“If they have them,” Geoffrey said in disgust. “They may simply follow impulses.”
“You mean some sprite has led us astray on a whim?” Alain looked skeptical.
“Puck would,” Geoffrey pointed out.
“But he is our friend.”
“Not above playing tricks on a comrade, though. Besides, there are several other kinds of supernatural beings who think it is the height of humor to watch mortals go astray—especially if those mortals are in some haste, for hurry is a concept the faerie-folk lack.”
“Let us assume the worst and take it to be something of the sort,” Alain proposed. “Follow those tracks again, Geoffrey, and we shall see if there is a body to go with those footprints.”
They went off into the woods again, Geoffrey glancing keenly from the ground to the bushes and trunks around, alert for every slightest sign that someone had passed that way. He no longer watched for the path of a mass of people, but for the traces that a single being might have made in passing.
“How shall you distinguish between false tracks made by one sprite,” Alain asked, “and true ones made by a dozen human feet?”
“There is no sure way,” Geoffrey replied, “but the lone spirit might leave his own true track somewhere, which would not match the mortal ones—or have left a mark upon a tree trunk or broken a twig, in places mortals would not reach.”
“Then too,” said Gregory, “he might have been seen by a bird or fox or squirrel, so I shall read the mind of each as I come by.”
“If the one who saw him is still near,” Alain said, musing. “You cannot scan the mind of every dweller of this forest.”
“There is that,” Gregory admitted.
They followed Geoffrey deeper into the wood. This time, though, they noticed when they began to go downhill again.
“I have an unpleasant feeling about this,” Alain said.
“And I a rather wrathful one,” Geoffrey said, lips pressed thin.
“Let us press ahead quickly,” Gregory urged. “If we go where we think, there is no need for caution.”
“Our enemies would love to hear you say that!” Geoffrey answered, but he hurried forward too, sparing only glances for the tracks he followed.
They burst through the screen of leaves into the same churned-up clearing from which they had first come. Alain and Gregory listened with respect as Geoffrey set about cursing their unknown misguiding spirit with a vocabulary that was an eloquent testimony to the amount of time he had spent in the troopers’ barracks, learning their modes of fighting.
When he ran down, Alain offered, “We know in which direction our attackers fled. Let us follow a landmark that lies in that quarter.”
“Scarcely proof against a truly wily spirit,” Geoffrey growled, “but I know no better way.”
“It should serve,” said Alain, “though a goblin that could lay a false trail would also prove capable of setting up a false landmark, and moving it subtly to lead us even more astray.”
Gregory shook his head. “To make us think we see a mountain peak that is not really there would take substantial meddling with our minds. Distracted I may be, but I think I would detect such interference nonetheless.”
Alain nodded. “Onward, then.”
A third time, the trio set off to follow the original tracks of the mountaineers. Geoffrey pointed at a twisted rock on the summit of the slope. “Yon is our guide—like a monk with a hood.”
Alain nodded judiciously. “Brother Boulder shall be our quarry, then. We march!”
Whatever their misguiding spirit was, it didn’t succeed against determined line-of-sight navigation. An hour passed and they still had not come back to the clearing. On the other hand, they hadn’t reached the crest yet, either—the land fell away in a gully, one that twisted and turned like a double-jointed snake, forming curves and oxbows. At the bottom, way down, they saw water purling.
“What a poxy place to put a river!” Geoffrey said, exasperated. “Has our misguider found a way to lay a barrier in our path?”
“No, this stream has been here many years,” Alain said, “very many. See how it curves and twists?”
Geoffrey looked back over the course and nodded. “So many meanders mean years of water-flow—and it has cut thirty feet down into the soil.”
“ ’Tis an ancient river indeed,” Gregory agreed.
“Well, there’s no help for it—we shall have to climb down and find a ford.”
“How did the mountaineers pass it?” Alain asked.
“Most likely by a bridge they know of, and we do not,” Geoffrey answered, “or perhaps by climbing down, even as we do, but with slabs of rock placed as steps and camouflaged.”
Alain nodded. “We could spend our last few hours of daylight seeking such a place. Well, down we go!”
It was a skidding and perilous descent, for the bank was steep; the river had cut its own ravine. They caught at saplings and low branches and tried to discover roots to use as footholds. More quickly than they would have wanted, but with only one or two falls, they came to the riverbank.
“Yonder is our crossing!” Geoffrey cried, pointing to a large raft moored to a tree. A cable was tied above it, stretching across the river and running through two large holes in the raft’s railing. “It may be that this is the mountaineers’ route, after all!”
“It would seem you have guessed better than you knew,” Alain agreed. “Let us bring our horses aboard and shove off.”
The horses weren’t all that happy about such infirm footing, but they were well-trained war steeds, so they went. Gregory untied the painter while Alain and Geoffrey held fast to the cable. Gregory leaped aboard and prince and knight started hauling on the hawser.
“A novel idea, and a good one,” Gregory said, nodding in pleasure. “The ride is quite smooth.”
As soon as he had said it, they neared the middle of the river and the current caught the raft. Gregory and Alain shouted as the railing strained against the cable. Suddenly hauling was much more difficult.
Gregory went to the forward rail, peering out at the river. “Whence came such a sudden current?”
“From nearing the middle of the river, brother!” Geoffrey panted.
“ ’Tis not so broad a stream as that,” Gregory said. “It must have been . . .” He caught his breath, pointing, then managed to call out, “Hold! Freeze! Avaunt! Danger lies ahead!”
“What manner of danger?” Geoffrey turned, eyes alight at the prospect of action—and saw the circle of water in midriver, a circle that expanded and deepened into a funnel even as they watched, pulling the waters toward it, pulling every bit of floating wood toward it—including the raft.
Suddenly the rude craft was straining against its cable.
“Surely many have survived this before!” Alain called over the roaring of the water.
“Not if this whirlpool comes solely for our benefit!” Geoffrey called back. “Pull, Alain! Back to shore!”
They hauled as hard as they could, muscles bulging with the effort, but they might as well have been playing tug-of-war with a mountain; the raft stayed obstinately in midriver. Gregory ran to throw his weight against the current, pulling on the hawser with his new and powerful muscles, but even as he did, the whirlpool widened to its fullest diameter, its outer rim almost under the raft, and the roaring pressure strengthened. Gregory gave a quick glance down the funnel as it widened enough to show slimy mud at the bottom—and a bulb-bodied creature the size of a pony, with great buck teeth and burning eyes glaring up at them while its broad flat tail stirred the water to make the whirlpool and keep it formed. “Yonder is the spirit who has led us! ’Tis the afanc!”
Wood groaned from strain.
“Beware!” Geoffrey cried. “The whirlpool’s pull may break the cable!”