Eye of the Zodiac

"You give up too easily." Dumarest looked around, studying the vegetation, the lie of the land. Already the day was ending, reflected light flaring from the peaks, the crevasse filled with somber shadow. "We need to find water. My guess is that it's over there."

"How can you tell?" Iduna followed his pointing hand.

"No thorn-it needs arid conditions. And see how those leaves reflect the light? What vegetation is that, Chaque?"

"Frodar-if it were the season there would be fruits."

"And fruit needs water." Dumarest took the rough sword from the woman. "Let's go and find it."

They reached it at dusk after fighting their way through a cluster of thorn, hacking a passage with the strips of metal. A thin stream ran between high banks to widen into a pool a few feet across. Dumarest held the others back as they lunged towards it.

"No. We'll drink and wash lower down. I don't want to leave our scent."

Later, when he had immersed his entire body in the stream, laving his clothing and boots, he returned to the pool. Moving around it he set snares made of looped wire, hammering pegs into the ground to hold them fast.

"Predators," said Iduna. "Of course, they have to live on something. Small game, Earl, is that what you're hoping to catch?"

"Small or large, we need to eat." Dumarest took her by the arm and led her from the pool to higher ground. Chaque, a blotch in the darkness, followed, stumbling with fatigue.

"Do we need to go so far?"

"Too near and our scent will warn off the game. How's your head?"

"Bad." Chaque grunted as he felt his temple. "I wish we'd found the medical cabinet. I could do with something to ease the pain."

"Try to sleep," said Dumarest. "It will help."

"And you, Earl? Don't you ever sleep?" Iduna dropped to the ground as they reached a point well away from the water and the snares. "God, I'm tired. The way I feel, I could rest for a week. Do you think we'll trap anything?"

Two creatures were in the snares when they looked in the morning. Small things the size of rats, their skins a dull gray, matted with fur, oily to the touch. Dumarest skinned and cleaned them, cutting them into portions with his knife. Iduna looked distastefully at the pieces he held out to her.

"Aren't we going to cook them?"

"Raw meat gives more nourishment than when it's cooked. Chew it slowly and eat as we travel."

"Is there any point?" Her eyes were dull, her voice listless. "Isn't it only putting off the inevitable? What hope can there be, Earl?"

"There's hope. A valley should lie to the east and south. There could be people. If we reach it, we can survive."

"Among beasts like the Candarish?"

"Among people. Now take the food and do as I say." His voice hardened as she made no effort to take the scraps. "It's your choice, woman. Eat or starve!"

* * * * *

They followed the stream until it petered out, climbed a ridge and crossed a small plateau. That night they huddled in the shelter of a clump of shrub, moving on foodless, the next day. A flight of birds appeared, wheeling. Dumarest knocked down three with his sling, losing one as it fell into thorn, managing to save the others. They were mostly beak and feather, the flesh gritty, hard to chew, distasteful to swallow.

The thorn thickened, met in a barrier a hundred yards thick, thinning on the other side to a rise topped by pinnacles of naked stone. A barrier which ran to either side, as far as the eye could see.

From where he stood on Dumarest's shoulders Chaque reported, "It's no good, Earl. We'll have to go back."

"Back?" Iduna had slumped, sitting with shoulders bowed, her face drawn with fatigue. "You mean we've done all this for nothing?"

She was dispirited, on the verge of defeat. To return now would be to break her will to survive. Dumarest frowned as the guide dropped to the ground beside him. The mountains were like a maze, promising paths ending in tormenting barriers. He watched as a gust of wind dried riffled the spined leaves.

A wind which blew from behind them, sweeping from the rising ground. If it lasted, they would have a chance.

Chaque watched as Dumarest knelt, fretting a piece of the gaudy fabric into a mound of scrapped fibers.

"If you're thinking of fire, Earl, it won't work. The thorn is slow to burn."

"Not the wood, the leaves." Dumarest selected a stone from his pouch, struck the back of his knife against the flint. Sparks flew, some settling on the tinder, smoldering to burst into minute flame. "Get me something to burn. Hurry!"

There was grass, sun-dried, still containing sap but releasing heat as well as smoke. Scraps of branch followed, some ruby leaves which Dumarest tore free with his knife and gloved hands.

"Keep building the fire," he ordered. "Make it as hot as you can."