by Andre Norton
A battleground might well poison the rising wind so, but even during the years of the war, Mereth had only once met with such a stomach-twisting smell. It filled the nostrils, but it also reached deep within her and awakened a nameless fear. Perhaps the loss of one ability, that of speech, stirred and sharpened all her senses. It posed a question for the likes of Maid Mouse, whose visits she cherished. Mouse was renowned for her magic talent and the gift of discerning the balance of things.
As the woman continued to plod persistently along the track the girl had taken, her thoughts were rudely interrupted.
Looking down, she was met with a strange sight indeed. At her feet in the spring-green meadow grass was a fleece, rent and be-splotched with great gouts of blood. Among the young blades of recently nibbled grass there showed rough patches of blood-soaked mud.
Mereth carefully inserted the ground tip of her staff under the edge of the hide and flipped back a part of it to examine the flesh side. With so much blood about, this must be a fresh kill, but how could this be with no sign of paw-, claw- or footprint?
Furthermore, there was not one scrap of flesh adhering to the underside of the sheepskin. No animal could kill and clean its prey and leave the hide thus. And where were the bones? There was no sign of any remains, nothing but blood and hide!
There were feral hunters in plenty in these mountains, borse-bear, val-lops, snow cats. But sites of their feasting bore no resemblance to this. The very look and feel here shouted danger in the Lormt woman’s mind.
Wessel, he might know. Lormt and its grounds had been his charge for years. He was truly both Lord Duratan’s right and left hand and the first to be queried about land or towers. She had seen him an hour earlier supervising the finishing of the crenellations of a new tower in the outer wall. But, the herder . . . Mereth turned slowly to scan the reaches of the meadow. Of course there was no sight of the girl. She might have traced the child by the sound of her running, but the sight of the strange kill had lost her that advantage and she probably could not have kept pace long enough to catch her. Many heavy boulders thrust up along the fringes of the pasturage like ill-socketed teeth. Any one of them offered an ample hiding place.
Perhaps later she might borrow one of the tough little ponies and ride down to the village to inquire about the girl, though the prospect of success was dim. There was no great friendship between the village and Lormt, for many of those living there now were Karsten survivors of the Mountain Dance and deeply bitter against those with Talents.
No, to learn what she could from Wessel was her best move at present. Again planting her sturdy staff with care, Mereth turned to retrace her steps.
She found Wessel leaning on an overturned cart, happily engulfing, with obvious hunger, a huge round of herb bread wrapped about a fat chunk of cheese. The filling looked about to escape his hold, but he adroitly stuffed the last of it into his generous mouth. Mereth hesitated; to call a man from his midday meats simply to observe a puzzle lying down-mountain was hardly fair. But, time was crucial. The evidence must be seen immediately or be of no value.
The bailiff swallowed again as she came up.
“Trouble, M’Lady?”
Mereth steadied her slate and carefully printed, the easier for him to read.
“Down slope, look, something curious to see.”
He rolled what remained of his meal into a square of coarse linen and tucked it into the front of his jerkin. Then he hesitated for a moment and looked closely at her.
Instinctively catching his unspoken question, she shook her head and he forbore to pick up the only possible weapon at hand, a mattock that leaned against the wall behind him.
This time she took more careful account of her footing. At the nooning it was warmer now and her hearing, always acute, caught the drone of buzzing insects. As they approached the site of the kill, it seemed that the stench had intensified; however, the near-palpable evil she had sensed clouding the spot was now dissipated. Wessel practically vaulted the last few paces down to stand beside the blood-clotted fleece and after a moment squatted, his hand over his nose.
“’Pears something took one o’ Fuser’s ewes,” he had half advanced a hand near but not quite touching the befouled wool.
Again Mereth’s writing tool was busy. “Mot-wolf, bear, Snow cat?”
He shook his head in response to her list. “Not as any mountain hunter was this done, M’Lady. Where be the paw prints, bones and the like? Best we put Lord Duratan on this, he was ranger trained. Now,” Wessel rose to his feet, “I’ll just go and tell him.”
Mereth withdrew. The cloud of blue flies and the pervasive stench were more than she could bear. Even when she reached Lormt again, she avoided visiting the buttery for a while. Instead she went to the tiny chamber that opened off her well-appointed living space and sat down at her desk, which was thickly spread with documents and a couple of wood-covered books so heavily fashioned to protect the ancient parchment pages.
