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Mark came to himself with a small start。 How long had he been standing here on the pathway gazing at the thing？ Even if this weapon was the magical handiwork of a god； he couldn't afford to spend all day gawping at it。 Hurriedly he performed his simple packing…up； and once more got moving upstream。
Several times during the morning's travel that followed； the unhandy burden threatened to unbalance Mark's steps when he was wading。 And it kept snagging itself by cloth or cord on bushes beside the path。 That morning； for the first time； the idea suggested itself to Mark that he might be able to rid himself of the sword and not have to carry it any farther。 He could find a deep pool somewhere in which to drown it； or else hide it in a crevice behind a waterfall … by now he'd e upstream far enough for waterfalls。 The idea was tempting； in a way。 But Mark soon rejected it。 Disposing of this sword would not； could not； be as easy as throwing away a broken knife。 He did not know yet； perhaps would not yet allow himself to know； what he meant to do with it finally。 But he did know that something more than simply discarding it was required of him。 Besides； he'd seen often enough the successful working of finding…spells； the minor enchantments of a local part…time wizard。 If that country fellow could locate wedding rings down wells； and pull lost coins out of haystacks； what chance would Mark have of hiding a great sword like this one from the real wizards that the Duke must be able to mand。
Toward midday； Mark cautiously moved out of the riverbank thickets； and entered high empty pasture land for long enough to stalk and kill a rabbit。 He felt proud of the efficiency of this hunt； for which he needed only one clean shot。 But as he released the bowstring he saw for one frightening moment the falling seneschal。。。
The food； familiar hunter's fare cooked on a small fire； helped a great deal。 It strengthened Mark against the pointless tricks of his shocked imagination； against struggling in his mind with events over which he now could have no control。 He told himself firmly that he should instead be consciously deciding where he was going to go。
But he had still reached no such decision when he finished his meal； put out his little fire； and moved on。 He knew that if he continued to follow the river upstream for another full day； he'd be quite close to the village in which his father had grown up。。。 the place where Jord had worked as a two…armed black smith； and from which he'd been summoned one dark night by a god； to trade his right arm for this cursed weapon。 Mark felt sure that village was not where he was really headed now。
All right； he'd wait to think things out。 He'd just keep going。 When plans were really needed； they'd just have to make themselves。
As the sky began to darken with the second nightfall of Mark's journey； he looked up through the screen of riverbank trees to see the glow of sunset reflected on the slowly approaching mountains。 Those mountains were near enough now to let him see how steep and forbidding their slopes were … especially up near the top； up there where gods and goddesses； or some of them anyway； were said to dwell。 The darkness of the sky deepened； and the pink glow faded from even the highest peaks。 Then Mark saw what he'd seen only a time or two before in all his life： sullen； glowing red spots near the summits； what folk called Vulcan's fires。 Those fires as he saw them now were still so far away as to be part of another world。
When it was fully dark； Mark burrowed into a thicket； and contrived for himself a kind of nest to sleep in。 For a moment that evening； just as he was dozing off； he thought that he heard his father's voice； calling to him； with some urgent message。。。
Throughout the next day； Mark continued as before to work his way upstream。 The way grew steeper； the going slower； the land rockier and rougher； the country wilder； trees scarce and people even more so。 On that day； though he peered more boldly than before out of the riverside thickets； Mark only once saw distant workers in a field； and no one else except a single fisherman。 He was able to spot the fisherman in time to detour round him without letting the man suspect that anyone else was near。
That afternoon； two full days since he'd fled his home； Mark saw certain landmarks … a distant temple of Bacchus； an isolated tabletop butte … that assured him he was now quite near the village in which his father had been born。 Some few of his father's kinfolk still lived there； and it was necessary now for Mark to think about those relatives。 The angry riders of the Duke might well have reached them already； might have established a watch over every house in all the land where they thought the fugitive would be likely to turn for help。 And now； for the first time； one clear idea about his destination did e to Mark： safety for him could lie only outside the Duke's territory； in that strange outer world he'd never visited。
But there was something else； besides distance and dangers； that still lay between him and that possibility of safety。 He had； he discovered now； a sense of terrible obligation； connected of course with the sword。 The obligation was unclear to him as yet； but it was certain。
Mark held to his course along the river； and did not approach his father's old village closely enough to see what might be going on there。 On what he could see of the nearby roads； there were no swift riders； no signs of military search； and his repeated scanning of the sky discovered no flying beasts that might be looking for him。 But Mark kept mainly to the concealing thickets； and traveled quickly on。
When the last sunset glow had died on the third evening of his flight； he raised his eyes again to the mountains ahead of him。 Again he saw； more plainly now than ever before； the tiny； fitful sparks of Vulcan's fires。
On this third night the air of the high country grew chill enough to keep Mark from sleeping soundly。 He wrapped himself in the sword's covering； but built no fire； for fear of guiding his still hypothetical pursuers to him。 The next morning； wet from a light drizzle； he climbed wearily on。 The country round him grew ever wilder； more alien to what he knew。 He continued to follow the river as it carved its way across a high plain； then up among a series of broken foothills。 Mark's head felt light now； and his stomach painfully empty。 On top of each shoulder he had a sore red spot； worn by the cord from which the sword was slung。
Near midday； with timberline visible at what appeared to be only a small distance above him； Mark came upon a small shrine to some god he did not recognize。 He robbed it of its simple offerings； dried berries and stale bread。 As he ate he tried to pose a prayer to the anonymous god of the shrine； explaining what he'd done； pleading his necessity。 He might not have bothered with the prayer were he not getting so close to the gods' high abode。 Even here； so close； he was not entirely sure that the gods had either the time or the inclination to notice what happened at small shrines； or to hear small prayers。
Maybe tomorrow he'd be high enough on the mountain to get some direct divine attention。 At any previous time in Mark's life； such a prospect would have frightened him。 But； as it was； the shock that had driven him from his home still insulated him against the theoretical terrors that might appear tomorrow。
Not far above the shrine； the Aldan had its origin in the confluence of two brooks； both of which flowed more or less out of the north。 At their junction Mark tried his luck at fishing； and found his luck was bad。 He grubbed around for edible roots； and came up with nothing that he could eat。 He searched for some fresher berries than the shrine had provided； and found a few that birds had spared。 If any human dwelling had been in sight he would have tried his skill at burglary or begging to get food。 But there was no such habitation to be seen on any of the vast hills under the enormous sky； and Mark was not going to turn aside now to look for one。
He spent the fourth night of his journey； sleeping little； amid a tumble of huge rocks at timberline。 Tonight the lights of Vulcan's forge…fires appeared to Mark to be almost overhead； startlingly near and at the same time dishearteningly far above him。 Near midnight some large animal came prowling near； staying not far beyond the glow of a small fire that Mark had built in a sheltering crevice。 When he heard the hungry snuffling of the beast he unwrapped Townsaver and gripped the hilt of the weapon in both hands。 No sound came from the blade； and the air around it remained clear and quiet。 Mark could feel no hint of magical protection in its steel； yet in the circumstances the simple weight and razor sharpness of it were a considerable fort。
In the morning there were no animals of any kind in sight； nor could Mark even find a significant track。 The air at dawn was bitter cold but almost windless。 During the night Mark had wrapped himself again in the sword's cloth； but now he swathed the weapon again and tied it for carrying。 Then he climbed； heading