Wizard's Worlds: A Short Story Collection (Witch World) Read online

The force of his attempt again brought her hard against that barrier.

  “No—I cannot! The spells of your people—” she gasped. “Go—they cannot follow you through this!”

  “Not without you!” His face was grim as he stood beside her. “Try by sea. Can you swim?”

  “Not well enough.” She had splashed now and then in some of the marsh pools, but to entrust herself to the sea was another matter. Yet what choice had she? That heat of hate behind was warning enough of what might happen!

  “Come—”

  “Stand!” That shout was from behind. Affric—She did not even have to look around to know who led the hunters.

  “Go—” Tursla tried to push her companion on, through that wall which was no wall for him.

  “The sea!” he repeated.

  But it would seem they were too late. Another spear expertly thrown, flashed between them, struck the unseen wall and rebounded. Tursla faced around, her hand going to the breast of her robe, closing upon what she had brought from the pool side.

  Affric, yes, and Brunwol, and Gawan. Behind them a score of others, closing in, their eyes avid with a lust of hatred such as she had never met before. Consciously or unconsciously they were using that hatred as a weapon, beating at her; and the hurtful blows of it made her sway, sick and spirit wounded.

  But Tursla still had strength enough to bring out the packet she had made. With one hand she tore that open as she balanced the fold of cloth upon the palm of the other. Now that the sand was uncovered, she raised it level with her lips and gathered a great breath to blow it outward. As it swirled she cried aloud. Not a word, for such spelling as this was not summoned by the words of this world. Rather she shaped a sound which seemed to roar, even as the alarm trumpet of the Torfolk had done.

  There was no sighting the disappearance of the sand that her breath had dispersed. From the shore itself there uprose small curlings of white grit. Those began to whirl, even as Xactol had formed her body. Higher they grew by the instant, drawing more and more of the shore’s substance into them. But they remained pillars, not taking on any other form. Far taller they were now than any of those who stood there.

  Affric and his men backed away a little, eyeing the pillars with the uncertainty of men who face a hitherto-unknown menace. Yet they did not retreat far, and Tursla knew well that they still held to their deadly purpose.

  The top of the tallest pillar began to nod—toward the Tormen. Tursla caught at Simond’s shoulder. The strength that moved the pillars was draining from her. That she could order them much longer she doubted.

  “The sea!”

  Had she cried that aloud, or had he read it in her mind? She was not sure. But Simond’s arm was about her and he was striding toward the wash of the waves, bearing her with him.

  As the waves struck against her, the water rising from knee to waist, Tursla strove still to keep her mind upon the columns of sand. But she did not turn her head to watch how effectively her energy wrought.

  There was shouting there, not now aimed at the fugitives. Some of the voices were muffled or ceased abruptly. The water was high about her now. Simond, sparing no glance for what might be happening on the shore, gave an order:

  “Turn on your back. Float! Leave it to me!”

  She tried to do as he wanted. So far there had been no barrier. Now as she splashed she could see the shoreline again. There was a mist. No, not a mist—that must be a whirl of sand thick enough to half hide the figures struggling in it as if they could not win forth from its embrace, rather were caught fast held in the storm of grit.

  Then she was on her back and Simond was swimming, towing her with him. No longer did he head out to sea, but rather altered course to parallel the shore. Tursla had held the sand, sent it raging as long as she could. She was drained now, not able to move to aid herself even if she had known how to swim.

  That shouting grew louder. Then—

  Force—force pushing her back, sending her under the water. She gasped, and the salt flood was in her mouth, drawn chokingly into her lungs. She fought for breath. The barrier! this was the barrier. She wanted to shout to Simond, tell him that all her efforts were useless. There was no escape for her.

  No escape! Her body, her body was sealed into Tormarsh by the spells of the outlanders! No—hope—

  Aroused to a frenzy by the danger of drowning, Tursla tried to get free of the hold upon her, to strike at Simond and make him let go before she was pushed completely under the water.

