eBook Version: 2.1




                     Raven's Eyrie
                      Karl Edward Wagner




                           Prologue
   The child awoke at the sound of her own scream. A thin
scream, imbued with the fever that parched her throat. And still a
scream tight with the terror of her dream. Its echo hung on the
bare-timbered walls of her narrow room as she bolted from her
damp pillow.
  Her fever-bright eyes stared wide with fear as they darted
about the room's shadowy corners. But the phantoms of her
nightmare, if nightmare it was, had receded. Klesst brushed the
clinging tendrils of red hair from her moist forehead and sat up.
   Through the greenish bull's-eye glass of her lattice window she
could see the declining sun, impaled upon the reddened fangs of
the mountains. The late autumn night would close quickly, and
the darkness of her nightmare would surround her. And this was
the night when the Demonlord walked the earth...
  Shivering despite her heightened temperature, Klesst dropped
back against the straw mattress. "Mother!" she called plaintively,
wondering why her outcry had not brought someone to her side.
  "Mother!" she called again. She longed to call Greshha's name,
but remembered that the stout serving woman had been sent
away from the inn for the night. Greshha had not wanted to leave
her. Not when she was sick, not on the night of her birthday. Not
on this night. It was cruel of her mother to send her away,
Greshha whom she looked upon as her nurse. Smiling Greshha,
Greshha of warm hands and soft bosom. Not hard and cold like
Mother.
   Greshha would have answered her cry. It was cruel of Mother
to ignore her like this.
   "What is it, Klesst?" Mother's frown regarded her warily from
the doorway. She had heard no footsteps on the thick boards of
the long hallway. Mother moved so silently always.
  "I'm thirsty, Mother. My throat feels so hot. Please bring me
some water."
  How pretty Mother was... Her long black hair brushed down
the sides of her face, clasped at her nape, and let fall over her
shoulder and down her left breast. Under her shawl, her straight
shoulders rose bare from her wide-necked blouse of bleached
muslin, full-sleeved and gathered at her wrists. Her narrow waist
was cinched by a wide belt of dark leather, crisscrossed with
scarlet cord. Her skirt of brown wool fell in wide pleats to low on
her calves, and her small feet were shad in buskins of soft leather.
Klesst wore gold circlets pierced through each earlobe—just like
Mother—but Greshha had helped her sew bits of embroidery on
her garments, while Mother's were unadorned.
   Her mother crossed the tiny room with her quick stride. She
caught up the crockery pitcher from the stand beside Klesst's bed,
then frowned as it sloshed. "There's water here, Klesst. Why can't
you get your own drink?"
   Klesst hoped she had not triggered her mother's cold anger.
Not when loneliness shadowed her room, and the night was
closing over the inn. "The pitcher is so heavy, and my arms feel
so weak and shaky. Please, Mother. Give me some water."
   Silently her mother poured water into Klesst's cup and placed
the blue glazed mug in her hands. Greshha would have held it to
her lips, supported her head with her strong arm...
   Klesst drank thirstily, gripping the cup with both her
hands—surprisingly long-fingered for a child's hands. Her great
blue eyes watched her mother over the brim, searching her face
for anger, impatience. Mother's face was impassive.
   The child's febrile lips sucked noisily at the last swallow of
water, and her mother took the empty cup from her fingers. She
returned it to its place beside the pitcher, then turned to go.
  "Please, Mother!" Klesst spoke quickly. "My head—it burns
so. Could you place something cool on my head?"
  Her mother laid her thin hand over the girl's brow. Yes, that
was so cold...
  "I had the bad dreams again, Mother," whispered Klesst,
hoping her mother would not leave.
  "You have a fever still. Fever brings bad dreams."
  "It was that same nightmare."
  Mother's eyes were wary. "What nightmare, Klesst?"
  Would she get angry? Might she stay beside her if she knew
her fear? Klesst dreaded the thought of being alone in the
darkness.
  "It was the dog again, Mother. The great black hound."
  Her mother drew back and folded her long arms under her high
breasts. "A great black hound?" she said. "Do you mean a wolf?"
   "A giant hound, Mother. Bigger than the bear hounds, bigger
than a wolf. I think he's even bigger than a bear. And he's black,
all black, even his chops and his tongue. Just his fangs are white.
And his eyes—they burn like fire. He wants me, Mother. In my
dream I see him hunting along the ridges in the mist, sniffing the
night winds for my scent, And I can't run, but he keeps hunting
closer—until he's snuffling up to the inn. Then he sees me, and
his eyes glow red and freeze me so I can't scream, and his jaws
yawn open and I see smoke cutting from his fangs..."
   "Hush! It's only a bad dream!" Her mother's voice was
strained.
   Klesst shuddered as the memory of her fear crept back again,
and she wished Greshha were here to hold her. "And I can see
something else walking the ridges. There's a man, all in black with
a great black cloak that flaps behind him. A man who hunts with
the black hound. I can't see him clear because the night hides
him—but I know I mustn't look at his face!"
  "Stop it!"
  The child gasped and looked wonderingly at her mother.
  "Talking about it will only make you have the bad dream
again," her mother explained tensely.
  Klesst decided not to mention the other strange man who
walked through her nightmare. "Why are they hunting for me?"
she asked in a frightened whisper. Dared she ask Mother to stay
with her? She again glanced to see if she were angry,
   Her mother's face was shadowed, her lips tight and pale. She
spoke in a whisper, as if thinking aloud. "Sometimes when your
soul is so torn with pain and hatred... it can burn you out inside,
so your spirit can never feel anything else... and you can think
thoughts that are different, turn to paths that you wouldn't...
before. And later maybe your soul is burned out and cold... But
the fire of your hatred smoulders and waits... And you know
there's a bad moon rising—but there's no way to hold it back."
   A gust of wind rattled dry leaves against the panes. Outside the
lattice window, night was striding over the autumnal ridges.




                                 I
                      Ridges of Autumn

  "How is he?"
  Braddeyas shrugged. "Alive, I think, but that's about all. He'll
be dead by morning if we don't stop soon."
  Weed spat sourly and nudged his horse alongside the wounded
man's mount. The man slumped over his horse's neck was huge,
but his thick muscled frame was now nerveless, and only the
ropes which held him to his saddle kept him from toppling to the
mountain trail.
  Knotting his fingers in the thick red hair, Weed lifted his head.
"Kane! Can you hear me?"
  The blood-smeared face was slack and pale, the eyes hidden
under half-closed lids. His lips moved silently, but Weed could
not tell whether there was recognition.
  "Then again, he may not last the night even if we do stop
somewhere," Braddeyas commented. "Fever's getting worse, I'd
say."
  "Kane!"
  No response.
   "He's been out of it since the fever set in," Braddeyas went on.
"And he's lost a lot of blood—still losing some." Absently he
scratched the dirty bandages that bound his own hairy forearm.
Signs of recent and desperate combat marked each man of their
small band.
   "I don't like to stop," frowned Weed, assuming Kane's
leadership. "They're too close on us to risk it."
  Braddeyas drew his cloak tighter about his narrow shoulders.
"Kane won't last till morning unless we rest."
   "Pleddis won't push on through these mountains tonight,"
offered Darros, who had ridden back to join them. "Why won't
be?" Weed demanded. "He must know we're only hours ahead of
him. The bastard's probably counting his bounty money right
now!"
  The dark-bearded crossbowman shook his head decisively.
"Then he'll be counting it beside a roaring fire. You won't find
nobody riding these trails tonight. Not with this moon. A man will
risk his life for gold maybe, but not his soul."
   Weed glanced toward the rising moon in sudden awareness.
The long-limbed bandit was from the island Pellin, and not a
native of Lartroxia. Nonetheless, years of raiding along the
continent's hinterlands had made him familiar with the tales and
legends of the Myceum Mountains. He looked at the red moon of
autumn and remembered.
  "The Demonlord's Moon," he whispered.
   "Pleddis will have to make camp," Darros asserted. "His men
won't ride past nightfall. He'll have to wait for dawn before he
takes up our trail again."
  "We can risk a halt, then," Weed surmised.
  "We've no choice," commented Darros, his jaw set.
   The two remaining members of their band, tall Frassos and
crop-eared Seth, proclaimed agreement by their grimfaced
silence.
     "By the red moon of autumn, the Demonlord hunts;
     His black hound beside him, lie seeks along the ridges,
     Hunting blood for demonhound, souls for Demonlord..."
  "Shut up, Braddeyas!" growled Weed, his ragged nerves
overstrung by the creeping sense of fear.
   "We ain't going to make camp along the trail, are we?"
mumbled Seth uneasily. "Kane's just dead weight, and that's only
five of us to wait through the night."
  "Any other ideas?" demanded Weed. "Night's coming on fast."
  Kane's head did not lift from where he slumped against his
horse's neck, but his voice slurred thickly: "Raven's Eyrie."
  "What'd he say?" Weed asked.
  "Raven's Eyrie," answered Braddeyas, bending close to Kane.
He held water to their leader's cracked lips, then shook his head.
"Still unconscious. Like he's saving up what strength he has. I've
seen him do this before."
  "Any idea what be meant?"
  "Raven's Eyrie is an inn not far, maybe two miles from here,"
explained Darros, who knew the region well. "It overlooks the
River Cotras and the road that runs along the river gorge. Used to
be a major caravanserai, before Kane raided it years back. They
never rebuilt the place, and my guess is it's all in ruins now."
   Weed nodded. "Yeah, I remember Kane talking about that
raid. Must have been about eight years back, because it happened
just before I joined Kane."
   "I was there," stated Braddeyas with crusty pride. He had
raided these mountains even before Kane had come to them ten
years before. His hair was grey-streaked and thinning now, which
said something about the man, for the mountain outlaws seldom
died in bed.
   All too true for the others of Kane's once powerful band—men
cut to pieces by mercenary swords when Pleddis encircled their
camp. This handful had slashed their way through his trap, but
three days of desperate flight still found the free-captain close on
their heels. Nor was he likely to quit their trail. The Combine
cities of Lartroxia's coastal plain had set a high bounty on Kane,
and Pleddis meant to claim it.
  "If its walls are standing, the inn will give us shelter until
dawn," Frassos pointed out. He coughed thinly, wincing as pain
shot through cracked ribs.
  "You know the way, Darros, then lead us there," Weed
decided. "Daylight's just about gone."
  "It is that," someone muttered.
   Night was closing over the mountains on great raven's wings.
Shadow lay deep beneath the blue-grey pines and frost-fired
hardwoods which shouldered over the narrow trail. Darkness
hungrily swallowed the valleys and hollows that spread out below
them—pools of gloom from which waves of mist rose to storm
the wooded slopes and poor over the limestone ridges.
   A battered, gut-weary handful of hunted men—ruthless,
half-wild outlaws hounded by killers as remorseless as
themselves. Shivering in their dirt and blood-caked bandages,
they rode on in grim determination, thoughts numb to pain and
fear—although both phantoms rode beside them—intent on
nothing more than the deadly necessity of flight. Flight from the
hired bounty killers who followed almost on the sound of their
hoofbeats.
   They were well mounted; their gear was chosen from the
plunder of uncounted raids. But now their horses stumbled with
fatigue, their gear was worn and travel-stained, their weapons
notched and dulled from hard fighting. They were the last. The
last on this side of Hell of those who had ridden behind Kane, as
feared and daring an outlaw pack as had ever roamed the
Myceum Mountains.
   No more would they set upon travellers along the lonely
mountain passes, pillage merchants' camps, terrorize isolated
settlements. Never again would they sweep down from the
dark-pined slopes and lay waste to villages of the coastal plains,
then dart back into the secret fastness of the mountains where the
Combine's cavalry dared not venture. Their comrades were dead,
fed ravens in a forgotten valley countless twisted miles behind
their bent shoulders. Their leader, whose infamous cunning and
deadly sword at last had failed them, was dying in his saddle.
  They were all dead men.
  And night was upon them.
   "Thoem! It's dark as the inside of a tomb!" cursed Weed,
trying to follow the shadow-hidden trail. He glanced uneasily at
the blood-hued disk rising above the ridges of autumn. The moon
cast no light this night.
  "We're almost there," Darros promised him from the darkness
ahead.
   Moments later the trail rose over a gap, and he called back,
"There it is! And there's lights! The inn hasn't been deserted, after
all."
   Not quite, Weed observed. Even in the thick gloom, he could
see that Raven's Eyrie lay half in ruins. The grey stone and black
timber structure crouched on the edge of the deep valley below
them, rising from a bluff overlooking the River Cotras. By the
dim-eyed rows of windows, Weed noted that the main building of
the sprawling caravanserai stood at least three storeys. The
outlying wings of the inn appeared no more than fire-gutted
walls. River mist hung over the blackened walls of Raven's Eyrie,
and in the darkness below the limestone bluff, the Cotras
thundered its unseen rush to the western coast.
   Cautiously they urged their exhausted mounts down the
twisting path that descended the ridge from the gap. The last grey
ghost of twilight died away as they emerged from the pine-buried
slope and reached the river road. Though wider than the path
they had been following, the river road showed signs of neglect.
New saplings speared through its hoof-beaten surface, and older
trees reached out from the looming forest on either side. Men and
horses had ridden by, and smaller hoofprints marked the passage
of an occasional drover, but wagon ruts were few, and these old
and eroded. Weed reflected that the depredations of Kane and
his men probably explained the near abandonment of this once
heavily travelled trace.
   In darkness they approached the inn. Only a few of the
outbuildings remained standing, but they could catch the smell
and soft noises of horses and livestock. Several lighted windows
of bull's-eye glass stared dimly toward the road. A pair of smoky
lanterns hung beside the front entrance, but the thick timbered
door had the look of being bolted. A wooden sign hung out above
the lanterns, swinging slightly, though the wind was less raking
here in the valley. Its paint was charred, and the panel bore blade
scars, but Weed could make out the blocky Lartroxian letters:
"Raven's Eyrie." On the sign above the letters perched a huge
raven, in bas-relief and painted black. Someone had set a bit of
red glass into the bird's eye, and lamplight glinted there. The
raven seemed to watch their approach.
  "How many would you say?" Weed asked Darros, after the
other had ridden ahead for a closer look.
  "Not very many, by all signs," the crossbowman replied.
"Looks like just a few people are keeping the inn going. Them
and maybe a few travellers, I'd guess. Strange their dogs haven't
scented us."
   "Shouldn't be much trouble, then." Weed turned in the
darkness to give orders. Frassos did not respond when he called
his name.
  "Frassos?" he called again.
  No reply. His riderless horse wandered forward instead.
  They conferred in startled bewilderment. Frassos had ridden
behind, guarding their rear. No one had heard him cry out; no one
had heard the sound of a fall.
  "We're all of us done in twice over," suggested Braddeyas.
"Maybe he passed out and fell."
  "We should have heard him if he did," Weed pointed out.
  "Should we go back and look for him?"
   The red moon burned down on them from the misty ridges.
Weed shivered under its rusty glow, remembering the mountain
legends he had heard of this night.
  "Does anyone want the job?"
  It was too dark to see their eyes, but Weed sensed that no one
met his face.
 "If Frassos is all right, he can catch up to us at the inn,"
muttered Seth. There was no confidence in his voice.




