Mark was not awakened by the distant cries. He slept on long after they had begun and was only aroused when a figure entered his shed, seized hold of his shoulder and shook him violently.

"Wake up! Please! Wake up!" came a sharp whisper.

"What--" he began, and he felt a hand cover his mouth.

"Keep your voice down! It's me--Nora. They'll get this one soon enough, just for good measure. You must flee!"

The hand came away from his face. He sat up and reached for his boots, began drawing them on.

"What are you talking about?" he asked. "What is happening?"

"I tried to get here in time to warn you, but they were too fast," she said. "I remembered you sometimes slept in this shed ..."

He seized his swordbelt and buckled it on.

"I've weapons in the barn to stop anything," he said. "I wish I'd kept some here--"

"The barn is burning, too!"

"Too?"

"The house, the small stable and the two nearer sheds are also on fire."

He sprang to his feet.

"My father was in the house!"

She caught hold of his arm, but he shook her off and made for the door.

"Don't!" she said. "It's too late! Save yourself!"

He flung the door wide and saw that she had spoken the truth. The house blazed like a torch. Its roof had already caved in. A number of townfolk were headed in his direction, and a cry went up as they sighted him.

He took a step backward.

"Get out through the rear window," he whispered, "or they'll know you were here. Hurry!"

"You come, too!"

"Too late. They've spotted me. Go!"

He stepped out, shut the door behind him and drew his blade.

As they approached, faces dirt-streaked and sweaty in the firelight, he thought of his last sight of old Marakas, passed out on his pallet in the loft. Too late, too late...

Father, they will pay for this!

He moved forward to meet them. As he advanced, he saw that some of them were armed with other than makeshift weapons. Old blades--some that he might have forged himself--had been freshly oiled and honed. Several of these shone in the midst of the mob. He did not slow his pace.

"Murderers!" he cried. "My father was in there! You all knew him! He never hurt anyone! Damn you! All of you!"

There was no reply, nor did he expect one. He fell upon them, swinging his blade. The nearest man, Hyme the tanner, cried out and dropped to the ground, clutching at his opened belly. Mark swung again, and the butcher's brother screamed and bled. His next attack was parried by one of the blades, and a staff struck him upon the left shoulder. He beat down a thrust toward his chest and fell back, swinging his blade in a wide arc, severing an extended hand clutching a club.

Ashes fell about them, and a line of fire moved through the long grasses toward the orchard. The barn shuddered and a wall gave way, crashing and spraying sparks off to his left.

He was struck upon the chest by something hard-thrown. He staggered back, still swinging the blade. A staff caught him again, this time upon the thigh, and he stumbled. They were all about him then, kicking, pushing. His blade was wrenched from his grasp. Immediately, his hand moved to the bracelet upon his left wrist. He pressed several of the studs .

A blade was swinging toward his head. He twisted aside, felt it cut into his brow, slip lower...

He screamed and covered his face.

And another voice also carried above the cries of his attackers. Beyond the pain, behind the blood, he recognized Nora's near-hysterical shout: "You'll kill him! Stop it! Stop it!"

Someone kicked him again, but it was the last blow that he felt.

A frightened scream arose nearby, soon to be echoed by many others, as a dark form dropped from the sky and plunged into the midst of his assailants. Its wings were like twin scythes and its metal beak rose and fell among them.

Mark drew a deep breath and staggered to his feet, his body a network of pain, his left hand still covering that half of his face, blood trickling between the fingers, running down the arm, filming the bracelet toward which his right hand now moved.

A number of men lay still upon the ground, and the dark bird stalked those who stood...

His fingers danced across the metal band.

The bird-thing halted, drew back, hopped, beat with its wings, rose into the air, circled...

"You have decided your own fates," Mark cried hoarsely.

The bird descended, seized hold of him by the shoulders, bore him aloft. His left hand was now entirely red and seemed firmly fixed to his face.

"I give those of you who still stand your lives--for now--that memory of this night shall remain among you, that witnesses be available," he called down to them. "I shall return, and all shall be done as I said it earlier in town--but you will be subjects, not partners in the enterprise. I curse you for this night's work!"

The bird picked up speed, gained altitude.

"... Save for you, Nora," he shouted finally. "I will be back for you--never fear!"

He vanished into the sky above. The wounded moaned and the fires crackled. Countercurses followed him across the night. His blood was a small rain over fields he had once worked.

After knocking and waiting--several times--she had just about given up on his being at home. She had also tried the door and found it to be secured.

She was tired. It had been a long walk up to the place, after an absolutely horrible night. She leaned against the door frame, eyes sparkling, but she simply did not feel like crying. She drew back her foot and kicked the door as hard as she could.

"Open up, damn you!" she cried, and she heard a click and the door swung inward.

Mor stood there, wearing a faded blue robe, blinking at the light.

"I thought I heard someone scratching," he said. "You seem familiar, but I don't--"

"Nora. Nora Vail," she told him, "from the east village. I'm sorry I--"

Mor brightened.

"I remember. But I thought you were just a little girl ... Of course! Excuse me. It flies." He stepped back. "Come in. I was just making some tea. Don't mind the litter."

She followed him through one curiously furnished room and into another. There, he cleared a chair for her and turned his attention to a boiling pot.

"It's terrible ..." she began.

"It will wait until tea is ready," he said sternly. "I do not like terrible things on an empty stomach."

Nodding, she seated herself. She watched the old sorcerer, as he put out bread and preserves, as he brewed the tea. There was a trembling in his hands. His face, always deeply lined, was now unnaturally pallid. He had been correct, though, in that he had not seen her for years--she had been but a small girl when he had last stopped by for dinner, on his way to or from someplace. She recalled a surprisingly long conversation....

"There," he said, setting a plate and a cup on the table beside her. "Refresh yourself."

"Thank you."

Partway through the meal, she began talking. The story poured out in disjointed fashion, but Mor did not interrupt her. When she looked at him, she realized that some color had returned to his cheeks and the hand that held his cup seemed steadier.

"Yes, it is serious," he agreed when she had finished. "You were right to come to me. In fact--"

He rose and slowly crossed the chamber to stand before a small, dark mirror set within an iron frame.

"--I had best look into it immediately," he finished, and he passed his fingertips near the glass and muttered softly.

His back was to her and his right shoulder partly blocked her view of the glass, but she saw images dance within the exposed portions, and something like a section of a strange skyline appeared in the upper right quadrant, a vaguely disturbing silhouette circling above it. The entire prospect seemed to rush forward then, and she could not tell what it was that Mor was now regarding. Changes in lighting seemed to indicate several more scene shiftings after that, but she could not distinguish the details of subsequent images.