The Warding of Witch World Read online

  Then Guret cried out something with the ring of a battle slogan. The free animals went forward at a trot and then a gallop. Behind them rode the three Kioga, Kethan, and Aylinn. The reins of Morna laid loosely as his foster sister set arrow to bow, her moon wand thrust to safety at her belt.

  Behind them came Ibycus, flanked by Firdun and Elysha—who had taken her place even though Ibycus had opened his mouth as if to refuse her.

  They were down from the heights now. The beasts of their train were slipping and plunging, their race hindered by the sand which trapped their feet.

  One of those black knights moved, reversed a tube he held, and pointed to the Kioga stallion who led that race. There was a flash of flame and the horse screamed in agony, but the pace of the others carried them on.

  The Kioga were shooting and Kethan saw one knight jerk and fall from his saddle, but mainly the tribesmen had been aiming at the mounts of that grim company and three sank, bristling with arrows.

  Then Trussant, aflame with battle rage, brought Kethan close enough to exchange blows with one of the knights. They were sending their flames and Kethan felt the sear of one flash which came too near. He ducked and cut not at the body of the knight but at those hands which grasped the deadly rod. The quan iron blazed almost as brightly as the flames and passed, cutting off both gauntleted hands, deep into the neck of the serpent horse, whose shriek below was lost in other screams and cries. The winged people were taking their own vengeance, swooping over the now-broken line of knights to hook with their spears and drag from their saddles men even as they took aim.

  Kethan could sense no magic. This was a fight free from Power and he rejoiced in it even though the change was not on him.

  The melee swung this way and that. There were bodies of both beasts and men trampled into the sand. The fire weapons appeared to be easily exhausted. Perhaps, Kethan thought fleetingly, they were the gift of Dark Power and could not be recharged.

  He was dimly aware that Uta’s weight was no longer against his back. Perhaps she had been swept from her hold. Then there was no one ahead of him and he urged Trussant around.

  One of the armor-encased knights staggered by him on foot, both hands clawing at his own head. Uta’s black form was pressed as tightly to his helm as when she rode with Kethan, but now her claws were locked in the visor as she spat and howled her anger.

  The knight stumbled closer and Kethan swung his sword, taking the same care he would have under his father’s eyes in the arms court of the Green Tower. A blow on the shoulder sent the staggering man to his knees and Trussant reared as trained, bringing down both quan-iron-shod hooves on the faltering man, driving him deep into the sand as Uta sprang free.

  Kethan looked around for another enemy. But what he saw was only the wastage at the end of the battle. The knights and the monster mounts lay dead. But also there were the bodies of seared horses, and a limping Kioga was cutting the throats of some who still screamed.

  Jakata’s guard had failed, but somehow Kethan was sure that the Dark Mage had already forgotten these servants, that he was too intent upon reaching his goal.

  Now the were raised his head and stared toward that black hump. He saw riders making the best speed they could in the sand and knew that Ibycus, Elysha, and Firdun had gotten through.

  Still there was no end. Morna moved up beside him. Aylinn’s bow was gone, her moonflower wand was in her hands, her eyes were wide.

  “We must go on.” She echoed his own thoughts.

  They had lost Obred, and Guret rode chanting the death song of a warrior who had won his triumph. But they felt too much the pressure which was building around them now to remain.

  For there was Power awakening. Would they be in time to stop Jakata from his spelling? They could not urge their horses now to more than a walk and the party ahead grew smaller and smaller, sometimes half covered by the sand which arose a little like dust to cloak them.

  Of Jakata and those with him, Kethan could no longer catch sight. But he hoped that the other three were close enough behind Jakata to interfere with any sorcery he might intend.

  The spells which summoned or controlled major Powers were never easily enacted and Jakata would need time.

  There was a small black shape trotting by the side of his horse. Uta! He called to her, but she kept steadily on as if she were now on some quest of her own and must not be distracted from it.