                                 II
                       A Guest Returns

   For the space of a dream, Klesst drifted in the restless sleep of
fever. Shaken front her half-sleep by sudden angry stridor, she
flung herself free of covers in frightened awakening.
   The moon's burning eve stared at her through the rippled panes
of her window, and Klesst threw her hand to her lips to stifle air
outcry. From below in the inn, angry shouts, splintering clamour
of overturned benches, a raw scream of pain.
  Had the black hound at last found her? Had it broken past the
door? Was it even now climbing the stairs to her room?
  But the angry voices continued. The words were indistinct to
her, but their tone was clear. Now more carious than afraid,
Klesst decided she must see what had happened.
   Dizzily she dropped her feet to the floor and held fast to the
oak bedstead until steadiness returned to hot limbs. The night's
chill pierced her thin cotton shift, and she hurriedly wound about
her shoulders the woolen coverlet Greshha had woven for her.
For the moment, her fever had left her, and though suddenly
cold, she felt a certain shaky strength in its wake. Her teeth
chartered; the fire in her room had almost died, and no one had
filled the woodbox.
   The angry shouts had subsided by the time Klesst tiptoed down
the narrow halfway to the balcony overlooking the inn's common
room. Cautiously she crept through the shadows to the pine log
railing and peered from behind a gnarled post.
  She darted back in fear—then, certain that the shadows
concealed her, risked a longer glance. Her eyes grew wide with a
child's wondering stare.
   The front door of the inn was flung open. Cold gusts slanted
the lantern flames, spun curled leaves across the threshold.
Strangers—wild, dangerous men—had burst into Raven's Eyrie.
Death had entered with them.
  A burly, black-bearded man held a cocked crossbow; his eyes
searched the shadows of the common room and raked the
balcony where Klesst crouched closer to the log railing. Another
man with gangling limbs and mousy, straw-colored hair
brandished a narrow blade of unusual length. He seemed to be in
charge, for he snarled commands to someone outside the inn.
  The inhabitants of the inn and its few guests stood frozen
against the long bar. There was Mother, her expression
unreadable, with Selle, the scrawny serving maid, cowering
against her. Pot-bellied Cholos, who served her mother as tapster,
licked his lips nervously and glanced sidelong at the hulking
Mauderas, who kept the stables and saw to such heavy work as
was ever done at Raven's Eyrie. Mauderas's eyes were sullen as
he pressed a hand to his crimson-sodden sleeve. Two guests,
apparently drovers, were backed against the bar as well. Another
guest, whose green tunic identified him as a ranger, lay crumpled
beside an overturned table, a crossbow bolt through his back.
   Bandits! Klesst realized with a shudder, recalling the many
lurid tales she had listened in on, safely crouched by the corner of
the fireplace. The murderous outlaws who held sway over the
mountain wilderness—who had laid waste to Raven's Eyrie one
awful night before her birth.
   There was a disturbance at the door. Two more bandits
appeared, staggering under the burden of a third man. One was a
wiry figure, partially bald and gap-toothed, though his hair was
barely greyed. The other was a husky, swarthy-faced tough with
cropped ears and battered nose. The man they shouldered
between them was as large as the two together. His clothes were
filthy with dirt and caked blood; matted red hair bung over his
bearded, brutal face. Klesst remembered the stories she had
heard of ogres and trolls that were said to haunt the mountains,
lairing in hidden caves and creeping forth at night to pull down
travellers and steal little girls from their beds. Klesst had thought
the big man unconscious. But as the outlaws supported him into
the room, his knees suddenly straightened, and she heard him
say, "I'll sit over there."
   Somewhat impatiently he pulled free of their grasp and half fell
onto a low-backed oak chair next to the fire. The crop-eared
bandit righted the overturned table and shoved it before him,
while the blond procured a thick bottle of brandy from the
trembling Cholos and crossed the room. The red-haired giant
mutely accepted the bottle and tilted it to his lips for a long
swallow. When he thudded it to the table, the dark green glass
was empty to half its depth.
   Gingerly he brushed the tangled strands of hair from his face
and settled his wolfskin cloak about his shoulders, his manner at
once domineering. Fresh blood soaked crude bandages along the
slashed side of his leather hacton, and a crusted wound on his
scalp had streaked his face with dried blood. Beneath the rust of
beard and caked gore, his face was white with fever.
   His eyes seemed to glow with a strange blue light by the fire.
Perhaps it was the fever. Almost casually his gaze wandered
about the room, touched the shadowed balcony where Klesst
crouched. For an instant his eyes met hers, and Klesst froze with
fear. There was something unnatural about his eyes, she instantly
realized—and something familiar. But while he must have seen
her, his gaze did not pause in its quick surveillance of the
common room.
   Instead, his stare halted on her mother's face. Thoughtfully he
studied her, as if searching for a memory.
  "Good evening, Ionor," he greeted her then.
   Mother's lips were a tight line, and Klesst could sense the
tension in her unsmiling face. "Hello, Kane," she whispered, and
quickly turned her eyes from his stare.
  Klesst sucked in her breath, recognizing Kane from the
countless tales she had overheard of the dread bandit leader. No
wonder they stood frozen in fear at the bar...
   Then she heard Kane ask, "Weed, did you check to see if there
was anyone else in the upstairs rooms—other than that kid up
there by the railing?"
  The lanky blond outlaw started to reply, "Just checked the
outbuildings so far—going to search the inn right now. They said
there wasn't anybody else here..."
  "Be certain," ordered Kane. "And stick that kid in bed."
  But Klesst had already fled to her room.
  "How are you feeling?" asked Weed, more than a little
surprised that Kane had regained consciousness. But then there
always seemed to burn some last reserve of strength within his
huge body.
  Kane grunted noncommittally. "Damn fever comes and goes.
Hard to know where I am part of the time. Could swear I wasn't
wounded that bad—unless that quarrel was poisoned."
   "Ought to have Braddeyas clean that hole in your side, Put on
a fresh dressing. Likely it's all festered along your ribs."
   "Later, maybe. Don't want to start it bleeding again." Kane
rubbed his forehead wearily, wiping away dried blood and greasy
trickles of sweat. "Feel stronger once I get some food down,
catch some sleep. Can't spare more than a few hours—Pleddis
can't be far back."
  "Figure we can risk it here till dawn. Darros says Pleddis will
have to camp. Demonlord's Moon tonight." Weed paused, then
added: "We lost Frassos coming down the ridge."
  "No point looking for him," Kane concluded simply. "Not this
night."
   Seth came stomping down from the rooms overhead. "Nobody
else here," he reported. "Just a skinny girl, and I locked her in her
room. Second floor's pretty near empty, but there's a big room
with a fire going on the third."
   Kane nodded. It was hard to concentrate, and he could feel his
strength ebbing once more. "Put a guard where he can watch
outside, Weed," he ordered. "Another man stay awake to watch
things here. There's a big storeroom past the kitchen there. Tie
the men and lock them inside it—no point killing them if they
stay in line. Toss that body in with them.
   "Leave the women out to clean up this mess. Doubt if anyone
else will come along tonight, but if they do, we don't need to give
alarm the instant they walk in. Then they can put together some
food for us. Watch them closely, though."
   His eyes returned to Ionor's drawn face. "But you wouldn't try
to poison me, would you, Ionor?"
   "It's a cleaner death than I'd wish for you, Kane," came her
strained reply.
   "Bring me another bottle," Kane told her mockingly. "And one
of those hens I smell roasting." Grudgingly she complied. Kane
watched the sway of her body as she stiffly came toward him;
memory of her drew his lips in a cold smile.
   "Sit down," he said. Since it was not an invitation, loner sat
down across from him, taking the chair his boot dragged
forward.
  "Are your memories so bitter, Ionor?"
   Her voice was cold, drained of anger—deceptive, for hate
edged its timbre. "You and your bandits raided my father's inn,
slaughtered our guests, murdered my family, looted and set fire to
Raven's Eyrie. You gave my younger sisters to your men to rape
until death was a mercy! I could hear their screams even as you
had your way with me. I can still hear them. No, Kane! Bitter is
too sweet a word for the memories I have of you!"
  No emotion touched Kane's pallid face. "Shouldn't have run off
on me like you did," he said, dividing the roasted fowl with
curious delicacy. "I could have made you forget that night."
  His eyes seemed to wander from focus, and Ionor smiled
inwardly to see the fever that racked his giant body. "Nothing
will ever erase that night!" she whispered.
  A rough hand squeezed her shoulder and drew her from her
seat. "Bring food for us," growled Seth, his mouth stuffed with
meat he had scooped up from the dead ranger's plate.
  "We'll talk more later, perhaps," Kane called after her. Her
shoulders tensed, but she made no reply.
   "Want some opium?" queried Braddeyas, once they had
secured the men in the storeroom. "It'll take the sting out of your
side to where you can sleep good. You'll need your strength.''
  "I can sleep," mumbled Kane, swallowing a mouthful of
brandy. "Don't want to dull my wits, with Pleddis likely to catch
us before the next ridge." His chin declined slowly toward his
chest.
   Then he jerked his head erect and stared fiercely about him.
"Bring my sword from my saddle!" he demanded. "Pleddis on our
necks, and I sit here like a besotted lord at his wedding feast. This
is no time to sleep! Fix me a pipe to hold me awake."
   Weed signed insistently to Braddeyas, and the broken-toothed
outlaw began to fill a pipe with coarse tobacco, secretly stuffing a
large crumb of opium into the bottom of the bowl. He lit the pipe
with a wood splinter and handed it to Kane.
  Darros reappeared at the door, carrying Kane's long sword in
one hand, while he hastily drew the bolt with his other. "Thoem! I
don't like that mist!" he muttered, not voicing his true thoughts.
   Kane took the strangely-hilted blade from him and rested the
scabbard against his leg. His fingers touched it, sensed its
strength. Steel knew neither pain nor exhaustion, and its only
fever was the warmth of an enemy's blood. Kane wished such
unfeeling strength were his, for he was desperately tired, and he
dared not rest. His vision blurred and cleared with the throbbing
of his skull. "I've gone into battle in worse shape than this," he
said defiantly, drawing at the harsh smoke that passed so easily
into his lungs.
   When the pipe was out, Weed took it from his relaxed fingers.
Kane's slumped head did not lift from his chest; his breathing was
slow and regular, his eyes closed.
  "He'll rest better like this," explained Weed. "Let's get him to a
bed. Did you say there was a place ready upstairs?"
   Staggering under Kane's weight, Seth and Darros hauled their
unconscious leader up the narrow stairway to the inn's topmost
floor. There a common room had been prepared for several of the
guests; a fire burned on its hearth, and a straw-ticked bed was
covered with a quilted blanket. They stretched Kane across the
bed and threw the quilt over him.
  "Go on and get some rest," advised Weed. "Braddeyas and I
will take first watch."
  He waited until they had quit the chamber, then bent over
Kane's ear. "Kane," he whispered, "Kane, can you bear me?"
  Kane made a noise in his throat that might not have signified
anything.
   Frowning, Weed bent closer. "Where did you hide it, Kane?
Remember? You always cached part of your share of the loot.
Where did you take it, Kane? You can tell me, Kane. I'm your
friend. We'll find your cache and use it to escape. We can live
like lords in some other land. Where is it, Kane?"
  But the other man seemed too deep in sleep.
   Sadly Weed rose from his side. "At least don't die and leave all
that gold to rot," he begged.
  Opening the lattice window a few inches—for the room was
warm, and Weed feared this would increase Kane's fever—he
wearily left to join Braddeyas.