There was the Larweeth case, this was her duty at Lormt; she must keep to it. The great war behind them, the massacres of the old race in Karsten, the Moving of the Mountains had stirred up her entire world as one stirs the stiff batter for a feast cake. Families and clans had been brutally rent apart.
Now Lormt was devoted to gathering and cataloging of news of such losses, ready to offer aid to any who came seeking news of kin. Sometimes one had to sift through very old records for needed clues. Accustomed to keeping accounts of business on land and sea for her trading family, Mereth had found this a suitable occupation in her old age, one she could ply with skill.
She closed her eyes for a moment and saw only bloody wool. Clapping her hand to her lips, she swallowed firmly and reached for a book of armorial bearings. This she opened with determination and forced herself to locate a particular mark.
At last able for a time to push the disturbing scene out of her mind and settle down to pursue her research, Mereth became shortly so engrossed that it almost startled her when a messenger from Lord Duratan arrived to ask, if it were no trouble, could she attend upon him?
It was near twilight when Mereth trudged through the halls, aided by her staff in making cautious descent into the bowels of Lormt. There she knocked on the door of Lord Duratan’s quarters from whence he ordered the affairs governing the safety of the ancient seat of knowledge. Once of the Borderers, he kept his chamber well lighted, and when the woman knocked and entered at his invitation, she immediately caught a sound that betrayed his mood, a random clicking.
He had swept a space clear of paper, pens, and folios on the ancient wood surface of the table before him. Above this his hands rose and fell as his fingers gathered a partial palmful of colored crystals, only to toss them in a scattered pattern, which he studied after each throw. So he gauged this matter serious indeed! Mereth stared in turn at the results of his last pitch, one shaped by chance and his particular Talent. The crystals lay about the cleared place in a discernible array.
Most of the darker colors had fallen well away from the central core, where appeared different shades of green—from that of new spring grass to the darkest bramble leaf hue. However, these were lightened by a sprinkling of pale yellow, lying randomly. After one long stare, the Marshal of Lormt raised his head to look directly at Mereth and began to recite as if reading from some report drawn from Wessel’s account book, ending:
“Lady Mereth, in the days before the Warding the ships of your house sailed far. Have you ever heard report of such a foulness as you discovered today?”
The woman’s slate and stylus were at the ready. “No.” A terse enough answer, but none further was needed.
“There are beasts enough in these heights to be feared.” He was sweeping up the crystals to pour them back into a double bag of lizard skin. “At this season of the year such are well hungered from the sparseness of winter game. Yet none known to be at large hereabouts gorges to the point of leaving naught but an empty hide. Wessel is now asking questions.�
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Duratan’s next word was drowned by a sound, which instantly brought them both to their feet and swinging toward one of the narrow windows in the guardian’s chamber. The man reached it in two strides, but Mereth was not about to be left behind and crowded against him to see.
The last vestiges of twilight dimmed the slope that walled the valley. Some distance below small blazes bobbed up and down, torches, by the look, Mereth opined. These seemed not to be approaching Lormt, rather milling around.
Duratan pushed the woman aside as he strode across the room, pausing only to snatch a cloak draped over a chair back. Uncaring that she was many passages away from her own covering, Mereth followed him through the door, though he was running now. Even with the aid of her staff, she could not keep pace, and by the time she reached the center court, a small company of armed guards was assembling, while two at the gate were grunting as they opened the massive portal with straining muscles. They carefully limited the space to just enough to let a single armsman pass.
Though the torches were not visible from this level, a shout came from a wall sentry two levels above.
“Still there!”
“M’Lady, this be a cold night! Here, get you into this.” Mistress Bethelie, housekeeper for Lormt, had whipped off her own cloak to wrap it around Mereth’s shoulders. Mage Lights swayed above them, brighter than any torch. Clearly Lady Nalor’s powers were at work.
Mereth gave hasty thanks, for Duratan had, by then, slipped through the narrow opening of the gate and the porter was preparing to shut it when she squeezed by. He made as if to stop her, but she paid no heed. Only, as the darkness closed around her outside, did she pause. The mage globes did not extend to this place. A misstep would surely mean a painful fall. Ahead came the sounds of the armsmen, and she bit her lip in irritation. She had no choice but to stumble along at a crawling pace, exerting her waning strength to dig in her staff for support at each step. Cries rose from the huddle of torchbearers and there came a shrill scream, suddenly cut off, as if by a blow. When Mereth finally reached the point of action, the flickering torchlight, though poor, was enough to reveal much of the struggle that surrounded her.
