Shouter, realizing what he intended, blew the pot into a glow and held it up with trembling hands. 'Keep it still,' whispered Genshed.
The arrow was already fitted to the string and he lowered the bow so that one end of the rag fell across and into the open fire-pot. It took instantly; and as the flame burned up, Genshed bent the bow and loosed. The flame streamed backwards and the whole shaft appeared to be burning as it flew.
The arrow pierced the bear deeply beneath the left eye, pinning the burning rag to its face. With an unnatural, wailing cry, it started back, clawing at its mask of fire. The dry, staring coat caught and burned – first the ears, then one flailing paw, then the chest, upon which fragments of the burning rag were clawed down. It beat at the flames, yelping Like a dog. As it staggered back Genshed shot it again, the second arrow entering the right shoulder close to the neck.
As though in a trance, Kelderek again rose to his feet Once more, as it seemed to him, he was standing on the battlefield of the Foothills, surrounded by the shouting of soldiers, the trampling of the fugitives, the smell of the trodden ground. Indeed, he could now plainly see before him the Beklan soldiers, and in his ears sounded the roaring of Shardik as he burst out from among the trees. Shardik was a blazing torch which would consume them all, a charging fire from which there was no escape. The wrath of Shardik filled the earth and sky, the revenge of Shardik would burn the enemy up and trample him down. He saw Genshed turn, run back down the path and force his body into the cleft of the rock. He saw Shouter hurled to one side and Radu flung on top of him. Leaping forward, he shouted, ' Shardik 1 Shardik the Power of God!'
Shardik, the arrow jutting from his face, came to the rock into which Genshed had squeezed for refuge. Standing erect, he thrust one blackened paw into the cleft Genshed stabbed it and the bear, roaring, drew it back. Then he struck and split the rock itself.
The top of the rock cracked across like a nutshell and men, as Shardik struck it again, broke into three great fragments, which toppled and fell into the deep water below. Once more he struck -a dying blow, his claws raking his enemy's head and shoulders. Then he faltered, clutched, shuddering, at the rock, and slowly collapsed across its splintered, broken base.
Watching, Kelderek and Radu saw a figure crawl out from the base of the cleft Radu screamed, and for a moment the figure turned towards him, as though it could hear. Perhaps it could: yet it had no eyes, no face – only a great wound, a pulp of bloody flesh, stuck here and there with teeth and splinters of bone, in which no human features could be discerned. Thin, wailing cries came from it like a cat's, yet no words, for it had no mouth, no lips. It stumbled into a tree and shrieked aloud, recoiling with fragments of bark and twigs embedded in its soft, red mask. Blindly, it raised both hands before it, as though to ward off the blows of some cruel tormentor; yet there was no one near it. Then it took three blundering steps, tripped, and without a sound pitched over the verge. The splash of the fall came up from below. Radu crawled forward and looked over the edge, but nothing rose to the surface. The scabbard of his knife floating in blood on the water, and the fly-trap lying smashed beside the broken rock – these were all that remained of the wicked, cruel slave-trader, who had boasted that he could drive a child mad with fear worse than blows.
Kelderek dragged himself to the rock and knelt beside it, weeping and beating upon the stone. One enormous fore-paw, thick as a roof-beam, hung down beside his face. He took it between his hands, crying, 'O Shardik! Shardik, my lord, forgive me! I would have entered the Streel for you! Would to God I had died for you! O Lord Shardik, do not die, do not die!'
Looking up, he saw the teeth like stakes, the snarling mouth fixed open and unmoving, flies walking already on the protruding tongue, the blackened pelt burned to the skin, the arrow protruding from the face. The pointed muzzle jutted in a wedge against the sky. Kelderek beat his hands on the rock, sobbing with loss and despair.
He was roused by a hand that gripped his shoulder, shaking him roughly. Slowly lifting his head, he recognized the man standing beside him as an officer of the Yeldashay army, the corn-sheaves of Sarkid blazoned upon one shoulder. Behind him stood his young, hard-bitten tryzatt, sword at the ready in case of trouble, in his wary eye a look of bewilderment and disdain as he stared uncomprehending! y at the huge carcase slumped over the rock and the three filthy vagabonds grovelling round its base.