                              III
                    Ravens Fly by Night

   A shower of sparks started up from the fire and disappeared
into the black cavern of the chimney. Weed grunted and shoved
again with the poker, wedging the new logs closer to their charred
predecessors. Perhaps the fire would burn brighter now. The huge
fireplace of limestone blocks occupied most of one end of the
common room. It should have warmed the entire area; instead its
flames crawled dispiritedly over the smouldering logs, and an
unseasonal chill for autumn crept through the room.
   Wiping his hands, he turned from the hearth to gaze once more
through the window. Though the full moon was rising higher
above the ridges, thick mist rolled from the Cotras to cloak the
valley beyond. There was little to see as Weed squinted through
the whorled panes; only the neglected grounds of the inn, the
leaf-paved roadway beyond. Above the doorway, the signboard
swung with the wind. Its hinges squawled like a raven's croak,
and against the inn's lights it flung a swaying shadow across the
frosted earth like the shadow of raven's wings.
  He examined the bolted door. There should be a man posted
outside, he realized. Even on this night, even though Pleddis was
certainly camped a safe distance back on their trail. Again he
thought of Frassos's strange disappearance. It was not a night to
venture beyond the security of bright lights and locked doors.
Even as a stranger to these mountains, Weed sensed the presence
of evil abroad beneath Demonlord's Moon.
  Gloomily he sank onto a bench, his eyes toward the door.
Behind him he could hear sounds from the kitchen. The warm
smell of roasting fowl carried from the cooking area beyond the
bar. Braddeyas kept watch on the two women. Once food was
prepared for the ride before them, the women could be bound
and locked in with the others. Then perhaps he could get
Braddeyas to stand guard outside the inn.
   Weed dug his fingers into his eyes, more savagely than need
be, for sleep was numbing his senses. Braddeyas might refuse.
Weed wouldn't blame him; he doubted that he would accept the
risk, either. And while Weed was second in command now,
Braddeyas had been with Kane too many years to be bullied into
obedience by the younger outlaw.
  The noises from the kitchen seemed farther away, almost
melodious. The fire was burning better now, and he could feel its
heat on his side. Weed slapped his face stingingly, fighting off the
deadly fatigue. Perhaps he should walk about the room.
   Maybe he should walk through the door, mount his horse, and
ride out. One man would stand a far better chance of escaping
pursuit. Let Pleddis overtake Kane and the others. Kane was the
reason for his relentless pursuit; he would not bother to press on
after one bandit. The price on Weed's head was tempting for a
single bounty hunter, but Pleddis had to pay his men; economics
would save him. And yet, Kane might well win free. The bandit
leader had done the incredible time and again before this.
Perhaps Kane could elude the arrows of fate once more,
   Weed felt a certain loyalty to Kane. He had fought beside
Kane, followed his commands—and Kane had proved to be a
highly capable and generous leader, Indeed, in the final battle
Weed and the others had broken through Pleddis's ambush on the
savage force of Kane's charge through the mercenary ranks. But
Weed felt a greater loyalty to his own neck, and it appeared
certain that Kane would never again hold power over the
Myceum passes. There remained the secret cache of loot that
Kane had hidden away—against a disaster such as this. At
present Weed's possessions consisted of a sore-hooved mount, a
notched sword, and his battle-torn gear. If Kane would lead them
to his cache...
  The sweet-smoke scent of roasting hens wrapped about him,
watering his mouth, though his belly was warm with wine and
meat from the meal just eaten. His head fell downward onto his
arm. He should get up before sleep claimed him.
  And he did rise to his feet. Or he seemed to see his body stand,
pace about the room, peer through the fogged bull's-eye panes.
The shadows seemed to creep and hover in grotesque patterns as
he paced...
  With a sudden jarring crash, Weed fell to the floor.
   In an instant of confused panic, he thrashed free of the
overturned bench and tried to regain his feet, thinking dully that
he had rolled off in his sleep. Then he became aware of the
jeering face above the swordpoint levelled at his throat. Weed
froze.
  "Now there we went and woke him up," grinned Pleddis.
   Weed swallowed and waited for death. Many hands jerked him
to his feet, tore away his sword and dagger. A dozen or more of
Pleddis's men were pouting into Raven's Eyrie—entering through
the kitchen, where Braddeyas lay with a split skull. A sudden
uproar, fierce but quickly stilled, echoed across the inn as the
mercenaries burst in on Darros and Seth. They died where they
slept.
  Weed sweated. Pleddis's blade glinted before his throat.
   The mercenary captain's face was jubilant, but his eyes were
like the edge of his sword. "Where's Kane?" he demanded softly.
   Scarcely comprehending that disaster had so swiftly overtaken
them, Weed stood silent, swaying back from the blade. His mouth
was dry.
  "You got half a minute to tell me. And you've just about used
that up."
  Ionor appeared from the kitchen. Her face was flushed and her
blouse disordered. "They carried him upstairs," she announced,
hatred bright in her voice. "I'll show you where."
  "Carried?"
  "He's wounded near death, by the look of his side. He couldn't
walk."
   Pleddis smiled like a wolf at her words. "By Vaul, you were
right about your aim, Stundorn! I'll double your share if it sure
enough was your quarrel that brought the devil low. Quickly now,
show us!"
  Leaving Weed under guard, the captain and a number of his
men followed Ionor up the stairs to the third level. Triumphantly
she led them to the door of the room where Kane had been taken.
Pleddis's smile split his leathery face. Inside this room lay the
object of his pursuit, the successful conclusion of a dangerous
campaign. And a bounty that would leave him a wealthy man.
  Knowing Kane's cunning, their weapons were poised for
whatever last trick he might have left. In the darkness outside,
others of his men surrounded the inn. Kane would not escape.
But even with a crippling wound, they feared the savage power
of his sword.
  Sucking in his breath, Pleddis kicked open the door. It was
unlocked. Slammed back against the wall.
   Only silence met them. Kane lay sprawled across the bed,
unmoving. A chill wind eddied through the open window. Blood
stained the blankets. Kane's arms lay at his sides, in the attitude
in which his men had left him. His face was turned to one side; a
tiny pool of dampness trickled past his partly opened lips. In the
flickering firelight his face seemed unnaturally lax and pale.
   Wary of tricks, Pleddis approached the bed. Kane did not
move. Only when he reassured himself that no weapon lay near
did Pleddis touch the silent figure. Kane's skin was cold as a
snake's. Almost impatiently the captain shook his still form, found
his body unnaturally rigid. Frowning, he felt for a pulse, then held
his blade before the motionless nostrils. No moisture fogged the
cold steel.
  Pleddis stood up, almost with an air of disappointment
  "He's dead."
                                IV
                Hounds and Carrion Crows

   Weed slumped against a table, his arms tightly bound behind
his back, his mind seeking desperately for some hope of escape.
With a sick chill in his belly, he realized his position was without
hope. And cutting through the dull panic was the agonizing
thought that he had thrown away his life to stay with a dead
man.
   Pleddis's men filled the common room, warming themselves
with fire, food and drink, excited congratulations. He had pulled
them all inside when it was evident that the bandits had been
taken; they had rushed into the inn as if it were the last refuge
against the mist-shrouded night. Maybe it was. There were more
than twenty men milling about the room, wearing the motley gear
of mercenary soldiers. With their stamping and loud laughter,
they sounded like hunters just come in from a grueling and
successful hunt. From their impersonal stares, Weed felt like a
snared fox surrounded by a pack of baying hounds.
   Seated by the fire, Pleddis was in high spirits. He drank wine
from a sloshing cup and accepted the applause of his men, his
weathered face almost flushed. There was little enough color to
the man. His skin was pale and seamed bleached instead of
tanned by wind and sun. His hair was close-cropped and grey, his
face clean-shaven; his eyes were of a peculiar washed-out blue
so as to appear grey. He was of average height, but compactly
built, giving him a deceptively stubby appearance. Gear of worn
leather and chain mail ionic were nondescript as his person—and
the same faded grey. But his teeth were straight and white, and
he flashed them in a broad smile when he laughed, which was
often—a rapid, mirthless bark.
  He was laughing now.
   "A fine last stand for Kane and his fearsome band of killers,
eh? Trapped like rabbits in a hole, sleeping like they was in their
mother's arms. One man snoring at his post, the other so busy
trying to get under the mistress's skirts that he never noticed she'd
unlatched the woodshed door to the outside. Vaul, what dreadful
desperadoes! I'm going to feel silly asking for the bounty on the
likes of you! But I'll still ask!" His men joined in his laughter.
   Pleddis gulped down his wine, his shrill laugh muffled against
the cup. "Of course, you must have figured Captain Pleddis
would lie low tonight, sit shivering at his campfire, jumping every
time an owl screamed. Did you now? Sure you did. You really
thought I'd quit a trail not hours cold, and after three days of
chasing after you! Well, I grew up on Thovnos, so I guess I didn't
hear all the gruesome tales of Demonlord's Moon you mountain
people like to shudder over. Same goes for most of my men,
though some of them had their worries about riding on."
  His face turned grim, and he stared contemptuously over their
ranks. A number of them avoided his eyes. "But it wasn't too
hard to make them see that a pack of devils was a better risk than
crossing Pleddis, eh?" He laughed again.
  "Huh! What about the two men we lost getting here?"
grumbled a mercenary from the rear, who quickly ducked from
Pleddis's searching scowl.
  "You'll not see them again," a husky voice told them. "The
Demonlord hunts beneath this moon, and you'll see no more of
them his hound pulls down."
  Pleddis made an annoyed grimace. "Well, he would have
found a fat enough morsel in you, old woman."
  "Greshha!" There was a strange hint of anger in Ionor's voice.
   The older woman crept almost guiltily from behind the mass of
soldiers whose entrance she had followed. The servant's plump
checks were still ashen with fear, and she blinked and trembled
as if dazed.
  "So she does belong here," said Pleddis. "We found the old
woman hanging back along the road. Seemed so glad to see us
she came running into our arms. Couldn't talk two words of
sense—something bad her bad scared. Now I see it was her own
bogey tales."
   "She's a servant here," explained Ionor in a tight voice. "She
had been given the night off, and I had supposed she would spend
it with friends in the village near here." She jerked her hand
toward the kitchen, and Greshha dumbly followed her gesture.
   Meanwhile Eriall, one of Pleddis's lieutenants whose face
Weed knew, had carried in a grisly burden. "Here they are," he
announced holding out both fists. Clenched by their
scarlet-spattered hair, three heads dangled from his grip. Their
jaws hung loosely, tongues lolling, eyes rolled upward in a fish
stare behind half-closed lids.
   "Recognize your friends?" laughed Pleddis. "Eriall, you're
dribbling blood all over your hostess's floor. Where's your
manners?"
   The other grinned and showed the heads to Weed. "Maybe this
piece of shit ought to lick the boards clean."
  "Too bad the one's skull is busted near in half," mused Pleddis,
mourning a damaged trophy. "Well, pack them good in salt with
the others. They bring us five ounces of gold each in Nostoblet,
and I doubt the Merchants' League will care if their purchases are
a bit damaged in transit. Mind you cut off that earring there."
  "Why don't I just take along his while I'm doing the rest?"
suggested Eriall.
   Pleddis stroked his jaw thoughtfully. "How about that, Weed?
Want to ride back to Nostoblet all packed in salt? They set
twenty ounces of gold on your head, but maybe they'll pay a little
extra if we hand you over intact. You'd rate a public execution all
to yourself. Be real nice. Which way do you want it now?"
  "Let me kill him," snarled Ionor.
  Pleddis considered her gravely. "Bloodthirsty is the lust of a
woman," he misquoted. "But I'd like to carry one back alive to
Nostoblet, so he can tell everyone there how Captain Pleddis ran
them down and made raven food out of the whole damned
wolfpack."
   Ionor's face was twisted, her breath fast. Weed thought of a
hot-clefted slut who had been cheated of her climax. "Hang him
from the railing then for me—I want to watch him die. It's my
right. You caught them in my inn. You might still be trailing them
if they hadn't stopped here."
   Pleddis seemed to be weakening. "They might pay extra if he's
alive."
  "I've given you food and lodging here," argued Ionor. "The
extra gold will be less than payment."
  "But you owe me your lives for saving you from Kane's men,"
Pleddis pointed out. The game amused him.
  "Should I add Kane's head to the others?" broke in Eriall.
  "Not when they'll pay me five hundred ounces of gold for
Kane," Pleddis brayed. "For that I'll bring in the whole carcass.
Bad as they want Kane, they'll likely pickle him in brine and put
him on display. Bet they could charge admission just to see him.
Bet they will, in fact!
   "No, it's cold enough we can sling him over a horse, and he'll
last until we can get back to Nostoblet. They won't care what he
smells like there. Stundorn, take a few men and drag Kane's body
down here. We'll leave him in the stables where the frost will
keep him from getting ripe too fast. Watch that the dogs don't get
at him."
   They had left Kane where he lay when they found him dead.
Several minutes had passed since then, in the confused aftermath
of Pleddis's attack on the inn. But now the captain's attention
returned to the prize quarry of his hunt. Stundorn and some
others disappeared up the stairs.
  "Weed, I'm still not sure what to do with you," he continued.
   "Hang him," Ionor pleaded, her memory reliving a scene eight
years back. A memory of familiar faces turning purple, of limbs
thrashing a death dance from an impromptu gallows, while
murder-crazed animals roared in laughter below.
  "I suppose I can grant the request of a handsome lady,"
gallantly remarked Pleddis, thinking that his hostess had a
definite beauty beneath the harsh mask of hatred.
  Weed forced himself to speak with scornful assurance.
  "Grant it and be damned. I can't hope for any better in
Nostoblet. And I'll die with the secret of Kane's hidden cache of
loot."
  It was a foolish bluff, he realized in panic. But against
imminent death, any respite would offer hope.
   "Well, now..." began Pleddis, his eyes lighting with sudden
interest.
  Stundorn burst onto the balcony, his bearing totally shaken.
  "Kane's gone!" he blurted.