  “—go! Let me go!” Her mind shrieked and water once more flooded into her mouth and nose.

  Out of nowhere came a blow. She felt a flash of pain as it landed. Then, nothing at all.

  Slowly she came back from that place of darkness. Water—she was drowning! Simond must let her go.

  But there was no water. She lay on a surface which was steady, which did not swing as did the waves. And she could breathe. No water filled her nose, covered her head. For a long moment it was enough to know that she was indeed safe from being drawn under. But—

  They must be back on the shore then. With her releasing of mind control the sand would have gone. Perhaps Affric was—

  Tursla opened her eyes. Above her the sky arched—clear except for a drifting cloud or two. There was no hint of the Tormarsh mist about. She raised her head—though that small action seemed very hard—she was weak, drained.

  Sand, white, marked with the ripples of waves which curled in, drained away again. And rocks. And the sea. But no Affric, no Torman standing over her. She was—Tursla sat up, bracing herself by her hands.

  Her wet robe was plastered thick with sand. She could even taste the grit between her teeth. There was no one—no one at all. Yet a few moments of study showed her that this was not that tongue of beach to which the Tormarsh reached.

  She inched around to face inland. To her left now, a-goodly distance away, rising into the air as if a hundred—no, a thousand fires burned (for it stretched along there inland as far as she could see), the mists of the marsh arose like smoke, cloaking well what might lie on the other side.

  They had passed the barrier! This was the Outland.

  Tursla wavered to her knees, striving to see more of this unknown world. The sand of the beach stretched for a space. Then there was a sparse growth of tough grass; beyond that, bushes. But there was no smell of the swamp.

  Where was Simond?

  Her loneliness, which had been good when she feared Affric and the others, now was a source of uneasiness. Where had he gone—and why?

  His desertion, for her, was frightening. Was it that she was of the Torfolk? Could it be that the Outlanders’ hatred for the marsh dwellers was so great, that, having saved her life, he felt he had paid any debts between them and had wished no more of her company?

  Bleakly Tursla settled on that fact. Perhaps in the Outlands Koris himself hated his Torblood and his son had been raised to find it a matter of shame. Just as a Torman might, in turn, look upon half-Outland blood as something to lessen him among his fellows.

  She was Tor—as much as Simond knew. And as Tor—

  Tursla supported her head upon her hands and tried to think. It might well be that, having made one of those decisions she had been told to consider seriously, she had cut herself totally adrift from all people now. Xactol had warned her fairly. When she left the country of the pool she would no longer have communication with that one mind?—spirit?—entity?—who could understand what she was.

  Mafra—for the first time Tursla wondered, with a little catch of breath, how had it gone with the Clan Mother who had faced Unnanna and worked some magic of her own to cover their escape; though what manner of Torfolk would dare to raise either hand or voice against Mafra? The girl wished passionately at that moment that she could reverse all that had happened to her, be once more in the clan house—as it had been on the night before she had gone to keep her meeting with the sand sister.

  To look back, Tursla shook her head, that was onl
y a waste of effort. No man or woman might ever turn again and decide upon some other path once their feet were firm set on one of their choice. She had made her decision, now by that she must live—or perhaps die.

  Bleakly she looked landward. The sea was empty and she expected no help to arise out of that. Now she was hungry. Already the sun was well down in the western sky. She had not even a knife at her belt; and who knew what manner of danger might prowl the Outland at the coming of true darkness?

  But if she tried to go hence it must be on hands and knees. When she attempted to rise to her feet she found herself so weak and giddy that she tottered and fell. Hunger and thirst—both were an emptiness crying to be filled.

  Filled! At least now the clan would never discover her deception. If she had been filled with something else as Mafra had averred, what was it?

