by the way of a cave in a high cliff. When the time came to leave, the little king loaded Herla and his companions with gifts. Many delightful and intricate mechanical toys and finely wrought clothing and jewelry did he give the king. Lastly, he gave the king a small bloodhound to carry, strictly instructing him that on no account should any of his company dismount till the dog had leapt from the arms of its bearer.
“When Herla came out of the mountain palace and into the sunlight of his own kingdom his joy was short- lived. He asked news from a shepherd, and he learned that not one year, but many hundreds of years had passed since he had last been there, and he himself was only remembered as a king of ancient times who had vanished into a cliff and had never been seen again.
“The king, who thought he had only stayed for three days, could scarcely sit his horse for amazement. Some of his company, forgetting the elfkin king's orders, dismounted before the dog alighted and instantly fell to dust. Realizing why they had dissolved, the king warned the rest under pain of like death not to touch the earth till the hound had leapt.”
Gudrin paused here to light her pipe. To the others, who were now listening closely to her tale, it seemed an infinitely slow and tedious process. At last she had the bowl glowing redly and blew several gusts of blue smoke into the open air. “Alas, from that day to this, the hound has never leapt.”
“Never?” asked Brand in surprise.
“Never,” repeated Gudrin. “And so through all the long centuries, the king and his mad coursers have wandered on horseback ever since, never alighting, never touching the earth, nor bed, nor even feeling the warmth of a campfire. And-although the curse has held them ageless for centuries, they still need to fill their bellies.”
“But what kind of men could stay on horseback for centuries, even if ageless?” asked Jak incredulously.
Gudrin shook her head. “They were men no longer, but cursed, undying creatures. They were ageless, but they weren't changeless. They became darker of spirit and came to prefer the night over the day. As hunters they were soon unequaled. Instead of his crown, Herla came to wear the great antlered stag's head that is now familiar to us.”
“But the worst change was due to the curse. For soon, the huntsmen learned why the bloodhound was so named. At first, it would eat nothing, though they offered it every kind of meat that they could kill from the backs of their cursed steeds. The small hound thinned and sickened, and Herla despaired. He cursed Oberon, and wanted nothing more than to avenge himself upon the trickster. Many times, he pondered alighting upon the earth and ending his torment, but stubbornly he refused. Only the hope of vengeance kept him going.
“So it was very important to him that the hound didn't die. He ordered his coursers to bring him every variety of food imaginable, and it was quite by accident that they first learned the dog would lap at the blood of a stag, served to it in a wooden bowl.
“The hound would drink the blood, but it did not return to health. They fed it stag's blood, but still it sickened, although its decline was much slowed. After a time, Herla came to know the truth in his heart.
“'Find the shepherd with whom we first spoke,' he ordered his coursers. 'Find him and slay him. Bring back his body into the forest that we might empty his blood into this wooden bowl.' Grimly, his coursers did as they were told. When served this bowl the hound relished it and soon grew strong again.
“In this way Herla and his followers learned to feed the hound, and in time it robbed them of the last of their humanity. For men can't take and drink the lives of other men in a perpetual hunt without changing. They became cursed horrors of the night. Worse than the Faerie themselves-than those who had created them.
“Oberon came to regret his trick and his curse. Many times have the paths of Herla and Oberon crossed, and always it has been a grim meeting.”
“And now these horrors have taken an interest in us?” asked Brand in dismay. “Why? Why is the Dark Bard here?”
“That I do not know,” replied Gudrin.
“So the bard is one of Herla's coursers, Talespinner?” asked Corbin thoughtfully, “and if any of the Wild Hunt step down from their mounts they will fall to dust. Perhaps all we need to do is coax them to alight.”
“Ah, a fair assessment, Corbin. But few have managed to get any of the Wild Hunt to leave the backs of their horses. The bard in particular is tenacious. He too was cursed by the Faerie to live in death, to walk the Earth undying. He too, was once mortal, and lives on through the strength of his vengeful will. He is unusual in that he can be apart from Herla and his hound and still exist.”
“Are there other agents like him?” asked Corbin.
“Aye, several, but it would not be good to speak more of them now.”
With a ritual of movements, Gudrin quietly closed her book, fastening the clasp and testing it. She then rewrapped the book in the waxed paper package and slid it comfortably under her arm.
The River Folk were quiet, each thinking his or her own thoughts for a time. Telyn was the first to speak. “Herla and his coursers are nightmares. But the Faerie, they seem at once wonderful and terrible.”
“They are,” said Gudrin, speaking as one would from experience. “They are both joyful and sad, young and ancient. It is beyond mortals to truly understand them.”
“It would seem,” said Corbin thoughtfully. “That our judgment of their actions should be based upon whether or not they benefit us.”
“This is one way to view them,” Gudrin admitted with a shrug.
“What about the Dark Bard? How did Herla meet him and enlist his aid?” asked Telyn.
“I want to know more of the merlings,” Jak interrupted, sounding disturbed. “How do they live? Where did they come from?”
“What interests me is the nature of these shades that were once human and seem to have taken an interest in us River Folk. You must tell us more about them,” said Brand.
Gudrin held up her hand. “Those are all other stories, which I will tell you some other time. Now we grow close to Stone Island, if I'm not mistaken.”
To the surprise of the River Folk, she was right. They rounded a bend in the great Berrywine river and the granite walls of Stone Island hove into view. Soon they busied themselves with the approach to the harbor.
This time, since the feast of the Harvest Moon was to be held tonight, there was no space at the public docks. They were forced to beach the skiff and drag it ashore and tie it to a gnarled old pine tree so that it wouldn't drift away. All of them came splashing ashore, carrying their packs and the weapons they had brought with them. Brand felt rather silly carrying his woodaxe. He exchanged glances with Corbin and could tell that he felt the same.
“Perhaps we should leave these in the boat,” suggested Brand, lifting the axe to Jak. Before his brother could reply, however, Modi stepped close to Brand and laid one of his thick hands on Brand's arm.
“Keep it with you.”
Brand looked at the warrior's huge face. He could find no mockery there, nor any humor of any kind. All he could do was nod.
They all marched up the lane to Riverton under the watchful eyes of those Hoots and Silures that were not away working. For the most part, they were elderly men and women, beating half-heartedly at filthy rugs, or more likely, rocking in their rocking chairs and sucking on cheap clay pipes. The stares were more than unfriendly, they were shocked and downright distrustful. Brand could all but hear their thoughts: Now those Rabing boys are consorting with Fobs and Outsiders! Even Battleaxe Folk, no less! They should change their names from Rabing to Rabble! Huh!
Chapter Fifteen
It was a long walk uphill, but soon they came to the main cobbled street of Riverton. They halted at the Spotted Hog where they had had lunch just the day before. It seemed like a week had passed since then to Brand.
“We must find Uncle Tylag and Constable Hirck and tell him about the stolen boat and Arlon's disappearance,” said Jak.
