The overwrought woman started sobbing. Frenne rushed to her side, followed by Lacht and Irsht.

  “Come, Stalli healer. We’ll take care of you this time,” the younger woman said, an arm around Bunnistik’s ample waist.

  Marnk ran ahead to prepare an herbal tea, while Frenne led Bunnistik back to the nursing tent. The girls, in a frenzy to help, pulled on Bunnistik’s sleeves. They chattered as they pulled her along, little busy nothings that wafted through the air and lifted the small crowd of people’s spirits.

  Ble and Sho whispered to each other.

  “We must go after Chell,” Ble told them, and Sho added, “He will need our help when he gets to Munta City. The Plete has obviously spoken to him.”

  The two men departed right away. The older men and women who were left avoided each other’s eyes. They walked back into Erchat’s tent and sank onto their rugs.

  “Lynn has left for Shagger’s rock, and Chell has gone after her,” Dressle stated the facts.

  Everybody nodded, but nobody looked up. Their eyes stared fixedly at the floor of the tent, until Erchat mumbled, “We did nothing but get in their way. Lynn did right to leave without talking to us—and we call ourselves wise.”

  Mugger put a trembly, wrinkled hand on Erchat’s shoulder. “We didn’t understand then. We didn’t understand, but we’ve already prayed for Lynn and Aloof One, Chell too. We just didn’t know their names. Now we can pray better—but first, would someone explain things to me, slowly this time?”

  R

  The Root Forest guards, muffled in their hoods, jumped as arrows whizzed past them, the fire on the arrows flickering in the sun’s glare. Tents in all directions burst into flames.

  Howls and panicked gibberish filled the air, but even with the roofs above them on fire, the Root men didn’t want to leave their shelters. Frantically, they beat at the flames from the inside. Not until sparks threatened their clothing did they run screaming out into the bright light.

  Their commanders weren’t there to tell them what to do.

  The men gathered in a large huddle. No one offered to go to the commanders’ tent, one of the few that hadn’t burned. They could hear a voice coming from it, and the men knew that voice. They crouched on the edge of the campground, as far from Dogor’s tent as they could go, shading their heads with huge hands and feeling miserable.

  Inside the tent, the two commanders knelt in front of their leader, receiving instructions. Gefcla had arrived without warning in front of Dogor and Barken as they rested. The sorcerer knew how to send his body anywhere on Tarth whenever he chose. He could also support himself in mid-air if he had need. Root Forest people fell to the ground and trembled every time they saw their leader float in the air. Gefcla had cowed them into obedience over and over again with the unnatural act.

  On the present occasion, however, he did not need to float in mid-air. The feet in front of the two commanders remained firmly pressed against the tent floor. An attractive man, Gefcla always looked his most congenial when planning something evil. With an easy smile and an unlined face, he gave his instructions. The two men kneeling in front of him knew better than to argue.

  “You will take my army and leave this place. A small matter has come to my attention that makes it no longer convenient for you to hide in tents from the sun. Some of my warriors will die, no doubt, but enough will survive to accomplish my purpose, and this, my bold and fearless commanders, is my purpose.”

  Gefcla leaned towards Dogor and Barken. They would have seen a glitter in his eyes if they’d lifted their heads. They didn’t lift their heads; they were much too frightened to do so, but they listened. If they didn’t hear accurately, Gefcla would kill them as deliberately and painfully as they enjoyed killing others. Then he would appoint two other Root men commanders.

  “Follow the directions I have given you to the Stalli campgrounds and kill every man, woman, child, and horse there. The Stallis’ so-called Healer has protected them from me in many ways, but he has failed to protect them from you, my chosen army. The time has come. Annihilate them. I may or may not arrive in time to watch the festive slaughter. Go to Munta, after you have destroyed the Stallis. When everyone in Munta is dead, then and only then, you may rest.

  “Have you heard me, my commanders? Have you understood what I said? There will be no rest for my men, my poor men, until the Stallis and Muntas die.”

