"I don't plan to be a sailor, Kurik. Stealing fish sounds a little too much like work to me."

They rode on through the moon-drenched night, moving almost due east. By morning they had gone perhaps five leagues, and Sparhawk rode to a hilltop to look around. "There's a village just ahead," he told the others when he returned. "Let's hope it's the one we're looking for."

The village lay in a shallow valley. It was a small place, perhaps a dozen stone houses with a church at one end of its single cobbled street and a tavern at the other. A large, walled building stood atop a hill just outside the town.

"Excuse me, neighbour," Sparhawk asked a pa.s.ser-by as they clattered into town. "Is this Verine?"

"It is."

"And is that the monastery up on that hill there?"

"It is," the man replied again, his voice a bit sullen.

"Is there some problem?"

"The monks up there own all the land hereabouts," the fellow replied. "Their rents are cruel."

"Isn't that always the way? All landlords are greedy."

"The monks insist on t.i.thes as well as the rent. That's going a bit far, wouldn't you say?"

"You've got a point there."

"Why do you call everybody "neighbour"?" Tynian asked as they rode on.

"Habit, I suppose," Sparhawk shrugged. "I got it from my father, and I think it puts people at their ease."

"Why not call them "friend"?"

"Because I never know that for sure. Let's go talk to the Abbot of that monastery."

The monastery was a severe-looking building surrounded by a wall made of yellow sandstone. The fields around it were well-tended, and monks wearing conical hats woven from local straw worked patiently under the morning sun in long, straight rows of vegetables. The gates of the monastery stood open, and Sparhawk and the others rode into the central courtyard. A thin, haggard-looking brother came out to meet them, his face a little fearful.

"Good day, brother," Sparhawk said to him. He opened his cloak to reveal the heavy silver amulet hanging on a chain about his neck which identified him as a Pandion Knight. "If it's not too much trouble, we'd like to have a word with your Abbot."

"I'll bring him immediately, My Lord." The brother scurried back inside the building.

The Abbot was a jolly little fat man with a well-shaven tonsure and a bright red, sweaty face. His was a small, remote monastery and had little contact with Chyrellos. He was embarra.s.singly obsequious at the sudden, unexpected appearance of Church Knights on his doorstep.

"My Lords," he grovelled, "how may I serve you?"

"It's a small thing, my Lord Abbot," Sparhawk told him gently. "Are you acquainted with the Patriarch of Demos?"

The Abbot swallowed hard. "Patriarch Dolmant?" he said in an awed voice.

"Tall fellow," Sparhawk agreed. "Sort of lean and underfed-looking. Anyway, we need to get a message to him. Have you a young monk who's got some stamina and a good horse who could carry a message to the Patriarch for us? It's in the service of the Church."

"Of course, Sir Knight."

"I'd hoped you'd feel that way about it. Do you have a quill pen and ink handy, My Lord Abbot? I'll compose the message, and then we won't bother you any more."

"One other thing, My Lord Abbot," Kalten added. "Might we trouble you for a bit of food? We've been some time on the road, and our supplies are getting low. Nothing too exotic, mind - a few roast chickens, perhaps, a ham or two, a side of bacon, a hindquarter of beef, maybe?"

"Of course, Sir Knight," the Abbot agreed quickly.

Sparhawk composed the note to Dolmant while Kurik and Kalten loaded the supplies on a packhorse.

"Did you have to do that?" Sparhawk asked Kalten as they rode away. "Charity is a cardinal virtue, Sparhawk," Kalten replied loftily. "I like to encourage it whenever I can."

The countryside through which they galloped grew increasingly desolate. The soil was thin and poor, fit only for thorn-bushes and weeds. Here and there were pools of stagnant water, and the few trees standing near them were stunted and sick-looking. The weather had turned cloudy, and they rode through the tag-end of a dreary afternoon.

Kurik pulled his gelding in beside Sparhawk. "Doesn't look too promising, does it?" he noted.

"Dismal," Sparhawk agreed.

"I think we're going to have to make camp somewhere tonight. The horses are almost played out."

"I'm not feeling too spry myself," Sparhawk admitted.

His eyes felt gritty, and he had a dull headache.

"The only trouble is that I haven't seen any clean water for the last league or so. Why don't I take Berit and see if we can find a spring or stream?"

"Keep your eyes open," Sparhawk cautioned.

