"That won't work for him. Whatever took him over won't be withheld by any simple measures."

"We could-" Paks swallowed hard, then went on. "We could cut-dismember him."

"You? I? I know what you would think of such. As for me, I tell you, Paksenarrion, I don't even wish to touch that corpse, if corpse it is. Nor should you. That power may still dwell in it, and could reach out to us. You see that the body was not consumed by the fire as it should have been; the skin is blackened but unblistered."

"Well, then? Do we wait to see what comes of it, or what?"

Macenion shook his head. "I don't know. I wish I knew a spell to free this body from whatever power holds it so."

" But since elves are immortal, do their bodies burn or decay?"

"Elves do not die of age alone, but they can, as you saw, be killed. And yes, their bodies can burn or decay or return to earth in many ways."

Paks shifted her shoulders, easing the stiffness. Suddenly she was hungry-and thirsty. She put up her sword .

83.and fumbled to unhook her water flask. After a couple of swallows, she felt much better. "It's too bad," she said, "that you don't know what's in that fancy scroll you're so proud of."

Macenion scowled and opened his mouth for a quick retort, then paused. "I never thought of that," he said. "I wonder if-' and he rummaged around inside his tunic until he came out with the tooled scroll case Paks had commented on. "It's difficult-" he went on, as he flicked off the lid and slid the scroll out. "You remember I told you how expensive it was?" Paks nodded. "Thing is, a magical scroll-one that has on it a workable spell--can be written only by a magician who can cast the spell without it. I don't know why; it seems a silly rule, and it certainly gives far too much power to men who do nothing but study, but there it is. Usually a scroll belongs to the man who wrote it, or to someone he trusts; his journeyman, say, or a brother mage. He knows which scroll is which-or he sets his private mark on each-and all's well. But for someone who comes across one of these scrolls-for away from the person who wrote it-it's difficult to tell what it is without reading it."

"Then read it," said Paks, gnawing on a slab of dried meat. It was delicious. "You can read-?"

"Of course, I can read! That's not die point. That's how it's^used-by reading it. If I read it, whatever it is happens."

"Oh. But if it's not the right thing, can't you just read another?"

"No. Think! In the first place, suppose it's a spell to turn everyone but me in the room to stone. I read it, and there you are; stone."

"Right away?" Paks was startled.

"Yes, right away. And before you ask: no, I don't have any spell to turn you back-if one exists, and if I cared to use it. Contrary to popular belief, reading the spell backwards doesn't make it reverse. And in the second place, once it's read, it's gone. Poof!"

"Gone how?"

"Gone from the scroll. The magic is used up, and it- leaves.**

84."Oh. So there's no way to-to peek?"

Macenion allowed himself to look amused. "No. Not that I ever heard of. There are a lot of teaching tales for young apprentice magicians that tell of attempts to peek and what happened afterwards. No, I must decide, by examining all the marks on the outside of the scroll and by my own abilities, whether it's worth chancing that the spell or spells on it will do us any good." He peered at the scroll itself, then at the case, and then back at the scroll.

"I might just take a look into the corridors," said Paks casually. "In case someone is coming-"

"Good idea. Then you'll be out of range if something does happen." Paks had not realized that Macenion would find her motive so obvious. She said nothing, but looked into the corridor diagonally opposite to that from which she'd entered the chamber. This was the way the "servants" had left. She could see no one before the corridor turned, some twenty paces away. She looked back at Macenion. He was still examining the scroll, but he looked up at her and nodded. "Gp on-not too far. I think I'll try one of these; for what I paid for them, they should be fairly powerful." Paks went on as far as the turn.

It seemed a long time before he called. His voice was high and excited. Paks swept out her sword and ran back to the chamber. She was just in time to see a blue flare lance to the ceiling from the elf's body. A dry clatter brought her eyes back to the floor; bones lay scattered there, and as she watched, they crumbled to dust. A draft scattered the dust. She looked up to meet Macenion's eyes. He was pale and trembling.

"It worked," she said unnecessarily.

