Warlock

that!”
        
        Gregor chuckled. “Better make that an hour and a half Mace. If I know you, the activities of this night will drive you to devour twice your normal horse's breakfast.”
        
        “I may just eat yours as well,” Mace said. “And then without a morning's vittels in that skinny stomach of yours, you'll be blown right off your mount!”
        
        “Enough, enough!” the Shaker said. “Let's get our sleep while we can. The days to come might not provide much time for rest.”
        

----

    6
        
        
        
        It was some seven miles across the small valley, even by the shortest route, to the foothills of the Cloud Range. Since horses could also be employed for the first three thousand feet of the ascent, where the land was rather gentle and worn through with many paths, Commander Richter had rented enough of the beasts for the party, along with several tenders to feed and water them and bring them back to Perdune when the Banibaleers should find the way too rugged to proceed in any manner but by foot.
        
        With the village streets shrouded in drifting masses of white mist, the expedition set out that autumn morning: seventy-six enlisted men, Sergeant Crowler, the commander and the captain, and Shaker Sandow and his two young assistants: eighty-two in all, if one did not count the four Perdune horse tenders accompanying them on the first leg of their long journey. The horses' hooves clacked hollowly on dewy street stones, and the sounds of men shifting in their saddles to find comfortable positions complemented this to break the otherwise grave-like silence of the town.
        
        Within twenty minutes, they gained the banks of the icy Shatoga River and forded it without incident-though their mounts made great whinnying protests at the near-freezing temperature of those waters. On the other side, they struck south as well as inland, breaking from the thick stands of pines into the rock-strewn foothills, where the going became more difficult.
        
        Some four hours after dawn, Commander Richter called a halt while the horses were watered and given a meal of grain and bruised apples. The Shaker dispatched Mace to speak with the commander and compare notes of observation on the morning's ride. Sandow had seen nothing suspicious, and he rather doubted the commander would have noticed anything that he did not. Even though the commander was certainly a clever man, the Shaker was far cleverer.
        
        Gregor was set the task of checking the condition of the Shaker's magic devices to be certain they remained well-padded and strapped properly in place in the rucksacks their horses carried.
        
        Sandow wandered back through the line of riders, noting with approval the businesslike dress that had replaced the foppish, colorful costumes of the previous day. Each man wore tough leather britches which were tucked and banded into rugged boots. They wore coarse, long-sleeved shirts and soft but sufficiently warm neck scarfs. Each man owned an oiled leather artic coat which was folded into a bulky square and strapped over the gear-stuffed rucksack. All in all, they looked the efficient mountaineers they were reported to be.
        
        “You're Shaker Sandow, aren't you?” a blond-haired, blue-eyed man asked, stepping around a horse's rump to intercept the Shaker. He was in his thirties somewhere, not nearly so slim and willowy as his fair skin and hair made him appear. There was a ruggedness beneath the clothes he wore, and a heartiness in those sky-chip eyes.
        
        “That is so,” Sandow acknowledged. “But I fear you have the advantage here.”
        
        “Aye, and excuse me,” the man said. He grinned, and the pleasant smile which split his face seemed the prototype of the theatrical mask of the comic. His teeth were broad, very white. “My name is Fremlin, and I am the master of the birds-the Squealers who will be our eyes in advance of our feet.”
        
        “Squealer masters are always portrayed as dark and mysterious, intense men who actually commune with their charges.”
        
        “I commune with them, beyond the verbal level,” Fremlin said. “But the similarity ends there.”
        
        “Are the birds nearby?” Sandow asked.
        
        “Back here but a few paces, sir. Would you like to have a look at the brooding