Sorcerer’s Moon: Part Three of the Boreal Moon Tale. Julian May

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СКАЧАТЬ by the best scrier and the best windspeaker available, and that he be granted sufficient funds to hire a Didionite guide who was not afraid to venture into the Green Morass. Calopticus Zorn had seemed to be sober, experienced, and reliable – up until now.

      ‘Tell me what you’re afraid of,’ Dyfrig demanded of the man.

      ‘I seen bad signs.’ The trapper sat down on a moss-covered boulder, pulled a strip of smoked elk venison from his pack, and began to gnaw on it. The other members of the party, the prince’s equerry Sir Stenlow Blueleaf and the two Zeth Brethren, exchanged puzzled glances.

      ‘Signs of the Salka?’ Dyfrig persisted. ‘Why didn’t you show them to us when you came across them? What kind of signs are you talking about?’

      The guide shook his head. ‘Very bad.’ He was a lanky man some two-score years of age with a long jaw and slitty eyes, who wore greasy buckskin clothing and an incongruously splendid cap made of mink fur, with lappets that would have dangled on either side and behind had they not been tied to a bone button on the crown.

      Vra-Erol Wintersett pursed his narrow lips. ‘The rascal is lying, my lord prince.’ The senior Brother of Zeth on the expedition, he was a man who did not suffer fools gladly and was much aware of his position as Chief Windsearcher in the Army of the Sovereignty. Unlike the other Cathrans, who were dressed drably so as not to attract attention, his hunting garb was of the finest plum-colored leather, cut to show off his muscular limbs and broad chest. His face was angular and deeply tanned. ‘I never perceived any Salka windtraces nor any other indications of the amphibians’ presence – and I’ve been alert for such things since we left the villages at Black Hare Lake. I think this fellow regrets having agreed to guide us and hopes we’ll be frightened into turning back.’

      ‘Zeth knows it’s been miserable going,’ remarked the second Brother, Vra-Odos Springhill. His specialty was long-distance windspeaking. A tireless older man of less than medium stature and sinewy build, uncomplaining up until now, it would be his job to report the findings of the reconnaissance party directly to Lord Stergos and the Sovereign, bypassing the Didionite wizards who usually gathered and relayed intelligence concerning the Salka horde to the Council of War based at Castle Boarsden.

      ‘We can’t turn back, Cal,’ Dyfrig said to the guide, striving to hold his temper in check. ‘If you force us to go on without you, I’ll order Brother Odos to bespeak tidings of your bad faith and cowardice to King Somarus of Didion himself. You could be severely punished.’

      ‘Huh.’ The threat did not seem to upset the taciturn trapper. ‘The king is far away and the north woods is big. But you better listen to what I say, prince. So far, the bad ones only been watching us. We cross this river, they’re maybe gonna attack. Sign says so.’

      ‘Who? The Salka?’ Dyfrig demanded. ‘For God’s sake, man! Tell us plainly what you’re afraid of.’

      ‘Not Salka. Something worse.’

      ‘What can be worse than Salka monsters?’ asked Sir Stenlow. Dyfrig’s equerry was a stalwart, rather solemn knight with raven hair and pale blue eyes. A few years older than the prince, he served as both bodyguard and confidential assistant.

      ‘Come look, all of you.’ Zorn climbed to his feet and strolled downstream, searching the muddy riverbank while still chewing. If the trapper was afraid, he didn’t show it. The prince went after him, trailed by Stenlow and the two alchymists.

      ‘Bear prints, lynx prints, reindeer and small animal prints galore,’ Vra-Erol pointed out, not bothering to hide his irritation. ‘We’ve kept the wild beasts at bay with our gammadion magic thus far, and we’ll continue doing so. What’s the bloody fuss?’

      Calopticus Zorn peered over his shoulder, smirking. His greenish-yellow teeth were clogged with shreds of tough meat. ‘How ‘bout this?’ he inquired with vulgar relish, pointing to the sodden ground at his feet.

      ‘Bazekoy’s Bowels!’ Dyfrig crouched to study the sign, and the Brethren did as well, murmuring in astonishment. ‘No Salka made these tracks.’

      ‘It looks as though a big log was dragged across the mud into the water,’ Sir Stenlow ventured. ‘Perhaps by a bear?’

      ‘Not unless the log was flexible,’ Vra-Erol said quietly, ‘and had clawed feet on either side. See? Here and here and here. These are not bear prints. They’re too narrow and the claws are too long.’

      ‘Codders!’ whispered the dumfounded equerry. ‘What manner of brute could it be, then?’

      Dyfrig gave Zorn a stern look. ‘Stop playing your silly games, Cal. What made these marks?’

      ‘Worm.’ A grimace of morbid satisfaction. ‘Morass Worm, supposed to be dead and gone nigh on three hundred year. But maybe not, eh?’ He chuckled.

      ‘That’s ridiculous!’ the prince expostulated. ‘I’ve never heard such bullshite. Worms are tiny things –’

      Vra-Odos cleared his throat pedantically. ‘The word was used in ancient times for larger mythical beasts.’ He looked embarrassed. ‘Er – dragons, to be specific. During our sojourn in Didion, I’ve perused volumes of their old tales that contain mention of intelligent Morass Worms. The creatures are given varying descriptions and no one seems to know –’

      Zorn broke in. ‘Back at camp, when we start out this morn, I seen claw-scrapes on tree trunks. More than one worm.’

      ‘Well, I saw nothing of the sort!’ snapped Vra-Erol. For all his off-putting and haughty manner, he had proved to be an expert in every sort of woodcraft.

      ‘Didn’t look high enough,’ said the trapper smugly. ‘Marks were four, five ells up a buncha big trees next the creek. Way too high for bear scratches.’ He tipped his head toward the opposite bank of the strong-flowing river. ‘They’re yonder. I can smell ‘em. The claw marks were a warning.’

      Vra-Erol sniffed the air elaborately. ‘I smell naught save river mud and conifer sap – and perhaps a whiff of carrion.’

      Prince Dyfrig stared at the strange trace with an expression that mingled bafflement and frustration. He was twenty years of age and stood four fingers over six feet in height, having a slender build and quiet manner that belied his considerable physical strength. His hair was tawny and the eyes set deeply in his sun-browned features were an unusual deep brown verging on black, very much like those of the Sovereign. No one who saw the two of them together could doubt Dyfrig’s parentage, but to speak openly of the resemblance was to risk the full weight of Conrig’s wrath.

      Dyfrig believed that his mother Maudrayne was dead, and by law and by love considered himself to be Parlian Beorbrook’s son and heir. His being named third in succession to the throne of Cathra was inferred by him and many others to be a mere sop to the Tarnians, his mother’s people, subject to annulment at any time by royal decree. Dyfrig had hardly given thought to the matter of his true parentage while growing up far from the court at Cala Blenholme; nor had he sought to impress the aloof king who was obviously his natural father. Up until now.

      ‘Cal,’ the prince said at last, ‘I’ve decided that we’ll stop here for a time while you do your best to find further signs of these strange creatures. I need better evidence than your tale of claw-marks and a churned-up mass of mud if I’m to report this to Lord Stergos and the Sovereign. None of the wizards at Count Timberton’s fort mentioned giant worms amongst the beasts we should beware of.’

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