There were ten rooms on either side of the corridor, and the first four on either side presented sleepy men reacting to the rise and dress order with a mixture of surprise and agitation. The other six rooms on either side, containing a total of twenty-four men, yielded something altogether different and altogether unsettling.

  Commander! Crowler called as he returned from the fifth room on the right. Here immediately, sir!

  There was an urgency in the squat man's voice that drew the others back from the end of the hall where they were on their way to wake the men on the third floor of the inn.

  What is it? Richter asked as they reached the now shaken, pale-faced Crowler.

  In there, sir. Two dead men.

  On the beds, two corpses lay wide-eyed, staring sightlessly at the ceiling. In the flickering illumination provided by the lamp which Crowler had lighted, the copious amounts of blood looked strangely black instead of red.

  Throats slit, sir, Crowler said. Some stinking scum cut them open while they slept! There was absolute murder in the sergeant's voice. His hands gripped the back of a desk chair so harshly that the spindly wood began to snap and splinter.

  The other rooms, Richter said, returning to the corridor.

  The four of them split up at that suggestion and checked the remaining eleven rooms on that floor. In every case, there were two dead men in each room, lying in their sheet, gouts of blood spilled across the mattresses, splattered on the walls behind them.

  When they regrouped in the corridor, Belmondo was trembling, his face drawn, his mouth loose, on the verge of being terribly ill. The rest of them were angry, but not ready to collapse from such a sight, being harder men by nature. Both Richter and Mace were possessed of a cold and even fury of the kind which is all but invisible on the surface but which spells death to the man against whom it is directed. Sergeant Crowler was of a different nature, loudly furious, the sort of man to rend things, to curse and kick his anger out on inanimate objects. His face was frightfully red.

  But why didn't he kill everyone on this floor? Richter asked.

  Perhaps he heard you coming, Crowler said. Such a man would have a good ear. It comes with his profession.

  We had better wake those above, the commander said. Then we'll find out who has left his room tonight. Surely his mate will know and tell.

  Not surely, Mace said. There were quite obviously two assassins. Needless to say, they will have shared a room and will vow for each other.

  Why two? Sergeant Growler asked.

  All the dead were still in their beds, Mace said. One killer could not have knifed one man-in every case- without waking the soldier in the second bed in the process. Two men entered each room and struck simultaneously. They have a fine sense of precision.

  Half an hour later, all the men had been assembled in the public lobby, and each man had vowed for his mate. Richter was furious at such perfidy but finally separated the remaining seventy-six enlisted men into two groups, one to bunk in the lobby and the other in the dining room. Sergeant Crowler and two randomly selected privates were to guard the lobby. Three men whom the commander most trusted were selected for duty in the dining hall

  Thank your master for the warning, Richter said. And tell him that we wish to consult with him inside the hour. If he could, perhaps, perform a reading of our troops, he could uncover the villains in this affair.

  I will tell him, within the hour, Mace said. But a word or two with you, privately.

  Richter raised his eyebrows, then excused himself from Belmondo and took Mace to a pantry. Back among the sacks of flour and the boxes of dried fruits, the old officer looked inquiringly at the giant. What bothers you?

  If we reject the notion that the assassins did not finish their skullduggery on the second floor because we interrupted them, there is another possibility that arises.

  Yes? In the confines of the musty room, the old man's voice seemed abnormally loud, even in a whisper.

  Perhaps the killers did not finish on the second floor, simply because they are roomed there. It would look suspicious, to say the least, to find everyone dead down there but two men.

  Be damned! Richter said, cursing himself.

  Are any of the men you put on watch-are any of them from the second floor?

  One, Richter said. I will go relieve him immediately.

  Mace turned to open the door, but was stopped by the commander's thin-fingered hand upon his healthy biceps.

  One thing, Mace, Richter said. You play the role of the slow-witted buffoon with some deal of grace and wit But now that I know it is a role, I shall rely on you steadily for information. You understand?

  Mace nodded. Now I must go and tell the Shaker that you wish a reading. There are preparations to be made.

  He left the hotel and took a less awkward route home, avoiding the steepest streets, using the pedestrian stairs whenever there was a hill that possessed them. Far off in the sky over the peaks of the Banibals, lightning played in great orange streaks down the velvet backdrop of the sky. The smell of rain was in the air, as if Nature wished to erase the lakes of blood spilled here this night

  5

  The night storm raged beyond the house of Shaker Sandow. Great drum rolls of thunder shook the firmament and rattled the study windows in their frames. Lightning bolts seared the fabric of the heavens and bathed the room in a strange, sporadic blue light that outlined the features of the men gathered there in such an eerie manner as to make them seem like statues carved in marble. The rain beat insistently against the windows, adding a steady hiss to the sound of the solemn chants performed by the Shaker.