"Yes. It-by Orphin, I'm tired. That-even reading it- that was beyond my powers-" He reeled, and Paks moved quickly to catch him before he fell. He lay some time unmoving. She could feel a pulse beating in his neck, so she folded her cloak under his head and let him rest. Some time later he opened his eyes and blinked. "What-? Oh yes. That." Silently Paks offered him water and food. He took a long drink, and shook his head at the food. After .

85.another swallow, he rolled up to a sitting position and shook his head sharply.

"Do you think, Macenion, that that creature was what we came here to fight?" Paks had been worrying about this; if it were the servant of some greater evil, she had little hope of escape.

"I think so. That-was a considerable power. If it had chosen a better spell for you, or been more practiced at swordplay-we wouldn't be here."

'Then what were we to free? The elfs body? That couldn't have called us. What else is there?"

Macenion rubbed his face with both hands. "No. You're right. We haven't been greeted with cries of joy and armfiils of reward, have we? Something still to be done-by Orphin, I don't know if I can manage any more spells today." He reached for the food and started earing slowly. "Maybe you won't need to. If whatever it was is trapped somewhere, all we need to do now is find it."

"I hope it's that easy." Macenion stood up, swaying slightly at first. "I just had a thought. I hope whatever it is wasn't trapped in a jewel or something worn by the elf. Some magicians do that sort of thing. If so, we're out of luck."

"If only we get out of this," said Paks, "we'll be in luck." "True. Did you see anything down that corridor?" "No. Nothing."

Paks was never afterwards sure what had guided their choice, with so many ways to go, and no knowledge. At first, as they walked the bare stone corridor, Macenion continued to eat, reaching out now and again to touch the walls as if for balance. Then the corridor sloped down, and he paused.

"Wait-" Macenion's face, when Paks turned, was grim. He pulled out his own sword, and tested the balance. "I sense something-" "Not that thing in the Winter Hall!" Macenion shook his head. "No. Not so dire as that. But it's as if my blood tingled-some enemy is below, and coming nearer."

Paks looked around for a good place to fight. The corn- 86.dor was slightly too wide for two to hold. "We'd better go on, then, and hope for something we can use."

Macenion nodded, and came up beside her as they started off again.

"Don't you want to stay back and prepare your spells?"

"I told you-I can't do that again today. I'd never be able to cast a simple fire spell, let alone anything useful."

The corridor turned right, and continued downward. Paks felt edgy; she was increasingly aware of the weight of stone and earth above her. She found herself whispering words from a Phelani marching song. Macenion looked at her curiously, and she blushed and fell silent.

Suddenly Paks caught a foul whiff that stopped her short. "What's that?"

Macenion looked eager. "Ah, I might have known. Ores, that's what. They would move in when the elves were driven away."

"Ores?" Paks had heard of ores; they had raided Three Firs in her great-grandfather's day, but she had not expected to meet any.

"Ugly but cowardly," said Macenion briskly. "If that was their master, they'll want nothing better than escape. They won't be looking for experienced fighters like us-"

"If they want to escape, we can let them," suggested Paks.

"Let ores loose? Are you crazy? They're disgusting. Vermin, killers, filthy-"

"How many are likely to be in a group?" Paks didn't care how disgusting they were; enough ores could kill them.

"Oh-not more than seven or eight. We can handle that many. I killed three by myself one time."

"But Macenion-"

"Paksenarrion, I've seen you fight, remember? We have nothing to worry about. If we can handle that thing up there-" he jerked his head back where they'd been, "-we can handle a few ores. Trust me. Haven't I been right on this so far?"

"I still think we should wait until we know how many there are. Let's find a hiding place, and-"

87."Where?"

Paks looked around. Ahead, the corridor turned again twenty paces away, still going down. They had pa.s.sed no doors for the last two hundred paces. She shrugged, and went on.

Around that corner the stench was stronger. Trash littered the floor. Paks looked for someplace to hide. Halfway to the next turn a doorway shadowed one wall. They had nearly reached it when they heard a harsh voice from somewhere ahead. Paks darted forward. The doorway was an empty ^gap opening into a tiny bare room. She grabbed Macenion's arm and pulled him in. He glared at her, but said nothing as the voice came nearer in the corridor.

