no crusts of bread you toss to us. We damn you all to Hell.”
Then he turned about and went down the path. Scratch and Conrad were sitting side by side upon the ledge on which they’d slept.
“Where are the others?” he asked.
“The hermit and the witch have gone to bring in Beauty’s pack,” said Scratch. “They spotted it. It had been floating in the water and came to shore just down the beach. There may be something in it still fit to eat.”
“How are you feeling?” Duncan asked Conrad.
The big man grinned at him. “The fever’s gone. The arm feels better. Some of the swelling’s down and the pain is not as bad.”
“Milady,” said Scratch, “went off in that direction.” He made a thumb to show the way she’d gone. “She said something about spying out the land. Before I woke you up. She has been gone for quite some time.”
Duncan looked at the sky. The sun was halfway down from noon. They had slept a good part of the daylight hours away.
“You stay here,” he said. “When the others come in keep them here as well. I’ll go and find Diane. That way, you said.”
The demon nodded, grinning.
“If there’s anything to eat,” said Duncan, “eat it. We must be on our way. We have no time to lose.”
“M’lord,” said Conrad, “you plan to beard the Horde?”
“There’s nothing else to do,” said Duncan. “We have no other choice. We can’t go back and we can’t stay here.
This island is an abomination.”
Conrad grinned wolfishly. “I shall be close beside you when we go in,” he said. “I need but one arm to swing a club.”
“And I as well,” said Scratch. “Snoopy was right in what he said in giving me the pitchfork. Appropriate, he said.
And it is that. It fits my hands as if it had been made for me.”
“I’ll see you soon,” said Duncan.
He found Diane on a small headland that overlooked the fen, back the way they’d come. She was sitting on a small rocky upthrust and turned her head when she heard his step behind her.
“Is it time to go?” she asked.
“Almost,” he said. “In just a little while.”
“I don’t know,” she said. “This facing of the Horde…”
“There’s something I must tell you,” he said. “Something I must show you. I should have long ago.”
He put his hand into the pouch at his belt, took out the talisman and held it out to her.
She drew her breath in sharply, put out a hand toward it and then threw back the hand.
“Wulfert’s?” she asked.
He nodded.
“How did you get it? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because I was afraid,” said Duncan. “Afraid that you might claim it. I had need of it, you see.”
“Need of it?”
“Against the Horde,” he said. “That was the purpose for which Wulfert made it.”
“But Cuthbert said…”
“Cuthbert was wrong. It has protected us against the Horde from the day I found it. They have sent their minions against us, but with a few exceptions, no members of the Horde have come against us. They have kept well away from us.”
She put out both her hands and took it from him, turning it slowly, the embedded jewels blazing as the sunlight caught them.
“So beautiful,” she said. “Where did you find it?”
“In Wulfert’s tomb,” he told her. “Conrad hid me in the tomb after I was knocked out in the garden fight. Where we first met, remember?”
“What a strange thing to do,” she said. “To hide you in a tomb.”
“Conrad sometimes does strange things. They usually are effective.”
“And you found it there by accident?”
“When I came to I was lying on it and it was uncomfortable. I thought it was a rock someone had chucked into the tomb. At first I had meant to give it to you, if we found you again. But then, when it became apparent…”
“I understand,” she said. “And now you think you can use it against the Horde. Perhaps destroy them?”
“I’m gambling on it,” Duncan said. “I think so. It is apparent something has been protecting us. It must be the talisman. I think we have a weapon feared by the Horde. Why else would they swarm against us?”
“So Wulfert was right all along,” she said. “The others all were wrong. They threw him out when he was right.”
“Even wizards can be wrong,” he said.
“One thing,” she said. “Tell me why you’re here. What brought you here? What is going on? Why is it so important that you get to Oxenford? You never told me that. Or Cuthbert. Cuthbert would have been interested. He had many friends in Oxenford. He wrote to them and they wrote to him. Over the years he had corresponded with them.”
“Well,” he said, “there is this manuscript. The story is a long one, but I’ll try to tell it quickly.”
He told her quickly, condensing it, using as few words as he could.
“This doctor in Oxenford,” she said. “The one man in all the world who can authenticate the manuscript. Have you got his name?”
“His name is Wise. Bishop Wise. An old man and not too well. That’s why we are in such a hurry. He is old and ill; he may not have too long. His Grace said his sands were running out.”
“Duncan,” she said in a small voice. “Duncan…”
“Yes? You know the name?”
She nodded. “He was Cuthbert’s old friend, his good friend.”
“Why, that is fine,” he said.
“No, Duncan, it is not. Bishop Wise is dead.”
“Dead!”
“Some weeks ago Cuthbert got the word,” she told him. “Word his old friend had died. More than likely before you set out from Standish House.”
“Oh, my God!” he said, going down on his knees beside her.
A pointless trip, he thought. All of this for nothing. The man who could have authenticated the manuscript dead before they even had set out. Now the manuscript would not be authenticated. Not now. Perhaps never. A hundred years from now there might be another man, or there might never be another man such as Bishop Wise. His Grace would have to wait, Holy Church would have to wait, the Christian world would have to wait for that other man, if there should ever be one.
“Diane,” he said, choking. “Diane!”
She reached out and pulled his head into her lap, held him there, as a mother might a child.
“Go ahead and weep,” she said. “I’m the only one to see. Tears will do you good.”
He did not weep. He could not weep. Rather, bitterness swept in and gripped him, twisting him, rankling his soul.
Until now, until this very moment, he realized, he had not known or had not let himself know how much the manuscript had meant to him — not as an abstract thing holding potential good for all the world, but to him personally. To him, Duncan Standish, as a Christian soul, as one who believed, however marginally, that a man named Jesus once had walked the Earth, had said the words He was reported to have said, had performed His miracles, had laughed at wedding feasts, had drunk wine with His brothers, and finally had died upon a Roman cross.
“Duncan,” Diane said softly. “Duncan, I mourn as well as you.”
He lifted his head and looked at her.