  The center of attention was a large, oak table which had been worked into a circle. Its middle was set with a square of mirror-polished silver, and it was that silver which supplied the only illumination from within the room. The candles had long ago been snuffed; the lanterns remained unlighted. But the silver glowed with a soft white warmth that shone on the faces of the Shaker and of Gregor who were the only two seated round the reading table.

  Behind the Shaker and Gregor, respectful and somewhat frightened by these goings on, Richter and Belmondo stood in the impenetrable shadows, hardly daring to breathe.

  At the door, Mace leaned against the wall, fascinated more by the reaction of the two officers to these wonders than by the wonders themselves. Familiarity breeds boredom, even in the most exotic of professions.

  A particularly vicious explosion of thunder slammed down into the valley, like a mallet driven upon Perdune. Richter and Belmondo leaped in surprise-but the Shaker and his apprentice continued with their rituals, oblivious to everything.

  I shall be glad when the lights come on again, Belmondo whispered to Richter, but the commander merely ignored him.

  Step here, Commander Richter, the Shaker said. We have something on the plate.

  Both officers went forward, stared down into the glittering silver square. The mirror sheen had been replaced by the hazy outlines of two human faces. There were no discernable features to the visages, and they might have been any pair of men out of those who had escaped the killers' blades this night

  That is all? Richter asked, unable to conceal the bitter disappointment in his voice.

  I am working my power to fuller perception, the Shaker said. But there is something curious about these two.

  No one spoke, for it was only the Shaker's place to comment now at this penultimate moment of discovery.

  It had begun to hail outside, and nut-sized balls of ice pinged off the windows, rattled on the roof, like the feet of hundeds of dwarves performing some fairy dance.

  There seem to be precious few personality traits to grasp. I find the sheen of their conscious minds, but to penetrate them is difficult. And when I do delve within, there seems to be precious little there.

  The images on the silver plate remained indistinct. There were dark circles where eyes should have been, dark slits for mouths, dark holes for nostrils. There were whirls of dark hair, and a haze of mist filmed even this small vision.

  What is that? Richter asked, pointing to fine lines that had begun to criss-cross the faces on the plate.

  Wires? Gregor asked. Copper wires? He looked at his master uncertainly, then returned his gaze to the faces.

  By this time, both visions were woven through with a net of wires; here and there were small plastic squares that were transistors, but which no one in the study could identify.

  The Shaker was straining now, bringing all his power to bear on the problem. But only the wires grew more distinct while the features of the two assassins remained unidentifiable. There does not seem to be the mind of a man in either of those two we see.

  Not the mind of a man? Belmondo asked, peering at the shimmering ghosts.

  Their minds are cold unfeeling but clever

  Demons you say? Belmondo asked, his voice rising squeakily.

  Not demons, perhaps but something we cannot guess, the Shaker said.

  Then the silver plate flashed with a puff of incandescent gas, and the images were gone. There was only a silver plate, cut square and set flush in the round oak table, holding the reflections of their anxious faces.

  Weary, Shaker Sandow pushed away from the table and slumped in his chair. Immediately, Mace went to the sideboard and poured him a stiff jolt of peach brandy brought it to him and placed it in his weathered, slim magician's hands. Sandow drank greedily of the liquor some color returned to his ashen complexion.

  You are reputed to be one of the most powerful Shakers in all of Darkland, Richter said thoughtfully. And yet even you could not summon up the nature of our enemy. So we fight demons, not men. But how could the lands beyond the Cloud Range house demons for the Oragonians to make pacts with, when demons live in the bowels of the earth and not on the land itself?

  The word 'demons' was the choice of your captain, Sandow corrected. I have said that our killers are simply something different than men.

  And what else does than mean but demons?

  It could mean angels, Sandow said.

  I would hardly think the beneficent sprites are responsible for the carnage we saw tonight

  I was only offering an alternative, Sandow said, as proof that there could also be a third.

  What do you suggest? the commander asked.

  I suggest nothing. I only report what information I obtain and leave the decision to you. It must be so, or I then become the commanding officer. And I do not want nor could I bear such responsibility.

  The room was quiet a long while before Richter said, We will leave tomorrow at dawn, as planned. If we went back to the Darklands, to the capital, days would be lost that we cannot afford. And the chances of more spies entering our ranks the next time would be no better for us.

  Then perhaps we should get some sleep, Sandow said. This night has given us very little rest with which to meet the mountain tomorrow.

  Slipping into their oiled leather coats, the two officers left the house, hurrying through the driving sheets of rain and the occasional stinging pellets of hail which still fell. The Shaker stood by the front door, watching them until they were out of sight down the cobbled slope.

  It will not be easy, Gregor said. Not many will cross the Cloud Range.

