.
When we crossed Tullian’s Creek we went cautiously, lest the Picts should have left a rear guard to watch. Across Lynx Creek we went more carefully yet, but no Picts did we come upon. There was no sign of Karlus at the hut, so he had evidently been rescued. We saw indications of the Picts’ passage …here a feather fallen from some brave’s topknot; there a moccasin whose thong had broken …but of the savages themselves there was no sign.
We did not come upon them until after sunset, when we reached the fields surrounding Schondara. The Picts were strung out in a great crescent around these clearings. Lying behind clumps of ferns, scarcely daring to breathe, we saw Valerian, his mistress, and other chiefs, together with the bag and its pole, in the center of the array. All were lying or squatting just inside the cover of the trees that fringed the fields.
In the distance, Schondara showed no lights; it seemed that the village had received its warning and was aware of the lurking foes. The fort showed lights, and from it came a buzz of sound: the speech of crowded people and the complaints of their animals. At least, in the fort, the villagers could put up a fight; but the Picts still outnumbered them many times over and should be able to carry the fort by force of numbers even if the Wizard’s spells did not work.
Behind us, faintly visible through the trees, a silvery crescent moon sank toward the horizon, above which the departing sun had left bands of orange and yellow and apple-green. Overhead the stars were coming out Hakon whispered: “If they will hold the attack until it is a little darker, do you think you can get within easy bowshot of that bag?”
“Why?” I asked. “What good will that do?”
“Try it and see.”
Then I understood Hakon’s plan and was astonished by the daring of it. And presently we wriggled forward like serpents until we were behind a huge old oak.
I rose slowly, holding my breath lest I draw the attention of the nearest Picts, who were a mere twenty paces in front of me, lying behind cover even as we had been doing.
Slowly I drew a fowler’s arrow and notched it. As the darkness deepened by imperceptible degrees, a drum began to boom nearby. And from the fort came the clang of the alarm gong. I thought I could even hear the clicking sound of the ballistas being cocked.
With a rustling sound, the Picts rose to their feet and gathered in clumps behind their war-chiefs. A murmur of guttural talk ran up and down the crescent, despite the barking demands of the chiefs for silence.