Everything's Eventual

   "Thankee-sai." John Norman's lower lip trembled, then firmed. "I knew the green men did for him, although these old biddies wouldn't tell me for sure. They did for plenty, and scotched the rest."

   "Perhaps the Sisters didn't know for sure."

   "They knew. Don't you doubt it. They don't say much, but they know plenty. The only one any different is Jenna. That's who the old battle-axe meant when she said 'your friend.' Aye?"

   Roland nodded. "And she said something about the Dark Bells. I'd know more of that, if would were could."

   "She's something special, Jenna is. More like a princess—someone whose place is made by bloodline and can't be refused—than like the other Sisters. I lie here and look like I'm asleep—it's safer, I think— but I've heard em talking. Jenna's just come back among em recently, and those Dark Bells mean something special . . . but Mary's still the one who swings the weight. I think the Dark Bells are only ceremonial, like the rings the old Barons used to hand down from father to son. Was it she who put Jimmy's medal around your neck?"

   "Yes."

   "Don't take it off, whatever you do." His face was strained, grim. "I don't know if it's the gold or the God, but they don't like to get too close. I think that's the only reason I'm still here." Now his voice dropped all the way to a whisper. "They ain't human."

   "Well, perhaps a bit fey and magical, but . . ."

   "No!" With what was clearly an effort, the boy got up on one elbow. He looked at Roland earnestly. "You're thinking about hubberwomen, or witches. These ain't hubbers, nor witches, either. They ain't human!"

"Then what are they?"

"Don't know."

"How came you here, John?"

   Speaking in a low voice, John Norman told Roland what he knew of what had happened to him. He, his brother, and four other young men who were quick and owned good horses had been hired as scouts, riding drogue-and-forward, protecting a long-haul caravan of seven freight wagons taking goods—seeds, food, tools, mail, and four ordered brides—to an unincorporated township called Tejuas some two hundred miles farther west of Eluria. The scouts rode fore and aft of the goods-train in turn-and-turn-about fashion; one brother rode with each party because, Norman explained, when they were together they fought like . . . well . . .

   "Like brothers," Roland suggested.

   John Norman managed a brief, pained smile. "Aye," he said.

   The trio of which John was a part had been riding drogue, about two miles behind the freight wagons, when the green mutants had sprung an ambush in Eluria.

   "How many wagons did you see when you got there?" he asked Roland.

   "Only one. Overturned."

   "How many bodies?"

   "Only your brother's."

   John Norman nodded grimly. "They wouldn't take him because of the medallion, I think."

   "The muties?"

   "The Sisters. The muties care nothing for gold or God. These bitches, though . . ." He looked into the dark, which was now almost complete. Roland felt lethargy creeping over him again, but it wasn't until later that he realized the soup had been drugged.

   "The other wagons?" Roland asked. "The ones not overturned?"

   "The muties would have taken them, and the goods, as well," Norman said. "They don't care for gold or God; the Sisters don't care for goods. Like as not they have their own foodstuffs, something I'd as soon not think of. Nasty stuff . . . like those bugs."

   He and the other drogue riders galloped into Eluria, but the fight was over by the time they got there. Men had been lying about, some dead but many more still alive. At least two of the ordered brides had still been alive, as well. Survivors able to walk were being herded together by the green folk—John Norman remembered the one in the bowler hat very well, and the woman in the ragged red vest.

   Norman and the other two had tried to fight. He had seen one of his pards gutshot by an arrow, and then he saw no more—someone had cracked him over the head from behind, and the lights had gone out.

   Roland wondered if the ambusher had cried "Booh!" before he had struck, but didn't ask.

   "When I woke up again, I was here," Norman said. "I saw that some of the others—most of them—had those cursed bugs on them."

   "Others?" Roland looked at the empty beds. In the growing darkness, they glimmered like white islands. "How many were brought here?"

   "At least twenty. They healed . . . the bugs healed em . . . and then, one by one, they disappeared. You'd go to sleep, and when you woke up there'd be one more empty bed. One by one they went, until only me and that one down yonder was left."

   He looked at Roland solemnly.

   "And now you."

   "Norman," Roland's head was swimming. "I—"