  Long fingers grasped the gray heads of the two kneeling men. They cried out and writhed in pain at the touch. Gefcla laughed as he left them, and the Root men lay on the floor, gasping for a few minutes. Gefcla had left a familiar gift with his touch. His anger filled their minds, giving them the raging energy to accomplish what he’d told them to do.

  Barken and Dogor had turned away from Keshua years ago. With their own inclination toward evil, Gefcla’s anger could make big things come to pass. It had happened like that in the past, and the two men shouted with glee as they anticipated it happening again.

  They gathered their army together in long rows. If a Root man got too loud in his objections, his own commanders killed him.

  “March,” Dogor commanded them, and march they did throughout the desert day, walking fast to get the trek over with, using the hated sun as their guide and heading straight toward the Stalli campground.

  They would reach it before dark.

  Ten

  The Bear

  Gefcla’s army walked away from the burned remains of their campground. Behind them, on the red desert sands, they left ragged pieces of tents flapping in the wind, some dead Root men, and two crumpled forms.

  Within minutes, the two Stallis spying on them investigated. They found the two forms, crushed into the sand by the departing army who had walked over them.

  R

  “They’re traveling,” one of the spies reported back.

  Winnel and the other Stallis sat near a thicket of tayo plants. Their horses had needed to refresh themselves with sap from the stumps. Taking advantage of the necessary break, the men were coordinating the next series of raids.

  Winnel grimaced.

  “That’s not good. Send a messenger to the Stalli campground.

  Our people should leave for Munta Hill.”

  The raider stammered the rest of his report. “There’s, there’s more. They captured Shukel and Ruke.”

  All the raiders jumped simultaneously to their feet. Up to this point, protected by the dark of night, none of them had suffered more than a few minor injuries.

  “What—” began Winnel.

  “They’re dead,” the rider told him in a low voice.

  Shukel’s brother made a choking sound and bent over. Winnel put a hand on his friend’s shoulder, but his free hand shook as it clenched and unclenched.

  Ruke, Winnel, and Chell had grown close over the past two years. Always the three men had ridden together on raids. Now Winnel alone remained. Chell had left the night before, and Ruke lay dead, killed at dawn by the Root commanders.

  With no time to spare, the Stallis dug a shallow grave and lowered the bodies of their friends into it. Every forehead strained into pain-filled lines as the raiders touched their friends’ bodies for the last time. Their lips made lines too, straight-across lines that expressed their unhappiness. They didn’t have time to dig the grave deep enough; neither could they take the time to honor their friends, remembering them.

  “We don’t know how they died,” Winnel said. The Stalli leader’s hair had pulled over to one side. Half of it had escaped the string and tangled into a disheveled mess. His hands hung limply by his side. “I wish we did. I’m sure they were brave, but it’s hard that nobody heard their last words.”

  The raiders stood around him, heads sunk onto their chests. Shukel’s brother shook with grief. How could they continue this hopeless job! Gefcla’s men would defeat them, either here or at the Stalli camp or on Munta Hill. They couldn’t handle such numbers.

  ‘Tm sorry,” one of the spies mumbled.

  Winnel looked up and saw his friends standing beside him, heads lowered, hands dangling. He straightened up and drew a sleeve roughly across his eyes.

  “Did I say nobody heard? I was wrong. Keshua heard every word. Let us leave Ruke and Shukel with him and go about our duty. This is more than ordinary grief, raiders. Gefcla wants to depress our minds. We mustn’t let him. We belong to Keshua, not Gefcla.”

  The men’s heads lifted and their eyes brightened as they acknowledged the truth in Winnel’s words. Even Shukel’s brother lifted his head. He’d mourn later.

  Quickly mounting their horses, the raiders divided into the familiar small groups.

  A messenger to the Stallis had left as soon as they first heard the news. The groups of remaining raiders would harry Gefcla’s army for a few more hours. In the middle of the day they would let the bright sun do their work for them, while they raced over the red sand to join their people.

  R

  Chell forced himself not to move his legs forward on either side of Runner, because moving his legs forward would indicate that he wanted a quicker pace.