                                V
                     To Chase the Dead

   Kane breathed a silent curse as his boot slipped from its
purchase on the limestone wall. For an instant he swung
precariously in the darkness, only the steel grip of his fingers
against the stone block saving him from a thirty-foot drop to the
frosted earth below. The fall might not kill him, but it was
crippling height for surety. Grimly he forced his scrambling boot
back into a masonry crack and rested his arms from the tearing
weight of his massive frame. His great strength now seemed
scarcely sufficient to stand upright, and his wounded side was
lancing agony—but at least the strain and the chill air had cleared
his thoughts somewhat.
   From the open window above him, Kane heard the startled
shouts of Pleddis's soldiers. Baffled rage flamed within him. He
had needed more time to descend the wall of the inn. Weakened
as he was, he could never reach the ground before a frantic
search revealed him to his enemies. Again his boot slipped as he
sought to hurry his descent. The limestone blocks of the inn had
been set flush in the wall originally—a precaution against athletic
thieves or guests who cared not to settle their account. Only
because mountain winds and winters had eroded the masonry
over the years was Kane able to find purchase—such purchase as
there was.
   Not even extreme exhaustion and the mists of opium had
completely dulled Kane's uncanny senses. The feral instincts that
countless times had drawn him from sleep to full awareness of
imminent danger had called to him once again. Kane had
awakened to the brief clamour of Pleddis's attack, and almost
instantly he had understood his position.
   Even at peak condition Kane would have stood no chance
against a score of seasoned mercenaries. And he knew he was
trapped—knew without wasting a glance outside that a man of
Pleddis's capability would have surrounded Raven's Eyrie before
thrusting within. In another minute his enemies would be
smashing down his door—unless he decided to make a suicidal
rush down the stairs, or let an archer pick him off as be
scrambled down the outside wall.
   A desperate plan came to him then. Pleddis knew he was
gravely injured. He would let the bounty hunter find him dead.
Any number of risks suggested themselves to him instantly, but
plainly there was no other course. Pleddis would lower his guard
only if he believed his quarry dead.
   It was not too difficult for one of Kane's knowledge. His
appearance was ghastly enough for a corpse, and the cold draft
through the window coupled with the chill sweat that had seized
him would impart a convincing clamminess to his flesh. Over the
centuries Katie had delved deeply into all mariner of occult
studies, and the discipline of imposing mental control over
physical functions was known to students far less adopt than
Kane. For much of their ride, Kane had held himself in a near
trance to conserve his strength, and now he withdrew his
consciousness into a deeper coma, rigidly controlling breath and
heart beat to so low air ebb as to appear lifeless to Pleddis's
inspection.
   Several minutes after his enemies had quit his bedside, Kane
returned to full awareness. He realized he now had only a few
minutes to escape—a short interval once Pleddis had ordered his
men from their surveillance of the inn. They would celebrate the
success of their lone hunt; for a moment all would be jubilant
confusion. Then for any of a hundred reasons someone would
return to the dead man upstairs. By then Kane must be gone.
  He had cut it close. Too close. Kane had barely lowered
himself through the window when Stundorn entered the room. In
another instant their stunned fright would leave them. Someone
would peer out the open window.
  And he could never reach the ground in time. Quickly Kane
took the only course left to him. Another window was close at
hand. Recklessly Kane clawed his way to the darkened aperture.
Somehow he managed to maintain a hold long enough to rest his
weight on the ledge. He pushed at the lattice.
  It was secured.
   Kane bit his lip and tore a knife from his belt. He jammed its
blade into the crack between window and casement. His
movements seemed panic-driven, but his haste was that of one
experienced in his task. In only a few seconds the latch snapped
free.
   Swinging open the heavy lattice, Kane squeezed through the
window. No sooner had his cloak and sword scabbard cleared the
ledge than a shout from close by signalled that someone had
looked outside.
  "No one on the wall!" a soldier called out.
  Kane grinned savagely and glared through the darkness of the
room. He was not alone.
  A small figure crouched on the room's narrow bed. Her wide
eyes were almost luminous as she stared at him—a huge,
menacing figure outlined in the moonlight at her window,
  "Are you alive?" she whispered. His appearance was
supernatural, and she had been listening to the shouts outside her
door.
  Kane made no comment. He had swung into the child's room,
and he remembered that the door was locked from outside. His
dagger still shone in his hand. "Don't make a sound!" he hissed.
   Klesst's voice was grave. "I won't tell them you're here," she
said, "Father."
   "I remember one time down along the coast," Pleddis said,
staring into the empty room. "It was late fall, and we were
making camp for the night. Dragging in driftwood for a fire, and
one of the outfit hauls loose a big snag—and there's a swamp
adder thick as your arm, all laid out and sluggish with cold. Kid
was from the coast, knew what he had, so he just laid into it with
the stick of wood he was carrying, not even wasting time to pull
his sword. Must of hit it fifty times, till the stick busted and the
snake was half flattened out. Had to be dead; we didn't think any
more about it.
   "Long about the end of second watch we all woke up—Vaul, it
was a scream to chill your guts! There was the kid flopping out of
his blanket roll, that damn black snake with its fangs buried in his
neck. Hell, its head was bigger than your fist and full of venom,
and I don't guess the kid lived long enough for us to stir up the
fire.
  "After that night I never trusted a dead snake. Always hack
them to chunks, no matter how dead they look. Except just now,"
he concluded bitterly.
   "He can't of got far," Eriall judged. "Hadn't had no time, and
crippled up like he was."
   Pleddis grunted and inspected the window casement. Lanterns
flashed from the ground below. "What do you see?" he called
down.
  Nattios bawled back, "Nothing. No marks below. We're
looking along the wall."
  The mountaineer was no fool at tracking, Pleddis knew. "Well,
look closer. There's blood on the ledge here."
  "No. Nothing," came the reply after a pause.
   "There's rocks down there," Eriall said, craning his squat neck
to look down.
   "Yeah, and there's frost, too," Nattios retorted gruffly. "Good
as sand for leaving tracks. Ain't nothing."
   "Well, Kane couldn't have crawled down that wall, anyway,"
the stocky lieutenant declared. "Mail that big couldn't scale these
stones even if he wasn't busted up. The blood's a false trail."
   Pleddis's laugh returned. It was not pleasant. "Kane could have
done it. He's not lying in bed there. He either went out the
window or out the door. I got men at every exit, so if there's no
tracks outside lie has to be hiding inside. Won't do him any good,
because we'll find him."
   "Could be he got out somewhere else, mixed his trail in with
our tracks," Eriall persisted. "We came in from all around the
sides, you know."
  "Could be. But I figure Kane didn't have the time to do
anything too fancy. He's hiding in here somewhere. If he's not,
we'll pick up his trail with the dogs they got here. Long as we
keep him from the horses, he won't get far."
  Stundorn's stubbled face was strange. "Captain, you're sure he
was just faking he was dead, then?"
   Pleddis glared at him. "Dead men don't run out on you."
Abruptly he scowled. "Unless some bastard slipped back and
stole the corpse for the bounty!" He thought carefully. "No, I can
account for all of us, and for the bunch that stay here, too, Still, if
I find some bastard's pulling a fast one, there's going to be one
more head in that salt pack, and it won't cost the Merchants'
League a copper!"
   But Stundorn remembered that his quarrel was supposed to
have given Kane his death wound. "All the same, captain, it's the
Demonlord's Moon. They say his powers hold sway over the
mountains tonight. Maybe he could make the dead rise. And
there's all kinds of black legends about Kane. We may be trailing
a dead man, captain."
   Pleddis stood a moment, face impassive. Then his laugh barked
rustily. "Maybe so, Stundorn. But you just remember that corpse
is worth five hundred ounces of yellow gold, and if he comes
looking for you, just yell for me."
  "Father!" exploded Kane, in a louder tone than he intended.
He crossed the room to the girl's bed.
  "Yes," Klesst whispered. "I saw you come in, and they said
you were Kane. The children in the village call me Kane's
bastard. They say you carried Mother away after you raided the
inn, and after she escaped and came back she had me, and you
were my father."
  Kane stared at her.
  "See. I have red hair like yours, and my eyes are blue like
yours." Klesst did not flinch from Kane's stare. "I can even see in
the dark better than the other children, like the stories tell about
you."
   "Your grandmother," Kane muttered, touching the child's
face.
  "So I won't tell those soldiers where you are," Klesst
concluded.
  "You should hate me." Her skin was feverish. As was his.
   "No," declared Klesst. "The others hate me. But when they
hear stories about you, then they look frightened. I like to see
them frightened. I like to think they're even a little frightened of
me."
   Kane shook his head. The excited shouts of his pursuers
brought him back to the moment. Turning from her, he risked a
glance through the window. Outside they were circling the inn
with torches and lanterns. He knew they would find no trail. Then
they would begin to search the inn. Digging grime from his boots,
he smudged over the bright scratches made by his knife on the
latch. There was no smear of blood on the casement that he could
see.
   Grimly he took stock of his chances. They were not good. All
that his ruse had accomplished was to give him another few
minutes. The end was inevitable, unless he could slip through
their net. And even then...
   Kane forced his mind to think clearly. For the moment, the
threat of certain death had spurred him from exhaustion. Some
final reserve of strength kept him moving when he should lie
senseless, pushed back the black waves of fever and opium. The
barricades must soon break.
  "I knew you from my dream," his daughter told him. "But then
I didn't know your name."
   About to warn her to be silent, Kane stopped. "How can you
dream of someone you've never seen?" he wondered, somewhat
in awe of the child. Seeing her brought memories that he cared
not to linger upon just now.
  "I saw you," Klesst insisted. "And another man, all in black
with a great black cloak. He has a great black hound..."
  Kane frantically signed for her to be silent. A number of men
were coming down the hall. They were searching the rooms.
   Kane's hand reached over his right shoulder, and the ancient
blade of Carsultyal steel silently swung from its scabbard. It was
a good weapon, Kane thought with grim pride. This one had been
difficult to find—probably few like it still existed. Carsultyal lay
buried by sand and sea and time. And the ancient city's last
citizen would very shortly lie dead with its memory.
   Again he glanced outside. They were watching from below.
The soldiers in the hall—he might kill the first group to enter, but
there were more to take their place, and Kane was
trapped—wounded so that his last fight would not even be a good
one.
   The door was locked from outside. And there was Klesst. It
might make them less thorough in their search; they would likely
assume the child would cry out if Kane had somehow hidden
inside her room.
   A futile hope, probably. And the room was too small. Kane
assumed it was one of the narrow single rooms for wealthy
travellers who deigned not to share quarters with other guests.
Such accommodations cost dear and were cramped, but at least a
well-to-do traveller would not have to share a bed with three hog
drovers.
  The search was only a few doors away.
   And there was no place to bide. Just a bare-timbered room. No
chests, no tapestries. Kane's huge frame could never squeeze
under Klesst's tiny bed. There was a closet. That in itself marked
the room as once a luxury accommodation. Kane swung open its
door. The closet was surprisingly large, considering the economy
of space that an inn demanded. An oddly dank smell came from
within. A few nondescript items of clothing hung from pegs along
the interior.
   It was worth a chance. At any event, Kane decided, when they
opened the door be would hurl himself out, with luck cut down a
couple of them before they could meet his rush. It was better
than standing there like a condemned man in the middle of his
death cell.
  "What's your name?" he asked suddenly.
  "Klesst."
   "Well, Klesst, I'm going to step inside your closet. I want you
to pull this latch down from outside, and then get back in bed.
When the soldiers come in, just tell them no one's been in here.
And if they don't believe you and look inside... well, afterwards
you can tell them that I said I'd hurt you unless you did as I told
you."
  Klesst nodded, impressed by the important task he had given
her. She smiled uncertainly as she shut tile closet, then quickly
shot the latch. She barely had time to scurry back to bed before
they came to her door.
  "This is the kid's room," someone observed. "Been locked."
  "Well, open it, anyway," ordered a gruff voice.
  A scraping of the bolt, then suspicious faces peered in from the
hall.
  The gruff voice belonged to a paunchy man with thick
shoulders and a rolling gait. He carried an arbalest, his fingers
near the trigger. "Hey, kid," he demanded, "anybody come in
here?"
  "No, sir," Klesst said, being polite to make him trust her.
  Their eyes carefully searched the shadows of the room. "You
sure?"
  "Yes, sir."
  "You been awake?"
  "Yes, sir."
  "You sure you ain't been asleep?"
  "No... I mean, yes, sir."
   The man with the arbalest entered the room. Several other men
followed. Swords were bare in their fists.
  A thin-faced mercenary examined the window. "It's locked,
Stundorn. No sign of blood or anything," he stated in a nasal
voice.
   Stundorn shifted his arbalest. Klesst wondered why the steel
bow didn't snap its string. "Might have been open before. This
room is below Kane's, off to the side only a little. He might have
climbed down."
  He frowned at Klesst. "You see anything, kid?"
  "No, sir."
  "You wouldn't lie now, would you?"
  "No, sir."
  "Do you know what happens to little girls who lie?"
  "Yes, sir." Klesst's imagination grappled with the possibilities.
  "And you haven't seen any sign of a big bandit with blood just
pouring down his ribs where I shot him?"
  "No, sir."
  "Closet's latched from outside," someone noted.
  "Now you aren't hiding my bandit inside your closet, are you?"
Stundorn rumbled.
  "No, sir." What did happen to little girls who lied?
  "Do you know I got an itchy nose?"
  "No, sir."
   "It's a fact. My nose itches every time I hear a lie." Klesst
stared in horrid fascination.
  "Now why do you suppose it's itching right now?"
  "I don't know, sir," she answered shakily.
  Stundorn stood back from the closet door. He brought his
arbalest to his shoulder, sighted about chest height on the door.
His fingers curled over its trigger.
  "Now open that door, Profaka," he directed the thin-faced
mercenary.
  Gingerly Profaka reached across to the latch and drew it back.
  He yanked open the door.
  The closet was empty.
    "This place is clean," Eriall informed his leader. "Been through
it from attic to cellar, looked in every hole bigger than a chamber
pot. Ain't no Kane, and that's a fact."
   Pleddis nodded tiredly. He had overseen most of the work.
"Yeah, and no one made a break for the outside; I had men out
there watching every block of stone on this inn."
   The captain banged his fist on the wall in anger. "Obviously,
then, Kane somehow got outside before we realized his trick."
  "But how? We pretty well proved he had to be inside."
  "Well, we damn well just proved he's not inside! Now you tell
me where that leaves us!"
   Eriall was silent. He massaged his shaven skull. Pleddis's laugh
startled him.
   "Sure, I know what he did!" His white teeth flashed in a grin.
"You just got to think like Kane thinks. Now Kane's smart, and
he's got a lot of tricks. He went out the window, sure, but he
didn't climb down. That's what he knew we'd think he'd do. So
instead Kane climbed up! He was on the top floor, so getting to
the roof was actually easier than climbing all the way to the
ground.
   "Kane must have worked his way along the roof up to where it
abuts the burned-out north wing. Then he just climbed down onto
the old walls and groped his way down into the gutted interior,
and slipped through the rubble and into the night—while we were
standing like fools wondering where his body had got to!"
  "Then he's had a good start all this time we been looking under
beds!" Eriall growled.
  "Maybe," Pleddis admitted, still pleased with his cleverness.
"But Kane don't have a horse. Wounded and on foot we'll run
him down in an hour. Nattios! Find Ionor and tell her we'll need
dogs for tracking! Hurry! What's the matter?"
  "We're going to track Kane now?" the mountaineer queried
uneasily. "It will soon be midnight. The Demonlord will hunt-"
  "Move, damn you!" Pleddis hissed. "Yes, we're going to track
him! Do you want the Demonlord to catch him? Lord Tloluvin
don't need that gold!"
  "Don't speak his name!" Nattios gasped. Seeing the vicious
anger rise in Pleddis's eyes, he ran to find Ionor.




