Wizard's Worlds: A Short Story Collection (Witch World) Page 11

  The newcomer fronted the rise, and she saw he wore war mail, a snouted helm which hid much of his face. A shield swung by his saddle horn, and its device had been new painted. That was the only bit of color about him, for the horse he rode was of the same dull gray as his half armor, as dusky of mane as his surcoat.

  Once she might have known him by the shield device, but the lords of the dales lay in many unknown graves up and down the lands, and new men had risen, choosing their own markings. Hertha could not put name to who would bear what he carried. The painting was crude as if someone hardly versed in such work had made an effort to picture something only imperfectly described. There was a strange cloudy representation of what might be some kind of monstrous head, cutting across it, straight and far better pictured, the blade of a drawn sword, as if that weapon barred the monster behind from some prey. Cold iron—

  The thought ran in her head as if he who rode so shouted it aloud. Cold iron, which was indeed the bane of some of the Old Ones, a counter to their magic in itself.

  Some outlaw, more foolhardy and reckless than most of their breed? Or a wanderer who did not know the danger he unwittingly courted in such a place? With that snouted helm so overshadowing his face she could not see him any clearer than if he wore a mask. But the voice which hailed her! Hertha drew a deep breath of protest—yes, that she knew!

  His mount, a war charger of good breed, paced slowly onward, the reins lying easy on its neck as if the rider had no reason to control it to his will. She wanted to run, but there was no refuge, no place to go where he could not follow—even into the den of the Toads where once they did venture together.

  “My lady—” His hail seemed to hang in the air between them as if she refused to let her ears hear it. His horse stood quiet as he swung down with the practiced ease of a fighting man, leaving that shield still hung in place. Now he came toward her, his booted feet making a small crunching sound on the gravel. Somehow Hertha found her voice, was able to raise hand and ward him off with the only gesture she could make.

  “No!”

  If he heard her he did not listen. Now she could see his sunbrowned jaw, his firm-lipped mouth below the half mask of the helm. He paused and dragged his mail-enclosed gauntlets from his hands, thrust them into his belt and then dealt expertly with the fastening snaps of the helm, pulled it off to free his head with its frosted hair blowing free in the breeze. His eyes were slightly narrowed as he regarded her with such a speculative look that Hertha longed to be away from here, safe hid from all the thoughts which his coming had awakened in her, nothing must defeat her purpose here. So, hardening her resolve, it was her turn to take a step forward, both hands up, grimed, broken of nail, raw of finger, between them, in that warding off gesture.

  “My Lord Trystan—why?”

  Somehow she could not find more words, though thoughts plagued her.

  “I went to Lithendale; you were gone.” He spoke simply, as one might to a troubled child. “They told me that you sought help in a strange and perilous place. So I came.”

  Hertha ran her tongue across her lips, tasted a little of the bitter coating she had laid upon her face.

  “This—it is my task—” She tried to lash herself into saving anger. Always, save once, she had defended her independence, carried her own burden without any help.

  “I do not know witcheries,” he said gravely. “Perhaps it is true that yours may be the only hands,” he glanced at her misused fingers then, “which can accomplish this. Then again, my lady, it may also be that two can do better and quicker than one what must be done.”

  Before Hertha could retreat he was at her side in one swift stride, trying to catch her hands. But she jerked away.

  “Do not!” she cried. “They have protection.”

  “Protection!” One eyebrow arched upward in an odd slant which she remembered of old. “It would seem by the looks of those that you have had little of that this day. Tell me,” now his voice had the ring of that which had been raised many times to command men, “what do you do here and why?”

  “Why?” She must disgust him and quickly, get rid of one who had no part of this and who must not be drawn into her troubles. With a flap of her earth-stained clothing she turned and stooped to catch up the basket. Settling that against her hip, she pulled free the covers about Elfanor’s face. Even under these clouds the light was without pity, showing the clear marks of the curse. While the baby’s eyes were open, staring outward with that evil, knowing look. “See you?” she demanded fiercely, studying him intently, watching for the first sign of revulsion.