  He did want a quicker pace, but the stalwart mountain horse had run with all the other raiders’ horses to their stopping place miles away. Almost immediately, he had raced back to the Stalli campground. Now he was galloping as hard as he could toward Munta Hill.

  Runner’s age told against him. Experience he had in plenty; wisdom and the will to serve were no problem, but the old stallion didn’t have the stamina he used to have. Over the last hour, their pace had noticeably slackened. He couldn’t maintain the speed Chell wanted, and they both knew it. If Chell hadn’t felt such a sense of urgency, he would have encouraged Runner to slip into the mile-eating, restful jogtrot all Stalli horses loved. After an hour of slow trotting, Runner could have galloped swiftly again—but they didn’t have the time.

  Did Gefcla realize Lynn had two brueggen stones? Did he know she had started toward Shagger’s rock?

  “He’s a sorcerer. He knows,” Chell muttered darkly.

  The hours crept by, and Chell’s head pounded in rhythm to the thud of Runner’s feet. The stallion could barely gallop now. His breathing had become loud and labored, an unheard-of phenomenon for a Stalli mountain horse. Neither Runner nor Chell noticed the two horses following them in the distance. All their concentration focused on what was in front of them.

  At last Munta Hill came into sight, and Chell let himself sit back and stretch cramped muscles.

  “Only a little longer, Runner,” he told his horse.

  When they reached the last rise, several Muntas saw them coming and ran out onto the desert sand to meet them. They brought soft dry towels to rub on Runner’s dripping body and stared reproachfully at Chell when they saw the exhausted condition of his mount.

  “I need another horse,” Chell ordered as he swung off Runner.

  Chell didn’t have time to talk. He wanted out of there, and he needed a fresh horse to take him.

  “Let me have your fastest, most reliable hill horse,” he said in what he considered a reasonable tone of voice.

  “NOW!” he shouted when they only stared at him.

  “Certainly, certainly, I will tell the head of our stable,” one of them answered.

  The stable hand scuttled off toward the stable. Let someone else handle this Stalli warrior who ran horses to the point of exhaustion. He didn’t want to do it.

  Chell had every intention of following the man to speed up his request, but he turned first toward Runner.

  “I’m sorry, my friend. I wouldn’t leave you unless I had to,” he said hurriedly, stroking the sweat-drenched neck.

  Runner laid his ears back along his neck and tried to snort but didn’t have enough breath to do it. The old stallion was not happy with the situation, not happy at all. He didn’t mean to put up with it either.

  Chell had no more time. With a final pat, he left his horse with the clucking, sympathetic Muntas and strode toward the stable. When Ble and Sho rode up five minutes later, they found him in an argument.

  “You are one of our Stalli allies. I’ll give you a horse, yes, but you must tell me what you want it for,” the head of the Munta stable insisted, with a meaningful glance toward his stable hand who had obviously complained about Runner’s condition.

  “All right,” bellowed Chell.

  He’d wanted to avoid more questions with answers nobody believed, but clearly these people wanted their own chance to shake their heads at him.

  ‘Tm going up the hill to protect a girl from another world who’s carrying brueggen stones toward Shagger’s rock. She’s fulfilling the rhyme, but she needs my help. The Great One told me. Now do you understand?”

  The Munta man shook his head at Chell. To give him credit, he looked as if he wanted to believe the young man but couldn’t quite manage it.

  If he asks how I know....

  “How do you know,” the man began, and Chell glanced about for something to throw at him. He only wished he could find a brueggen stone or two.

  “Give him the horse,” ordered a voice, and Chell spun about to see Ble and Sho.

  The older men hadn’t bothered to dismount. They sat, leaning forward on their horses, all four of them breathing heavily.

  “Pacer, give him Pacer,” Sho instructed.

  “Give him the Hill Pacer?” the stable head questioned, as if he couldn’t have heard right.

  “Yes, and right away!”

  Ble and Sho stared sternly at the Munta man. Glad of the unexpected reinforcements, Chell glared at him. The head of the Munta stable knew when to admit defeat. Throwing up his hands, he started barking out orders of his own.

  In a matter of minutes, Chell was jumping onto the back of a small brown mare.