Kurik turned in his saddle. "Berit," he called, "I need you." Sparhawk and the others rode on at a trot while the squire and the novice ranged out in search of clean water.

"We could just ride on, you know," Kalten said.

"Not unless you feel like walking before morning," Sparhawk replied. "Kurik's right. The horses don't have very much left in them."

"That's true, I suppose."

Then Kurik and Berit came pounding down a nearby hill at a gallop. "Get ready." Kurik shouted, shaking loose his chain-mace. "We've got company."

"Sephrenia!" Sparhawk barked. "Take Flute and get back behind those rocks. Talen, get the packhorses." He drew his sword and moved to the front even as the others armed themselves.

There were fifteen or so of them, and they drove their horses over the hilltop at a run. It was an oddly a.s.sorted group, church soldiers in their red tunics, Styrics in home-spun smocks and a few peasants. Their faces were all blank, and their eyes dull. They charged on mindlessly, even though the heavily armed Church Knights were rushing to meet them.

Sparhawk and the others spread out, preparing to meet the charge. "For G.o.d and the Church!" Bevier shouted, brandishing his lochaber axe. Then he spurred his horse forward, crashing into the middle of the oncoming attackers. Sparhawk was taken off guard by the young Cyrinic's rash move, but he quickly recovered and charged in to his companion's aid. Bevier, however, appeared to need little in the way of help. He warded off the clumsy-looking sword strokes of the mindlessly charging ambushers with his shield, and his long handled lochaber whistled through the air to sink deep into the bodies of his enemies. Though the wounds he inflicted were hideous, the men he struck down made no outcry as they fell from their saddles. They fought and died in an eerie silence. Sparhawk rode behind Bevier, cutting down any of the numb-faced men who tried to attack the Cyrinic from behind. His sword sheared a church soldier almost in half, but the man in the red tunic did not even flinch. He raised his sword to strike at Bevier's back, but Sparhawk split his head open with a vast overhand stroke. The soldier toppled out of his saddle and lay twitching on the bloodstained gra.s.s.

Kalten and Tynian had flanked the attackers on either side and were chopping their way into the melee, while Ulath, Kurik and Berit intercepted the few survivors who managed to make their way through the concerted counter-attack.

The ground was soon littered with bodies in red tunics and b.l.o.o.d.y white Styric smocks. Riderless horses plunged away from the fight, squealing in panic. In normal circ.u.mstances, Sparhawk knew the attackers bringing up the rear would falter and then flee when they saw what had befallen their comrades. These expressionless men, however, continued their attack, and it was necessary to kill them to the last man.

"Sparhawk!" Sephrenia shouted. "Up there!" She was pointing towards the hilltop beyond which the attack had come. It was the tall, skeletal figure in the black hooded robe which Sparhawk had seen twice before. It sat its horse atop the hill with that faint green glow emanating from its concealed face.

"That thing's starting to bore me," Kalten said. "The best way to get rid of a bug is to step on it." He raised his shield and thumped his heels on his horse's flanks. He started to gallop up the hill, his blade held menacingly aloft.

"Kalten! no!" Sephrenia's shout was shrill with fright.

But Kalten paid no attention to her warning. Sparhawk swore and started after his friend. Suddenly Kalten was hurled from his saddle by some unseen force as the figure atop the hill gestured contemptuously.

With revulsion Sparhawk saw that what emerged from the sleeve of the black robe was not a hand, but something more closely resembling the front claw of a scorpion. And then, even as he swung down from Faran's back to run to Kalten's aid, Sparhawk gaped in astonishment.

Somehow Flute had escaped from Sephrenia's watchful eye and had advanced to the foot of the hill. She stamped one gra.s.s-stained little foot imperiously and lifted her rude pipes to her lips. Her melody was stern, even slightly discordant, and for some peculiar reason it seemed to be accompanied by a vast, unseen choir of human voices. The hooded figure on the hilltop reeled back in its saddle as if it had been struck a ma.s.sive blow.

Flute's song rose, and that unseen choir swelled its song ,in a mighty crescendo. The sound was so overpowering that Sparhawk was forced to cover his ears. The song had reached the level of physical pain.

The figure shrieked, a dreadfully inhuman sound, and it flapped its claws to the sides of its hooded head. Then it wheeled its horse and fled down the far side of the hill.

