It has to do with the gods, sister. A fear bred of Herebian memory of the ancient caves of the gods. They fear the caves, fear the very mountains of the Ring of Fire. And sister, fear, in those selfish minds, makes them even the more cruel and bloodthirsty.
I can never understand their evil, Torc, or why I feel they are different from other men of Ere—different somehow in the very facts of their birth, their beginnings.
All souls born upon Ere are not of an age, sister. Some have lived many times on other planes. Some are new and untried. Some, perhaps, come upon Ere with a wash of evil already sucked into their natures, from willfully embracing past evils.
The men pushed fearfully into the cave, the lamp burning brightly. The fourth Herebian remained behind, holding the five horses. Torc moved without sound; Skeelie crept close behind her, knowing that they could die here, that she could die fighting these men and never find Ram. But she would not abandon Torc. Torc’s hatred, her lust to kill the wraith, was overpowering. When the bitch stopped suddenly and drew back with one motion to lie flat beside Skeelie, Skeelie dropped down, too. Their faces were so close she could feel Torc’s warm breath, smell her musty smell. What do you sense? Why—you’re afraid, Torc! For suddenly Torc’s whole, intense being was caught in some horror that Skeelie could not fathom. She touched the wolf’s shoulder. What is it, Torc? What can make you afraid?
I cannot kill him, sister. I dare not. Feel out, feel out and sense what I sense, and tell me I am wrong.
Skeelie lay still, sensing the snuffling creature, trying to become one with it against all her instincts; though she shielded herself from it. She began to feel its physical weakness, the exhausted limits of its weak body. She felt the rough, rocky earth over which it crawled, smelled earth and the dampness of the cave. Then quite suddenly and with cold terror, she knew the nature of the creature in sharp detail. Sharp as pain came the knowledge, the reality of what it was.
She understood that Torc must not kill it.
For this creature could not die. Only its body would die. The evil within would, at the body’s death, be set free to take the body of another.
The body of a Seer, sister.
There were no Seers there among the Herebian warriors.
You are the only Seer, Skeelie of Carriol. If I kill that creature, its dark, fetid soul will enter into your body. And you cannot prevent it.
I would fight it, Torc! I—
You cannot fight this. I think it is too steeped in evil. It is a dead soul that can never die again. I think it would possess you. It . . . without a body to possess, it would slowly fade into nothing. In that sense, I suppose it would die. But you cannot kill it. If a human tries, it will possess him. You must go away from here, sister. If they kill it, after it finds the runestone, it will come to possess you.
I will not go away. It searches for a shard of the runestone. If it should find such, I must somehow take that shard. For Ram—for all of Ere. I could not leave a shard of the runestone.
The Herebian beside the cave’s entrance tipped up a wineskin to drink. He held the five horses carelessly, their reins tangled in one hand. Torc watched him with cold appraisal. I could kill him with no trouble, the fat Herebian. Make one less to battle later, if the shard is found.
Skeelie tried to sense the men inside the cave, but now no sense came clear except that of the wraith. The guard drank again. Skeelie took off her pack to make movement easier, laid it beside her quiver and bow behind a boulder. Then she started forward behind Torc, her hand on her sword.
He has heard you, sister.
I made no noise.
He heard something, he’s looking up. He’s coming. Torc crouched, ready to spring.
Don’t let him see you, Torc!
Torc glanced at her with disdain.
If he sees you, he will know you are a great wolf, and so know me for a Seer just as Gravan did. If he finds me alone, maybe . . .
But Torc’s fury exploded; the wolf flew past her in a streak of dark violence as the warrior came up the last rise. She hit him so quickly he could not cry out, pinned him, her teeth deep in his throat as he fell, his only sound a gurgle of expended breath.
He lay still beneath Torc’s weight, twisted once, then went limp. Blood gushed from his throat. The left shoulder of his tunic bloomed with spreading red stain as if a red flower opened. Torc turned to stare back at Skeelie, then spun away from the man, crouching anew, a snarl deep in her throat. Skeelie swung around, her sword challenging sword as a warrior towered over her, come silently out of the cave, perhaps at the small noise of scuffling; and he followed by another, so the two drove Skeelie back. Then one spied Torc, sheathed his sword and drew arrow. Get away, Torc! Get away! The wolf spun, leaped to disappear among boulders seconds before the arrow loosed. Skeelie parried one broad sword, then two, could not summon power to touch the wolf’s mind, so occupied was she; felt the sting of a blade, was backed against the cliff. Saw Torc leap on one of the warriors; and she was battling only one Herebian as the other rolled against her feet locked in fierce embrace with the snarling wolf. The Herebian swung his heavy sword at her like a battering ram. His dark face filled her vision, filled her mind. Black beard, stinking leathers. She dodged, plunged her blade at the man’s leather-clad belly, and felt her sword swept away, felt a dull blow along her neck, a fist across her face. She was falling, twisted with pain. Knew no more.
*
She woke, was lying on rocky ground, her hands tied behind her, her feet tied. She ached all over, as if she had been dragged down the cliff. Her sword was gone, the silver sword Ram had forged for her. She stared at the empty sheath, then tried to roll over, pushed against stone, lifted her head to see she was lying against a boulder at the mouth of the cave. She could hear voices from the darkness, could not make out the words. When she twisted around, pain clutched at her like fire. She stared into the dark cave. Faint light moved there, and a voice rose shouting with anger, the words muffled by echoes. Another man swore—garbled, choppy sounds. Then a thin, querulous voice that must be the wraith’s. “I cannot! It is not the same! Not the same!” Shaking voice, nearly weeping. “I swear it! I swear!”
“This is all you found! We came into the wretched cave for this?” A dull shattering, as if something had been thrown against the cave wall and broken. She felt dizzy, could not bring a vision or make sense of the exchange. The whining of the wraith pulled her back.
“I swear there is nothing, I swear. It is buried in a mountain, maybe not this mountain, maybe . . .”
“You’ll search every mountain in the Ring. You’ll find it, or die looking.”
“It lies to the west, perhaps. Lies deep in a mountain, I promise . . .”
Tala-charen? Did the wraith sense a shard of the runestone lying buried beneath Tala-charen, as she and Ram had always thought? It cried out in pain. The Herebian shouted. “Get up or I’ll kick you again!” Then, “Fetch the horses, BolLag! Why didn’t Stalg tie them before he—never mind, just catch them! We’re heading to the west reaches. Worse luck those two clods got themselves killed. If you see that wolf again, slaughter it.”
Feet went by her. Large and heavily booted. She kept her eyes closed, did not move. “What about the wench?” the man called back.