Three Hands for Scorpio by Andre Norton

Author:Andre Norton
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi, pdf
Publisher: Tom Doherty Associates
Published: 2011-03-09T16:00:00+00:00

Seventeen

Sabina

Those who had come seeking the “treasure” of the Dismals had not attempted to conceal the entrance they had discovered. Though when they had returned to that site, they had found no exit to use. Rotting rope lay in coils at the foot of the cliff, but how the Dismal-dwellers had betrayed the invaders could not be discerned.

Bones, a pile of rusted metal breastplates, and several dented steel bonnets lay with the tangled rope. These grisly trophies lay heaped about another object—a long, hook-ended stick of a nonhuman limb, which stood in their midst as if to mark a field of defeat. If one surveyed the scene more closely, the marks of attack by monsters were clearly visible.

We had no desire to put name to any of the slain Breakswords and for the present we avoided the battlefield. However, as one, we turned on Zolan. We had been promised a campsite for the plundering, but nothing lying here was of value to us.

Tam, however, suddenly left my side and made for the heap of gear on the ground, then swooped, as a hawk stoops on her prey, to arise with a sword in her hand. The blade was dulled but intact.

Our host was only moments behind her. He had found a snaplock, but that was unusable, the damp having rendered it so. Hurling it to one side, he pushed a little farther into the pile. Though he found another sword, it was also useless—the blade ended a short length beyond the hilt in a jagged break.

Though every inch of me sickened at the thought of such delving, I forced myself to hunt also. Cilla was the last to join us and she wore a mask of disgust.

In the end we freed three swords and four daggers, which were sound. Tam stood wielding the blade she had first discovered, her body following through the movements of practice. She was obviously caught by memories of Grosper and our life there.

I wanted to hurl back into the tangle of rope the dagger I held. It was a vile-looking weapon: both edges of the blade appeared deliberately serrated, to deliver the worst of wounds. The hilt was made of horn, and the knife had known so much use that this blade-holder was worn smooth, save for where a leather strip, now green with mold, wrapped it.

But such war-spoils were not what we had come to seek. I looked to where Zolan stood, awkwardly swinging another sword, his actions making it plain he had no training in the art of arms.

“This is no camp,” I stated sternly.

He had caught the point of the sword between two rocks so it twisted out of his grip, the clatter of its fall bringing attention also from Tam and Cilla. Seeming deaf to my complaint, he got the blade back in his hand before he looked up.

“Up there—” He pointed to the cliff with his upraised chin, keeping both hands upon his weapon, lest he lose it again. “There lies the way.

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