He went outside and stood in the cool moonlight, listening. The shrill clutter of nocturnal melodies soothed him. Then another sound rose above them and cut into him painfully.
It was the distant howl of a wolf. Not the normal night cry of that breed, but the sad, forlorn howl of an animal without a mate.
Twenty-eight
The colors of the gaudy wagon were muted by the cool grey morning light that was spreading over Stone Crossing. Bone sat in the driver’s box folding a blanket on the seat beside him. Dirken sprawled on the flatbed snoring.
Brown John stood a short way off under an apple tree, his hands on Robin’s shoulders, and his lively eyes looking cheerily into hers. Her forlorn little face blinked back. He cupped her cheeks fondly in his gentle hands, rubbing away the moisture with his thumbs, and said, “You’ve done well, child. And I will hear no more words of defeat and failure from your lovely mouth. All that was asked of you was to deliver a few words, and you did that and more. A great deal more. You led him into battle against the Kitzakks, you saved his life. And he showed you his secret dwelling place, allowed you to leave with no more guarantee of silence than a small promise. These are truly extraordinary achievements, and totally unexpected.”
“Thank you, Brown John,” she murmured. “It’s kind of you to put it that way.”
“Kindness, dear child, has nothing to do with it.” He wagged a pedantic finger at her nose. “I merely speak the truth. And the most promising thing of all is that he sent you to me with a request for weapons and armor.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really. Because it reveals many things. Not only that he now understands the strength of the Kitzakks and their metal, but that he begins to understand himself. Believe me, Robin Lakehair, the stage is now set. His time is at hand. Soon, very soon now, he will be more than eager to deal with me in order to assure his superiority over other men.”
He laughed out loud, hugged her and it brought a smile to her cheeks. “Go now,” he said. “Bone and Dirken will see you home so you can get a well-deserved rest.”
She nodded and started for the wagon, but shyly turned back and kissed him on the cheek. Then she scurried to the wagon, climbed up and sat down beside Bone. The big man rose up proudly beside her with a grin on his face big enough to carpet a castle, then flicked his whip, and the wagon rolled forward.
As the wagon crested the top of Stone Crossing, the sun’s rays spilled over the horizon and the Grillard wagon blossomed in all its scarlet, pink and orange glory.
Twenty-nine
The Glyder Snake arched up out of mossy soil and pointed a flickering black tongue at the green wall of leafy ferns. Beyond the ferns, harsh sounds rose above the music of dripping dew, trickling water and insect songs that filled the deep shade of the rain forest. Booted feet were crushing dead undergrowth.
As the footsteps came closer a delicate, red-nailed hand stroked the snake’s head. It arched up languorously against the pleasing pressure of the fingertips, then looked up at the owner of the hand. Suddenly the fingers snapped up the snake, held it tight behind the head. Its jaws spread wide, gasping for breath, and its nine-inch glowing body flailed around the wrist in agony.
It was Cobra’s hand. She held the imprisoned snake up to her black-rimmed gold eyes. “I am sorry, small one, but I have no choice.”
Holding the writhing snake within the concealing folds of her robe, she moved through the wall of ferns toward the footsteps, and emerged at the edge of a small shaded glen. She was nearly invisible, part of the vegetation. Her robe had taken on the color of the ferns. Her silver skullcap, like the tips of the ferns, glittered green-gold where the sun touched it. Her bosom rose and fell matching the rhythm of the feathery green leaves fluttering on the damp breeze.
The small glen was no bigger than a private room at an inn. A deep bed of moss carpeted the ground. It was surrounded by ferns except for the side opposite the sorceress, where two birch trees framed a doorlike opening through which could be seen an infinity of flickering black shadows. The roof was leafy branches. A shaft of golden sunlight pierced that roof, made a golden puddle of light at the center of the mossy bed.
The sounds of footsteps beyond the two birch trees grew louder.
Her narrow lips parted slightly in anticipation, and she stepped into the warm column of sunlight.
The advancing sounds hesitated, then moved forward again, angry with snapping twigs and breaking bushes, and Gath stepped out of the enveloping darkness, like a sword drawn from a scabbard. He was darker than she remembered. More brutal. Hard dry scabs were turning to scar tissue. His fur loincloth bristled slightly in the breeze. A new suit of chain mail, his belt and a Kitzakk helmet were slung over his shoulders. A bright steel axe rode his right fist. His chiseled features were mottled with dark shadows, and wore an expression of dark invitation. To a bed of murder.
Cobra trembled involuntarily, and her robe shimmered in the sunlight, began to change. Yellows faded to orange, vermilions to hot scarlet. When she parted her robe, the golden cloth surrendered to its prisoners and flushed flesh revealed itself at breasts, stomach and thighs.
Gath sneered at this invitation. He shrugged the belt, helmet and suit of chain mail off his shoulders, and they dropped with his axe to the ground. His only weapons were his hands, more than enough.
Cobra shuddered, took a step back, lifted the writhing Glyder Snake in front of her and held a thin dagger at its throat. “Wait!” she pleaded.
Gath did not break stride.
Cobra slit the Glyder snake’s throat, and its head tumbled away. She held up the spurting throat and gasped, «“Wait! Your secret is safe now. Only the snake knew where you lived. I can not find you anymore.”
He knocked the bloody reptile out of her hand, and backhanded her hard to the ground. She went down in one soft piece, sprawled on her back. There were streaks of blood across her cheek. Her dagger lay five feet off.
He glared down at her, a hot shadowed mass of muscle pulsing with death.
She gasped for breath, rolled onto a hip and gaped up at him as he dropped on her. He took hold of her head and turned her face away from his, slowly began to twist her neck. She gagged and shuddered under his body sending warm waves of heat through his hand, thighs and groin, and he hesitated. When she spoke, it was very carefully.
“Don’t kill me! Let me talk first.” She gasped for air, begged, “Please, let go. I can’t breathe.” She looked at him over a shoulder. “There’s no danger. I’m alone.”
He let her drop back gasping on the moss, and glanced around warily, then back at her.
She drew herself from under him, and rose on her elbows, whispered, “The Kitzakks send men to hunt you, bounty hunters who kill from shadows and great distances.”
“And you will tell them where to find me.”
“I can’t. Only the snake knew the location of your cave. But they will find you just the same.”
“Again you lie.”
“No,” she said firmly. “I have no reason now, you have passed the test.”
The corners of her mouth reached into the lush hollows of her cheeks. She indicated his new tools. “You must have better, far better! A man who has the kind of enemies you have needs better metal than any ‘man’ can provide.”
He studied her thoughtfully, then said quietly, “I did not know there was better.”
She nodded. “There is always better if you know where to shop… and have the price.”
He studied her for awhile. Her scarlet robe brightened, took on an almost hypnotic glitter. Her heat wafted across the moss and caressed his chest. Ignoring it, he said arrogantly, “I have the price, if you can get the metal.”
She crooned, “I have it now. A helmet. One like no other. It was worn by the legendary Shalarmard, and the demon tyrants, Barbar, Karchon and Geddis. A helmet made from an ancient formula with steel smelted by the fires of the underworld, and hammered on the anvil of the gods.” She waited. “You are interested?”