Sorcerer of the North (24 page)

And there he sat, just two hundred meters away from Will, who had an arrow nocked to the string already.

It was a long bowshot and there was a slight crosswind. Will could see it stirring the tops of the bare alders that lined the road on the far side. Most archers would have approached such a shot with misgivings, but Will was a Ranger and for a Ranger, a two-hundred-meter shot was bread and butter. And he knew that misgivings were the beginning of a miss. Anxiety over a missed shot all too often rewarded itself with the very result that it sought to avoid. Will raised his bow to the aim position.

The arrow seemed to slide back effortlessly, drawn by the big muscles in his back and shoulders with an ease born of thousands of repetitions. He created his sighting picture, focusing on the target, not on the arrow or the bow. They were simply two parts of the overall picture that culminated in the figure of Buttle sitting his horse two hundred meters away.

He continued raising the bow until he was satisfied that the elevation was correct for the distance. At that moment, had anyone asked him how he
knew
that it was correct, he could not have answered. It was instinctive in him now, another product of those years of practice. He allowed for the wind and held steady a moment. His left hand, holding the bow, was loose and relaxed, so that the shaped grip sat in the gap between thumb and forefinger, supported but not actually gripped. The thumb of his right hand rested against the corner of his mouth, the first three fingers restraining the string at the full draw position, one above and two below the nocking point.

He exhaled half of the last breath he had taken, vaguely aware of his own heartbeat and natural body rhythms, and allowed the string to release itself from his fingers, both hands passive, without a trace of jerking or twisting. The entire process, once he had raised the bow, took less than four seconds.

The bow sang and the arrow leapt away.

Ironically, it was the years of practice that now betrayed him.

The shot was an excellent one. In any other archer, it would have been considered a success. But Will was using the three-piece bow, not the yew longbow that he had practiced with during the last three years of his apprenticeship. Over the two hundred meters it traveled—although it actually covered more distance through the air, moving in a smooth curve—the arrow dropped farther than he had estimated. Instead of striking home into Buttle's upper body, it came out of nowhere and slammed into his thigh, tearing through the fleshy part of the leg and pinning it to the hard leather of the saddle.

Buttle screamed with the sudden burning agony in his thigh. His horse reared in fright, as did several others around him. His men, already wary about venturing toward Grimsdell Wood, took one look at the feathered shaft that had transfixed their leader and turned and rode for the shelter of the bend in the track. Buttle, cursing the pain and his men with equal savagery, wheeled his horse helplessly, then, furious, he gave in to the inevitable and rode after them, reeling in the saddle with the pain.

"Damn," said Will dispassionately, watching him go. He remembered Crowley's words about the bow. A flat trajectory at first, but then it would drop faster than he was accustomed to. "No more long shots," he said to Tug, whose ears flattened back against his head in answer. Will glanced down at the dog, who was looking up at him, her tail moving slowly. It seemed she was quite content to see the arrow hit Buttle anywhere at all, he mused.

He looked back at the road. There was no sign that the men were renewing the pursuit, so he nudged Tug with one knee to turn him and followed the track into the wood.

He caught up to the others a hundred meters down the trail, where be had told Xander to wait. Orman was sinking further and further into the coma that he had predicted, swaying in the saddle, almost totally unconscious, mouthing meaningless words and making little mewling noises.

"How's he doing?" he asked Xander, although the question was clearly unnecessary. The secretary frowned.

"We don't have a lot of time," he said. "Do you have any idea where Malkallam might have his headquarters?"

Will shook his head. "I assume it'll be right in the center of the wood," he said. "But where that might be is anyone's guess,"

Xander glanced anxiously at his master. "We'll have to do something," he said, the worry evident in his voice.

Will looked around helplessly, hoping for an idea. He knew that, Ranger skill notwithstanding, they could blunder for days in this thick forest, with its narrow intersecting trails. And they had hours, at best.

His gaze fell on the dog, sitting patiently, head cocked to one side, looking to him for direction. There was a chance, he realized.