  She brought her knees up against her breast, put her arms about them, huddling in upon herself, for the wind was growing colder and had a bite to it which the winds of Tormarsh never held. Now she tried to think. What was good fortune for her now? What was ill? The latter seemed a longer list. But the good—she had escaped Affric and the rest—the anger of the Torfolk which would have been dire when they discovered she would bring forth no child to swell their dwindling numbers. She had certain knowledge which she as yet did not know how to use, that which Xactol had granted her.

  But if the sand sister was forever barred from her, when and how could she ever learn?

  And where might she go for shelter? Where was there food? Water? Would the hands of all dwellers in this land be raised against her when they knew her for Tor?

  She—

  “Holla!”

  Tursla’s head came up instantly.

  There was a mounted man—riding through the inland brush! His head—bare head—Simond! Somehow she wobbled to her feet, called out in return though her voice sounded very thin and weak in answer to that shout of his:

  “Simond!”

  Now, it was as if something tight and hurting inside her had suddenly broken apart. She wavered to her feet, staggered, one foot before the other. She was not alone! He had not left her here!

  The horse was coming at a trot. She could sight a second animal following; Simond had it on lead. He came in a shower of sand sent up by the pounding feet of his mount. Then he was out of the saddle and to her, his arms around her.

  Tursla could only repeat his name in a witless fashion, letting him take the weight of her worn out and aching body.

  “Simond! Simond!”

  “It is well. All is well.” He held her steady, letting the very fact that he was there, that she was not alone, seep into her mind and bring her peace.

  “I had to go,” he told her. “We needed horses. There is a watch tower only a little away. I came back as soon as I could.”

  Now she gained a measure of control.

  “Simond.” She made herself look directly into his eyes, sure that he would in no way try to soothe her with any false promise. “Simond, I am of Tormarsh. I do not know how you brought me past that spell your people used as a barrier to keep us from the Outland. But I remain Tor. Will your people give me any welcome?”

  His hands now cupped her face, and his eyes did not shift.

  “Tor chose to stand our enemy, but in return we have never sought that enmity. Also, I am partly Tor. And Koris has made Torblood a blessing not a curse in Estcarp, as all men know. He held the Axe of Volt which would come only to him. And he intended that Estcarp not be meat for those who were worse than any winter wolf! Tor holds no stigma here.”

  Then he laughed, and the lightness of his smile made his whole face different.

  “This is an odd thing. You know my name, but I do not know yours. Will you trust me with that much to show your belief in my good will?”

  She found that her face, sticky with sea water and rough with sand, stretched an answering smile.

  “I am Tursla of—No, I am no longer of any clan house. Just what I am now—or whom—that I must learn.”

  “It will not be hard that learning. There will be those to help,” he promised her.

  Tursla’s smile grew wider. “That I do not doubt,” she replied with conviction.

  Toys of Tamisan

  1

  SHE is certified by the Foostmam, Lord Starrex. A true action dreamer to the tenth power.”

  Jabis was being too eager, or almost so; he was pushing too much, Tamisan sneered mentally, keeping her face carefully blank, though she took quick glances about from beneath half-closed eyelids. This sale very much concerned her, since she was the product being discussed, but she had nothing to say in the matter.

  She supposed this was a typical sky tower, seeming to float, masked in clouds at times, since its supports were so slender and well concealed, lifting it high above Ty-Kry. However, none of the windows gave on real sky, but each framed a very different landscape, illustrating what must be other planet scenes. Perhaps some were dream remembered or inspired.

  There was a living lambil grass carpet around the easirest on which the owner half lay, half sat. But Jabis had not even been offered a pull-down wall seat. And the two other men in attendance on Lord Starrex stood also. They were real men and not androids, which placed the owner in the multi-credit class. One, Tamisan thought was a bodyguard, and the other, younger, thinner, with a dissatisfied mouth, had on clothing nearly equal to that of the man on the easirest but with a shade of difference which meant a lesser place in the household.

