Ширли Мерфи - The Castle Оf Hape. Caves Оf Fire Аnd Ice. The Joining Оf Тhe Stone

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.

“Throw her over Stalg’s saddle. He won’t be riding again.”

“She’s no good to us. What do we need her for?”

“Stupid dolt. She’s female, ain’t she!”

The feet went on. She could hear sounds as if he were gathering up the horses. The other warrior came out, leading the wraith. It paused to look into her face. She kept her eyes closed, could feel its interest like a lance. When it continued to stare, she could not help but open her eyes. Its face was loose over the bones. Its pale, dead eyes were sunken deep, the whites gone yellow. Eyes dark-ringed, expressionless, looking deep inside her, seeing things she did not want it to see. The cold sense of the creature gripped her. She stifled the need to cry out, turned her face away from it with horror. What was this thing, dwelling in a man’s body?

The thing crawled on at last, but pulled constantly against its lead back toward the darkness. The Herebian kicked it to move it along, then bound it to a boulder and left it; then he returned to stand over Skeelie.

“Get up!”

She lay as if unconscious.

The man grabbed her by the shoulder and flung her up like a bag of meal, scraping her bound hands beneath her across the rocky wall. He pushed her against the wall, and when she struggled, he hit her hard. She lunged at him, bit his hand, then crouched, doubled with pain when he struck her in the stomach.

“Not the sort of female I relish,” the one called BolLag said.

“Female’s female, What’s the difference. Throw her over the saddle and tie her down good. I’ll take the fight out of her tonight.”