There was no time to pursue the monstrosity. Kalten lay gasping on the ground, his face pale and his hands clutching at his stomach.

"Are you all right?" Sparhawk demanded, kneeling beside his friend.

"Leave me alone," Kalten wheezed.

"Don't be stupid. Are you hurt?"

"No. I'm lying here for fun." The blond man drew in a shuddering breath. "What did it hit me with? I've never been hit that hard before."

"You'd better let me have a look at you."

"I'm all right, Sparhawk. It just knocked the breath out of me, that's all."

"You idiot. You know what that thing is. What were you thinking of?" Sparhawk was suddenly, irrationally angry.

"It seemed like a good idea at the time." Kalten grinned weakly. "Maybe I should have thought my way through it a little more."

"Is he hurt?" Bevier asked, dismounting and coming towards them, his face showing his concern.

"I think he'll be all right." Then Sparhawk rose, controlling his temper with some effort. "Sir Bevier," he said rather formally, "you've had training in this sort of thing. You know what you're supposed to do when you're under attack. What possessed you to dash into the middle of them like that?"

"I didn't think there were all that many of them, Sparhawk," Bevier replied defensively.

"There were enough. It only takes one to kill you."

"You're vexed with me, aren't you, Sparhawk?" Bevier's voice was mournful.

Sparhawk looked at the young knight's earnest face for a moment. Then he sighed. "No, Bevier, I suppose not. You just startled me, that's all. Please, for the sake of my nerves, don't do unexpected things any more. I'm not getting any younger, and surprises age me."

"Perhaps I didn't consider the feelings of my comrades," Bevier admitted contritely. "I promise it will not happen again."

"I appreciate that, Bevier. Let's help Kalten back down the hill. I want Sephrenia to take a look at him, and I'm sure she'll want to have a talk with him - a nice long one."

Kalten winced. "I don't suppose I could talk you into leaving me here? This is nice soft dirt."

"Not a chance, Kalten," Sparhawk replied ruthlessly. "Don't worry, though. She likes you, so she probably won't do anything to you - nothing permanent, anyway."

Chapter 3.

Sephrenia was tending a large, ugly-looking bruise on Berit's upper arm when Sparhawk and Bevier helped the weakly protesting Kalten down the hill to her.

"Is it bad?" Sparhawk asked the young novice.

"It's nothing, My Lord," Berit said bravely, although his face was pale.

"Is that the very first thing they teach you Pandions?" Sephrenia asked acidly, " - to make light of your injuries? Berit's mail-shirt stopped most of the blow, but in about an hour his arm's going to be purple from elbow to shoulder. He'll barely be able to use it."

"You're in a cheerful humour this afternoon, little mother," Kalten said to her.

She pointed a threatening finger at him. "Kalten," she said, "sit. I'll deal with you after I've tended Berit's arm."

Kalten sighed and slumped down onto the ground.

Sparhawk looked around. "Where are Ulath, Tynian and Kurik?" he asked.

"They're scouting around to make sure there aren't any more ambushes laid for us, Sir Sparhawk," Berit replied.

"Good idea."

"That creature didn't look so very dangerous to me," Bevier said, " - a little mysterious perhaps, but not all that dangerous."

"It didn't hit you," Kalten told him. "It's dangerous, all right. Take my word for it."

"It's more dangerous than you could possibly imagine." Sephrenia said. "It can send whole armies after us."

"If it's got the kind of power that knocked me off my horse, it doesn't need armies."

"You keep forgetting, Kalten. Its mind is the mind of Azash. The G.o.ds prefer to have humans do their work for them."

"The men who came down that hill were like sleepwalkers," Bevier said, shuddering. "We cut them to pieces, and they didn't make a sound." He paused, frowning. "I didn't think Styrics were so aggressive," he added. "I've never seen one with a sword in his hand before."

"Those weren't western Styrics," Sephrenia said, tying off the padded bandage around Berit's upper arm. "Try not to use that too much," she instructed. "Give it time to heal."

"Yes, ma'am," Berit replied. "Now that you mention it, though, it is getting a little sore."

She smiled and put an affectionate hand on his shoulder. "This one may be all right, Sparhawk. His head isn't quite solid bone - like some I could name." She glanced meaningfully at Kalten.

"Sephrenia," the blond knight protested.

"Get out of the mail-shirt," she told him crisply. "I want to see if you've broken anything."