The first ores were uglier than Paks had imagined. Greasy leather armor covered their hunched torsos; long arms banded with spiked leather hung nearly to the floor. The first carried a curved blade, badly nicked along the inner curve, and the second dragged a short spear, short enough not to impede a fighter in the corridor. Paks noted toe spare knives in sheaths on both hips, and helmets that came low over the nose. Behind the first pair came another, whose voice they had heard. It wore a filthy fur cloak over its armor, and carried a spiked whip as well as a sword. Whatever it was saying to the others must have been unpleasant, for the spear carrier turned suddenly and growled back at it. Paks flattened herself into the angle of wall away from the door, and hoped the ores would quit arguing and go on. Macenion, however, leaned toward the door. She realized suddenly that he was about to attack. He looked back at her and c.o.c.ked his head at the door.

If he attacked them and was killed, they'd be sure to look in the room. Paks cursed the stupidity of all magicians, and moved to the other side of the door, sword ready.

"It's only three," hissed Macenion. "We can take them easily."

Paks hoped so. The argument outside was even louder. At least they could surprise the ores. She took a deep breath and crouched. Now!

88.Her first blow caught the third ore low, in the thigh. His leg was harder than she'd expected, but she got her sword back, and he went down, bellowing. Macenion had gone for the spear carrier and missed; the other sword bearer took one wild swipe at Macenion's head, then turned to Paks. The ore she had wounded flung its whip at her sword, and she dropped the tip just in time. The ores were faster than she'd expected. She parried the curved blade on one side and danced back from the wounded ore's whip. Macenion was trying to get past the guard of the spear carrier. She didn't envy him.

Once out of reach of the wounded ore, she found fencing with the other one strange but not as hard as she'd feared. Its reach was almost as long as hers, but low; it couldn't match her height. She had little trouble defending herself. Attack was harder. Her overhead blows fell on heavy armor. Paks abandoned that tactic and tested its quickness. Perhaps she could get behind it. She heard a yelp from Macenion, then a guttural command from the fallen ore. When she looked, Macenion was fencing left-handed, shaking blood from his right hand. That was the second wound to that arm. She attacked her own ore with sudden ferocity, and made a lucky stab under the right shoulder. The ore fell, snarling, and stabbed at her legs. Paks skipped back and ran to Macenion's opponent. He could not use a spear in two directions at once. Paks ran him through when he thrust at Macenion. But before they could do anything about the first ore she had wounded, it was bellowing even louder.

"G.o.ds above!" gasped Macenion. "There's more of them!"

Paks heard the clamor almost as he spoke. "Which way?"

"I don't know! I-" He stared wildly around.

"Here!" Paks ripped a length of cloth from his cloak and wrapped it around his arm. "If we've got more to fight, you don't need to be dripping like that." She still could not tell where the sound came from; the corridor echoed confusingly.

"Well go down," said Macenion suddenly.

"Down! But-"

80.

"Come on!" He whirled away from her and strode down the corridor; the noise was much louder. Paks looked after him an instant, and ran to catch up.

"How do you know they're not-" But Macenion wasn't listening. He hurried ahead, and again she had to stretch her tegs to catch him. "Macenion!" She caught at his arm as he neared the next turn.

It was too late. From around the turn erupted a wild band of ores, stinking and dressed in filthy leather armor. Before she could guess how many of them they faced, she was engulfed in a deadly lacework of iron: swords, knives, and axes swung around her. The harsh clamor of their voices and the ring of blades filled her ears; it seemed all she could see was weapons and armor. Then she realized that Macenion was nearby, fencing with skill she had not suspected. That slender blade he Bore had more strength than she'd thought.

