The Birthgrave by Tanith Lee Page A

water. Head runaways back toward them. Kill every man, starting with their guard, but not a scratch on the horses.”
    He turned the pony and began to ride off into the woods.
    We followed.
    * * *
    There seemed nothing wrong in it then, that we should be riding to kill men, knowingly. They were hardened and unthinking, and I was so contemptuous of human life. And there was hurt and anger in me, too.
    The sun came up, blotching the leaves acid green. We rode downward all the time, the trees thinning in places, leaving lower slopes visible that faded away into the flatter ground. The river seemed to move with us, sometimes on show, flaring with sunlight; always in our ears.
    We reached the ford, crossing a little before noon.
    The river bent like a bow in front of us, narrowing at a point to the left. Through the screens of foliage and thick fern, I made out the broad track—the route the caravans took, which led toward the great South Road. The track halted on the far bank, continued on the near bank. In between, stakes stood up in the shallow water, indicating, with blackened notches, how high the river would run in flood. It was about twenty feet across.
    I had gathered from snatches of talk around the wood camp that this was to be a new place of attack. The merchants were accustomed to trouble farther out, where the track met the South Road. They would be fairly easy as yet, and surprise was a great thing. But they had a strong and vicious guard—Maggur had told me as much.
    â€œThose ones,” Maggur said, “they train them in the northern towns from childhood. A man can boast forty scars on his body at fifteen years. Teach them to steal from street markets and beat ’em when they’re caught. They bring them up on cruelty like a mean dog, and like mean dogs they grow. They bite, so watch their teeth, the ones in their belts, that is. And any blow, make sure you kill with it. Pain only makes ’em mad, they’re so used to it—inspires them, you could say.”
    We settled down to wait. Bread and salt meat and beer in leather bottles went around, but Darak’s men hardly made a sound. Even going off to urinate, they moved as stealthily as snakes. I began to see why most of them had been picked from the wood camp, where the bandits learned tree-craft as a matter of course, stalking deer or other prey.
    It grew very hot. Sunlight boiled its green bubbles in the branches, and a bluish mist rose from the fallen leaves underfoot. The river was a cataract of polished opals.
    Suddenly a woodhawk screeched. I glanced at Maggur. He nodded. It was a signal, and they were coming, the fat stupid merchant men, and their terrible outriding guard.
    * * *
    A rustle, crushing of ferns, tramp of horses’ hooves, big horses these, roll of wagon wheels through undergrowth.
    The first two riders appeared. Guard. I felt Maggur tense a little, but he made no sound. They were black, too, but it was black cloth and hardened leather, not skin. Every inch of them was covered and armored, even their hands in black gauntlets, even their faces—like mine—masked. But these masks were different, for they were made in the likeness of black bone skulls, from which grew black, coarse plaited manes of horsehair. Their horses were enormous and black also. Cold ran down my spine, and my hand clenched on my long-knife. There was something about them—something. I felt the need to shiver, and spit the taste of their nearness out of my mouth.
    They rode into the mid of the river, looked about them; then one shouted something in a high clear voice. At once others appeared, and then the swaying canopied wagons drawn by ponies. The procession began to cross the river.
    A wolf howled nearby, hoarse and urgent.
    I had a glimpse of the black skull faces turning in surprise, and then we had moved.
    There was one sound and one movement only, or so it seemed in the first seconds. The merchants’ cries of panic,