'Who are you?' said the officer. 'Come on, answer me, man! What are you doing here and why are those children chained to that stone? What were you going to do?'
Following his gaze, Kelderek saw soldiers standing beside the children on the bank, while a little further off, among the trees, a group of villagers stood staring and muttering.
The officer smelled like a clean butcher's shop – the smell of the meat-eater to him who eats none. The soldiers stood up as effortlessly as trees in spring. Their straps were oiled, their harness glittered, their eyes travelled quickly here and there, their controlled voices linked them like gods in smooth communication. Kelderek faced the officer.
'My name is Kelderek Play-with-the-Children,' he said haltingly, 'and my life – my life is forfeit to the Yeldashay. I am willing to die, and ask only to be allowed to send a last message to Zeray.'
'What do you mean?' said the officer. 'Why do you say your life is forfeit? Are you the slave-trader who has committed these unspeakable crimes? Children we have found in the forest – sick – famished -dying, for all I know. Is this your doing?'
'No,' said Kelderek. 'No, I'm not your slave-trader. He's dead -by the power of God.' 'What are you, then?' 'I? I'm – I'm the governor-man from Bekla.' 'Crendrik, king of Bekla? The priest of the bear?'
Kelderek nodded and laid one hand on the massive, shaggy pelt that rose like a wall above him.
'The same. But the bear – the bear will trouble you no more. Indeed, it was never he that troubled you, but misguided, sinful men, and I the worst of them. Tell your soldiers not to mock him dead. He was the Power of God, that came to men and was abused by men; and to God he has now returned.'
The officer, contemptuous and bewildered, felt it best to avoid further talk with this bleeding, stinking scarecrow, with his talk of God and his expressed readiness to die. He turned to his tryzatt; but as he did so another figure plucked at his arm – a boy, his hair matted, his body emaciated, his blackened nails broken and a chain about his ankles. The boy looked at him with authority and said in native Yeldashay, 'You are not to hurt that man, captain. Wherever my father may be, please send someone at once to tell him you have found us. We..'
He broke off and would have fallen had not the officer, his perplexity now complete, caught him with one arm about his shoulders.
'Steady, my boy, steady. What's all this, now? Who is your father – and who are you, if it comes to that?' 'I – am Radu, son of Elleroth, Ban of Sarkid.'
The officer started and as he did so the boy slid from his grasp and fell to the ground, pressing his hands against the broken rock and sobbing, 'Shara! Shara!' Book VII Power of God
55 Tissarn
A dry mouth. Glitter of water reflected from beneath a roof of reeds and poles. An evening light, red and slow. Some kind of woven covering rough against the body. A small, urgent, scratching sound – a mouse close by, a man further off? Pain, many pains, not sharp, but deep and persistent, the body infused in pain, finger, ear, arm, head, stomach, the breath coming short with pain. Weary, a weariness to be conscious and to feel the pain. Drained away: void with hunger; mouth dry with thirst. And yet a sense of relief, of being in the hands of people who intended no harm. Where he was he did not know, except that he was no longer with Genshed. Genshed was dead. Shardik had destroyed him and Shardik was dead.
Those about him; those – whoever they were – who had been to the trouble of putting him into this bed, would no doubt be content to leave him there for the time being. He could think no further, could not think of the future. Wherever he was, he must be in the hands of the Yeldashay. Radu had spoken to the officer. Perhaps they would not kill him, not only because – and this was very vague, a kind of child's intuition of what was and was not possible – not only because Radu had spoken to the officer, but also because of his destitution and his sufferings. He felt himself invested with his sufferings as though with a kind of immunity. What they would do with him he could not tell, but he was almost sure that they would not put him to death. His mind drifted away – he lacked all strength to pursue thought further – a clamour of duck on the river – he must be very near the waterside – a smell of wood-smoke – the throbbing pain in the finger-nail was the worst – his forearm had been bound up, but too
