She hurried down the trail, to catch up with the men.
They were far ahead now, and were not looking back.
She fell once, heavily, twisting in her fall to her left shoulder, unable to break her fall because of the back-cuffing, confining her wrists. Whimpering, she regained her feet, and, pulling a little at her small, encircled, chained wrists, the leash chain striking against the furs, continued on down the trail, hastening after the men.
They were even farther ahead now.
She called out, “Wait, Masters! Please, wait!”
But they did not wait.
She hurried on.
She did not dare to call out again. She did not wish to risk being beaten.
***
“Brother Benjamin!” called Brother Gregory, gently.
Brother Gregory stood on damp stones, at the edge of a broad, dark, warm pool.
He lifted up his tiny lamp.
The chamber was itself lit, though dimly, with similar lamps, set here and there on a shallow, circular shelf, its structure following the perimeter of the chamber, which was round, and shallowly domed.
These lamps were brought to the depths by the brothers, and taken with them, when they ascended to the higher levels.
There was a gentle stirring in the dark waters, and several pairs of eyes surfaced, large, round eyes.
The eyes seemed to stare at Julian.
It was difficult to read any expression in such features, without clues from the body.
“I trust,” said Julian, “I am not disturbing their meditations, or devotions.”
“It is time for the seventh bell,” said Brother Gregory. “I would not have brought you here so soon, otherwise.”
“Oh,” said Julian.
“Not all brothers are of this species, of course,” said Brother Gregory.
“I understand,” said Julian.
Brother Gregory himself, obviously, was not.
“But our redemptor, our Lord Floon, blessed be his holy name, was of such a species.”
“A bipedalian salamandrine?” said Julian.
“An ogg,” said Brother Gregory.
“It seems strange that your Karch would emanate, as I understand it, as an ogg,” said Julian.
“Why?” asked Brother Gregory.
“You’re right,” said Julian, shrugging. “Why not?”
“Perhaps you think he should have emanated as a man?”
Julian shrugged.
There had seemed a bit of testiness in Brother Gregory’s speculation.
Brother Gregory was an azure-pelted Vorite.
“He can emanate in whatever form he pleases,” said Julian.
“True,” said Brother Gregory.
“I would speak with one who is called Brother Benjamin,” said Julian, addressing himself to the occupants of the pool.
There was, at that time, as though from far off, the sound of a bell, its sounds making their way oddly about the stairwells, and down, to the chamber, and doubtless to others, as well, here and there, in the depths and heights, and throughout the labyrinthine corridors and chambers of the festung. It could probably be heard far below, in the valley.
“Turn about,” said Brother Gregory, “for the brothers must robe themselves.”
Julian turned about.
He heard sounds behind him, soft, of moving water, of bodies emerging from the pool, of dripping water, of the pat of feet on the stones.
“I am Brother Benjamin,” said a voice behind him.
“I am Julian, of the Aurelianii, of the patricians, of the senatorial class, kin to the emperor, Aesilesius,” said Julian, not turning about. “I have credentials to make that clear.”
“You are then Telnarian,” said the voice.
“Yes,” said Julian.
“He has come to inquire about ‘Dog,’ “said Brother Gregory.
“I have waited years for one to come,” said the voice behind Julian, “but I did not think it would be a Telnarian.”
“What then?” asked Julian.
“I thought it would be an Otung, a Vandal,” said the voice behind Julian.
Brother Gregory shuddered.
“Do you know the identity of the one you call ‘Dog’?” asked Julian.
“Yes,” said the voice behind him.
“Can you prove that identity?” asked Julian.
“Yes,” said the voice.
“May I turn about?” asked Julian.
“I would not,” said Brother Gregory. “He is half-garbed, but the wounds are still fresh, of the penitential exercises.”
“It is a mark of vanity,” added Brother Gregory, “to wear a stained habit.”
“Penitential exercises?” asked Julian.
“The stone saws, beneath the surface of the pool,” said Brother Gregory.
“How can you prove his identity?” asked Julian.
“I will show you,” said the voice. “Proceed me, up the stairs.”
Brother Gregory, with his lamp, led the way, Julian following. Behind them came the brothers, each with his lamp, and, together, intoning a hymn to Floon.
“Surely you will dine with us in the refectory, and stay the night,” said Brother Gregory.
“I would be soon gone,” said Julian.
“We get few visitors at the festung,” said Brother Gregory. “You are the first stranger in two years.”
“I must decline,” said Julian.
“Some of the brothers, the weaker ones, I fear, amongst whom I number myself,” said Brother Gregory, “will be eager to hear news of the outside world.”
“I am sorry,” said Julian.
“At night the trail is extremely dangerous, the activated defenses, set by automatic timers, at places, the dogs,” said Brother Gregory. “It is unlikely you would reach the village alive.”
“Then,” said Julian, “I am pleased to accept your gracious invitation.”
“Excellent,” said Brother Gregory.
Julian noted, as he climbed the stairs, and as he had earlier, in his descent, but had thought little of it, that they were darkly stained.
Julian noted, on the climb, in a niche, illuminated by a votive light, a representation of Floon in the electric chair, or, perhaps better, fastened on the burning rack, the pain represented in the twisted-body, the expression of misery on the countenance. It made Julian sick. How different it was from the bright sunlight and blue skies of the pantheon of Orak.
But it was here, in the festung of Sim Giadini, that there lay the secret to the identity of the peasant, or gladiator, or warrior, or chieftain, or captain, whom he knew as Otto, or Ottonius.
“What is the proof?” he asked.
“You will see,” said the voice behind him.
CHAPTER 18
The location of the beast was not a matter of coincidence, not after the first moments.
It was incredibly alert, every sense sharp and alive, like needles, tense with excitement.
In its belly burned the cold rage of hunger.
Such creatures did not hibernate, even in the month of Igon. It had survived eight winters on the plains of Barrionuevo.
Little more than its eyes and nostrils could now be detected, had one known where to look and what to look for, it lying still, in the snow.
The wind was blowing, softly, doing little more than stirring the snow at the summit of drifts.
The odor of horses, and of Heruls, and men, was brought to the broad, dilating nostrils of the beast. These odors were as discernible, and unmistakable, to the beast as a sighting would have been to a more visually oriented form of life. The direction of the wind, contrariwise, predictably, would not carry its own scent to the horses.
It moved in the direction from which the odors were wafted, its body low, little more than a wrinkle, or a shifting crest, stirred by the wind, of snow.