Quag Keep by Andre Norton Page A

send Milo in to eat, while the bard kept a last few fleeting moments of watch. As they settled the packs and made ready to move out, Deav Dyne busied himself at the now blank ground where last night he had worked his magic. He lit a bunch of twigs that he had bound into a small faggot, and with that he beat the ground, intoning aloud as he so flailed the earth.
    Wymarc returned, bearing with him newly filled saddle bottles. With a lift of eyebrow he circled about the cleric.
    â€œMay take more than that to waft away the scent of magic if they have a man of power with them,” he commented dryly. “But if it is the best we can do—then do it.”
    The three who were to play rear guard chose their mounts—the choice being limited for Naile because of his greater bulk. He could not hope for any great burst of speed from his, only the endurance to carry his weight. Were they not pushed for time by the geas he would better have gone afoot, Milo knew, for the were-kind preferred to travel so.
    As the line of march moved out, he, Yevele, and Naile waited for them to pass, moving at a much slower pace and searching with well-trained eyes for a proper setting where they might go into hiding.

7

Ambush
    THEY HAD RIDDEN ON FOR AN HOUR BEFORE THEY FOUND WHAT Milo’s second and stronger memory hailed as a proper place to set their trap—a place where the river banks sank and there was a thicket of trees, stunted by the plain’s winds, but still barrier enough to cover them. Seven rode into the fringe of that thicket and four, with the pack train, rode out again, Ingrge in the lead.
    Naile, Milo, and Yevele picketed their mounts under the roof of the trees and gave each a small ration of dried corn to keep them from striving to graze on the autumn-killed grass. The berserker waded through the season-shrunken flood to the opposite bank where there was a further edging of the growth and disappeared so well into that screen that Milo, for all his search, could not mark the other’s hiding place. He and the battle-maiden picked their own points of vantage.
    Waiting plucked at the nerves of a man, Milo knew that. Also, it could well be that they were engaged in a fruitless task. He did not doubt Deav Dyne’s Seeing of the night before. But those who sought their party could have ventured on straightwayand not upstream. Until, of course, they came across no further evidence of trail. Then they would cast back—action that would take time.
    Here in the brush he and Yevele were not under the wind which carried a chilling bite. It blew from the north promising worse to come. However, there was a pale showing of sun to defy the gray clouding.
    â€œTwo men, plus one worker of some magic,” Milo spoke more to himself than to the girl. In fact she, too, had withdrawn so well into the brush he had only a general idea of where she now rested.
    The men would be easy enough to handle, it was the worker of magic that bothered Milo. Naile, as were and berserker, had certain spells of his own. Whether these could, even in part, counteract that dark blot Deav Dyne had read in the flames was another and graver matter. The longer they waited the more he hoped that their turn north upstream had indeed thrown the followers off their trail.
    He saw a flicker of color in the air, speeding downstream. Afreeta—Naile had released the pseudo-dragon. Milo silently raged at the rash action of the beserker. Any worker of magic had only to sight the creature—or even sense it—and they would be revealed! He knew that the berserkers, because of their very nature, were impetuous, given to sudden wild attacks, and sometime unable to contain the rage they unconsciously generated. Perhaps Naile had reached that point and was deliberately baiting the trailers into action.
    Then—Milo looked down at the bracelet on his wrist. There was a warmth there, a beginning stir of dice. He tried to shut out of his mind all