  However he had himself well schooled, that she must admit. He did not display the disgust she was certain she would see.

  “They told me—a changeling—” His voice was slow, even, again as if he were afraid to alarm. “But you think, lady, that you have found an answer here?”

  “Perhaps, only perhaps.” She felt odd, having prepared herself to counter the shrinking she had expected from him. What kind of a man was he who faced the results of dark evil without a change of eye or expression?

  “Perhaps is sometimes all one can ask for.” Again he made one of those swift, sure moves and she found the basket whirled out of her torn hands, held firm and secure in his, as he looked down at the child. “What is it that you think must be done?” he asked briskly.

  She wanted to take the basket from him, to draw tight the coverings which made Elfanor safe from prying eyes as well as this cold. But her tired body made her clumsy as she stumbled, half fell forward, so that now he held the cradle upon one hip and his other arm was about her, both drawing her close and supporting her.

  “Come.” He countered her small attempt to pull away, led her to a pile of stones and there seated himself, the cradle resting across his knees, she herself beside him, unable to summon any strength to pull free from his hold.

  She shivered, her hands lying uselessly on her knees. Then, to her great disgust, she felt tears on her cheeks. So much of her wanted to yield, to let someone else take command. Only—she need only look down at Elfanor, who as usual lay quiet, only stared up into the face of the man who held her with those unblinking eyes, the sly fires well alive deep in their depths.

  Hertha summoned up all the strength she could muster, and broke free from his grip, somehow got to her feet.

  “The rocks—the last one—” She must keep to her task!

  “Which rock?” He did not try to hold her back, only stood himself and then placed the cradle carefully on the ground.

  Hertha had already lurched away, afraid now that he would attempt to hold her again. If he did, she might yield to that traitor part of her which his coming here had awakened in a way which bewildered and weakened her resolve.

  “The blue one, the last—I have searched, and searched. Two I found. The third—I cannot.” She stumbled on, her torn hands outstretched as if to implore the ground itself to produce the stone she must have. “The rocks,” she spoke more to herself than to him, trying to return to her singleminded hunt, shut out all which was not atuned to that, “one must be placed at each of the entrances, as a sealing. That is the task laid upon me now.”

  She was only half aware then he had passed her, to go to the nearest of the spoked lanes and look down at the earth-encrusted boulder she had worked so hard to set in place.

  “This kind?” Trystan did not wait for her to answer. Instead, having studied the stone, he too swung out in search among the tumble of rocks which lay spread out along the crest of the ridge.

  Hertha dragged her way on, stopping now and then to pull at a pile of smaller stones, hoping each time to see hidden beneath them the blue she sought. She had been near three-quarters of the way around the wheel now and there was no sign of the last one. Did it exist at all?

  “Ha!”

  She turned. So quickly that she lost her balance and fell painfully to her knees. For a moment she did not see him at all and then his head appeared nearly at ground level and she re
membered a notch of gully which ran there.

  “I think that it is down here!”

  Somehow Hertha got across the ground between them. Trystan was stooped, hurling small rocks away from him with vigor. As Hertha came to the lip of that cut she could see it too, buried, only a small bit showing above the soil now that he cleared it from the rock fall. Blue like the others. But how could she raise it?

  Having thrown aside the rocks, Trystan drew his sword and stabbed the earth, throwing chunks of winter-hardened clay aside, yet working more slowly and with care for the safety of his tool which was not to be foolishly blunted.

  Hertha wiped the back of her hand across her forehead, smearing the herb grease on her face. She stared down at where Trystan worked with a dull despair. He might free the stone, yes, but how could she get it out of that tight lodging, then drag or roll it to the final resting place? Strength seemed to have melted out of her body.