                               VI
          In Seven Years You'll Hear a Bell...

  Ionor turned on Greshha with thinly checked fury. "Why did
you come back? I told you to take tonight off."
   They were alone in the inn's great kitchen. Shouts close by told
of Pleddis's fast-moving search of the rambling structure. The two
drovers had joined in, and Ionor had ordered Cholos and
Mauderas to help the mercenaries—even directing Sele to guide
the searchers through the huge inn. Ionor felt certain Kane would
be found if he were hiding within the walls of Raven's Eyrie. If
not...
  Her jaw tightened as she scowled at the older woman. Greshha
was avoiding her eyes. "I said, why didn't you stay away?"
   The servant woman took a deep breath. Her thick body shook.
"I guess I know you didn't want me here," she mumbled, face
downcast.
  "What did you say?"
  Greshha raised her chin; her eyes were shrewd. "I guess I
know why you wanted me to stay away tonight," she stated in a
louder voice, defiantly.
  A hiss escaped Ionor's tightly drawn lips. She started to swing
back her hand, then checked her arm. "What are you talking
about?" Her voice was like a slap.
  "I'm no fool. I can remember," Greshha stolidly told her. "I
know you hate the child."
   Ionor's long fingers clenched and opened, like a pantheress
flexing her claws. She tossed her head, and her loose braid
flicked over her shoulder, twitched down her back like an angry
black tail.
  The stout mountain woman did not quail before her mistress's
obvious look of menace. "Poor Klesst. I can't blame you for
hating her when she came. But after all these years! I kept taking
care of her when it was your place, hoping you'd learn to love
her. But you never did, Ionor. There's no loving left in you—only
hate. Hate's eaten the soul out of your breast, so you can't even
love your own flesh..."
  "Shut up, you fat fool! I've tolerated your meddling, but you've
overstepped your place this time!"
   "I never thought you'd go through with it. All this time I kept
thinking you'd soften to her. But you're cold, burned out, Ionor.
There's no heart left in you. I know now you mean to do it."
  Ionor drew back against the cutting table, her lips twisted in a
snarl. "What are you talking about?"
  Ducking her head for breath, Greshha plunged on. Her round
face took on an aspect of sullen determination. "I was here when
you were birthing her, don't forget. I stayed with you when your
screams and curses drove everyone else from your bed. I held
you down and tried to comfort you when the midwife had to use
the knife to bring her forth from your womb. And even while you
screamed out things to make the gods turn away from you, I
stayed with you and pitied you because no one thought you could
live through the night.
  "Seven years ago tonight, it was, Ionor. And they all said it was
a miracle when both you and the child lived through. But only I
knew what kind of miracle it was."
  "You're an old fool, Greshha!"
   "Old, but no fool. The things you was screaming weren't good
to cry out—not with the Demonlord's Moon shining down
through your window. They weren't good to hear, and that's why
the others drew away from you that night. I'll confess it, I was
afraid myself, and when the child was born, and the midwife had
done what she could, and we thought the opium would let you
ease into sleep... Well, I left you, too, and told myself to look to
the child because her mother would be gone by daybreak.
   "Then when the dogs began to howl and cringe, and the others
all huddled by the fire and prayed... I couldn't leave you alone to
die, not when the fires all burned low and blue under the
shadows. I crept back to your room, praying each step, and afraid
to think what it was we heard snuffling outside the inn.
   "And I stopped at your door when I heard your voice, and
when I heard that other voice answer, I knew who you was
talking with, and I knew it was worse than death to open your
door. I just froze there too scared to tremble, and the words you
two spoke burned into my memory like hot iron into flesh. And
after he left, I still stood there crying and praying and not making
a sound. And when I finally took heart to look in the door, I saw
you lying there asleep with a black smile on your lips, and I knew
your strength would be back in the morning.
  "But before the gods, Ionor, I never thought you'd do it! I
swear I would have smothered you there as you lay if I had
believed that. I kept thinking, she'll learn to love once she's held
the child to her breast and she forgets the horror and the shame
and the pain. But you never held the child to your breast, and you
never learned to love her—because all that's left in you is hate,
Ionor.
  "So I knew why you wanted me gone tonight, and that's why I
wouldn't go. And I'll not go. I'll not let you do it."
  "You meddling old fool!" spat Ionor. "If you dare interfere...
But what can you do?"
   Greshha expanded her shoulders truculently. "There's soldiers
here. Captain Pleddis has League authority. He won't let you do
this thing."
  Ionor laughed. "Pleddis is a cold-blooded bounty killer. His
soldiers are hired thugs. He'll not care what I do. He only wants
Kane."
  "Maybe so. I guess I'll find out what he'll do."
  "Don't be a bigger fool!"
  Maybe he'll be interested if I tell him he might not get Kane."
  "I'm warning you!"
  Greshha looked at her livid face and backed away. No longer
was there doubt in her mind; instead there was fear. The servant
woman started for the door to the Common room; she could hear
heavy boots approaching from there.
  As she turned, Ionor's hand came away from the cutting table.
The sharpening steel in her fist made a rotten crunch as she
brought it down over Greshha's skull. The mountain woman
crumpled to the floor with no more sound than a dropped sack of
grain.
  Ignoring the huddled body' Ionor glared at the door. She had
acted out of desperate rage, without forethought. And someone
was entering the kitchen.
  It was Mauderas. He halted at the threshold in surprise. His
hulking figure blocked the doorway; behind him stretched the
inn's bar, and beyond she could see several of Pleddis s men
moving through the common room.
  "Close that door!" she hissed. "Lock it!"
  Mauderas obeyed, a stunned expression on his dark face.
"What happened?"
   "Never mind," Ionor told him. "I had to stop her from talking
to Pleddis."
  "She dead?"
  "I think so. We can't let them find her."
  Mauderas licked his mustache and surveyed the room. The
outer doors were barred, but Pleddis's men were watching from
outside. Fortunately the windows were shuttered on the back
wall. No one had seen... yet.
  "I don't see what Pleddis would care about—"
   "Don't forget Captain Pleddis is a lawman!" she snapped.
"Maybe he wouldn't use his authority, maybe he would. No point
in tempting luck. I don't want to fool around with that bounty
hunter right now. We'll have to hide her body—tell them she
went back to the village, if anyone asks."
  "How? She's too big to stuff under something, and Pleddis's
men are all over the place. Someone's going to want to come in
here any minute. They can't turn up Kane anywhere, and Pleddis
was about to tear up the floorboards looking for hiding places."
   "I know; they came through here twice before. Does it look
like Kane left the inn, then?"
  Mauderas nodded. "Pleddis figured out how. They'll be out
scouring the ridges next."
  Ionor thought carefully for a moment and came to a decision.
"Then we'll do it the old way. Take her out the passage and sink
her. That way it's certain they won't find her."
   Mauderas put a broad hand on her shoulder. "Been a long time
since I sunk anyone."
  "I feel confident you haven't lost your touch."
  "Passage hasn't been opened since the raid. Thought you
wanted to forget the old days, keep the passage closed up."
  "I know what I said. But I don't want to risk complications
with Pleddis."
  Mauderas shrugged. "Anyway you call it then, Ionor."
   Stooping over the limp body, he arranged the loose limbs with
the calm competence of one who knows his task. With a grunt he
rose up again, Greshha's lax figure slung across his broad back.
"The old woman weighs more than a side of beef," he grumbled.
   But Ionor had left him. Descending the steps to the wine cellar,
she paused to grasp a portion of the railing. With a sharp tug, the
upright swung out from the banister like a lever. It was a lever.
Somewhere below a counterbalance released, and a large section
of the flagstone cellar floor rumbled smoothly into the outer
wall.
   A square of blackness opened in the cellar floor, from which a
stale, damp wind welled up. It was like a breath from some
slumbering behemoth. Indeed, the sound of muffled breathing
seemed to emanate from within—a distant rushing moan.
   Stairs of greasy limestone descended into the gloom. Mauderas
took a lamp from Ionor, holding it clumsily under the weight of
his burden. He eyed the passage doubtfully.
  "Hurry! I think I hear someone calling for me!"
  Mauderas grunted and put a boot on the top step. "Oh, I'll
hurry. But I'll hurry back to keep you warm tonight."
   Ionor made an impatient gesture. "Stay there for a while before
you return to the inn—and leave by the other way. They'll
believe me if I say you went to walk Greshha part way to the
village. And later no one will question a disappearance on
Demonlord's Moon."
   "Any way you call it, honey," Mauderas drawled, his ice rising
from the darkness. "I'll be along to keep you warm directly..."
   Hurriedly Ionor swung the lever back to its upright position.
The section of flagstones grated back into place. Pounding on the
kitchen door was thunderous as she emerged from the cellar.
  "Sorry. I was getting brandy," she explained, unbolting the
door to admit Nattios and several of his fellows. "With that devil
running loose, a lady likes to keep herself locked in safe."
                              VII
                        Raven's Secret