  She was even drawing ahead, for, though Trussant kept to the best pace Kethan could urge on him, the cat steadily left him behind. She was not running, yet the shifting sand did not appear to slow her.

  However, the sensation of drawing Powers was increasing. And now it weighted them down, though they fought against it. Aylinn summoned Hardin, Guret, and Lero to join her. Each of them she touched in turn with the moonflower, holding it out to Kethan at the last.

  The heaviness which had been weighing upon him was lessened. But something else was astir. At first he thought that the black sand might have been summoned up in dust devils such as plagued many who ventured into the Waste.

  Only this was not black—the haze was more rust red in shade—and it did not whirl, it stood. He blinked twice. Uta was not walking in sand, she was pattering down a street—a wider, better-paved way than even one of the Dale seaports could boast. While on either hand arose, as plants might grow out of rich earth, walls, houses, mighty towers, and buildings. Glamorie he well knew, but even though he could tell what it was, he could no longer pierce through it.

  Also he thought that he caught glimpses now and then of shadow figures moving among those buildings, even along the pavement on which he now appeared to ride. Before him, that hump of black rock which had become their goal was fast altering. It formed an arch with carven pillars on either side.

  Yet there was also a menace in these shadows. Kethan felt the newcomers were far from welcome here, and he began to watch alertly on each side the doorways in those buildings, the alleys and street mouths which they passed.

  The shadows took on no stronger outlines. All of his party were riding close together now. The winged people had not accompanied them and Kethan felt suddenly very wary and alone.

  He longed to change, but dared not, knowing that in spite of Aylinn’s treatment he could not go four-footed until better healed.

  “Glamorie,” he said aloud as if to reassure himself.

  “True,” his foster sister answered. “It is out of the past—we are seeing what once was. Time itself is being drawn to this place.”

  He had always heard that the Great Old Ones had cities and castles—which their descendants had not been able to match. This must have been one of them. The space before the arch cleared, seemed to tighten in an odd way as if more substance had been added to the ghostly frame. Elysha dealt in glamorie—was it she who was calling back what once was?

  That flavor of sea wind in the air was strong. Once this must have been a lord among cities—until twisted Power brought it to bare rock.

  The road widened as they neared the gate so that there was a large space. There stood those they sought, both friend and foe.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  An End and a Beginning, the Waste

  T he blood-red robe of the one figure before the center portion of the gate identified Jakata. He was standing, but those two sages who had accompanied him were huddled to the ground, unmoving. Kethan wondered briefly if they had served as some sacrifices for their master.

  He had to call upon his own reserves under the weaving, the massing of Power centered here. Somehow he had slipped from the saddle and was afoot. A figure moved to his right—Aylinn, her moon wand held in both hands before her breast. The flower which topped it seemed wan—as if it, also, had been sucked dry of potency. On his left was Hardin, and behind him Guret and Lero. Then he was aware that he was indeed tramping on stone pavement, that the walls were solid.

  They were also drawing in, those wisps of shadows which had the faint likeness to beings. Yet none
of them had features he could distinguish, nor did any approach close enough to touch.

  The three who had gone before stood as steady as Jakata. Ibycus was in the center, his staff held in both of his hands. Somehow he appeared to loom taller, as if what he called upon filled him past the confines of his body. To his left was Elysha, the blaze of her bracelets bands of fire. She was calm of face as one who waited, having marshaled all her strength and contained it ready.

  Firdun’s sword and helm lay slightly behind him. He might have tossed aside as useless those weapons of common humankind. The youth who had ridden out of the Eyrie was gone now. His gaunt face was strained, as if he also gathered and held that which must be used in this final meeting.

  Forward trotted another, her black fur allowing her to be easily seen. She moved with purpose as if she had been summoned and must answer. So Uta came to Elysha and stood statue still.