"Come on," he said tersely to Xander, and nudged Tug, starting out down the path that he and Alyss had followed only a day ago. So much had happened in that short time, he thought. They skirted the edge of the sinister black mere until they came to the spot where Alyss had found the scorched grass. Will stopped there now and dismounted. Xander, after a moment's hesitation, followed him. He looked at the scorch marks.

"What caused this?" he asked. Will told him of Alyss's theory about a giant magic lantern. Xander's eyebrows went up, but he nodded thoughtfully.

"Yes, she could be right," he said. "Mind you, you'd need a near-perfect lens for the job."

"A lens?" Will asked.

"The focusing device that would create a beam of light. I've never seen one of the standard you'd need for this, but I imagine it would be possible to construct one."

"You'd need one hell of a light source as well," Will told him, bur the small man shrugged that objection away.

"Oh, there's plenty of ways you can achieve that," he said. "Whiterock, for example."

"Whiterock?" Will asked. The word was unfamiliar to him. Xander nodded again.

"It's a porous rock that releases a flammable gas when you drip water onto it. The gas burns with an intense white flame. Very hot too... just like whatever caused these scorch marks." He nodded to himself several times. "Yes, I'd say whiterock would do the job. But what do you have in mind here?" he added.

Will clicked his fingers and the dog moved closer to him, eyes fixed on him as she waited for instructions.

"I figured if there was some kind of lamp here, there must have been people tending it. And people leave a scent. Maybe the dog can track them. Odds are, if we find them, we'll find this wizard's lair as well."

He ruffled the dog's ears and pointed to the ground around them.

"Find," he said.

The black-and-white head went down and she began quartering the ground by the bank of the mere. After several minutes, she began casting wider and wider. Then she stopped, one forepaw rising into the air as her nose stayed close to the ground. She sniffed several times, then barked once, a sharp, urgent sound.

"Good girl!" Will breathed. Xander looked doubtful.

"How do you know she hasn't scented a deer, or a badger?" he asked. Will looked at him for a few seconds.

"If you've got a better idea, now's the time to mention it."

Xander made an apologetic gesture with his hands. "No, no. Carry on," he said mildly. Will turned back to the dog. As ever, she was watching him and waiting for new orders. He moved to her, pointed to the ground where she had found the scent, and said: "Follow."

The dog barked once and bounded away. She went a few meters, then stopped and turned back, looking at him. She barked again, the message obvious:
Come on if you're coming. We haven't got all day.

The trail wound and twisted and seemed to double back on itself. There were side trails and forks in the path as well, and Will began to wonder if the dog really knew what she was doing or if she was just wandering at random. There seemed to be so many choices, so many different ways they could go. Then, as he realized how focused she was on her task, he knew she was definitely following something. The question remained, though: what was it? He realized that Xander could be right. They could well be hurrying through the wood in pursuit of a badger or some other animal.

Skilled as he was in woodcraft, it wasn't long before Will was totally disoriented, and he knew that he would be hard-pressed to retrace their path if he had to. He realized that Orman's life was now well and truly in the care of the dog and, from the worried glances that Xander kept darting at him, he knew the secretary was aware of the fact as well. They didn't speak. There was no point in voicing their fear and the looming nature of the dark wood discouraged idle conversation. It was as if Grimsdell itself had a presence—a character. Dark, depressing and threatening, it weighed down on them, alleviated only by the occasional clearing and chance view of the sky overhead.

They had been traveling for over an hour, Will estimated, when they came to a three-way fork in the trail. For the first time since they had started out, the dog hesitated. She cast down the right-hand fork for a few meters, then stopped, nose down, forepaw raised uncertainly. Then she snuffled her way back and tried the left fork.

"Oh God," Xander said quietly, "she's lost the scent." He looked fearfully at his master, lolling in the saddle, eyes closed, head sagging, held in place only by a rope they had lashed to his hands and tied to the saddle pommel. If they were to be left blundering through the wood, without any sense of direction or purpose, Xander knew it would spell the end for Orman.

