Fellowship of the Talisman

6

There finally was existence. But that was all — existence. It was a purposeless existence that floated in a place without reference points. It floated in an emptiness that was tied to nothing. The emptiness was comfortable and there was no urge to escape from it or reach beyond it.

A tiny sound intruded: a faint, far-off chirping sound, and the emptiness of existence tried to push it off or shut itself against it. For it was not meet, it might be destructive, for even so slight a thing as a chirping sound to intrude upon it.

But the chirping sound persisted and it was nearer now or louder, and there was more of it, as if there might be many sources from which the chirps were coming.

The consciousness floated in the emptiness and listened with an enforced tolerance to the chirping sound. And the chirping brought a word. Birds. It was birds that were chirping. They were the ones that made the noise. The consciousness reluctantly struggled with the word, for it had no idea what the word might mean or if it had a meaning.

Then suddenly it did know what the word meant and that brought something else.

I am Duncan Standish, said the emptiness, and I am lying somewhere, listening to birds.

That was quite enough. That was all it needed, that was far more than it needed. It would have been content if nothing had come at all. For if this much came, there would be more yet to come and that was undesirable. The emptiness tried to shrink away, but that was impossible. Having come to something, it must then go on.

Duncan Standish, no longer an existence poised in a vault of emptiness, but Duncan Standish, something. A man, he (or it) thought, and what was a man?

Slowly he knew. Knew what he was and that he had a head and that a dull throbbing ache pulsed inside the head, with the comfort now all gone.

Duncan Standish, man, lying in some confined space, for now he became aware that he was confined.

He lay quietly to pull all his thoughts together, all those simple things that he had known at one time and only now was rediscovering. But even as he pulled his thoughts together, he kept his eyes tight shut, for he did not want to see.

If he did not see, perhaps he could go back to that emptiness and comfort he had known before.

It was no use, however. The knowledge first crept upon him slowly, then came on with a rush.

He opened his eyes and stared up at a high-noon sky seen through a leafy canopy. He raised a hand and a rough stone stopped it, bruising his knuckles. He lowered his eyes and saw the stone, a slab that covered him almost to his shoulders. Resting on the slab was the bole of a large oak tree, the bark scaling off it as if it suffered some ravaging disease.

The tomb, he thought, startled. The tomb of Wulfert, the wizard, unroofed many years ago by a falling tree. And now he was tucked into it.

It was Conrad, he told himself, who had tucked him in the tomb. It was the kind of stupid thing that Conrad would do, convinced all the time he was doing it that it was for the best, that it was perfectly logical and what any man might do.

It must have been Conrad, he told himself. Someone had talked with him, calling him “m’lord” while splashing water in his face, and no one but Conrad would have called him that. And after splashing water in his face, someone had lifted him and carried him on a shoulder, with no effort whatsoever, as if he had been no more than a sack of grain. And there was no one big enough and strong enough to do that as easily as it had been done other than Conrad. And then Conrad had crammed him in the tomb and there must surely have been a reason for doing what he did.

His first reaction was to scramble out, to free himself from the embrace of the tomb, but a sudden caution held him there. There had been danger and there might still be danger. He’d been hit on the head, probably by a thrown club, but while his head still throbbed and he was a little shaky, he seemed to be all right.

Except for the chirping of the birds there was no sound. He listened closely for the rustle of a fallen leaf, a snap of a twig that might tell him someone was nearby and moving. There were no such sounds; the birds, undisturbed, went on with their chirping.

He stirred a little, testing how he lay, and there was a dry rustling under him. Leaves, he thought, autumn-dead leaves that over the years had fallen into the tomb. Dry leaves and something else. Bones, perhaps, the bones of Wulfert, the wizard. With one hand he dug into the debris of the tomb. He could not see what his fingers brought up, for the stone slab cut off his vision, but his fingers told him — dry leaves and certain crumbling fragments that could be powdered bone. There was something, now that he had time to note it, that was digging into his left side, just below his shoulder blade. The skull, perhaps. Would the skull, he wondered, stand up, retain its shape and strength, longer than the other bones?

He shuddered, the fingers of superstitious dread reaching out to touch him, but he fought off the dread. He could not panic and surge howling from the tomb. For safety’s sake, he reminded himself sternly, he could share this space with the dead.

He wriggled a little, trying to shift the skull or whatever it might be that was pressing into his ribs. It would not shift and it seemed harder than a skull should be. Maybe, he told himself, a stone that someone, in a flush of mistaken bravado, had chucked into the tomb, before running away as if the Devil were at his heels.

