unreal blue-white light, and the claims he had just made for the peddler. If one Bork could be killed so easily, why not two? In which case—
“He’s here, pretending to be one of you!” Wim cried, his voice cracking.
And he could almost feel their terror echoing back and forth, from one to another, growing—until one of the shortest of the silhouettes broke and ran out into the moonlight. He got only about twenty feet,
before he was brought down by a crossbow quarrel in the back. Even as the fugitive crumpled onto the soft, silver dirt a second crossbow thunked and another of the brothers fell dead across Wim’s feet.
“That was Clyne, you … warlock!” More bows lowered around the circle.
“Hold on now!” shouted Axl. There were five Borks left standing; two bodies sprawled unmoving on the ground. “The peddler got us in his spell. We got to keep our sense and figure out which of us he’s pretendin’ to be.”
“But Ax, he ain’t just in disguise, we woulda seen which one he is … he—he can trick us into believing he’s anybody!”
Trapped beneath the corpse, all Wim could see were five shadows against the night. Their faces were hidden from the light, and bulky clothing disguised any differences. He bit his lips against the least sound of pain; now was no time to remind the remaining Borks of Wim Buckry—But the agony of his hand pulsed up his arm until he felt a terrible dizziness wrench the blurring world away and his head drooped …
He opened his eyes again and saw that only three men stood now in the glade. Two more had died; the newest corpse still twitched on the ground.
Axl’s voice was shrill with rage. “You … monster! You done tricked all of us into killing each other!”
“No, Ax, I had to shoot him. It was the peddler, I swear. Turn him over. Look! He shot Jan after you told us to hold off—”
“Warlock!” a third voice cried. “All of them dead—!” Two crossbows came down and fired simultaneously. Two men fell.
Axl stood silent and alone among the dead for a long moment. The moon had set at last, and the starlight was rare and faint through the shifting branches of the grandfather tree far overhead. Wim lay still as death, aware of the smell of blood and sweat and burned flesh. And the sound of footsteps, approaching. Sick with fear he looked up at the dark stubby form of Axl Bork.
“Still here? Good.” A black-booted foot rolled the dead body from his legs. “Well, boy, you better leave me look at that hand.” The voice belonged to Jagit Katchetooriantz.
“Uh.” Wim began to tremble. “Uh. Mr. Jagged … is that … you?”
A light appeared in the hand of the peddler who had come from Sharn.
Wim fainted.
EARLY MORNING FILLED THE GRANDFATHER GROVE WITH DUSTY SHAFTS OF light. Wim Buckry sat propped against the cave tree’s entrance, sipping
awkwardly at a cup of something hot and bitter held in a bandaged hand. His other hand was tucked through his belt, to protect a sprained right shoulder. Silently he watched the peddler grooming the dappled cart horse; glanced for the tenth time around the sunlit grove, where no sign of the last night’s events marred the quiet tranquility of the day. Like a bad dream the memory of his terror seemed unreal to him now, and he wondered if that was more witchery, like the drink that had eased the pains of his body. He looked down, where dried blood stained his pants. I’ll take care of the remains , the peddler had said. It was real, all right—all of the Borks. And all of his boys. He thought wistfully for a moment of the jewelry that had gone into the ground with them; shied away from a deeper sense of loss beneath it.
The peddler returned to the campfire, kicked dirt over the blaze. He had had no trouble in getting a fire to burn. Wim drew his feet up; the dark eyes looked questioningly at his sullen face.
“Mr. Jagged”—there was no trace of mockery in that title now—“just what do you want from
“He’s here, pretending to be one of you!” Wim cried, his voice cracking.
And he could almost feel their terror echoing back and forth, from one to another, growing—until one of the shortest of the silhouettes broke and ran out into the moonlight. He got only about twenty feet,
before he was brought down by a crossbow quarrel in the back. Even as the fugitive crumpled onto the soft, silver dirt a second crossbow thunked and another of the brothers fell dead across Wim’s feet.
“That was Clyne, you … warlock!” More bows lowered around the circle.
“Hold on now!” shouted Axl. There were five Borks left standing; two bodies sprawled unmoving on the ground. “The peddler got us in his spell. We got to keep our sense and figure out which of us he’s pretendin’ to be.”
“But Ax, he ain’t just in disguise, we woulda seen which one he is … he—he can trick us into believing he’s anybody!”
Trapped beneath the corpse, all Wim could see were five shadows against the night. Their faces were hidden from the light, and bulky clothing disguised any differences. He bit his lips against the least sound of pain; now was no time to remind the remaining Borks of Wim Buckry—But the agony of his hand pulsed up his arm until he felt a terrible dizziness wrench the blurring world away and his head drooped …
He opened his eyes again and saw that only three men stood now in the glade. Two more had died; the newest corpse still twitched on the ground.
Axl’s voice was shrill with rage. “You … monster! You done tricked all of us into killing each other!”
“No, Ax, I had to shoot him. It was the peddler, I swear. Turn him over. Look! He shot Jan after you told us to hold off—”
“Warlock!” a third voice cried. “All of them dead—!” Two crossbows came down and fired simultaneously. Two men fell.
Axl stood silent and alone among the dead for a long moment. The moon had set at last, and the starlight was rare and faint through the shifting branches of the grandfather tree far overhead. Wim lay still as death, aware of the smell of blood and sweat and burned flesh. And the sound of footsteps, approaching. Sick with fear he looked up at the dark stubby form of Axl Bork.
“Still here? Good.” A black-booted foot rolled the dead body from his legs. “Well, boy, you better leave me look at that hand.” The voice belonged to Jagit Katchetooriantz.
“Uh.” Wim began to tremble. “Uh. Mr. Jagged … is that … you?”
A light appeared in the hand of the peddler who had come from Sharn.
Wim fainted.
EARLY MORNING FILLED THE GRANDFATHER GROVE WITH DUSTY SHAFTS OF light. Wim Buckry sat propped against the cave tree’s entrance, sipping
awkwardly at a cup of something hot and bitter held in a bandaged hand. His other hand was tucked through his belt, to protect a sprained right shoulder. Silently he watched the peddler grooming the dappled cart horse; glanced for the tenth time around the sunlit grove, where no sign of the last night’s events marred the quiet tranquility of the day. Like a bad dream the memory of his terror seemed unreal to him now, and he wondered if that was more witchery, like the drink that had eased the pains of his body. He looked down, where dried blood stained his pants. I’ll take care of the remains , the peddler had said. It was real, all right—all of the Borks. And all of his boys. He thought wistfully for a moment of the jewelry that had gone into the ground with them; shied away from a deeper sense of loss beneath it.
The peddler returned to the campfire, kicked dirt over the blaze. He had had no trouble in getting a fire to burn. Wim drew his feet up; the dark eyes looked questioningly at his sullen face.
“Mr. Jagged”—there was no trace of mockery in that title now—“just what do you want from
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