Raven didn't say anything. He just grimaced and led his horse through the gateway onto the moon-washed road.
"Thanks," I told the gatemen. "See you guys around."
"Anytime, yer grace. Anytime. I'm yer man."
Raven must have paid them off good.
The grimace was familiar, though I hadn't seen it for a while. "Your hip bothering you again?"
"It'll be all right. I've traveled with worse."
Sour bastard. He'd shaken the wine, pretty well, but the hangover was hanging over. "Taking a long time to heal."
"What the hell you expect? I'm not so young anymore. And it was one of her arrows Croaker got me with." Raven didn't seem to hold no grudge. He just couldn't figure it out.
He probably didn't want to figure it out. His idea of Raven was that Raven was a doer, not a thinker.
Sometimes I wondered how he could feed himself so much crap.
X
The old man, worn out, stood beside his ragged mount, stared at the dusty crossroads. To the east lay Lords. Southward the road led to Roses and beyond, to other great cities. The people he had come chasing had split here. He did not know who had gone which direction, though it seemed reasonable that the White Rose had turned east toward her fastness in the Plain of Fear. The Lady should have continued southward, toward her capital, the Tower at Charm.
With that parting, the armistice between them would have ended.
"Which way?" he asked the animal. The shaggy pony did not express an opinion. The old man could not decide which woman would be best equipped to act on his news. His impulse was to keep going south, but only because by turning east he would be headed into the rising sun.
"We're too old for this, horse."
The animal made a sound that, for a moment, he took to be a response. But the pony was looking back the way they had come.
Dust cloud. Fast riders coming down. Two, looked like. After a moment the old man recognized the wild-eyed style of the man in the lead. "Here comes our answer. Let's go." He hurried along the eastbound road, turned aside into a copse, found a spot where he could watch the riders. He would take the road they ignored.
Their mission had to be the same as his. That those two men should arrive here at this moment, hurrying like hell was yapping at their heels, for any other reason, strained credulity. The one called Raven could have heard the alarm. At some time in his life he had had some small training in the art, and his spirit had spent a long time snared in the coils of the Barrowland. He was sensitive enough.
The old man's eyelids drooped. He prepared an herbal draft that would help keep him alert long enough to see what those two men would do.
XI
Raven reined back to a walk. "We gave that old boy a fright."
"Probably figures we're bandits. We look it. You going to kill these horses today? Or can we string them along for awhile?"
Raven grunted. "You're right, Case. No sense getting in so big a hurry we end up taking twice as long because we have to walk most of the way. Funny. That old boy reminded me of that wizard Bomanz that got eaten by the Barrowland dragon."
"All them old-timers look the same to me."
"Could be. Hold up." He studied the crossroads. I tried to spot the old man in the copse. I was sure he was watching us.
"Well?" I asked.
"They split up like they said they would."
Don't ask me how he knew. He knew. Unless he was just faking it. I've seen him do that.
"Darling went east. Croaker kept heading south."
I'd play his game. "How do you figure?"
"She was with him." He rubbed his hip. "She would be headed for the Tower."
"Oh. Yeah." Big deal. "Which way are we headed? Whichever, we got to rest soon."
"Yes. Soon. For the horses."
"Sure." I kept my face blank. Inside I was wishing I had balls enough to yell at him that he didn't have to go on being the iron man for me. He didn't have to prove anything to me but that he could stop sucking wine by the gallon and could stop feeling sorry for himself. He wanted to show me how much guts he had, let him show me he had the kind it took to go find his kids and make up with them. He didn't have to prove anything to that old man over there in the trees, did he?
I wished he would go ahead and announce the decision I knew he was going to make. I was getting uncomfortable, knowing I was being watched. "Come on. Which way?"
He responded by spurring his mount down the south road. What the hell was this? I even started to turn east before I realized what he'd done.
I caught up. "Why south?"
Kind of hitting it sideways, he told me, "Croaker was always an understanding kind of guy. And forgiving."
The son of a bitch was crazy.
Or maybe he'd suddenly gone sane and didn't need to whimper over Darling anymore.
XII
The three-legged beast carried the head to the heart of the Great Forest, to the altar at the center of a ring of standing stones that had been in place for several thousand years. It could barely squeeze through the picket of ancient oaks surrounding that greatest of the holy places of the pitifully diminished forest savages.
The monster deposited the head and hobbled back into the dappled woods.
One by one the beast hunted down the shamans of the woodland tribes and compelled them to go to the head. In their terror those petty old witch doctors threw themselves upon their faces before it and worshiped it as a god. They swore oaths of fealty for fear of the jaws of the beast. Then they began tending to the head's needs.
Not once, to any, did it occur to take advantage of its powerlessness to destroy it. The fear of it was impressed too deeply into their kind. They could not imagine resistance.
And, always, there was that slavering monster to overawe them.
They went away from the holy place to collect willow withes, mystical herbs, rope grasses, leather both raw and tanned, blessed feathers, and stones known to possess magical properties. They gathered small animals appropriate for sacrifices, and even brought in a thief who was to be killed anyway. The man screamed and begged to be dispatched in the usual way, fearing the perpetual bondage and torment of a soul dedicated to a god.
Most of the stuff collected was junk. Most of the shamans' magic was mummery, but it proceeded from a deeper truth, from a fountain of genuine power. Power that was real enough to serve the head's immediate purpose.
In that oldest and most sacred of their holy places the shamans wove and built themselves a wicker man of willow and rope grasses and rawhide. They burned their herbs and slaughtered their sacrifices, christening and anointing the wicker man with blood. Their chanting invocations possessed the ring of stone for days.
Much of the chant was nonsense, but forgotten or only partly understood words of power lingered in its rhythms. Words enough to do.
When those old men finished the rite, they set the head on the wicker man's neck. Its eyes blinked three times.
One wooden hand snatched a staff from a shaman. The old man fell. Tottering, the amalgam moved to a patch of bare earth. With the foot of the staff it scratched out crude block letters.
Slowly the thing gave the old men their orders. They hurried off. In a week they were ready to make improvements on their handiwork.
The rites this time were more bloody and bizarre. They included the sacrifice of two men snatched from the ruined town beside the Barrowland. Those two were a long time dying.
When the rites were finished the wicker man and its corrupt burden possessed more freedom of movement, though no one would mistake the construct for a human body. The head could now speak in a soft, gravelly whisper.