All that day, the Gnomes marched Jair north through the wooded hill country bordering the western perimeter of Leah. Embracing the shelter of the trees, forsaking the more accessible roadways that crisscrossed the highlands, they kept to themselves and to their purpose. It was a long, exhausting trek for the Valeman, made no less difficult by the way in which he was secured, for his bonds cut into and cramped his body with every step. His discomfort might not have gone unnoticed, but it went unrelieved. Nor did his captors evidence the slightest concern for the toll that the pace of their march was extracting from him. Rugged, hardened veterans of the border wars of the deep Eastland, they were accustomed to forced marches through the worst kind of country and under the least favorable of conditions — marches that at times lasted several days. Jair was fit, but he was no match for these men.
By nightfall, when they at last arrived on the shores of the Rainbow Lake and made their way down to a secluded cove to set their camp, Jair could barely walk. Bound once again to a tree, given a quick meal and a few swallows of ale, he was asleep in minutes.
The following day passed in similar fashion. Awake at sunrise, the Gnomes took him east along the shores of the lake, skirting the northern highlands that they might reach the concealment of the Black Oaks. Three times that day, the Gnomes paused to rest — once at midmorning, again at midday and a final time at midafternoon. The remainder of the day, they walked and Jair walked with them, his body aching, his feet blistered and raw. Pushed to the limit of his endurance, he refused to give them the satisfaction of seeing him falter, even for a moment. Determination gave him strength, and he kept pace.
All the time they marched him through the highlands, he thought about escape. It never entered his mind that he wouldn’t escape; it was only a question of when. He even knew hove he would manage it. That part was easy. He would simply make himself invisible to them. That was something they wouldn’t be looking for — not so long as they thought his magic limited to creating imaginary spiders and snakes. They didn’t understand that he could do other things as well. Sooner or later he would be given the opportunity. They would free him just long enough so that he could make use of the magic one more time. Just a moment was all that he would need. Like that, he would be gone. The certainty of it burned bright within him.
There was added incentive now for his need to escape. Slanter had told him that the walker that had come into the Vale with the Gnome patrol had gone east again in search of Allanon. But how was Allanon to know that the Mord Wraith tracked him? There was only Jair to warn him, and the Valeman knew he must find a way to do so.
His plans for escape were still foremost in his thoughts when, later that afternoon, they passed into the Black Oaks. The great dark trunks rose about them like a wall. In moments the sun was screened away. They traveled deep into the forest, following a pathway that ran parallel to the shoreline of the lake, winding their way steadily eastward into dusk. It was cooler here, deep and silent within these trees. Like a cave opening downward into the earth, the forest took them in and swallowed them up.
By sundown, the highlands were far behind. Camped within a small clearing sheltered by the oaks and a long ridgeline that dropped away northward to the water’s edge, the Valeman sat back against a moss–grown trunk a dozen times his girth — bound and gagged still — and watched Slanter scoop meat stew from a kettle that simmered over a small cooking fire. Weary and discomfited, Jair nevertheless found himself studying the Gnome, pondering the contradictions he saw in the cracker’s character. For two days he had had ample opportunity to observe Slanter, and he was as puzzled by the Gnome now as he had been when he had first conversed with him that night following his capture. What sort of fellow was he? True, he was a Gnome — yet at the same time, he didn’t seem like a Gnome. Certainly he wasn’t an Eastland Gnome. He wasn’t like these Gnomes he traveled with.
Even they seemed to sense that much. Jair could see it in their behavior toward him. They tolerated him, but they also avoided him. And Slanter had acknowledged that to Jair. He was as much an outsider in his own way as the Valeman. But it was more than that. There was something in the Gnome’s character that set him apart from the others — an attitude, perhaps, an intelligence. He was smarter than they. And that was due most probably to the fact that he had done what they had not. A skilled tracker, a traveler of the Four Lands, he was a Gnome who had broken the traditions of his people and gone out of the homeland. He had seen things they had not. He understood things they could not. He had learned.
Yet in spite of all that, he was here. Why?
Slanter ambled over from the fire with a plate of stew in one hand and squatted down beside him. Loosing the gag so that his mouth was clear, the Gnome began to feed him.
«Doesn’t taste too bad, does it?» The dark eyes watched him.
«No — tastes good.»
«You can have more if you want.» Slanter stirred the stew on the plate absently. «How do you feel?»
Jair met his gaze squarely. «I hurt everywhere.»
«Feet?»
«Especially the feet.»
The Gnome set down the stew. «Here, let me have a look.»
He pulled free the Valeman’s boots and stockings and examined the blistered feet, shaking his head slowly. Then he reached over into his pack and pulled free a small tin. Loosening its cap, he dipped his fingers in and extracted a reddish salve. Slowly he began rubbing it into the open wounds. The salve was cool and eased the pain.
«Should take away some of the sting, help toughen the skin when you walk,” he said. He rubbed on some more, glanced up momentarily, his rough yellow face creasing with a sad smile, and then looked down again. «Tough sort of nut, aren’t you?»
Jair didn’t say anything. He watched the Gnome finish applying the salve, then resumed his meal. He was hungry and had two plates of the stew.
«Take a drink of this.» Slanter held the ale container to his lips when the food was gone. He took several swallows, grimacing. «You don’t know what’s good for you,” the Gnome told him.
«Not that stuff» Jair scowled.
Slanter sat back on his heels. «I heard something a little while ago I think you ought to know. It’s not good news for you.» He paused, glancing casually over his shoulder. «We’re to meet with a walker the other side of the Oaks. There’ll be one waiting for us. Spilk said so.»
Jair went cold. «How does he know that?»
Slanter shrugged. «Prearranged meet, I guess. Anyway, I thought you should know. We’ll be through the Oaks tomorrow.
Tomorrow? Jair felt his hopes fade instantly. How could he escape by tomorrow? That wasn’t enough time! He had thought he would have at least a week and maybe more before they reached the deep Anar and the Mord Wraiths’ stronghold. But tomorrow? What was he going to do?
Slanter watched him as if reading his thoughts. «I’m sorry, boy. I don’t care for it either.»
Jair’s eyes shifted to meet his, and he tried to keep the desperation from his voice. «Then why don’t you let me go?»
«Let you go?» Slanter laughed tonelessly. «You’re forgetting who’s with whom, aren’t you?»
He took a long swallow from the ale pouch and sighed. Jair leaned forward. «Why are you with them, Slanter? You’re not like them. You don’t belong with them. You don’t…»
«Boy!» The Gnome cut him off sharply. «Boy, you don’t know anything at all about me! Nothing! So don’t be telling me who I’m like and who I belong with! Just look after yourself!»
There was a long silence. In the center of the clearing, the other Gnomes were gathered about the fire, drinking ale from a heavy leather jug. Jair could see the glitter of their sharp eyes. as they glanced in his direction from time to time. He could see the suspicion and fear mirrored there.
«You’re not like them,” he repeated softly.
«Maybe,” Slanter agreed suddenly, staring off into the dark. «But I know enough not to cut against the grain. There’s a change in the wind. It’s shifted about and it’s blowing straight out of the east, and everything in its path will be swept away. Everything! You don’t begin to see the half of it. The Mord Wraiths are power like nothing I’d ever imagined, and the whole of the Eastland belongs to them. But that’s only today. Tomorrow…» He shook his head slowly. «This is no time for a Gnome to be anything other than a Gnome.»
He drank again of the ale, then offered it to Jair. The Valeman shook his head. His mind worked frantically.
