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that: he was there - arms straining forward, face gaping white in the light of
the moon - and he was gone. He did not cry out: clubbed by boulders, doubtless
he'd been unconscious or dead even as he fell.
When the last pebble and plume of dust had fallen and the rumbling was an
echo, Thibor stepped to the rim and looked down. There was nothing to see,
just darkness and the glint of the moon on distant rocks. Up and down the
trail, of wolves there was no sign.
Thibor turned to where the old gypsy shivered and clung to the face of the
cliff.
'A rock fall!' The old man saw the look on his face. 'You can't blame me for a
rock fall. If he'd jumped instead of shouting his warning...'
Thibor nodded. 'No,' he agreed, brows black as the night itself, 'I can't
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blame you for a rock fall. But from now on blame doesn't come into it. From
now on if there's any problem at all - from whatever cause or quarter - I'll
just toss you off the cliff. That way, if I'm to die, I'll know that you died
first. For let's have something clearly understood, old man. I don't trust the
Ferenczy, I don't trust his "dogs", and I trust you least of all. There'll be
no further warnings.' He jerked his thumb up the path. 'Lead on, Arvos of the
Szgany - and nimble about it!'
Thibor did not think that his warning would carry much weight; even if it
weighed on the gypsy, it certainly wouldn't weigh on his master in the
mountain. But neither was the Wallach a man to issue idle threats. Arvos the
Szgany belonged to the Ferenczy, no doubt of that. And so, if more trouble was
on the way from that quarter (Thibor was sure that the avalanche had been
arranged) then he would see that it came to Arvos first. And trouble was
coming: it waited in the defile where the cliff was split by a deep chasm, at
the back of which sat the castle of the Ferenczy.
This was the sight they saw, Thibor and his simian Wallach friend, and the now
sinister gypsy
Arvos, when they reached the cleft. Back in the dim mists of time the
mountains had convulsed, split apart. Passes had been formed through the
ranges, of which this might have been one. Except that in this case the
opening had not gone all the way through. The cliff whose face they'd
traversed had led finally to a high crest which reared now a half mile away.
The crest was split into twin peaks -
like the ears of a bat or a wolf. And there, straddling the defile where it
narrowed to a fissure -
clinging to both opposing faces and meeting centrally in a massive arch of
masonry - there sat the manse of the Ferenczy. As before, two windows were
lighted, like eyes under the sharp black ears, and the fissure below seemed to
form a gaping mouth.
'No wonder he runs wolves, this one!' Thibor's squat companion grunted. His
words acted like an invocation.
They came down the cliff-hugging track from the castle, and not just four off
them. A flood of them, a wall of grey fur studded with yellow jewel eyes. And
they came at the lope, full of purpose.
'A pack!' cried Thibor's friend.
'Too many to fight off,' the Voevod shouted back. Out of the corner of his eye
he saw Arvos start forward, towards the oncoming wolves. He reached out a leg,
tripped the old gypsy.
'Grab him!' Thibor commanded, drawing his sword.
The squat Wallach lifted Arvos as easily as he would lift the dead, dry branch
of a tree, swung him out over the abyss and held him there. Arvos howled his
terror. The wolves, scant paces away, came to an uneasy halt. Their leaders
threw up pointed muzzles, howled mournfully. It was for all the world as if
they waited upon some command. But from whom?
Arvos stopped his yelling, turned his head and gazed wide-eyed at the distant
castle. His gullet bobbed spastically with his gulping.
The man who held him glanced from the wolves to Thibor. 'What now? Do I drop
him?'
The huge Wallach shook his head. 'Only if they attack,' he answered.
'You think the Ferenczy controls them, then? But... is it possible?'
'It seems our quarry has powers,' said Thibor. 'Look at the gypsy's face.'
Arvos' gaze had become fixed. Thibor had seen that look before, when the old
man used the frying-pan mirror down in the village: as if a film of milk had
been painted on each eyeball.
Then the Gypsy spoke: 'Master?' Arvos' mouth scarce moved. His words were the
merest breath, vying with the mountain breeze at first but rapidly growing
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