  “There it is, my lady!” He stepped away, thrusting his sword once more into its scabbard, looking down at the boulder he had uncovered with an expression of satisfaction.

  From somewhere Hertha summoned croaking words. “Up—how does one get it up?”

  That she could lift that piece of rock she had to acknowledge was beyond her powers. Yet the task was hers alone, she was sure of that, as she had been since the first of this ordeal.

  “There is the rope which kept your pony’s sacks in place.” He stood, pinching his lips as he looked down at the rock. “With the aid of the horses it can be pulled out.”

  Hertha blinked. What he said made sense. She had been so bemused by her own fatigue that such a move had not occurred to her. It gave her a spurt of energy and she was on her feet once more, heading to where she had piled the pony’s gear. There was the rope, sure enough, a strong one. Whether its strength was enough to carry through Trystan’s suggestion she could not be sure until it was tried. Looping the coil over her arm and shoulder, she brought it back and tossed the end to him.

  He caught it neatly out of midair as it fell, then knelt to work a length around the rock, taking advantage of any projecting angle to make the stone more secure. Finally he looked up to her.

  “Bring your horse, mine, and we shall see if this will serve.”

  Her own placid mount caused no trouble, plodding easily enough to the gully. But his beast pulled back on the reins he had left dangling to the ground, the traditional “earth tie” of a fighting man, rolling its eyes and snorting. Hertha pulled steadily on the reins and was glad that there was no battle—the horse followed her at last, one reluctant step after another.

  Trystan clambered out of the cut, was already making one end of the rope into a loop about the horn of her saddle. The other he still gripped in his hand as he mounted up, giving the now foreshortened piece of cordage a second twist about his own horn.

  At his signal not only the horse he bestrode, but her own moved and she saw the rope become as taut as a bowstring, snapping hard against the edge of the gully. She feared to hear the crack of a breaking rope. Still that did not come. Trystan’s horse went slowly on, step by step, her own following while the rope remained taut. The rock, indeed, freed from its earth setting, was drawn up the side of the gully as it gouged and scraped against the wall along which it swung.

  The boulder arose at last over the edge, plopped near Hertha’s feet. She hurried to it, worrying at the knotted rope, she would have nothing left to draw upon. Trystan was beside her, his hands pushing her aside as they competently freed the stone.

  “Now where? Where is this road which must be so guarded?”

  She shook her head. “I must do it! Mine the sin, mine the payment!” She tried to edge past him, to set her hands to the stone’s earth-grimed side. It must be done—she must do it!

  “No.” His voice seemed to come from very far away, as if her head were so full of the need for keeping her mind on action that she could not catch the words quickly. “If it needs your touch, well enough. But remember, I, too, faced the Toads once in a time.”

  “Because then I tricked you.” Hertha was not aware again that she was crying until she tasted the salt of her own tears. “All was of my doing. Let me go. It must be placed before sundown—it must be!”

  He did not answer her. Instead he bent and braced both hands to the boulder, releasing his strength, sending it rolling in a wobbling fashion across the ground. Hertha hurried after it with a cry of dismay. She reached it first, set her own energy, what remained of it, to the pushing, and felt that it gave only inches.

  He was once more beside her. “Together we once fought here, my lady. So shall we fight again. I have not sought you out to lose you again in any battle which means all this one does. Heave if you will and must, but with my help also. Surely whatever power sent you here cannot deny you my aid, not now!”

  Hertha could not raise breath to answer him. She labored at the stone, and it was moving more easily, rocking from side to side. If she was not fulfilling the task laid upon her, she would suffer. But she could not accomplish it all alone, of that she was sure.

  The stone moved so slowly. Above was the darkening of clouds which were of no storm’s signal but that of coming night. Night was when the Dark Ones arose to power, if they could not get the stone in place before the last of daylight reached them! Hertha’s breath came in shallow gusts of panting. Before them to the left was the last of the open ways. Trystan changed position, coming about behind her so as to exert pressure from the other side.

