Eye of the Zodiac

Armand threw his spear. It was a slender shaft five feet long, the tip cruelly barbed. Sharp metal which glinted as it flashed, straight and fast towards Dumarest's chest. His hand dropped, caught it as he turned, continuing the movement so that he spun in a complete circle, running as he faced the man before him.

"Eidhal!"

Armand stepped back, caught his foot on a stone, and fell as Dumarest lunged towards him. He saw the face, tense, smeared with dirt and dried blood, the vicious tip of the spear flashing towards his throat. He felt the sharp prick as it came to rest touching his windpipe.

"No!"

"Hold!" Eidhal came running toward. "Don't kill him! You men there! Hold your spears!"

He halted close to Dumarest, looking at the man on the ground, the drop of blood showing beneath the point of the spear.

"Press on that shaft and you die! I swear it." His eyes lifted, saw Iduna, took her for a man. "Both of you die."

"You would kill a woman?"

"A woman?" Eidhal looked again, caught the swell of breasts beneath the stained tunic, the curve of the hips. "She too, if you kill Armand. You hold three lives in your hand."

Neatly put-and he meant it. Dumarest looked at the ring of guards, the scared and wondering faces of the boys yet to climb the pinnacles. They were well-trained, not one had moved, and guards had remained at their station.

"I came in peace. I showed empty hands, yet he tried to kill me. Why?"

Armand swallowed as Dumarest lifted the spear from his throat a little.

"I saw movement. There are predators-and you wear gray."

The mark of a ghost, he was not to blame. Eidhal glanced at Dumarest, saw his face, remembered the incredible speed with which he had avoided the thrown spear. No ghost this, no matter what he wore.

One of the guards cleared his throat.

"Varg, the boys?"

A timely reminder, already shadows were gathering in the hollows. Unless the initiation was canceled, they would have to move fast.

"Continue. Split up the men and work at speed." Again Eidhal studied Dumarest and the woman. Strangers-and the rule was clear. But the boys would be watching and, as yet, they were not men. "Where are you from?"

"That way." Dumarest jerked his head as he stepped back, still holding the spear.

"From there? The north?" Eidhal was incredulous. Nothing human could have come from that direction.

"We were on a raft and had an accident. Three survived. One died when we were attacked by a beast."

Eidhal sucked his his breath as Dumarest described it.

"A tirran! And you killed it?"

"Rilled it and lived on its flesh." Dumarest looked at the pinnacles, the young, watching faces. "Don't you get them here?"

"Rarely. The last one I saw was years ago, and I counted myself fortunate that it did not attack." Eidhal looked at the pair with respect. "Here we get codors- smaller, but just as vicious in their way." Too vicious, but he did not like to think of that. And his duty remained to be done.

Down towards the valley, he decided. On the level place in the path. The boys would not be able to see the swift execution, and the bodies would have vanished by dawn. A pity, the man held strength, and the woman could provide healthy children. The rule was sometimes hard.

"You had best come with me," he said. "The boys must wait alone. Armand, your spear."

Dumarest retained it, looking from one to the other, judging distance. He could kill at least two, perhaps more, but if he fought now the end would be inevitable. And there could be no need to fight. He looked at Eidhal, the green he wore.

"A question, you will answer it?"

"Yes." A man, soon to die, should be treated with courtesy.

"I am looking for Nerth, have I found it?" He saw the blank expression and felt a momentary unease. Yet, if these were the Original People they would be reluctant to admit it. He said, quickly, "I come bearing a message from Leon Harvey. You know him?" Without waiting for an answer he produced the photograph. "I will give it to her."

* * * * *

There was a comfort in the Council chamber, as if time itself had been halted and trapped in the thick stone of the walls, the massive beams of the roof. Thick laminations of wood constructed with loving care. Signs of the ancients were on all sides, faces carved in timber which seemed to move and shift in the dancing flames of lanterns, to smile, nod and, sometimes, to frown.

A fantasy, Phal Vestaler knew. Inanimate things could not pass judgment, but if the stones could speak surely they would protest now. The thud of his gavel demanded silence.

"Gentlemen, you will please remember that you constitute the Council. We are not at festival, but at deliberation. Aryan, you may speak."

The man took his time. A skilled orator he knew the value of suspense and, thought Vestaler grimly, had much support from others less gifted.

"Aryan?"