  Tamisan catalogued what she could see and filed it away for future reference. Most dreamers did not observe much of the world about them. They were too enmeshed in their own creations to care for reality. Most dreamers . . . Tamisan frowned. She was a dreamer. Jabis and the Foostmam could prove that. The lounger on the easirest could prove it if he paid Jabis’ price. But she was also something more, Tamisan herself was not quite sure what. And that there was a difference in her, she had had mother wit enough to conceal since she had first been aware that the others in the Foostmam’s Hive were not able to come cleanly out of their dreams into the here and now. Why, some of them had to be fed, clothed, cared for as if they were not aware they had any bodies!

  “Action dreamer.” Lord Starrex shifted his shoulders against the padding which immediately accommodated itself to his stirring to give him maximum comfort. “Action dreaming is a little childish—”

  Tamisan’s control held, but she felt inside her a small flare of anger. Childish was it? She would like to show him just how childish a dream she could spin to enmesh a client. But Jabis was not in the least moved by that derogatory remark from a possible purchaser; it was in his eyes only a logical bargaining move.

  “If you wish an E dreamer—” He shrugged. “But your demand to the Hive specified an A.”

  He was daring to be a little abrupt. Was he so sure of this lord as all that? He must have some inside information which allowed him to be so confident. For Jabis could cringe and belly-down in awe like the lowest beggar if he thought such a gesture needful to gain a credit or two.

  “Kas, this is your idea. What is she worth?” Starrex asked indifferently.

  The younger of his companions moved forward a step or two. He was the reason for her being here—Lord Kas, cousin to the owner of all this magnificence; though certainly not, Tamisan had already deduced, with any authority in the household. But the fact that Starrex lay in the easirest was not dictated by indolence, but rather by what was hidden by the fas-silk lap-robe concealing half his body. A man who might not walk straight again could find pleasure in the abilities of an action dreamer.

  “She has a ten-point rating,” Kas reminded the other.

  The black brows which gave a stern set to Starrex’s features arose a trifle. “Is that so?”

  Jabis was quick to take advantage. “It is so, Lord Starrex. Of all this year’s swarm, she rated the highest. It was—is—the reason why we make this offer to your lordship.”

  “I do
not pay for reports only,” returned Starrex.

  Jabis was not to be ruffled. “A point ten, my lord, does not give demonstrations. As you know, the Hive accrediting can not be forged. It is only because I have urgent business in Brok and must leave for there that I am selling her at all. Though I have had an offer from the Foostmam herself to retain this one for lease-outs—”

  Tamisan, had she had anything to wager or someone with whom to wager it, would have set the winning of this bout with her uncle. Uncle? To Tamisan’s thinking she had no blood tie with this small insect of a man—with his wrinkled face, his never-still eyes, his thin hands with their half-crooked fingers always reminding one of claws outstretched to grab and grab and grab. Surely her mother must have been very unlike Uncle Jabis, or else how could her father ever have seen aught worth bedding—not for just one night but for half a year—in her?

  Not for the first time her thoughts were on the riddle of her parents. Her mother had not been a dreamer—though she had had a sister who had regrettably—for the sake of the family fortune—died in the Hive during adolescent stimulation as an E dreamer. Her father had been from off-world—an alien, though humanoid enough to crossbreed. And he had disappeared again off-world when his desire for star roving had become too strong to master. Had it not been that she had early shown dreamer talent, Uncle Jabis and the rest of the greedy Yeska clan would never have taken any thought of her after her mother had died of the blue plague.

  She was crossbred and had intelligence enough to guess early that this had given her the difference between her powers and those of others in the Hive. The ability to dream was an inborn talent. For those of low power, it was an indwelling withdrawal from the world. And those dreamers were largely useless. But the ones who could project dreams to include others—through linkage—brought high prices, according to the strength and stability of their creations. E dreamers who created erotic and lascivious other-worlds once rated more highly than action dreamers. But of late years, the swing had been in the opposite direction, though how long that might hold no one could guess. And those lucky enough to have an A dreamer to sell were pushing their wares speedily lest the market decline.