  Perhaps, the master said. But the commander is more of a man than he even appears. He has that strength which negates the acceptance of defeat. There is a better chance with him than there would be with another officer.

  Such as Belmondo, Gregor said.

  I wonder at Richter's tolerance of that frightened youth, the Shaker said. They are not like men.

  Good gods! Mace roared behind them. Must we stand here all night gossiping of soldiers. We've but two hours on the springs, if that!

  Gregor chuckled. Better make that an hour and a half Mace. If I know you, the activities of this night will drive you to devour twice your normal horse's breakfast.

  I may just eat yours as well, Mace said. And then without a morning's vittels in that skinny stomach of yours, you'll be blown right off your mount!

  Enough, enough! the Shaker said. Let's get our sleep while we can. The days to come might not provide much time for rest.

  6

  It was some seven miles across the small valley, even by the shortest route, to the foothills of the Cloud Range. Since horses could also be employed for the first three thousand feet of the ascent, where the land was rather gentle and worn through with many paths, Commander Richter had rented enough of the beasts for the party, along with several tenders to feed and water them and bring them back to Perdune when the Banibaleers should find the way too rugged to proceed in any manner but by foot.

  With the village streets shrouded in drifting masses of white mist, the expedition set out that autumn morning: seventy-six enlisted men, Sergeant Crowler, the commander and the captain, and Shaker Sandow and his two young assistants: eighty-two in all, if one did not count the four Perdune horse tenders accompanying them on the first leg of their long journey. The horses' hooves clacked hollowly on dewy street stones, and the sounds of men shifting in their saddles to find comfortable positions complemented this to break the otherwise grave-like silence of the town.

  Within twenty minutes, they gained the banks of the icy Shatoga River and forded it without incident-though their mounts made great whinnying protests at the near-freezing temperature of those waters. On the other side, they struck south as well as inland, breaking from the thick stands of pines into the rock-strewn foothills, where the going became more difficult.

  Some four hours after dawn, Commander Richter called a halt while the horses were watered and given a meal of grain and bruised apples. The Shaker dispatched Mace to speak with the commander and compare notes of observation on the morning's ride. Sandow had seen nothing suspicious, and he rather doubted the commander would have noticed anything that he did not. Even though the commander was certainly a clever man, the Shaker was far cleverer.

  Gregor was set the task of checking the condition of the Shaker's magic devices to be certain they remained well-padded and strapped properly in place in the rucksacks their horses carried.

  Sandow wandered back through the line of riders, noting with approval the businesslike dress that had replaced the foppish, colorful costumes of the previous day. Each man wore tough leather britches which were tucked and banded into rugged boots. They wore coarse, long-sleeved shirts and soft but sufficiently warm neck scarfs. Each man owned an oiled leather artic coat which was folded into a bulky square and strapped over the gear-stuffed rucksack. All in all, they looked the efficient mountaineers they were reported to be.

  You're Shaker Sandow, aren't you? a blond-haired, blue-eyed man asked, stepping around a horse's rump to intercept the Shaker. He was in his thirties somewhere, not nearly so slim and willowy as his fair skin and hair made him appear. There was a ruggedness beneath the clothes he wore, and a heartiness in those sky-chip eyes.

  That is so, Sandow acknowledged. But I fear you have the advantage here.

  Aye, and excuse me, the man said. He grinned, and the pleasant smile which split his face seemed the prototype of the theatrical mask of the comic. His teeth were broad, very white. My name is Fremlin, and I am the master of the birds-the Squealers who will be our eyes in advance of our feet.

  Squealer masters are always portrayed as dark and mysterious, intense men who actually commune with their charges.

  I commune with them, beyond the verbal level, Fremlin said. But the similarity ends there.

  Are the birds nearby? Sandow asked.

  Back here but a few paces, sir. Would you like to have a look at the brooding devils?

  That I would, the Shaker said. He was not merely being polite, for he had always been curious about the odd feathered creatures man had come to use as advance scouts in war and on hazardous ground.

  Fremlin led him to a great chestnut stallion whose rump was slung across with a cargo strap. From each end of the strap hung a wicker cage which was further secured by cord to the saddle to keep it from slapping the beast's flanks as it walked. In each cage, there were two birds. Each was perhaps twice as large as a man's hand, and each stared through the wooden bars of its prison with pitch black, intelligent eyes that seemed to examine Shaker Sandow with speculative interest. They looked much like ravens, except that there was a crimson streak down the center of the small head, fanning intricately across the orange beak. On the center of each breast was a white diamond.

  Handsome, aren't they? Fremlin asked, obviously proud of his four winged friends.

  That they are. And valuable, I would say. We will want to know much about the way ahead once we reach the far side of the Cloud Range.