   Satisfied that no bones were broken, Kane struggled to his feet.
He would limp badly, but his high boots had reinforced his ankles
so that the shock of impact had not resulted in a disabling sprain
or worse. Or worse. He massaged his aching shoulder; his right
arm had almost been torn from its socket. But by all rights he
should be lying here with a broken neck.
  Kane looked about him, reconstructing what had happened
now that the scarlet bursts of pain were receding from his
consciousness.
   When Klesst had fastened the closet door, Kane had stepped
back against its wall. He had a vague impression of reaching to
steady himself. His groping fingers closed on something—had it
been one of the pegs?—that had swung inward with his shove.
  Then the section of closet floor on which he stood dropped
away, and Kane felt himself plunging through darkness. Blindly
he struck out. His fingers closed on wood—the rung of a ladder.
But the rotted wood tore away under the wrenching force of
Kane's three hundred pounds of bone and muscle.
   Spun about by the jarring contact, Kane desperately clawed at
the wall. Other mildewed rungs smashed against his grasp,
splintered under his weight. But it was enough to check his
hurtling body. Kane's steel-tendoned fingers locked onto the
flashing rungs, almost bringing his fall short. Then the dragging
mass of his body proved more than the weakened timbers could
withstand. The ladder tore loose from its anchorage to the wall
and careened to the stones below.
   It had been enough to break his fall, Kane dropped the final
eight or ten feet and struck the stones on his feet, the wreckage
of the ladder splintering beneath him.
   He lay for several minutes, semiconscious after the stunning
impact. Above him stretched a seemingly endless shaft of
blackness. Kane had no clear idea of how far he had fallen. He
was in a chamber beneath the cellars of Raven's Eyrie. Klesst's
room must be at least fifty feet above—probably more, since the
sound of his fall seemed to have brought no response from his
pursuers.
   Patches of skin were abraded from his hands, and he dug out
several large splinters. Gingerly he flexed his fingers, found they
were otherwise uninjured. A smile twitched his bleeding lips, for
a man with crippled hands was more helpless than if he had
broken his leg. Casting about, he found his sword, its point buried
inches in the damp limestone. He drew it out, reflecting he had
narrowly missed being impaled on its tempered steel.
   Once more he gazed up the pitch-dark shaft. He had triggered
a trapdoor in the rear of the closet, somewhere above. Obviously
a counterbalance had sprung the trap shut once again, otherwise
he would see light and puzzled faces would be staring down at
him. A ladder was anchored to one wall of the shaft, though it
appeared unlikely he would be able to climb back up after the
destruction his fall had caused.
  Kane had just begun to form a guess as to the shaft's purpose,
when he heard a grating rumble overhead. Light suddenly washed
down from the roof of the chamber some fifty feet to his left. A
section of stone had slid open, revealing a long flight of stone
steps. Voices trickled down.
  Baring his teeth in a snarl—Had Pleddis's hound s sniffed him
out even in this lost hole? —Kane concealed himself behind a
massive stone column. Sword in bleeding fist, he waited.
  Instead of the anticipated rush of mercenaries, Kane saw only
one man descend the steps—and then the door overhead slid
shut. His eyes narrowed in calculation. The man he recognized as
one of Ionor's servants; the dead woman he carried slung over his
back Kane had never seen before. This turn of events was a
mystery to him. More to the point, it meant that his presence here
had not been discovered—on the contrary, the brawny servant
seemed intent on a task which demanded secrecy.
   The newcomer carried a lantern in his fist. Its light was hardly
sufficient to disclose the walls of the chamber—tens of yards
across, and in places shared and vaulted, Evidently the room was
a natural cavern which at one time had been roughly restructured
to serve as a hidden cellar. A damp breeze ghosted through the
darkness, causing the lantern flame to dance, and Kane noted a
narrow passage leading out of the cellar's far wall.
   Mauderas glanced about the hidden cellar, his face showing
more fear than suspicion. This was a place where countless dark
crimes had bloodied the stones. It was not a wholesome spot to
linger, particularly on the night of Demonlord's Moon.
   "What the hell!" he muttered, raising his lantern suddenly He
tensed as the feeble light picked out the splintered ends of the
ladder, pointing in all directions like the half-flexed fingers of a
dead man's hand. The woman's body slid from his shoulders with
a heavy flopping sound.
  "That wasn't so rotten it would of collapsed by itself,"
Mauderas thought aloud. Drawing his sword, be shuffled toward
the wreckage, the lantern thrust before him like a shield.
   Which left him blind to anything outside the close cirle of its
light. As he crept past, Kane leaped from the shadow of the pillar.
Mauderas sensed his rush and started to turn. Kane's heavy blade
sheared off half his face as it passed down through his neck.
   The lantern smashed against the floor. A pool of flame licked
over the damp stone. Grotesque shadows writhed Over the
nitre-frosted walls, mocking killer and slain, as Kane wiped his
blade clean of the dead man's gore.
  "Kane..." A rasping voice called to him.
  He spun on his heels, a curse exploding from his throat.
  "Kane... is it you?" the eerie voice whispered.
  Kane stalked toward the sound. In the rippling light he that the
woman Mauderas had carried had raised herself weakly.
  He knelt at her side. "I'm Kane," he told her, noting the blood
that matted her hair.
  Her ashen face was lax; her arms quivered spasmodically.
Seemingly she had barely strength left to whisper. "The child,
Kane... Save Klesst... She may be of your seed, but she's
innocent."
  "Why is Klesst in any danger, old woman?"
  "Ionor... She birthed her seven years ago tonight... Nothing but
hate in her... She called out to him for vengeance that night..."
  "Called out to whom?"
  "I heard him at her bedside... His black hound was clawing at
our door... The Demonlord came to her..."
   Only willpower held life in the mountain woman's dying flesh.
All strength had left her—only her eyes and lips showed
trembling movement, like the final flickering of a lampwick when
no more oil remains. Her voice was trailing off, and Kane
anxiously bent his ear to her face.
  "The Demonlord bargained with her that night. In seven years
he'd draw you back to Raven's Eyrie. In seven years he'd come
with his hound to drag your living flesh down to Hell. Ionor
would see her vengeance fulfilled—but the price would be the
child. Ionor must take Klesst to Raven's Bald where the
Demonlord and his black hound wait. She must give the
hellhound your spoor by throwing the child into its maw..."
   "Then the black hound will come for you Kane, to drag your
evil soul down to everlasting torment in its master's realm... and
there's no place you can hide from the hound of Hell! It's no
worse than you deserve, but the child's done no wrong. Don't let
her sacrifice Klesst... There's naught but hate in—"
   Greshha's whisper was no longer audible. Kane shook her still
form, intent on learning more. And now her eyes and lips were
fixed and silent. As they would be forevermore.
   The pool of flaming oil crept into tiny islands of fire that one
by one snapped and died. Kane arose from the dead woman, and
the chamber was once more in darkness.
   He stood wondering for a moment, while his uncanny eyes
adapted somewhat to the thick gloom. Numbness was stealing
over his body. Fighting the pain and exhaustion that clouded his
perception and dragged at his limbs, Kane limped toward the
passage at the opposite wall. The damp and softly moaning breath
issuing from the blackness indicated the passage must lead
outward—and Kane had no desire to return to the inn, even if be
could gain entrance without discovery.
   The passage was cramped, with walls and floor of irregular
masses of limestone. Kane judged that portions of the rock had
been broken away to enlarge the natural tunnel. He had begun to
form an idea of the hidden cellar's function, and when he reached
the end of the passage, his suspicions were confirmed.
   The tunnel opened onto a narrow ledge, jutting mid-way from
the limestone bluff below Raven's Eyrie. The River Cotras rushed
thunderously beneath the mists another hundred feet down. Close
by the mouth of the passage lay a pile of fist-sized stones and
broken rubble—harmless enough, but Kane read a more sinister
interpretation.
  Before the raid, Raven's Eyrie had been a prosperous
caravanserai. But Ionor's family had gathered its great Wealth by
darker harvests than the hosting of trail-weary travellers. Kane
suddenly realized that he had uncovered the chilling secret of
Raven's Eyrie.
   Such inns of terror were not rare along desolate roads through
untilled wilderness. Kane had encountered them on occasion,
although never on so grand a scale as Raven's Eyrie, whose dark
secret had never been suspected. He wondered how many other
hidden passages opened into guest's rooms like the one he had
unwittingly stood over and tripped. How many black crimes,
what heaps of stolen riches, had this hidden cellar known?
Studying the cairn of fist-sized rocks, Kane thought of nameless
travellers who had been secretly dragged from their beds to this
unhallowed cellar, where here, their bellies ripped open and
weighted with stones, their corpses were thrown from the ledge
to sink forever in the deep current far below.
   No doubt their disappearance, if noted, would have been laid
to marauding gangs of outlaws; some of the crimes Kane bitterly
reflected, were probably laid to his name. But now the passage
showed evidence of long disuse, and Kane wondered why. Did
wealthy travellers no longer risk these trails; were their guests too
few to disappear without notice? Or was Ionor of a less
murderous temperament than her predecessors here?
Remembering the hatred in her eyes tonight, Kane doubted this
last.
  He dismissed the matter; it was of no concern. Instead there
was Pleddis to deal with. And the words of the dying woman.
Truth or madness? Kane dared not disregard her whispered
warning. He knew the power of hate.
   Klesst—he must get to Klesst. For the child was the key to the
doom Ionor intended for him. But the ladder in the shaft was
hopelessly damaged; even if Kane could somehow bridge the
missing section, he doubted that it would bear his weight. And
Pleddis held the inn. There were other secret doors, he knew, but
it would be impossible to evade detection if he returned to the
inn. His escape from there had taken the limit of his strength and
guile—and then it was chance that had saved him. He could not
hope for this a second time.
   Kane's head felt light, dizzy. It was death to get to Klesst. But
if he could not reach the child, Ionor would seat her pact with the
Demonlord. Then Pleddis and his hired killers would show him
far greater mercy than the doom which would certainly claim
him.
   It was hard to concentrate. Kane's strength ebbed, as pain and
fatigue racked his flesh, fever and drug mists swirled through his
brain. Raven's Knob, the old woman had whispered—there Ionor
was to seal her unhallowed bargain. Kane had a memory of that
jutting, spur of barren rock and lightning-blasted trees. Rising
from the bleak crest of a high ridge, it was a landmark in the
region and the setting for any number of dark legends. No sane
man would approach Raven's Knob when the Demonlord's Moon
rose behind it. Possibly not even Pleddis could force his men to
carry their search to its slopes.
   Ionor would take Klesst there. Kane knew he must reach
Raven's Knob first. But he had no idea how much time remained
to him. He had heard Ionor's voice when Mauderas entered the
hidden cellar. Very little time had passed. Ionor, however, would
take a straight course for Raven's Knob. Kane, weakened and
uncertain of the path, must elude Pleddis's searchers in order to
reach the point. And the night held dangers far more sinister than
mercenary steel.
  There was no other way. Cold anger seethed in Kane's heart.
He had been driven across the land, ensnared in this deadly web,
each step of his course seemingly predetermined. He would not
be the blind pawn in some dark game fate played.
   The ledge seemed to twist downward at a steep slant from the
mouth of the passage. Clumps of laurel anchored to cracks and
folds in the almost sheer face of the bluff; their roots held
crumbling shelves of soil and broken rock. They were
treacherous footholds under the best conditions; tonight Kane
could not imagine worse. Presumably, though, he could work his
way to the riverbank along this deadly pretense of a path. If he
slipped...
  There was no other way.
   Fighting the weakness that gnawed at him, the vertigo that
already blurred his mind, Kane set his boots against the slippery
ledge.
                              VIII
         And That Will Be Your Call to Hell...

  "Stundorn, you know better than to hit an unconscious man,"
Pleddis told him. "Wait until he comes to again so he can feel it!"
He threw back his head with braying laughter.
   The paunch-gutted mercenary spat and unwound the cestus
from his fist. "May be a while."
   "He'll keep," grinned Pleddis, critically studying Weed's
broken face. It took some of the frustrated pain from his belly to
picture Kane hanging there instead.
   Weed's battered body slowly spun about. The bandit's arms
had been tied behind his back. Then a longer rope had been tied
to his wrists, its other end wound around the balcony railing.
They had hoisted him above the floor in this manner, his toes
only inches from support. While he hung there, his shoulders
threatening to tear from their sockets, Stundorn had worked him
over with the cestus.
   "When we come back with Kane, he'll tell us the truth about
this cache of loot," Pleddis promised. "Because he knows this is
just a taste of what will happen if he lies to us just once. Only
way to make a man tell the truth when he expects death in
return—you got to make him want to die."
   He smiled jovially at Ionor. "Now he is going to be alive when
I get back, isn't he?"
   "This is better than killing him," she said flatly, watching
Weed's tortured body as it slowly spun from the force of the last
blow.
   Pleddis laughed appreciatively. "Don't think I'd want you for
my enemy—no, I don't! Well, then, we'll let you and that fat
tavern keeper guard him close—and your man Mauderas when
he comes back. Of course, I've got some of my men posted here
inside, in case Kane doubles back, and there's more guarding the
horses. Personally, I expect to find him crawling along the
mountainside not even a mile from here, but with Kane you best
keep all bets covered. He comes back, there's a welcome here for
him."
    A harried Nattios pounded in from outside. "Captain Pleddis,
it's no use!" he blurted. "I can't do a damn thing with them
hounds. You got to drag them out of their kennel, and then they
just scrounch down on their bellies and whimper. Hell, one damn
near chewed old Usporris's arm off trying to drag his tail back
inside! They're too scared to piss, captain. They ain't good for so
much as barking at a thief if he was to step over them—ain't no
way we're going to use them to trail!"
  "So." Pleddis shrugged his shoulders, affecting nonchalance he
did not feel. "Then we trail without dogs. Didn't need them before
now. I know damn well you can track a man on foot over this
short a field."
   He glared at the long-nosed mountaineer. "Unless you're too
damn scared to do your job. And you and any others who feel
that way know what I think about a man who won't do his job."
  Nattios nodded unhappily. He knew. They all knew.
  "Stundorn—you aren't afraid to chase down a fortune in
gold."
  "No, captain," he lied, face pale beneath stubble beard.
  "See, Nattios. Stundorn's not afraid."
  "You find where Kane's trail leads off, I'll take you to him,"
Nattios promised sullenly.
  "I'll hold you to your word." Pleddis's teeth gleamed brightly.
"Now let's not waste any more time."
   When the sounds of the hunters had been swallowed by the
night, Ionor moved from the window and took down her hooded
cloak. The dark brown wool would be almost invisible in the
night, which was to her liking. An encounter with Pleddis's
soldiers was something she wished to avoid—although it was not
for Pleddis to question her coming and going, nor for any man to
bold her back from the path she had set foot on seven years
before.
  Klesst's wide eyes greeted her when she opened the door.
Perhaps if her eyes had not reminded her of Kane... if her hair
had not been red like his...
  "You're awake," Ionor stated in automatic reproof.
   "I couldn't sleep with everything happening, Mother. And I've
slept so much of the day." She wanted to ask if the soldiers had
captured Kane, but she dared not show interest. But Kane was
magic, for he had vanished from her closet. They couldn't catch a
sorcerer, could they?
   "That's all right. Put your clothes on now, Klesst. We're going
to go for a short walk."
   "Why, Mother? Tonight's the Demonlord's Moon." She felt a
thrill of bewildered fright.
   "That's all right. The soldiers will protect us from any bad
things. The night air will break your fever. Just get dressed now."
   "I think my fever is gone now." Could soldiers protect her from
the black hound?
  "Just get dressed."
   She wondered if Mother had a surprise for her birthday. One of
the girls in the village told her how she was taken out to the
stable on the night of her birthday, and there was a baby colt just
born, and she got to have him because he was born on her
birthday. But Mother never gave her surprises on her birthday.
Sometimes Greshha did, and pretended that they were gifts from
Mother, too, but Klesst knew better, because once she saw
Greshha embroidering the birthday skirt with her own hands.
  "Did I hear one of the soldiers say that Greshha came back?"
  "No, Klesst. Why are you dawdling?"
  "Which skirt shall I wear, Mother?"
  "It doesn't—Wear the dark blue one."
 That was her best one. "Can I wear my good linen blouse?"
Maybe it was a birthday surprise.
  "Yes. Hurry, Klesst." Ionor fidgeted with her fingers,
subconsciously seeking to speed her dressing, but not wanting to
touch the girl. Her body felt tense as she watched Klesst hurry on
her clothes, struggle to push her feet into buskins she had
outgrown. She would need a new pair soon...
  Ionor pushed the thought from her mind. It was too late to turn
back; she knew that when Kane returned to Raven's Eyrie.
Pleddis's appearance had made her think briefly that the
Demonlord could be cheated of his bargain. Yet while this
thought might have stirred a phantom of hope, far greater was her
anger at the chance that her vengeance would not be fulfilled.
But the Demonlord would not be cheated. The game was his, and
this was only another cat-and-mouse cruelty of his dark humor.
She had struggled seven years to quell any love for the child,
knowing the unholy bargain she had sworn to consummate. And
yet, if Pleddis had taken Kane, might she have learned in time
to...
  Then surged stronger the screaming vision of seven years
past—the death and horror of Kane's raid, the shame of her
captivity, the tearing agony later in the ruins of her home...
 "Mother , I'm ready now. Why is your face so strange?"
Wrapped in her woolen shawl, Klesst looked up at her anxiously.
  Ionor shook her head and closed her eyes for a moment.
"Nothing's wrong, Klesst. Now come along quickly."




