Bored, Rufe went down to the river. He plunged in, swimming vigorously against the swift current. The Thon-Tanjan was shallow and rocky above Savage Ford, deeper and slower below. He ignored Mathi’s calls and swam farther out, rolling onto his back and turning his face to the warm morning sun.
Mathi ran to the riverbank. Treskan dismounted and followed with labored tread, lost in thought. He almost walked into the water, he was so distracted. Fortunately he bumped into a kender by the river’s edge and stopped.
There were little folk everywhere. Mathi wound her way through them to the stony beach, cupped her hands around her mouth, and called urgently to one bathing kender in particular. At length Rufe returned, wringing the water from his breeches.
“What is it, pointy-ears? You want a turn in the river? You’re pretty dirty-”
“Quiet, you fool! I’ve had a revelation!”
Rufe shrugged off the girl’s insult as excitement. Mathi got his attention when she told him who had attacked them. The bedraggled kender whistled in disbelief. He denied it. The open air had affected Mathi’s mind. The sooner she was back in a nice, comfortable house, the sooner her head would clear.
Mathi cursed his stupidity. “You showed me the answer! Balif’s saddle was clawed like this!” She bent her fingers, raking an imaginary saddle. “The horse was hurt like this!” She extended her hands and made violent clawing motions. “Don’t you see? The creature was on the horse’s back. The only one who could have injured the horse was Balif!”
Treskan had arrived at the same conclusion. Joining Rufe and the girl, he said, “We must find the general.”
It didn’t take long. As Mathi and Treskan stood by the line of tethered horses, a pair of riders came over the rise, standing out bright and clean against the new day’s sky. It was Lofotan and Artyrith. Something white and lifeless lolled against Lofotan’s back. He had found his commander.
They ran splashing through the mud, meeting Lofotan halfway up the hill from the copse of alders where the pack-horses were tied.
Naked, Balif was slumped against Lofotan’s back, held in place by a broad leather belt passed under his arms.
“The general-does he live?”
“He lives.” Lofotan was hollow eyed. “Whatever else can be said, he breathes yet.”
He unbuckled the strap. Treskan and Mathi caught Balif and lowered him to the ground. Rufe ambled up, cheerfully munching an apple, oblivious to the others’ glaring looks.
They examined Balif. He was naked and covered with cuts and scratches, though none serious. His worst injury was a large bruise on the left side of his jaw. Mathi noticed the mark.
“You struck him?”
“It was necessary.”
Artyrith swung a leg over the pommel of his saddle and dropped lightly to the ground. Kneeling, he grasped Balif by the shoulder and turned him half over. Down the center of Balif’s back was a distinct stripe of coarse, brown fur. What made it doubly shocking was its totally alien nature. No elf had fur down his back, and worse, the color was totally unlike Balif’s own fine, blond hair.
“What does this mean?” Treskan said, recoiling.
“The beast that’s been following us from Free Winds is no halfling monster of Vedvedsica’s,” Lofotan said. “It is our lord.”
Artyrith stood up and stepped back from the unconscious Balif. He rubbed his hands together, never taking his eyes off the fur stripe.
“How can this be? The greatest warrior of the age, a halfling beast?”
Lofotan snapped, “No finer stock of our blood ever lived than Balif, son of Arnasmir! If he is different now, it is because he is accursed!”
Artyrith had a riposte on his lips. One look at Lofotan, and he kept it there. He stared at Balif’s back. “Accursed? By the mage?” He reached for an obscenity from his extensive repertoire and found none. “How long will it be before we are all accursed?”
“Since when is evil magic contagious?” Mathi said.
“If Vedvedsica wanted us hairy, we would be by now,” Lofotan said dryly.
Artyrith protested. The magician was in custody. He couldn’t cast spells or compound curses while in the Speaker’s hands-could he?
“This has been coming on a long time,” Mathi said. Lofotan demanded to know how she knew that. Mathi had to frame a reply that protected Rufe, her hired spy.
“The general complained of being unwell at Free Winds. I understand he consulted with healers there,” was all she would say.
Lofotan got down. “We must find a cleric, who can lift the curse from our lord.”
“No one can lift a dead magician’s spell!” Artyrith declared. He had gone quite pale. Like Lofotan, he assumed Vedvedsica had been executed for his crimes. Only Mathi knew the true fate of the mage. Her distant brethren were in secret contact with their creator. Vedvedsica lived, though he was confined in a walled keep on a tiny island south of Silvanesti.
“How do you know it can’t be done? Are you a priest?” Lofotan said.
“Everyone knows a dead man’s magic is unbreakable!”
Lofotan said, “I will not bow to superstition.” To the scribe, he added, “Fetch clean water and some clothes.” Treskan hurried to comply, but Rufe turned up with the items first. Lofotan set to work washing the mud from his master’s face.
Squatting in the grass, Rufe examined Balif’s hand, as Lofotan eyed him warily. The kender turned it back and forth, scratched his nails with his own small ones, and sniffed his palms.
He was still at it when Balif said, “Everything in place, my friend?”
Anyone else would have leaped a yard at being address so suddenly. Rufe chuckled. “What happened to your claws?”
“Mind your tongue!” Lofotan barked.
“Peace, Captain,” said Balif. His voice was hoarse and strained. “My claws, friend wanderer, did not survive the night, I am happy to say.”
“You mean you were more of a beast last night than you are now?” Again Lofotan warned the kender about his manners.
Balif frowned. “The question is not without merit,” he said mildly. “While the storm was building, I was seized by a terrible urge to escape, to hide from every beam of light. I rode ahead, all the while transforming into the creature you saw. The poor horse went mad at having such a beast on his back. He tried to buck me off. I did all I could to stay on, but I lost by grip. The rest of the night I spent dodging my majordomo and my cook, both of whom were intent on killing me.”
Without turning his head to see, Balif raised his voice and added, “I saw you, Mathi, seated by the fire. I tried to tell you who I was, but I could not speak.”
“I did not know you, my lord, but I could tell you were no ordinary animal.”
He sat up, unconscious of his exposed state. “You spoke to me. I remember that you did but not what you said. I wanted to … harm you, but something in your words dissuaded me.”
Balif said he had eventually lost all power of coherent thought, lapsing completely into animal mode. When he awoke, the sun was shining overhead and Lofotan was carrying him to a waiting horse. He was naked, and his body ached as if he’d been beaten with rods.
“I found you sprawled in the grass, passed out,” Lofotan said. “Nothing would rouse you.”
He helped Balif stand. Mathi and Treskan held up the sleeves of a clean robe. Balif struggled to raise his arms. While he did, Artyrith whirled up on horseback.
“My lord!” he said, choked. “My lord, I am bound for Silvanost. I, therefore, bid you farewell!”
“What?” Lofotan exploded.
“I was hired to cook for one the most illustrious lords of Silvanost. When you took the Speaker’s command and set off on this journey, I went along, as befits a noble retainer. But now-” He reined his agitated mount in a circle. “Lord, if you are accursed, I cannot help you!”
