lessons might in turn teach him some answer to the local perils.
Again laughter, light, mocking—But was it threatening? It seemed rather to have the spirit of mischief in it. Something in that tone made Nick less tense. So he was not startled when again a voice called, this time speaking his own language:
“Out of hiding, fearful men! Did you believe the Dark Ones were upon you? Scatter and hide, is that the way to greet us, you who came tramping into our land without asking? No courtesy?”
Nick watched Stroud heave his bulk out of concealment. Apparently the Warden was willing to accept the harmlessness of the questioner, or else there was a truce on. Crocker crawled out also, and, still wanting some reassurance, Nick was shamed into joining him in open sight.
He was beginning to wonder how good the aim of the unseen might be. That spear had struck well away from any of them. It could have been intended as a warning, a drastic announcement of arrival.
“We’re waiting.” Stroud’s voice held a very audible note of exasperation. Nick could believe that the Warden was angry at his own reaction moments earlier, though Nick would think it was better in this country to cling to caution.
“No courtesy—yes,” countered the unseen. “So you are waiting. What if we make a wall of waiting to enclose you, spin a cage?” Now the voice was sharp in return.
Nick stared in the direction from which it appeared to come. There was space there between the massive trees, but the speaker could well be concealed behind any trunk. He could detect no movement.
Stroud shrugged. “I don’t know who you are, or what you are. You offered attack—” He was making a visible effort to reply calmly, not to cause any more annoyance to the concealed speaker. “We’ve shown ourselves—now it’s your move.”
“Move, move, move!” the voice repeated in a rising chant. “A game—the heavy-footed stumblers would play a game, would they?”
Out of nowhere flashed a ball of light. It almost touched Stroud, then halted in midair, bobbed up and down in a wild dance around him. The Warden stood still, his hands loose at his sides. Though he blinked when the ball seemed ready to dash into his very face, he did not try to dodge its swift flurries of seeming attack.
“A game—you play then, stumbler. Take your courage in your thoughts and play!” The ball went into a dazzling flurry of movement, becoming nearly too blinding to watch.
With a sudden leap it abandoned Stroud, made the same threat of attack about Crocker, who presented a like impassive front. Now it changed color with eye-searing rapidity—green, blue, yellow, violet, and all shades rippling in between. Never red, Nick noted, nor any shades of yellow bordering on that color, nor did it reach pure white.
“You do not care to play then? But the sport would be poor with you, stumblers!” The ball withdrew, bobbed up and down vertically some distance away. The glow increased so its movement wove a pillar of light, a light that continued to hold when the ball itself disappeared.
Now the column of light winked out as a blown candle flame, leaving a small figure. Perhaps he did not top Nick’s shoulder, even with the upstanding feather in his cap, a feather that quivered with every slight movement. But he was completely humanoid in form, and by his appearance an adult male. His face was smooth, young, and yet about him was the feeling of age and boredom. He wore dull green breeches, the color of the leaves. They were very tight-fitting breeches and they were matched by calf-high boots of the same color, only visible because they were topped with wide turn-over cuffs.
His tunic, which laced up the front and had no sleeves, was green also and exposed his small muscular arms. The lacings were glinting gold, as was the elaborate buckle of his belt, and the clasp that fastened his cloak, which was flung back over his shoulders to allow his arms full freedom.
The cloak was
Again laughter, light, mocking—But was it threatening? It seemed rather to have the spirit of mischief in it. Something in that tone made Nick less tense. So he was not startled when again a voice called, this time speaking his own language:
“Out of hiding, fearful men! Did you believe the Dark Ones were upon you? Scatter and hide, is that the way to greet us, you who came tramping into our land without asking? No courtesy?”
Nick watched Stroud heave his bulk out of concealment. Apparently the Warden was willing to accept the harmlessness of the questioner, or else there was a truce on. Crocker crawled out also, and, still wanting some reassurance, Nick was shamed into joining him in open sight.
He was beginning to wonder how good the aim of the unseen might be. That spear had struck well away from any of them. It could have been intended as a warning, a drastic announcement of arrival.
“We’re waiting.” Stroud’s voice held a very audible note of exasperation. Nick could believe that the Warden was angry at his own reaction moments earlier, though Nick would think it was better in this country to cling to caution.
“No courtesy—yes,” countered the unseen. “So you are waiting. What if we make a wall of waiting to enclose you, spin a cage?” Now the voice was sharp in return.
Nick stared in the direction from which it appeared to come. There was space there between the massive trees, but the speaker could well be concealed behind any trunk. He could detect no movement.
Stroud shrugged. “I don’t know who you are, or what you are. You offered attack—” He was making a visible effort to reply calmly, not to cause any more annoyance to the concealed speaker. “We’ve shown ourselves—now it’s your move.”
“Move, move, move!” the voice repeated in a rising chant. “A game—the heavy-footed stumblers would play a game, would they?”
Out of nowhere flashed a ball of light. It almost touched Stroud, then halted in midair, bobbed up and down in a wild dance around him. The Warden stood still, his hands loose at his sides. Though he blinked when the ball seemed ready to dash into his very face, he did not try to dodge its swift flurries of seeming attack.
“A game—you play then, stumbler. Take your courage in your thoughts and play!” The ball went into a dazzling flurry of movement, becoming nearly too blinding to watch.
With a sudden leap it abandoned Stroud, made the same threat of attack about Crocker, who presented a like impassive front. Now it changed color with eye-searing rapidity—green, blue, yellow, violet, and all shades rippling in between. Never red, Nick noted, nor any shades of yellow bordering on that color, nor did it reach pure white.
“You do not care to play then? But the sport would be poor with you, stumblers!” The ball withdrew, bobbed up and down vertically some distance away. The glow increased so its movement wove a pillar of light, a light that continued to hold when the ball itself disappeared.
Now the column of light winked out as a blown candle flame, leaving a small figure. Perhaps he did not top Nick’s shoulder, even with the upstanding feather in his cap, a feather that quivered with every slight movement. But he was completely humanoid in form, and by his appearance an adult male. His face was smooth, young, and yet about him was the feeling of age and boredom. He wore dull green breeches, the color of the leaves. They were very tight-fitting breeches and they were matched by calf-high boots of the same color, only visible because they were topped with wide turn-over cuffs.
His tunic, which laced up the front and had no sleeves, was green also and exposed his small muscular arms. The lacings were glinting gold, as was the elaborate buckle of his belt, and the clasp that fastened his cloak, which was flung back over his shoulders to allow his arms full freedom.
The cloak was
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