  Kethan moved on, Aylinn matching him step for step. He did not know what had become of the others. Perhaps this last battle was not for them. The pard in him wished for freedom, fought to take form, swelling with the waves of energy circling about them, but he held to his present form. Somehow he understood that, were he to release that other within, he might forever lose the man in the beast.

  He could hear the faint crooning song Aylinn was voicing. Words so old that time had nearly erased them. The moon was not above to favor her now, but still she entered into the Maiden’s ritual. And her moonflower appeared to revive.

  Firdun stared straight ahead of him, not at the red-robed figure who postured and chanted before the gate. The man was but the key; it was what lay beyond him that must be faced.

  Jakata was well aware of them—how else could it be with the currents of magic circling about? Yet he had not glanced in their direction, his attention all for what he would do.

  His black staff pointed first to one of the prone sages and then to the other. It was not the bodies which arose at his bidding, but shadow things, more material than those Kethan had seen in the city. But all which was human and of the world of light lay still, now just husks discarded.

  Those shadows flanked Jakata, one on either side. And they changed, growing taller, more visible. It was they who turned to face Ibycus and the others now.

  The ring of the mage’s finger was blazing. He gripped his staff almost as if it were an anchorage he must hold to.

  “Neevor . . .” That thing out of the shadows which had arisen on Jakata’s left at his bidding showed a discernible face now. It was no monster—there was almost a serene beauty in it. However, Firdun, seeing it, felt an icy chill.

  “Neevor!” Those lips were shaping a small tight smile. “Well met, brother.”

  Ibycus’s features were set. He looked beyond the thing which addressed him at Jakata.

  “Brother.” That greeting was repeated softly, almost caressingly. “We meet again.”

  “Not so,” the mage returned. “Long ago our paths parted, if you are indeed some remnant of him whose liking you strive to wear. At Car Re Targen there was a parting, and Car Re Targen has been tumbled stone for countless seasons. You are not Mawlin—you are not!”

  “Deny me as you please, I stand here, brother.”

  He was fully solid now—that shadow-born thing. And such a one as might loom well over Ibycus, only the mage raised his ring hand and the beam of light from that stone struck full into the face of the thing slowly advancing. It writhed, cried out.

  “Ill done, brother. Death you have given, death you will have in return.”

  “Ill lived,” Ibycus answered, “and even more ill in dying. You do not walk again.”

  There was agony twisting that fair face now and Firdun swayed, for a pain which was not his and yet seemed of his giving struck through him. Then it was gone. He saw that Ibycus leaned now on his staff as if he needed its support.

  Almost within the archway Jakata postured and moved as he might in some formal dance at a feasting.

  “Ibycus . . .” the second of the shadow-born spoke. This was a woman. As her companion, she was fair of face, well endowed of body. Looking upon her, Firdun felt a drawing which almost brought him a half step forward.

  “Beloved.” Her voice was husky; it beckoned, promised. What man could stand against the lure she had become?

  “Love does not last past betrayal, Athal who was.”

  “I am not was—beloved—I am!” She opened wide her arms.

  Firdun almost could have rushed forward, but that call was not for him. He saw from the corner of his eyes the purple blaze which now seemed to half hide Elysha.

  The woman-thing laughed and one wanted to join with her. A musky, languorous scent filled the air. Her eyes promised . . .

  “Remember the morning in the great chamber—Ibycus? Then you swore many things, did you not? Among them an eternal bond for us. Remember the night upon the river when you said the very stars were mirrored in my eyes and you were in your might? Remember—”

  “Remember,” Ibycus interrupted her languorous voice, “how it was with you when we came to the last stand at Weyrnhold.”

  Tears came into those large eyes, spilled over on her ivory cheeks.

  “I am your true love, Ibycus, come again. Weyrnhold was long ago—I was young—and afraid.”

  “Afraid?” That word uttered with scorn had not come from the mage but from Elysha. “Afraid of losing what mattered most to you—your power over men.”