The dog glanced at him, as if in reproach, then uttered a short bark and started down the left fork, all traces of uncertainty now gone. Will and the secretary urged their horses forward to follow. They had gone fifty meters, winding and twisting and perhaps making only twenty meters of progress, when Will heard Xander let out a gasp.

He looked up—his attention had been fixed on the dog, he realized—and saw what had caused the cry of alarm. There was a skull set on a pole to one side of the trail ahead of them. A rough, lichen-covered board below it carried an indecipherable message written in ancient runes. The words might have been enigmatic but the message was clear.

"It's a warning," Xander said.

Will slid an arrow from his quiver and laid it on the bowstring.

"Then consider yourself warned," he said dryly. "Personally, if I'm planning to ambush someone, the last thing I ever do is let them know in advance."

He leaned forward to study the skull more closely. It was yellowed with age. And it was not quite human. The lower jaw seemed to thrust forward more than a man's, and there were fang-like canine teeth on either side.

The dog was waiting impatiently and Will signaled her forward. She started down the trail again, and suddenly she broke into a run, dashing forward and around the next bend, out of sight.

At Will's cue, Tug broke into a canter to follow the dog and they rounded the bend after her ...

... and found themselves in a large clearing, with a substantial one-story building, constructed from dark wood and thatched with straw, on the far side. He heard the other two horses come clattering after him, then slide to a stop beside him.

"Looks like we're here," Will said quietly. Xander looked around the clearing, searching for some sign of human habitation.

"But where's Malkallam?" he said.

Then they saw movement in the trees on the far side of the clearing, and as if the sorcerer's name had summoned them, figures began to step out of the surrounding woods.

There must have been more than thirty of them. And even as he had the thought, Will noticed that there was something unusual about them. They were ... he searched for the right term, and hesitated. He was not totally sure of what he was seeing. Even in the clearing, the light was dim and uncertain, and the people, if they were people, were staying close to the dark mass of the forest behind them, where the shadows were thick and heavy. He heard Xander's quick intake of breath, then the secretary spoke softly.

"Look at them," he said. "Are they human?"

Then Will realized what it was that had caused him to hesitate. They were certainly human, he thought. But it was as if they were all dreadful caricatures of normal people. They were terribly misshapen—all of them. Some were dwarflike, barely four feet tall—others were tall and painfully thin. One was huge—he must have been two and a half meters tall and massive across the chest and shoulders. His skin was a pallid white, and aside from a few random wisps of yellowish hair, he was bald.

Others were hunched over, their bodies twisted and bowed. There were several who were hunchbacks, their movements awkward and painful as they shuffled forward.

Will's throat went dry as he saw that among the thirty-plus people facing him, there was not one who could be described as normally shaped. Obviously, this was the result of Malkallam's black sorcery, he thought, and as he thought it, he also realized that they had made a mistake bringing the unconscious Orman here. A wizard who would create such painful disfigurement among people was hardly going to help the castle lord recover from the poison that was destroying him.

After their first movement out of the shadow of the trees, the creatures stopped, as if in response to some silent command. Will glanced down as the dog sank slowly to her haunches in front of him. He could feel the low, continuous rumble of warning in Tug's chest. It was an impasse, he realized. There was no sign of the wizard, unless he happened to be one of the misshapen creatures that faced him across the clearing—and somehow, he doubted that.

"Ranger ..." Xander's voice was low and edged with fear. Will glanced at him and the little man nodded to the far side of the clearing. Following his glance, Will felt his own throat constrict with fear.

The pallid-skinned giant had begun to advance across the clearing toward them, one ponderous step at a time. As he advanced, there was a low, wordless mutter of encouragement from his companions. Will slowly raised the bow, an arrow still nocked and ready, from where it had rested across his pommel.

"That's far enough," he said quietly. The giant was nearly halfway toward them. He took another pace. Now he was in the very middle of the clearing and Will sensed he could not let him get any closer. Those massive hands could tear him, Xander and Orman limb from limb. And probably their horses as well, he thought.