                                IX
                      Broken Barricades

   The mass of laurel roots sagged beneath his weight. Bits of
rock and humus crumbled away from where the bush anchored
itself to the bluff. He heard the trickling sound of its fall. With
painstaking care Kane transferred his weight to another shelf of
rock and inched forward against the bluff. No handholds
here—just the desperate pressure of his body against the bare
rock.
   Mist rose from the river far below, breathing a damp film upon
the slippery rocks. At times the mist completely obscured the tiny
ledge Kane followed, so that he became uncertain which
fragmentary path led down to the riverbank, or ended instead
several yards beyond in a sheer drop. Time and again he had to
backtrack over some perilous section of blind trail which
moments before bad required all his effort to negotiate. No longer
was Kane sure whether he actually followed the path to the
river—or even if such a trail existed. The fog held its secrets well,
and often he had to rely solely on touch to discover the next
foothold.
   The mist writhed through his mind as well. Kane lost note of
time; it seemed he had been crawling for ages across the
treacherous bluff, never coming closer to either summit or base.
And in truth he was lost. The rudimentary path he struggled along
wormed across the escarpment above the River Cotras for miles
beyond the point where Kane had hoped to descend. This path
was only a broken ledge along a series of faults in the strata
deadly trail no mountain man would attempt even by day.
Pleddis, who was scouring the gravel beds between river and
cliff, never considered that his wounded quarry would be rash
enough to crawl along the escarpment where no path existed.
And so Kane passed beyond the line of his pursuers, although the
crumbling ledge that had saved him from capture threatened at
any instant to cast him headlong into the mist-wreathed
darkness.
   He seemed to move in a dream. The mist crawled in phantom
shapes; spectral hands clawed out to tear him from the ledge.
Even the cold, sweating rock seemed unreal, insubstantial. Kane
knew this was no dream, but be had to force himself to be aware
of his reality. Otherwise he would lose concentration, no longer
care whether a tangled clump of laurel would bear his weight or
crumble beneath his boot. He ground his bleeding hands against
the rock and savagely pressed down on his limping ankle, using
the pain to drive back the sense of dream.
   But the phantoms waxed more substantial, the lichen-garbed
stones less real. And no further could the agony of his body
overcome the fever in his mind. Somehow Kane managed to
lurch on toward where the ledge seemed to broaden—or was
that, too, a trick of his faltering senses? Unable to determine, he
sprawled heavily onto the dank shelf of rock.
  His limbs were nerveless. His exhausted body ached for air,
but his chest seemed too weakened to draw breath fast enough.
Kane shuddered; great spasms shook his sweat-slimed frame.
    He lay like one dead, while he fought to hold consciousness.
Vertigo shivered through his brain. The ledge he pressed against
tilted, spun away, dissolved...
  And then the rocks dissolved.
   And the stone became transparent, clearer than the finest
diamond.
  And the mountains opened to Kane.
  And Kane looked within the mountains.
  He saw the treasures of the hills locked in their crypts
  He saw the treasures of the hills locked in their crypts of
Primal stone—veins of gold and silver, raw gemstones, buried
crowns, and chests of coins—and the grim guardians who
watched over them.
  He saw the graves of the hills, where forgotten skeletons
mouldered into dust, and lost tombs whose corpses lay unquiet
and imprisoned, and their rotted eyes burned with blue flames as
they writhed to return his stare.
   He saw the graveless dead of River Cotras—who had been
claimed by the river's fury, who bad thrown themselves into its
flood in futile search for oblivion, who had been flung into its
depths to hide the fruits of murder—white scattered bones, and
current-tossed skulls, and moss-crusted lairs for fishes and
wriggling things.
   He saw the lost mines of the ancients, and that which they
mined and that which they buried—that which they sought after
and did not find, and that which they feared and could not
flee—and the knowledge made him close his eyes and cry out.
   He saw caverns that crawled downward and downward, and
the blind flapping things that dwelled within them—and the cities
that were raised there, where no light would even burn—and the
misshapen faces that peered fearfully from slitted windows in
towers for which there were no doors.
   He saw the black flames of the far abyss, toward which
monstrous worms gnawed chaotic tunnels through the rock,
seeking the flames of Hell, where as obscene moths they would
burst forth to wheel and dart, until their smouldering wings would
fail and they would plunge like meteors into the lake of fire.
   He saw the hidden creatures of the mountains, risen from their
secret dens to hunt by the Demonlord's Moon. Huge, bloated
toads that hopped through the fog, flicking forth searching
tongues from reeking jaws of acid-venomed fangs. Lonely
abandoned cabins, inviting a traveller to shelter—that were
neither cabins nor abandoned, and their invitation was not for
refuge. Glowing-eyed creatures shaped somewhat like men, who
ran on furred limbs, and showed wolves' fangs when they howled.
Shambling giants like misshapen apes, yellow-toothed and
shovel-taloned—some shaggy as bears, some scaled like
snakes—bestial descendants of those who first claimed man's
image. Creeping from caverns, naked creatures no longer quite
human—filthy, scabrous packs of men, women and mewing
children, not half so hideous as the hunger that brought them
forth. And that which follows lonely travellers in the dark of the
woods, until at last they look behind, and in that moment die
(Kane looked upon its face, and terror scarred his soul).
  There were others...
   And Kane moaned and gnawed his tongue, crushed his fists to
his eyes. Until the visions faded into grey, and only the
knowledge remained.
  He opened his eyes. The rock was solid about him. The fever
had broken.
  And now a steaming, fetid breath snuffled his body. Eyes like
red glowing stars stared balefully down upon his upturned face.
  "No, Serberys," said a voice, "Kane is not ours... yet."
  Kane snarled and flung himself aside. Larger and blacker than
any bear of these mountains, the hound of Hell snarled back at
him.
   "Now we've spoiled his dream," came the sardonic laugh.
"Were you dreaming, Kane?" The Demonlord's onyx-taloned
hand rested on his bound's heckled neck. He stood tall and lean
and muscular; his garments were black and finely cut to the
current mode—full-sleeved shirt and tight trousers, knee boots of
soft leather, and a long sword at his belt. A wide black cloak
seemed to flap about his shoulders, but Kane knew it was not a
cloak.
   Kane glared at the majestically evil face and the unwinking
black eyes. "If you've come for me, Sathonys, you'll find my steel
as ready as ever."
  The Demonlord smiled; mockery robbed his expression Of any
warmth. "We've met on friendlier terms in past years, Kane. Why
do you show your fangs now?"
   "We'll play this game no longer," growled Kane, edging back
along the ledge so that the face of the cliff was close behind him.
Serberys's squat bulk completely blocked the trail before him;
black tongue licked smoking jowls. He flexed the cramped pain
from his sword arm, but did not yet draw his blade.
  "But a vassal plays his lord's game for so long as the master
wills," mocked Lord Tloluvin, his cloak billowing about him.
  "I'm not your vassal." Kane's fists clenched like rocks.
  "But you've served me well in the past." The night winds
moaned along the escarpment, but his cloak did not swirl in
obedience to the wind's caress.
  "And you've served me better—and we've fought side by side.
But Kane owes allegiance to neither god nor demon, and I'll not
be your pawn in this game you play now."
  "If not pawn, perhaps prize," the Demonlord laughed. "And
yet, you must surely understand that all mortals are but pawns."
  "Nor am I mortal."
  "Perhaps before dawn you'll be proven wrong on both
counts."
   This may be my last night, but who comes for me will find no
pawn!" warned Kane, the fury of his blue eyes as hellish a flame
as the Demonlord's own.
  Lord Tloluvin studied the death in Kane's stare. "I've cause
enough to respect you, Kane, true, and admire you. At times our
battles have been in the same cause."
  "You show little gratitude for a comrade in arms."
  "Kane! You know better!" protested Lord Tloluvin in sardonic
reproof. "I only follow my nature—one you well understand.
Sathonys, Tloluvin, Lato, by whatever name—my nature is the
same. Only a fool expects loyalty in the Demonlord's friendship."
  "Perhaps then you, too, are only a pawn—to your nature, or
whatever laws you obey."
   The Demonlord's smile was suddenly menacing. Serberys
growled like brazen thunder and took half a stride forward on the
ledge, "Your wit is as bold as your arrogance, Kane. We'll argue
this later, I think.
   "But stop to consider my game, since I doubt its nature
confuses you. You must admit I've set the gameboard well. For
seven years Ionor's festering hate has poisoned this wounded
land—twisted her soul and tainted the spirits of those about her.
And now to seal her pact of vengeance she will give me the child,
the daughter she has tortured herself to keep hating for seven
years. Is it not a work of art, Kane? You can admire art such as
this, I know. Or do you better appreciate the mastery with which
I drew you to me here tonight—held by bonds of fever like a
chained sacrifice, with greed and ruthless cruelty like a snarling
pack to drive you—and a trail of death and ruin to mark the
passage of the hunt."
   "If you've set the gameboard for this night, Sathonys," Kane
spat back, "you still cannot manipulate all the pieces. Other men
you may use as pawns, but not Kane! I'll yield to no predestined
fate, and if I fall, I'll die hard and I'll die a free man!"
   "Still shaking your bloodstained fist at fate, Kane? But I
suppose that is your nature, and I return your accusation. Before
dawn comes we'll speak further on free will, and then I think we'll
know better whether this arrogance is vain boast or desperate
faith."
  Serberys raised his sooty muzzle and bayed. The ravenous
howl sent echoes of terror resounding through the night.
  Lord Tloluvin stroked his massive shoulders. "Yes, Serberys, I
sense it, too. Ionor approaches Raven's Bald with the child, and
we must go await her."
  His smile was agelessly cruel. "By your leave, Kane—but
while we've tarried here, the seeds sown seven years ago in hate,
and so carefully nurtured since, are about to flower beneath my
moon.
   "And did you know that this trail you've so desperately
followed ends in a sheer precipice only a short way from here?"
   Thunder smashed down over the ledge, like deafening
laughter.
  Kane stood alone.




