Warlock

behind.
        
        “Search parties,” Mace said. “They'll be putting men on foot to give chase.”
        
        “Perhaps,” the Shaker said.
        
        And they walked faster.
        

----

    20
        
        
        
        In the morning they were exhausted, and they paused tt rest only shortly after first light. The way had been difficult. After only an hour of their march, making less than a third of a mile in all that time, weariness overtook them. In two hours, they were exhausted. In three, they felt incapable of going on. In four, they were zombies. But still they managed to pick feet up and put feet down, over and over in what seemed an endless ritual to some long-dead god. Richter had suggested that movement by day would be even more difficult, for they would have to be especially careful not to disturb the reeds enough to make their movement obvious on the surface of these bamboo stalks. And that was enough of an excuse, even at this early hour, to drop and recover some of the strength which the land had drawn from them.
        
        To make matters worse, they had found no water on their journey thus far. The bamboo stems contained nothing but a damp punk which could not slake the thirst at all. Though they scooped collection pots into the earth, no dampness rose and no water filled them. They were fortunate in having with them some dried fruit which yet contained moisture and which drew saliva from their dried cheeks to wet their throats. But such could not sustain them for long.
        
        Gregor was unconscious. His broken foot had swollen seriously, until his boot had to be cut off. His leg was growing blue, and all of them knew what that meant: rot and death. And they had no facilities for amputation. Death…
        
        Mace attempted to force some syrup into the boy's throat, syrup procured by squeezing handfuls of dried fruit into a cup. There were only one or two sips, but Gregor could not even come round long enough to gain interest in those.
        
        The Shaker pretended that all would be well when they reached the city, though he had grave doubts. First, even upon reaching the city, they would have to find some way of taking it. And there were but twenty-one whole men among them. How many would the Oragonians have on those great battlements? Hundreds? Thousands? Too many, in any case. And even, if by some strange quirk of fate, they should capture the city, there might be no medical equipment there. Or if there was, it might be decayed and inoperative. And if it worked- well, to hell with them, none of them really would know what to do with it. It would be alien machinery that would take time to master.
        
        And Gregor did not have time.
        
        Richter settled beside the unconscious boy, next to the Shaker. “How is he?”
        
        “Poisoned,” the Shaker said. He peeled back the trouser leg to show the angry welling blue-black in the boy's flesh.
        
        “The city cannot be far,” Richter said.
        
        “Perhaps just a bit too far, though,” Sandow said.
        
        “No. It is dose,” Richter said, refusing to share anyone's pessimism. “I wonder if you could do a reading for us.”
        
        To find?”
        
        “Several things,” Richter said. He wiped a hand across his grimy face, as if to strip away the exhaustion there. He was ten pounds lighter than he had been, though he had never been a particularly beefy man. He looked gaunt, beaten, but still in there, fighting whatever was thrown at him. His voice, cool and clear, showed no signs of fatigue, and seemed to emanate from the throat of a much younger man. “First, we should know if we are being followed and-if we are-exactly where the pursuers are. We should know whether we are still headed toward the city; these damn plants make it easy to alter course without knowing it. And we should also know exactly where we should come out of the bamboo to give us the best tactical advantage.”
        
        “Very well,” Shaker Sandow said. “Ill see to it in just a few moments, when I've taken a bite of food and have had a chance to clear my mind of cobwebs.”
        
        
        Since the Shaker was not attempting to read the minds of men, the silver reading plate was not necessary, though the chants were. He worked through the words in all the strange tongues of the sorcerers,