"This way, Paks!" he yelled. He seemed to be ahead, still, and downward. Paks grunted and It toward him, taking a solid blow in one side as she came away from the wall. She felt the rings of her chainmail shirt dig in to die same place she'd been hit earner, but it held whatever blade that was. She caught one ore under the chin, and dodged another. The place was full of them- she saw a doorway, now, and another doorway, and ores in both. She slipped on something underfoot and staggered. Lucidly they couldn't all reach her at once, and she hacked on, grimly determined to kill as many as she could before they killed her. She couldn't see Macenion, now.

Suddenly the ores gave way in front of her, and she plunged through them to find herself in a circular chamber, hi front of her, Macenion lay nice down as be had fallen, an axe standing out of his back. Beyond his body rose a focus of light that changed color as she looked. She whirled to face the ores. They blocked the doorway, grinning and muttering. One at the rear of the ma.s.s yelled out, and they started toward her. She gave one quick glance to the chamber-no other door. And entirely too many ores: no hope of winning through them all. She took a deep breath and laughed, at peace with her fete.

90.Afterwards she was never sure How she came to move into the light. As the ores came forward, she ran to fight them over Macenion's body. They were too many, and pressed her back, and back again. Someone or something was calling her-wanted her to do something-but she had no lime, no hands, for anything but die fight. As in a dream she felt one ragged blade catch her arm, and another stabbed deep into her leg. Ore stench choked her nose; she gasped for breath, with a sudden memory of the young soldier in her first battle, a wry grin for the girl who would never get home. Back, and back again, a step at a time. She kept expecting a blow from behind, but it never came. Her arm felt heavy and clumsy; her sword slid off an ore helmet as the dagger in her left hand parried another blade. She took a deep breath-her last, she thought-and lunged hard at the ore in front of her.

She could not reach him. He stood as close as her own arm, but his sword, thrusting at her, jabbing wildly, touched her not at all, nor hers, him. And a pressure filled her head, as if a river poured itself in one side and found no outlet. She felt herself falling under that pressure, her hand loosening, losing its grip on the dagger.

-Take- It was more of a picture than a word: a hand, grasping.

Paks stared at her own hand, open as if it were reaching for something.

-Take . . . this . . . thing- The pressure moved her eyes; she looked as it directed, and saw a blue egg-shaped object. She could not tell how far away it was, orhow big, or even what it was. She tried to frame a question. Instead, the command returned, and filled her whole head; she felt it would burst. -TAKE IT- She reached toward the object, and felt an unpleasant oily sensation on the insides of her fingers, as if they were sinking slightly into it. But her hand closed around the object firmly. It felt disgusting, in ways she could not describe, and had never imagined. She would have dropped it, thrown it far away, but it clung to her hand. When she tried to open her fingers, they wouldn't move. All at once she felt the pain of all her wounds, the exhaustion of all .

91.die fighting, a great heaving wave of sickness that seemed to cut her fees from under her. She tried to raise her sword for one last blow.

And the pressure within suddenly burst out in a vast roar, a vibration so deep she felt it in her bones and hardly at all in her ears. The light was gone-darkness churned around her-she caught a last confused glimpse of ores screaming, tailing stones, Macenion's body glowing blue as fire-then a deafening, whirling confusion.

And silence.

Chapter Six.

When she managed to lift her head, she was lying on the turf near the well. The building they had entered was down, collapsed in a heap of stones. It was broad daylight, with the sun's warmth filtered through high clouds. Paks took a breath, and sneezed. She was stiff and sore, and it was hard to think what had happened. Her head felt empty; her ears rang like a bucket. She looked at her hands-die one still cramped around the hilt of her sword, and the other empty, but with the feel of something filthy on it. She scrubbed it in the gra.s.s. Her eyes watered, and she swiped at them clumsily with her sword hand.

She knew she should get up, but she wished she could lie there and rest forever. After a moment, sighing, she forced hersetf up; elbows, knees-she rested there for a bit. Her legs felt shaky and uncertain. She looked at her sword; blood and dirt were caked on it. She shuffled on her knees to the well and took a handful of water to clean it. After a mouthful or two of that clear water, she began to feel more alert. The sword slid back in its scabbard sweetly-it feared nothing near. She looked around for the horses. Macenion's had disappeared; that seemed right. Star grazed unconcernedly across the well from her. There were the packs, lying open outside the ruins of the little building. Whatever had happened, there below, was over. She could do nothing for Macenion now. She must go on.