Lying quietly, he listened intently. The birds, flitting from branch to branch, kept up their chirping, but there was no other sound. There was no wind and not a leaf was moving.

He shifted his hand to feel the scabbard at his side and found that the sword was in it. Conrad, meticulous even in the absurdity of what he had done, nevertheless had taken the time to make certain that the blade was secure and ready for use.

Cautiously, Duncan lifted his head to see outside the tomb. The gravestones drowsed in the sun. There was nothing else. Carefully he levered himself up and out, slid to the ground, and crouched beside the tomb. He noted that the stone of which it was constructed was covered by large patches of lichens.

From far down the hill, on the opposite side of the tomb, a twig broke with a snap. Feet scuffed through the fallen leaves.

Duncan quietly unsheathed his blade and, holding it before him, keeping well down so he’d be hidden by the tomb, crept along its base to reach the end of it in order to see who might be coming.

The scuff of leaves moved steadily up the hill. Duncan shifted his weight, getting set for swift action if it should be needed.

In a moment, he could see who it was and let the point of the blade drop to the ground. His breath came out of him with a gush of relief. He was surprised; he had not realized he had been holding his breath.

He stood erect and waved the sword in greeting to Conrad. Conrad came forward with a rush, stopping in front of him.

“Thank the good Lord,” he said. “You are all right.”

“And you? How are you?”

“Fine,” said Conrad. “Knocked around some, but all right. The hairless ones are gone. There is no one around. Had to be sure before I came back to you.”

He put a hamlike hand on Duncan’s shoulder, shook him affectionately. “You sure you are all right? Seemed all but dead to me. Had to find a place to hide you safe.”

“But for the love of God,” asked Duncan, “why a tomb? Why hide me in a tomb?”

“Unusual place,” said Conrad. “No one would think to look.”

“That’s right. Conrad, you did fine. Thank you so much.”

“The old lord, he told me take care of you.”

“I’m sure he did,” said Duncan. “And how are the others?”

“Daniel and Tiny are well. They are standing guard behind me. Beauty ran away, but Daniel found her. Daniel has a bruise, high on the shoulder. We licked them, m’lord. We licked them good and proper.”

“Diane? The woman?”

“She flew away on the dragon.”

“Not a dragon, Conrad. A griffin.”

“Griffin, then. She flew away on him.”

“Was she hurt?”

“Blood all over her, but I think it came from the hairless one she killed. The hermit ran away. There’s no hide nor hair of him.”

“Rest easy about him,” said Duncan. “He’ll be back to get his cabbages.”

“What will we do now?”

“We regroup. We talk it over and decide.”

“Harriers now know we are here. They’ll keep watch on us.”

“Maybe it was silly for us to think we could slip through them,” said Duncan.

Although at the time they had talked about it, back at Standish House, it had seemed quite possible. The area that had been desolated was large, and it had seemed unlikely that the Harriers could keep watch over all of it, or would even try to keep watch over all of it. Apparently, however, they had worked out some system to guard the approaches to the area. More than likely they used the hairless ones as pickets to keep watch for anyone who might show up.

Which could have been why, back in the garden plot, they had faced only the hairless ones and not any of the others that made up the Horde.

“We’ll go back to hermit’s cave to talk?” asked Conrad. “Maybe spend the night there?”

“Yes, I think so. I expect the hermit will show up. There’s something I want to talk with him about.”

Conrad half turned to go.

“Wait,” said Duncan. “There is something I want to see about.”

He led the way around the tomb and leaned down to stare into it.

“I think someone threw a rock into it,” he said. “But maybe not. It may be something else.”

It was something else. It glistened as no rock would glisten.

He reached in and lifted it out.

“A bauble,” Conrad said.

“Yes,” said Duncan, “a bauble. And what is it doing here?”

It was as big as a man’s fist and pear-shaped. It was covered by a lacy fretwork of gold, inset at the intersection of the fretwork lines with tiny, flashing jewels. Seen through the fretwork was a silvery object, egg-shaped and with a look of heft to it. From the small neck of the pear-shaped outer framework hung a heavy chain that also may have been gold, but was not quite so lustrous as the fretwork.

Duncan handed the bauble to Conrad and once more leaned over the tomb to peer. From one corner a skull grinned out at him.

“God rest you,” said Duncan to the skull. Together the two men went down the hill, heading for the cave.