Free Zandru's Forge by Marion Zimmer Bradley Page B

unconscious or so lost in the delirium of infection to be beyond coherent thought. Either way, time was running out.
    The horses stumbled on the increasingly rocky ground. Eiric’s mount tripped on loose stone and fell to its knees. When it scrambled up, the beast was bloodied but not lame. One of the other men gave Eiric his own mount.
    After that, they went on foot, leading their horses. They moved more slowly, keeping together. This far into the cave-pocked hills, with catmen lurking anywhere, their greatest protection was their numbers.
    Time wore on as the moons swung through the sky. Idriel set. The night became darker and then lighter, a milky tinge along the eastern horizon. Torches burned lower. When they guttered out, Eiric did not order new ones lit.
    Varzil shivered as if ice pierced the very marrow of his bones. He rubbed his arms with his hands, chafing the skin. Exhaling, he expected to see his breath as frosty mist.
    Cold... shivering... A voice he should know, hands on his shoulders, sword hilt shaking between his hands... “Quiet, m‘lord, or they’ll hear us!”
    The ice lay not inside him, then, but in his brother’s fevered body.
    Varzil had to reach him—but how? He had never been taught to use his starstone to enhance a telepathic contact, but he knew it could be done. He drew out the blue gem from where it hung, wrapped in triple-layered silk, from a cord around his neck, and focused on it. The blue fire, which had flared to brilliance at Arilinn Tower, filled his sight. He drew it in through his eyes, through his breath.
    Harald! Can you hear me?
    A stirring. No, it cannot be! It is the fever putting words in my mind. I am hearing the voices of those I love, nothing more.
    “Master Varzil?” Eiric asked.
    Varzil waved him to silence. Dimly, he knew the men were staring at him. They could see his face blank and set, his posture of intense listening.
    What does he hear, that none of us can? Their thoughts, like stinging insects, buzzed in his ears.
    Impatiently, he handed the reins of his horse to Eiric and, gesturing for the others to follow him, went on in front. They had been traveling on a thread of a trail, barely wide enough for a horse to find footing. He strode along it like a hound on the scent.
    Harald! Harald!
    Ah, it is a dream. Who calls to me in the darkness, where I cannot hear? Armand is gone. I pray the catmen have not found him.
    It’s me, Varzil—where are you?
    No, Varzil is at Arilinn. How could he reach me here? Get away, you spirits! I am not ready to give myself over to you! The darkness is spinning. I see lights—are they catmen or more of those accursed will-o-wisps? Has Aldones, Lord of Light, come to take me from this place?
    Harald!
    Not yet, O Lord, not yet the.gray land of the dead! I cannot leave my father like this—a little more time, I beg of you, just a little more time—
    Harald! Where are you?
    Why, you know where I am. You know everything. I am where you have placed me, in darkness... And now you send the dancing lights. Ah, how beautiful they are, like flickering gems. Am I already dead, to see them? But I am so cold, so cold. I must be in Zandru’s coldest hell.
    Varzil tried several more times, but could not penetrate his brother’s ravings. He feared the infection from Harald’s wound had spread to his brain.
    “I can sense his thoughts,” Varzil said to Eiric, “but he thinks I am—He cannot tell me where he is.”
    “What are we to do then? You say he is still alive, but beset by a fever dream. If that is so, he cannot help himself.”
    Lord of Light, what do I do now? He must go on and pray that something more would come to him. Perhaps his senses would sharpen once he was inside the caves themselves, where the darkness would be akin to that which surrounded Harald.
    He did not know if any one cave in particular was Harald’s favorite, but there was one where he himself had always felt safe. Facing westward, it had a broad outer ledge,