  The languorous beckoning look was gone. The vision’s smile became as near a snarl as any human lips could shape.

  “Stupid nothingling! Have all your sighs and longings brought you what you wish—this man?”

  “What any man would give a woman must come with truth and trust,” Elysha’s voice rang out. “I do not lay your traps.”

  Athal laughed, spitefully this time. “And where do you stand, nothingling?”

  “Beside him you would bend to your own purposes. I take only what is given freely.”

  “Enough!” Ibycus raised his ring hand. “We lose time with this chitter-chatter. Be gone, Athal, to seek again what you chose at Weyrnhold. Such choices are made only once and forever hold.”

  “No!” Her voice rose to a shriek. “You cannot be lost to—”

  The thrust of the ring light caught her in midstep as she would have flung herself at him. Her screams rang in Firdun’s head until he half turned on the mage who would inflict such pain on anyone, man or woman.

  Then she was gone and with her disappeared that spell which had begun to entangle him also. Ibycus leaned even heavier on his staff. Elysha advanced a hand but did not quite touch him.

  Then he straightened and his voice rang out with all the old force and power.

  “Shall we cease with games, Jakata? You have thrown the challenge. Now make good your threat.”

  The Dark Mage had ceased his strange pacing back and forth. His wand swung between two fingers and he smiled as had the woman.

  “You have lived long, Warden. I think your day is done. I have unlocked the gate and—”

  His words centered all their eyes upon that archway. There was a hum in the air, a feeling of compression about them which was partly anticipation. The inside of the arch was black, as hidden as a starless, moonless night—or the very depths in which the greatest of evil nested.

  “Firdun!” Ibycus did not look at him, but he was instantly alert at that call. He must remember—it was now that that which had been given must be used.

  He spoke the first of those words in unity with the mage. Even as Ibycus drew patterns in the air with his ring finger, so did Firdun echo them. He felt drawn out of himself, melded into something larger, stronger than he had ever known—he who could not meld.

  And the chant continued. There was a roiling within the darkness of the gate. That which Jakata had summoned was at hand. Though Firdun could not see it, the stench filled his nostrils, the first wave of black power washed around him. But he held and the words came. As
he spoke them, they issued from his lips not as speech but as points of light, and those points formed patterns.

  Again came the surge of evil. Before them Jakata swelled, grew. His arms were flung out and then drawn to his breast as if he embraced the blackness, drew it toward him to be one with him or he the symbol of it.

  A length of black lashed out as Jakata pointed now at Ibycus. The mage swayed, but his voice continued, and Firdun’s with it. More of the star-words gathered, and from one side came stabs of purple lightning such as Elysha had summoned before.

  The giant which was now Jakata threw back his head and laughed. While behind him the dark beyond the gate thickened, split, thickened again, as if some force gathered there to be launched at the outer world.

  Jakata was now framed in a half circling of tentacles which issued out of the dark. The words which were stars had clustered into a form like the head of a spear. Jakata moved. His leap did not carry him to Ibycus; instead his giant form faltered as he stumbled. The mage pointed with his ring.

  The tottering figure of the Dark Mage was caught, light spear at his breast. And the force of that pushed him back. Those tentacles about him writhed, fastened on the other parts of the gateway as if they would help to lever outward that which lurked hungrily within.

  Some of the star-words had fallen on impact with the Dark Mage, but now Ibycus was beginning the formula for the second time and Firdun, feeling weaker by the moment, followed.

  Then—the lashlike arms snapped closed, about Jakata. And within their hold he shrank once more to human size, his handsome face convulsed with pain and terror. Back into the archway he was drawn. Now the star-words were no longer a spear point. Rather they were shaping in the form of such an armed hatch as might defend a hold. Bars thickened, crossed, melted together.

  A mighty blast of evil in its final struggle shook them all. Firdun was on his knees now, holding desperately as he could to the task he had been set. Warder he was—and this was the great warding.