While the two leaders tried to understand one another, Quentin established contact in his own way: gawking unashamedly at the strange people who had gathered around them. The Jher just as boldly stared back, pointing at the outlanders (their term for anyone who was not another Jher) and coveting their horses and steel knives.

The Jher, Quentin decided, were a compact race, tending more toward grace than bulk. They possessed smooth, well-formed bodies, lithe rather than muscular-again, like deer. The Jher had so long lived with the deer, they had become like them; it struck Quentin that they even looked like deer, with their large, dark, fathomless eyes, deep as forest pools and as calm. They wore deerskin clothing, sewn of deer-gut thread with deer-bone needles. They ate venison, burned deer fat in their lamps made from skulls of deer. The race had become wholly dependent upon the deer for survival and followed them wherever the nimble animals went, running with them through the seasons.

On any of the crudely decorated items of clothing or personal possessions Quentin happened to see were usually pictures of deer, painted, scratched, or carved into the item. Or, perhaps a representation of the sun, which they also revered.

And the people had the same quick instincts and lightning reactions as the shy forest creatures. That, coupled with their acute awareness of their surroundings, made them invisible to the loud, clumsy white races who tramped through the forest unaware that there might be other living souls as close as the larch they passed under.

Quentin was engaged in making hand signals with several of the braver Jher children who had gathered around, when Durwin rose and shuffled back to where the rest were seated on deerskins in the snow, awaiting the outcome of the parley.

“Hoet says that we are marked for death,” announced Durwin, who quickly realized his blunder by the stricken looks of anguish appearing on his comrades’ faces. “Oh, no! Not by the Jher. Oh, my!-no. Forgive me-I have been trying to piece together the story and did not realize what I was saying.”

“Hoet says that we are being followed by Harriers, which we know. However, the Harriers were closer than we had guessed. Last night should have been our last. He said that was the reason they stayed with us through the night watching, lest the Shoth try to take us. Without our knowing it we have stumbled very close to their winter village, and they did not want any Shoth coming so close to them.”

“So they protected us through the night, did they?” said Theido. “I am grateful for their aid. But what will happen when we leave here? The Harriers will be waiting for us behind the next big tree we pass.”

“We have discussed that,” replied Durwin. He smiled and inclined his head toward Hoet, who stood a few paces away. Hoet repeated the gesture. “Hoet says he will give us a bodyguard and a guide to lead us away from the Shoth by ways known to them.”

“How many men will go with us?” asked Trenn. His eyes scanned the group for likely conscripts. “Five or six of the bigger men should be adequate, I think.” In his soldier’s brain Trenn had already formed them into a fighting contingent and outfitted them with the helmets, bucklers, and hard leather armor of foot soldiers.

Durwin looked a little confused. “I cannot say how many Hoet intends to send with us.” He turned and went back to where the chief was standing, arms folded, chin resting on his breast. They put their heads together and began discussing again, hands groping as if to pull words out of the air. Finally, Hoet turned and whistled and waved his hand toward a group of men who were standing by the horses, admiring the animals, tack and gear. A slender young man, not much older than Quentin, came gliding over and presented himself to Hoet, who presented him to Durwin.

“Here is our bodyguard and guide,” said Durwin, returning with the youth.

“What?” exploded Trenn, flabbergasted. His eyes started out of his head and his mouth hung open. The young Jher did not seem a fair match even for one of his own people, let alone three blood-lusting Harriers.

“This is Toli,” said Durwin, introducing him to the others. Then he went around the group saying each person’s name. Toli did not attempt to duplicate the sounds. He merely smiled and nodded politely.

“When do we leave?” asked Theido with a sigh. He too had his doubts about the Jher bodyguard. He cast a quick glance overhead to see the once-clear sky had become overcast while they had waited for Durwin and Hoet’s deliberations to run their course.

“Hoet suggests we sleep now. We can leave tonight. He also says not to worry; Toli will show us a secret way past the Wall which he claims the Shoth do not know.”

THE KING sat in darkness in the deep dungeon of Kazakh, Nimrood’s walled mountain keep. Around him lay the scattered pieces of his armor, now rusting in the dank jail’s seeping damp. His once-proud head fell forward dejectedly upon his chest and his sunken eyes were closed against the disgrace of his surroundings. His long, black hair and well-kept beard, once curling with vitality, now hung in limp tangles, filthy and matted, graying at the edges.

Inwardly he cursed himself for his own stupidity and lack of foresight. So intent had he been upon returning home, so full of good spirits, he had dismissed his men to his commanders and, taking only a small bodyguard of knights, had set off straightway to catch the last boat before the raging seas of fall brought an end to the shipping season. They had boarded the ship and had, with some misgiving of the captain, sailed forth upon a sea running to chop and a sky glowering with pent-up fury.

The storm had broken the fourth day out and the captain had made for the nearest port, the harbor Fallers at the far southern tip of Elsendor. The captain had wisely refused to go further, so Eskevar and his knights struck out cross-country. A day and a night out of Fallers they were attacked. A force of armed men had been waiting to take them as they entered a narrow canyon.

The King and his knights fought valiantly, though greatly outnumbered, but at last had been overpowered. They were bound and thrown into wagons and covered with sailcloth and traveled for many days through rocky country. One of the knights, Ronsard, had been able to work free of his bonds and had escaped, recovering his horse and weapons, but having to leave behind his King and comrades.

Ronsard had followed the wagons to their destination, a ship with black sails standing off a lonely stretch of coastland. He had followed hoping to seize an opportunity to free his companions. But when he espied the dark ship and its stout occupants he despaired of loosing his friends with his lone sword and had turned toward Mensandor with his message for the Queen.

The months had passed, each day more unbearable than the one before it. King Eskevar refused to surrender to the hopelessness he felt closing around him. At first he had railed against his captor, his mighty voice kindled in righteous rage. The halls and galleries of Kazakh reverberated with his angry thunder.

Nimrood had paced his chambers cackling maniacally, his wild eyes kindled with a fierce, unearthly light.

After weeks of captivity, Nimrood had descended to his dungeon to at last cast his wicked eyes upon his prize. The King had challenged him, had begged for the freedom of his knights, had promised a stunning ransom, had demanded to know the reasons for his kidnapping. To this latter demand he had been told that his brother, Prince Jaspin, had arranged to have him kept comfortably and safely locked away until Jaspin wore the crown.

Nimrood had left then, leaving his miserable prisoner alone to eat out his great heart in anger and frustration. The King had seen no other living person since that brief interview.