                               X
                      Demonlord's Moon

  At first Kane hoped that the Demonlord had lied. As rage fired
new strength through his muscles he plunged recklessly along the
now wider trail. For some distance the ledge offered a secure
path along the face of the cliff. Kane realized now that he was
not on the trail he had thought to follow, but at the same time he
was headed in the direction of Raven's Bald. Lord Tloluvin would
have known this—had be then lied to make Kane turn back?
  The Demonlord had not lied this time.
   Kane skidded to a halt, as before him the ledge abruptly fell
away. Here the fault in the strata had broken loose, and a great
section of the escarpment had sheared off into the River Cotras
far below. No trail crossed the black chasm.
   Straining to pierce the river mist, Kane peered upward. Above
him the cliff marched into the night; below he could hear the
muffled roar of River Cotras. From what he remembered of the
river gorge in this region, this ledge must be at least a hundred
feet from the crest. He was trapped here, unless...
  Examining the chasm he thought he discerned a narrow crack
which appeared to lead to the area of the fall. If he could find
handholds along this crevice, he might be able to reach the slide,
where the broken rock might provide an avenue to scale the
bluff.
  There was, of course, no hope in turning back.
  Am I truly a pawn in the Demonlord's game?
  The crack in the rock ran perhaps fifty feet—a sheer
plummet—before it reached the slide rubble. The stone was
damp and slippery, white with frost in places. Bits of splintered
rock plugged the crevice every few inches. There scarcely
seemed space enough to dig his fingers.
   Stretching out, Kane forced his powerful hands into the
crevice. He heaved his massive body off the ledge and into space.
His giant shoulders bunched and strained; his legs scuffed against
the rock, while the river mist swirled up about him from far
below.
  His movements were rapid, for he knew his overtaxed strength
would falter in another moment. Like a great ape, he swung
across the escarpment, driving his body on by force of will. Death
awaited his first misjudged grip.
   The crevice slowly narrowed. Kane found he must support his
weight solely by his clawing fingers—and still the crack
tightened. Until there was no longer space to thrust his fingers.
   Kane's breath grunted an inarticulate curse, but with each
second a killing agony, he wasted no time. Hanging perilously by
one arm, Kane quickly drew a dagger from his boot. Its flat
balanced blade was designed for throwing; whether its steel
would support his bulk, Kane had only one way of determining.
Using the knife for a piton, Kane jammed it into the crevice and
tried his weight.
  The tempered steel shivered and grated; the hilt seemed to
bend slightly under the tearing stress. But it held. Clinging
desperately to the sweaty hilt, Kane jerked its mate from his
other boot. He thrust it into the crevice, then swung out with the
other blade. Two insignificant hafts of steel and leather were all
that supported him above the deadly abyss. It seemed the blades
could never endure the strain. They did; Kane's desperate gamble
succeeded.
  With these makeshift pitons, he struggled across the final few
yards to what was relative safety. Reaching the rubble left by the
avalanche, he gratefully rested his boots on an outjutting boulder.
An hour's rest would seem life saving now, but he knew there
was not a minute to spare. Grimly he began to scale the chaos of
broken rock which marked the slide.
   Stundorn was ill at case. The blocky mercenary distrusted the
strange swirling mist that cloaked, then revealed the autumnal
ridges. Nor did he like the eerie shadows that seemed to flash
along in the darkness on all sides of them, although time and
again a sudden frightened challenge had revealed nothing. But
would shadows make sounds?
   Once more he tried to fight down gnawing fear. He had lost
hope of finding Kane in the night—already they had hunted
farther than Pleddis had been prepared to. Pleddis had
overstretched their lines, spread the search too far. Now they
wandered through the darkness in small bands. Stundorn glanced
ahead on the ridge as the Demonlord's Moon rose high over
Raven's Knob. Dread chilled his spirit. This trail skirting the river
gorge was no place to linger tonight.
  "Are you sure you know what you're doing?" he demanded of
Nattios.
   The mountaineer's nerves were, if anything, worse. "There's
the tracks. Look at them yourself, and tell me what we're doing.
Woman and a child, and not too far ahead. I'll kiss your ass if it's
not the woman from the inn and her kid."
   "But why would she be on the trail to Raven's Knob?" the
other persisted. "No sane errand would take her there tonight of
all nights. Hell, you know the stories they tell."
   "I didn't say she was going to Raven's Knob," Nattios argued.
"I said this trail leads past Raven's Knob. We don't know where
she's really headed."
  "Then why don't we turn back?" grumbled one of the other
half-dozen men in their party "Damn woman wants to take her
kid and risk what's out here tonight, that's her business."
  "None of that talk," growled Stundorn, thinking the man had a
valid point. But no he would have to face Pleddis, and his captain
took a harsh view of cowardice.
   "Ionor's out here she's got to have a good reason," he
explained. "Could be she's gone to meet Kane. That kid's got hair
like Kane, and those blue eyes. Didn't get them from her mother,
and we don't know who she calls father. Might be it's Kane—he's
been through this range of hills before."
  "Seemed ready enough to drink his blood back at the inn," the
grumbler persisted.
  "Could have been fake," guessed Stundorn. "Kane decided to
hole up at Raven's Eyrie after all—and she was fixing them food.
Could be Kane's more welcome there than anyone guessed.
Might explain how he managed to slip out of the inn without our
knowing it."
   "Well, there's something sure funny about that inn," Nattios
contributed. Talk drowned out the night's eerie sounds. He hoped
the conversation would continue.
  They shuffled on a bit farther in silence. The movement from
the corner of their eyes seemed to increase; the night sounds
edged closer at hand. Bolder.
  "How close are we to Raven's Knob?" Stundorn asked,
uneasily gazing at the bald spur of rock on the crest of the ridge.
  "Pretty close—maybe a mile or so by trail," the tracker
hazarded. "Stundorn, you suppose Kane knows you shot him?"
  "That ain't certain," protested the man with the arbalest, who
had earlier boasted of it.
  "Because maybe Kane's dead after all. We ain't none of us
seen him since the first. There's some damn weird things you hear
about Kane, and if he died tonight... Well, there's been dead men
before that didn't lie in their graves."
   "Shut up!" Stundorn cursed him, thinking that a dead man
would surely take vengeance on his slayer if he could return from
the grave.
   "I just wondered if you knew for sure you shot him, and if you
knew where the quarrel hit him, that's all. Then maybe we'd know
whether Kane's just crippled, or whether up ahead somewhere
there's a dead man waiting..."
  "I said, shut up! Keep your mind on the trail."
   "Ain't nothing there to keep my mind on. A blind man could
read these tracks—they're leading straight along the trail to
Raven's Knob."
  "Vaul! What's that?" someone gasped.
  They froze in their stances to listen. A scraping, scrambling
sound not far away...
  "It's something climbing up from the river!" another cried out.
  "Fool! That's a sheer drop"' Nattios swore.
  "It's closer!"
  "Then what...?"
  With a bloodcurdling howl, Kane flung himself over the last
shelf of rock. A man screamed in terror.
   Kane's face was battered, his body and clothing torn filthy,
stained with blood. His sword flashed from the scabbard as he
cleared the precipice, a yell of animal ferocity twisting his lips.
He had sprung out of the abyss as if by sorcery—a vengeful
phantom who loomed to giant stature in the terror of that
moment. The Demonlord's Moon cast its red glare upon him, and
his killer's eyes blazed with the sure promise of death.
  Stundorn's shot was wild, for only fear had triggered his
weapon. "Kane!" someone bawled in panic. The bounty hunters
broke and fled.
  With a roar of insane fury, Kane lunged after them. With no
thought of danger, he drove them before him. Too long had he
been hounded by jackals; the wounded lion had turned to kill.
   Stundorn wasted an instant trying to crank the cocking rachet
of his arbalest. The reflex was fatal now, for his comrades had
left him to stand alone. As he dropped the useless weapon and
groped for his sword, Kane's hell-driven blade split him almost in
half. The others made no attempt to stand before his rush. In
frantic haste to escape the bellowing demon, Nattios misjudged
the edge of the cliff; his screams were swallowed in the river
mists.
   Kane ravened after them. Another mercenary died with Kane's
sword sunk to the hilt through his spine. The survivors split from
the trail to plunge into the forest, and Kane leaped after them to
tackle the last man. Brutally he pounded the mercenary's skull
against the rocks, again and again, until his fists held only pulp.
   Then the red mists of rage parted, and Kane rose from his gory
work. From the black trees he heard another man scream once
and break off. Under the dark pines, shadows rustled to close on
the echo of death. Kane coughed and shook his head. As the
killing rage left him, awareness of his danger returned.
  Had Pleddis heard the cries, the fury of Kane's attack? Had
someone escaped to warn him of Kane's presence? The problems
seemed only of minor importance; Kane knew a far deadlier
menace was closing about him. He stared defiantly at the ridge
before him.
   There before the red moon rose Raven's Knob. And this trail
climbed toward it. Ahead was Ionor with the child—but how far
ahead?
  Kane paused only to snatch up and recock Stundorn's
arbalest—for the steel-bowed weapon was accurate to kill at over
one hundred fifty yards, and he might still get close enough...
   Throwing his last strength into his stride, Kane pounded up the
trail to Raven's Knob. His sense of hideous danger all but
drowned the agony that shrieked through his frame with every
step.
   Klesst suddenly stopped and tugged at Ionor's cloak. "Mother,
let's not walk any farther. I'm tired now."
  "Come on, Klesst. It isn't much farther. If you don't stop this
whining, I'll slap you."
  Mother's slaps stung all the worse because the girl sensed the
anger in her blow. "But Mother, I'm frightened out here. The
soldiers are way behind us."
  "I said, come on!" Ionor jerked her arm forward, then released
her hand once Klesst started to follow. She had always tried to
keep from touching her... It was better that way.
  "Mother, I think I remember this place."
  "Surely you've played near here often before."
   "Never. The other children are afraid to come here, and I don't
like to be alone so far in the woods."
   Ionor walked resolutely on, impatiently slackening her quick
stride to let the child stay beside her. It was not as if Klesst were
hers. She was Kane's—and a stolen part of her own flesh. Stolen.
Raped and shamed and stolen. Klesst wasn't her daughter—she
had been determined on that from the first. She was a cancer
which Kane had implanted within her body, and in pain she had
been purged of the cancer. Almost. The child was something
apart from her. If there had ever been love this would be
different, but there had never been love; there never would be
love. She would feel no more guilt for Klesst than for a cancer
that a surgeon excised and destroyed.
  It would be over in another few minutes. Seven years of hate.
Klesst would not suffer. Not like she had...
  "Mother, I think this is the place in my dream."
  "Hush, Klesst."
   "No, Mother! I know it's the same place. That great big rock up
there is where the black dog first appears, and the black man who
walks behind him." Klesst's voice rose in sharp fear.
   Ionor frowned at the girl. She had hoped to avoid physical
contact—physical force—with the child, though she had a length
of cord under her cloak if she needed it "Don't be afraid, Klesst.
When you get to that big rock and see that there's no black hound
and his master, then you won't have those silly nightmares any
more."
   "I'm still scared," Klesst whispered, her eyes round and
frightened.
  "Come on, quickly now."
   Klesst walked slowly on. She did not want to anger Mother.
She used to think that if she never made Mother angry again,
then Mother might forget the awful thing she once had
done—although what this crime might have been, she never
understood. Of late Klesst had lost hope of making Mother ever
forget.
  Then her owl-like eyes stared at the barren spur of rock. Ionor
had forgotten—if she ever knew—how well Klesst could see in
the dark.
    "Mother!" screamed Klesst, breaking away. "I can see them!
It's the black dog and the black man! They're waiting in the
shadow of those big rocks up ahead! Mother! The black dog sees
me, too! Can't you see how red his eyes glow?"
   "Come here, damn you!" shouted Ionor, reaching for the cord.
In her urgent need to catch the terrified girl, she lunged and
stumbled over a root. "Come here!" she yelled, as she sprawled
after the retreating child.
  It was the last fragment of horror for Klesst. She whirled and
dashed back down the trail, utter panic lending horrible impetus
to her childish stride.
  Ionor called once more, then saved her breath for overtaking
Klesst. The girl could not stay ahead of her for very long.
   But terror gave her strength, so that Klesst flew headlong down
the path, running faster than she ever had. She could hear Ionor's
boots drawing closer from behind, and in her mind Mother, the
black hound, and its master all merged into one onrushing
phantom of dread.
   A giant, diseased apple tree overhung the trail. The last of a
blighted orchard that once had stood along this slope, the huge
tree reached over the path with grotesque and nightmarish limbs.
The sick-sweet odor of rotting apples hung under its shadow like
the smell of state flowers in a graveyard. It had frightened Klesst
when first they passed beneath its clutching branches.
  Now as she rushed past it, her feet skidded on the rotted fruit.
Klesst howled and pitched flying onto the decay-strewn ground.
The jar of her fall left her no breath to cry out.
   Desperately she tried to scramble back up to run. Too late. A
frenzy of motion in the darkness, and Ionor's cold hand knotted in
her disordered hair. Still trying to draw breath, Klesst was yanked
to her feet.
  Ionor slapped her, hard. "Now I'll show you what good it is to
run!" she panted. And she drew the girl's wrists together, fumbled
with the cord.
   Klesst watched mutely as her hands were tied, still too terrified
to grasp what was happening to her. She wondered if Mother
meant to whip her like once she did Sele.
   There was a scuff of boot on stone, then another silhouette
joined the apple tree's contorted shadow.
 It's the black man, thought Klesst. He's come with his hound.
Mother will give me to him...
  "Kane!" snarled Ionor, leaping up in fury.
  There was fury in Kane's eyes.
  The arbalest in his arms shuddered.
   Ionor shrieked in clawing agony as the iron-barbed quarrel tore
into her belly and flung her back against the tree. She should
have fallen then; instead she hung there, writhing in torment. At
point-blank range the quarrel had drilled through her spine and
sunk into the gnarled trunk.
   She struggled frantically to break free, but her strength
suddenly failed. Hate was slower to desert her, and she spat
curses through her bubbling lips as she died. And finally there
was an end even to her hate. Her slumped figure hung limply
from the apple tree, impaled on the spike like a shrike's prey on a
thorn.
   Clumsily—for his chest pounded with agony, and scarlet mists
blurred his vision—Kane gathered up his sobbing child and
wrapped her in his wolfskin cloak. "Well played. Kane!" came
sardonic congratulations. "I had thought the game won."
   Klesst buried her face in Kane's shoulder. Kane warily shifted
his burden away from swordhilt. The Demonlord and his hound
stood before him on the trail.
  "Do you still say I'm your pawn?" he growled. "There stands
your pawn. Your pact is forfeit, and you'll have to play at my
game if you think to claim this prize!"
   "Your game, Kane?" mocked Sathonys. "I think not. And
perhaps I was wrong to call you a pawn. We'll play the game
another day, and then we'll see whether Kane is truly master of
his fate, or simply fool of luck.
   "Still, I won't say this outcome displeases me. Our souls are
like matched blades fired in the same forge, Kane. After all these
centuries, I believe I'd miss you, and you've served me well so
many times."
  Kane's eyes blazed in anger.
   "As an ally, of course," the Demonlord amended, with a
sarcastic salute.
  He touched the hound's misshapened head. "Come, Serberys.
The moon is growing old, and our friend Kane has led so many
souls into our domain tonight. We must not delay our hunt any
longer, as I see my creatures have become quite hungry."
  Serberys opened his slavering jaws in a baying note of horror.
  Hound and master vanished into the night.
  Kane almost found pity for those who had dared to pursue him
beneath the Demonlord's Moon. But pity was too rare in Kane to
bestow upon his enemies.
   Through the throbbing haze of pain, Weed felt himself lowered
to the floor. He waited blindly for the torture to take some new
direction, only thankful that the agony of his wrenched shoulders
had let up. Then a knife sheared through his bonds.
   He opened his swollen eyes. It was Kane, although it took a
moment to be sure. The outlaw leader was a grisly sight to see
this side of Hell.
   Kane pushed a bottle of brandy into his mouth. Weed tried to
take it in his hands but found them too numb to respond. The
brandy was fire on his torn lips and broken teeth, but he
swallowed greedily as Kane tipped the flask.
  In a moment he had come to himself enough to note the torn
bodies of his guards strewn about the room. Kane had descended
on them in a murderous rush of fury, but Weed had hung
unconscious through it all.
  "Can you ride?" Kane demanded.
   Weed glanced at Kane's face, then quickly looked away. "I
guess so," he grunted, feeling cracked ribs as be struggled to
stand. "I guess so. Give me a minute to get my breath."
  "There're horses saddled and ready in the stable," Kane told
him. "The guards won't bother you."
  "Thoem! What's happened?" muttered Weed, swaying for
balance. "Where's Pleddis and all his men? They all went out to
look for you..."
   A chilling howl stirred the night winds. It sounded like the bay
of a hound as he closes on his quarry. It was not pleasant to hear.
  "I think they found other hunters already out there," said
Kane.
   He thrust a bulging scrip into Weed's hands. It was heavy, but
the weight of gold was one that Weed's tingling fingers found
strength to close upon. "Here's gold," Kane told him. "Use it as
you need it. When you're strong enough to ride, take Klesst here
and go. Dawn will soon break, and you'll be safe
enough—besides, Sathonys owes me for a game. Take Klesst
with you to Obray's Station—that's well north of the Combine's
authority, and no one will follow. Take good care of the girl, and
when I join you shortly, I'll share my cache with you. I know that
interests you."
   Weed wiped the blood from his face, not realizing until later
that Kane had known his designs. "Sure, Kane. Whatever you
say. But what about you? Pleddis is going to return any minute
now..."
  "I'll see to my end," Kane grimly vowed. "You make damn
certain about yours."
  Dawn was greying the skies, the Demonlord's Moon had
plunged beneath the black ridges, when Pleddis pushed open the
door of Raven's Eyrie. He staggered into a common room, his
garments ragged and bloody, his face more colorless than ever.
His limbs trembled, and there was gore on his sword no human
veins had spilled. He lost his laugh.
   "Demons!" he blurted out with a choked voice. In a dazed
stupor, he lurched across the center of the room. "Devils from the
hills! Vaul! The things were everywhere! Snapping, clawing,
leaping out on you from the trees and the shadows and the rocks!
Too many—reaching out from all around us! Couldn't make a
stand!"
   His eyes still shone with horror. "And that hound! That hideous
black hound! I saw it drag Eriall down as he ran! Vaul! I can still
hear its baying! Drove me like a hunted fox across the
ridges—but I outran it, made it back alive!"
   He paused for breath, and awareness of his surroundings came
to him. The huge inn lay in total silence.
  "Where—where is everyone?" Pleddis called out.
  "I'm right here," said Kane, rising out of the shadow.