"Silly basting bastard!" muttered one of the soldiers to his mate, a few yards away from Maia. "What's he reckon to do, then?"
She sprang forward, startling the two men, who had not known she was there. "No! No! Zenka, come back!"
She was running, shouting hysterically, when a soldier caught her round the waist and held her fast. She struggled, beating at him with her fists, then dropped her head on her chest, weeping. When Tolis and the tryzatt came up she had fainted and was lying on the ground with the soldier bending over her.
They splashed water in her face. After about half a minute she came to herself to find Tolis holding her by the shoulders.
"I beg you, saiyett, don't make a scene. The men are jumpy enough already."
"O Lespa!" she moaned. "Tolis, can't you stop him? Go and stop him!"
"Too late for that now, saiyett, I'm afraid. He didn't give me the chance. Get back, Dellior!" he called sharply to a man who had left the line, apparently to relieve himself. "No one said anything about standing down!"
There was silence all along the line now, and silence from out in the scrubland also. Maia felt as though she had become a string about to snap. This tension was unendurable, this mute waiting in the yellow elf-light of the setting moon; nothing to be heard but the frogs in the half-dry river pools; nothing to be seen but the! stillness of the arid fern. Once she allowed a low whimper to escape her. Tolis, on one knee close by, looked quickly round and shook his head.
She could not have told how long it was since Zen-Kurel had gone; only that the moon was lower and the suspense worse. She could hear the men whispering to one another, but caught no words.
"Should we give him a shout, sir?" asked Miarn.
"Not yet," answered Tolis.
She realized that Anda-Nokomis was standing behind them, hunched and watchful as a heron in shallows. After a time he murmured almost inaudibly, "Perhaps they've gone."
"With him?" said Tolis.
"Or without him: no telling."
Maia stood up. "I'm going to--"
"Saiyett, please don't compel me to stop you."
Just as she was wondering whether to draw her knife and make a dash for it, she caught sight of something moving out in the gray-yellow dimness. A shape;--one per-son or more--was approaching.
In a low voice Tolis said, "Keep still! No one to speak!"
Within half a minute they could see that in fact three men were coming towards them.
"Is he there?" asked Tolis.
Maia passed her tongue over her dry lips. "Yes."
The men stopped some forty or fifty yards from the edge of the copse. Then Zen-Kurel's voice called, "Tolis, can you hear me?"
Tolis answered and was about to go forward to join them when Zen-Kurel spoke again. "They don't want you to come any closer. I've just come to tell you what we're going to do."
"Cran's zard!" muttered one of the soldiers. "Basting man don't want to live!"
"These men aren't criminals," said Zen-Kurel. "They've escaped from slavery in Belishba and they've had a very bad time. They're quite ready to join Elleroth and I've assured them he'll be happy to take them on. So I'm going to guide them as far as the camp and act as surety for them. I expect to be back here by a couple of hours after dawn, but if I'm later than that, just go on to Nybril-- don't wait for me."
It was plain that none of this was to Tolis's liking. He appeared not only at a loss but flustered. "What the hell are we going to do?" he asked the tryzatt. "Damned Katrian! We're responsible to Elleroth for him!"
"Can't do nothing, sir," replied Miarn. "They've got him out there with them, haven't they?"
"Yes, but when Elleroth--" But before Tolis could say more, Bayub-Otal called out, "Zenka, can I come with you?"
There was a pause, apparently while Zen-Kurel conferred with his companions. Then he answered, "No, they say not."
"Very well," replied Bayub-Otal. "We'll keep you some breakfast."
"Elleroth's going to be glad a bunch of men like these weren't wasted," called Zen-Kurel.
With this he and the other two turned and disappeared once more into the gloom. The frog-croaking silence returned.
"Stand 'em down, sir?" asked Miarn after two or three minutes.
"Oh, yes, any damned thing you like!" replied Tolis petulantly. "You'd wonder who was in command here, wouldn't you?"