92..

93.Even so she might have sat beside the well for the rest of the day if something had not moved her. The pressure she had felt before seeped back into her mind. This time it was more delicate: she was aware of it as a separate being. There were thanks, for her and Macenion. There were directions, specific and detailed. Slowly she rose to her feet, and slowly she gathered up her belongings. She wondered what to do with Macenion's things, and the being told her. This to the well, and that under a stone, and those to lie open on the gra.s.s, for the wind and sun to play with. Star came to her quietly, and she tied her pack to the frame.

Before she left, the being demanded one thing more. She was tired and found it hard to think, but the pressure gave her no ease until she obeyed. In that mound, through that gap-and take those things. She packed, vaguely aware that much of it was treasure: weapons decorated with gold and jewels, coins, rings, and baubles. But why the scrolls? She didn't understand, but she obeyed, picking up what she was bid, and stowing it away in Star's pack. As she worked, the clouds thickened overhead, and a chill wind rolled down from the mountains. She didn't notice. She felt no triumph, only a great tiredness.

As she stumbled away on the narrow track she had been nudged to follow, the first dancing flakes of snow fell from the thickening clouds behind her. Soon a light dusting whitened the tops of the mounds in the valley, outlined the limbs of trees and clung to the cedars in little furry clumps. The clouds reached out, northwards, and gathered in the trail Paks had taken. Snow hung in the air around her, filling her lungs with its damp clean smell. She hardly noticed. It was harder and harder to walk. Every step seemed to take the last of her strength, as if she were pulling her legs out of the ground. Her left hand still felt dirty, and she rubbed it on her trousers as she walked, without realizing it. Uphill-it was all uphill, trying to clear the ridge on the far side of the valley. Paks caught at Star's pack, clung to it, and the st.u.r.dy pony plowed on, through the deepening snow, ears flat and tail clamped down. Her left side caught the blast of wind off the moun- 94.tains. Soon it was numb, and she stumbled, lurching into Star, and then back, to tall face-down in die snow. A wave of nausea swept over her, but she had nothing to heave. Her stomach cramped. She couldn't push herself up; she felt the snow on the back of her neck, and then The eHane taig, having won, settled back into place with satisfaction. Its rule ran to the boundary stones placed by die elves when first they came. If it could do something, for die one who freed it from such contamination, it might do so-but beyond the stones it could not go. And, as well, die troubles of weak mortals are of little interest to such as die eHane taig. Even less when it had suddenly been restored to its powers, and had much to do. She had received her reward. The elfane taig had no notion, of course, of die human value of what she had been given; gold, it knew, was prized by humans. Some of die other objects had come from humans in the first place. The eHane taig thought their return appropriate.

In die darkness the first elf mistook her snow-covered body for a drift of snow, and stumbled over it. His m.u.f.fled curse disturbed the pony, huddled in a thicket nearby, and she snorted.

Quickly die next elves found die pony and soothed her, whisking die snow from her back and running deft hands over rhe pack straps. Meanwhile die first elf felt what was under the drift, and called for more light. Torches flared in die windy darkness.

"A human." Contempt laced the silver voice.

"A robber by die look of it-her," said another, holding out die patched cloak.

"Robber indeed," said one of die elves near Star. "Tnis Htde one is loaded with such treasure that she can hardly walk. And more than that, it comes from die banast taig.'

"Mother of Trees! I had not thought even die humans bold enough to rob there. Or skilled enough to escape." The leader of the group looked at a dagger and sheath from die pack and shook his head. "With such to carry, it must not DC escape, but something worse."

95."She is alive," said the first elf, after finding a pulse.

"Not for long," said the leader. "We may not be able to challenge that evil, but we can deal with its minions. We can leave-"

"Look at this," said one of those going through the pack. He held out to the leader the sealed message from the Halveric. "Is this stolen as well?"