  “All right, Pacer, let’s go and let’s go fast. We need to get to Shagger’s rock the quickest way possible. If Lynn’s not there, I’ll backtrack down the path. She has a big start on us, so we ought to take shortcuts. Know of any?”

  The mare neighed as she accepted the challenge. Into the trees they sped, spuming the paths that crossed their way. Hill Pacer knew every meadow, forest, and rock on this hill. Without hesitation, she chose the quickest route.

  Runner lifted his sweaty head and watched them go.

  R

  Lynn stirred, protesting weakly. Her mother was kissing her cheek to wake her up.

  “A little longer, Mom,” she begged. Her mother snorted in her ear.

  Wait a minute!

  Lynn opened her eyes in time to see Aloof One’s muzzle aiming again at her cheek.

  “Oh, yuck! Go away, Aloof One. I’m up—almost.” Aloof One snorted again and reached for Lynn’s left ear. “Okay, okay,” Lynn said.

  Wiggling out from under the rock, she sat on the blue grass. The sun had only moved slightly down from its noontime position. Her nap couldn’t have lasted longer than an hour. She yawned. Her fingers broke off a juicy grass tip, and Lynn nibbled on it. Aloof One was leaving her alone now that she’d sat up. The mare took an enormous bite of the tender grass, eyeing Lynn as if to show her how to do it.

  “I only wanted a nibble,” Lynn assured her.

  She sat a few minutes longer, munching on blue grass tips and feeling a peace in her heart that she’d never felt. I’m right with him, with Keshua. Wouldn’t Mom and Dad be surprised? Keshua’s inside of me. I can feel him there. It’s not me, it’s him, only maybe the Stallis would call him the Plete. No, OH NO!

  Lynn groaned loudly enough to make Aloof One lift her head in alarm. I can’t believe it! The Plete’s the same thing as Mom and Dad’s Holy Spirit!

  Lynn had never paid much attention to the Holy Spirit. He was too weird, and whenever her parents had talked about him, they’d sounded weird too. Now he was inside of her, and she couldn’t decide whether to squirm or laugh out loud.

  One of the Plete’s meanings is big laughs, isn’t it?

  A grin spread over her face and she chuckled. Aloof One snorted and grabbed another mouthful of grass as if to make up for lost time. He’s laughing at me—no, it’s not like that. He’s inviting me to laugh with him. My embarrassment is a joke he wants to share with me.

  Lynn had never felt this good. Ten minutes passed, but she didn’t care. She didn’t want to get up. A bird trilled on the hill somewhere beneath them. Fifteen minutes passed. Slowly, imperceptibly, the peace in her heart dulled into sleepy stupor. Why hurry so? Throwing two little rocks over one big one couldn’t be all that important.

  A slight hump of Munta Hill protected the small patch of blue grass from afternoon winds. The sheltered spot caught and held the warmth of the sun. Aloof One started dozing as she stood, a few tufts of grass hanging out one side of her mouth.

  Lynn’s eyes closed, but something had begun fussing at the edges of her mind, something that wouldn’t leave her alone. She’d heard that fussy voice earlier that night, hadn’t she?

  Bunnistik, Marnk, Frenne, Lacht, Irsht, Erchat, Chell—Lynn’s eyes shot open. What was the matter with her? She had a job to do, tired or not.

  “Come on, Aloof One,” she said with as much determination as she could muster. A huge yawn marred the overall effect. “Let’s get out of this sleepy place.”

  Lynn mounted with an effort, and they made their way along the path. As soon as they climbed over the sheltering hump of the hill, cooler air and a blast of invigorating wind met them.

  “Okay, that’s more like it,” Lynn said, and Aloof One whinnied agreement, though she kept her head down.

  Small rocks covered this part of the path, and the mare had to pick her way through them, watching every step. Fortunately, when the path curved to the right, passing between two big rocks, they left the loose rocks behind them. Lynn stared ahead with interest. A little further on, the path turned to the right, and then narrowed as it started hugging a cliff. A drop into empty air on its outer side ended forty feet below in a forested area.