"D'you reckon he'll be back, sir?"
"Of course he won't!" said Tolis. "Men like that? They'll cut his throat as sure as the rains are coming! These blasted Katrians--they're all the same--throw their lives away and call it soldiering! Karnat's wildcats! I believe they'd set themselves on fire just to try and show they were braver than anyone else! Why the hell couldn't he do it some time when we weren't responsible for him? Lord Elleroth's going to play hell! 'Why did we let it happen?' As if we could have had any idea what he was going to do!"
"Going to wait for him, then, sir, or not?"
"I haven't decided yet," said Tolis. "I'll tell you tomorrow."
He was walking away when Maia followed him.
"Can I speak to you?"
Tolis turned to her with the air of a young and harassed man retaining his self-control with difficulty.
"Saiyett, you're the last person to whom I'd want to be discourteous, but I've simply had enough for one night. Please go back to bed. We'll talk in the morning."
Within the hour Maia had become so much demented with fear that she could no longer keep up appearances or conceal her distress. Her thoughts--if thoughts they could be called, that succession of visions and sensations overwhelming her mind like some evil dream--were plunged into a kind of vortex, a vicious circle from which there was no escape save hysteria. It was as though she were running in terror from one room to another, only to find herself fleeing at last back into the first. This first was a sense of panic horror, much like the shock felt by one who suddenly finds herself falling from a height, or wakes to realize that the house is burning. Then followed the images--apprehensions, vivid as flashes of lightning: Zenka surrounded and fighting for his life, Zenka tortured by the fugitive slaves, Zenka's body flung into the river, Zenka bleeding, Zenka murdered. And flying from these she ran full-tilt, as against a wall,
into her awareness-- like that of one hearing herself sentenced to death--that this was no dream, but reality; and taking place not in the past or the future, but in, that present from which there is no escape. Thence to the weeping, the entreaties to the gods for reassurance--to the gods who could not give it. And so back to the panic, and the horror. The Serrelinda, who had made her way into Pokada's prison and into the Ortelgan camp by night, was not equal to this unremitting torment of inaction.
A common, general misery, such as a flood or some civic calamity, has at least the effect of bringing people together and uniting them in fortitude and mutual succor: "I mustn't let the others down." Perhaps the worst of a private affliction is its effect of isolation. Personal grief, like deafness or a glass prison, sequesters the sufferer and separates her from others, who cannot by the nature of things enter into her agony. Even so may one see a maimed animal limping on among the indifferent herd.
The near-by soldiers were far away, in a world where people talked together, kept watch, slept or rolled dice by the fire: they were close--as close as sane men standing by the bedside of one who knows he has gone mad.
Maia was aware that Anda-Nokomis was sitting beside her, since from time to time he spoke to her or touched her hand. Yet it was little he said, seeming as he did to find her affliction almost as grievous as she herself; though his recourse, characteristically, was to silence and to that lonely patience which had so long been habitual with him.
She knew that most, if not all, of the soldiers felt sure that Zen-Kurel had thrown his life away for nothing and that they thought him a fool for doing it. If anything they despised him, since his valuation of the risk he had taken was beyond their comprehension, much as the incentive of an explorer seems foolish to those who wonder why he could not have stayed safely at home.
She made no attempt to talk to Anda-Nokomis, simply keeping her lonely suffering, as it were, alight for a lamp which might somehow guide Zenka back. Yet even this flickered and died at last as she fell asleep from exhaustion.
Her sleep was full of dreams; or rather of visitations, without visual images or even any illusion of sequence in time; dreads and forebodings, by their very universality and formlessness more intense and veritable than any to be suffered in real, waking life: like huge, hazy masses driven before a great wind--transcendental sorrow made manifest--towering over and dwarfing all emotion of which mere humanity was capable. She stifled in clouds of anguish, lay buried under mountains of regret, struggled and drowned in cataracts of loss. And she, who had been un-able to sleep--she could not wake.