  It seemed to Hertha that the very ground denied them aid, that certain shadows crept out from the pillar bases to cover the rough portions and hide obstacles from them as they labored.

  “On now, my lady, just a short way—” He, too, was panting. Then he bent even closer to the ground, going down on one knee as he set his shoulder firmly against the side of the rock.

  “Stand away!” he ordered her.

  She saw the strain of his body, his flushed face. For a long moment it would seem that the rock had caught past their moving. Then—

  Slowly, and with a wavering from side to side (which Hertha watched with anguished anxiety, her bleeding hands pressed to her mouth) it went forward, came to a stop in the center of the way.

  There was a sudden sweep of wind, sword-sharp with cold, whirling out her clothing, raising dust to blind her eyes. Somewhere from within that gritty haze came hands, arms, a body which steadied her. Was it the wailing of the wind which carried that strange chorus of grunting cries? Or did she imagine it only?

  She could barely keep her feet. A moment later he caught her up, carried her out of the whirlwind of noise and grit, back toward the bush which still sheltered Elfanor.

  The wind died, she heard another sound, the vigorous crying of a baby. Trystan set her down and Hertha staggered to the cradle. It was not dark yet, the twilight was still holding off a little. She caught the basket up into her arms as she fell to her knees. Holding it tight against her with one arm, she clawed at the covering blanket. Elfanor was screaming steadily.

  Hertha stared down. Her eyes were tearing, perhaps the grit of the wind storm had irritated them. She blinked and blinked furiously, fighting against that distortion of her sight. Then she could see clearly.

  Her daughter’s face was red with effort, her eyes screwed shut as she howled, flailing at the air with the fists she had managed to loose from her swaddling.

  A red face, but—

  Hertha’s fear melted away. This was no changeling! She had won! The curse was gone. The eyes in the baby’s face opened. They were dark, but there was no alien knowledge in them, just as that anger-reddened skin held no scaled patch of brown.

  “Free! She is free!” Hertha crooned, rocking the baby, cradle and all, against her as she swayed back and forth. Firm hands clasped her shoulders. Dimly she realized that a new strength had come, that she was no longer alone.

  “You freed her.” His voice was clear to her.

  She turned her head to loo
k at him, all her gratitude swelling up within her like an inner fire.

  “With you only could I have done it.”

  “Did you think I would not help?” He looked stern, harsh and hard, in the failing light. But that was not Trystan in truth, that she was sure of. For the first time in days, months, even years which she could remember, Hertha let her stiff independence seep away, allowed herself the precious safety of his hold.

  “With you only,” she repeated softly. She knew from the light suddenly aglow in his eyes, the softening of his lips that he heard. “Many are Gunnora’s gifts—many and good.”

  “May her name be praised,” he said then, though Gunnora was the holder of women’s Power and no man worshiped at her shrine. “She has given us both much in this hour. My lady, it grows dark, shall we go?”

  Hertha looked at Elfanor. Whatever rage had possessed her at the sundering of the dark power was gone. The baby blinked sleepily.

  “Yes,” Hertha cried. “Let us go—home!”

  The delight in his face was such at her words that she believed she had nothing else to wish for.

  Spider Silk

  1

  THE Big Storm in the Year of the Kobold came late, long past the month when such fury was to be expected. This was all part of that evil which the Guardians had drawn upon Estcarp when they summoned up their greatest power to blast and twist the mountain lands, seal off passes through which had come the invasion from Karsten.

  Rannock lay open to that storm. Only the warning dream-sending to the Wise Woman, Ingvarna, drew a portion of the women and children to the higher lands, there to watch with fear and trembling the sea’s fierce assault upon the coast. So high dashed those waves that water covered and boiled about the Serpent Teeth of the upper ledges. Only here, in pockets among the Tor rocks, could a fugitive crouch in almost mindless terror, awaiting the end.