No armsman had drawn steel, but all were fighting with short, thick wooden staffs, not unlike her own longer one. Their opponents were men from the village who shouted raucously as they fought.
Mereth could make out raw oaths mingled with cries of “Ye Dark Ones! Be gone! Leave us be!” Historically the researchers of ancient lore in Lormt had little contact with the villagers, save for the troublous times when they had opened the great depository of knowledge to shelter those fleeing for their lives. The landsmen and their families had been grateful enough then, but after the vast disaster of the Turning, distrust had arisen and communication was limited to dealing for supplies. However, she had never heard of such trouble as she now witnessed.
Mereth had scarce time to ponder the matter, for as she pivoted about her staff, she barely escaped a killing blow aimed at her head. As it was, it landed crookedly and painfully against her shoulder.
Rober! Why, only that morning the carter’s son had greeted her civilly with proper respect, but now his reddened face was drawn into a twisted mask like a blood-mad raider. Mereth shuddered. It was as if the old days had come again. Instinctively she retaliated, swinging her stout staff with practiced force and caught the youth at knee level. He screeched and went down.
Holding his knee, he rolled over. He had not landed on bare ground but on another body. Naked flesh revealed by torchlight writhed frantically. The shepherdess, so small and withered-seeming without her rags, had been roped into a bundle. Raw marks across her arms gave evidence of earlier abuse.
Mereth moved to stand over her, ready to defend the pitiful girl and herself, but Rober had dragged himself away, still clutching his knee and howling continuously. The core of conflict had moved away from them and shadows enclosed the two females as torches were either snuffed or carried distant. However, there was just enough light for a few moments for Mereth to spy a refuge of sorts, another of the upstanding rocks. She could not carry the girl but she might perhaps roll her. She leaned over and grasped the girl’s hair, greasy and dust clotted.
She could tell by a brief gleam that the shepherdess’s eyes were upon her. The older woman made a hand motion to indicate rolling and pointed toward the stone, hoping the girl would understand.
There was no answer, but push Mereth did with what strength she had left, and the small body did seem to undulate into a roll until together they came up against the harsh surface of the boulder. The woman dropped to the ground, near exhausted, with the helpless girl lying against her. Mereth was shivering. No, rather what she felt was wrenching shudders that shook the girl’s so-thin body. Mereth had no blade with her to cut the small captive’s bindings, but loosing the throatlatch of Bethelie’s cloak, the woman drew the trembling girl into her arms and did what she could to pull the sturdy length of tightly woven wool about them both.
As she attempted to draw the girl higher in her grasp, the edge of her cloak tangled about one of the thin arms so strictly bound. The villager lurched forward as best she could, but was unable to free herself. Twisting in Mereth’s tightened hold, she screamed again and managed to near face her captor squarely.
“Evil, Make kill, quick!”
Mereth was in no position to write either question or answer. But at that moment one of the torchbearers, a supporter on either side, retreated near enough that the woman saw. Across the shepherdess’s tightly bound arm, stretching as a ghastly fringe along the shoulder was rough, raw flesh, lacking any skin. Immediately Mereth swung the girl from close contact, the better to see the bony back riddled with more vicious patches of exposed flesh, in which was embedded bits of torn leaf or dark broken stem.
There was evidence of not a heavy flogging, but something far more frightening. Mereth shuddered. She must get the victim to Lormt, where Nalor could employ her healer’s skill to ease the child’s torment.
The girl writhed, trying to pull herself away from Mereth, though even the slightest movement brought harsh cries of pain. The woman’s attempts to hold her closer to prevent further self-inflicted torture only made her screech louder. Without the ability to communicate, Mereth was near as helpless as the bound one. No! No! NO!
Her mind battled against the gag nature had laid upon her, as she had once before in her life when her younger sister had been cut down before her eyes by an Alisonian during the Kolder War.
“M’Lady!”
The light was stronger. Wessel stood nursing his left arm against his chest as Master Forbie, with whom she had exchanged greetings that morning, lowered closer a torch.
“What have we here?” Duratan joined them. “Lady Mereth, how came you here?”
She looked down at the trembling girl, who seemed to have suddenly shrunk to little more than a tiny armful of abraded flesh. As Mereth leaned back against the rock, the torchlight pitilessly revealed more of the blood-oozing body. Wessel uttered a blistering oath while the commander of Lormt’s garrison turned to shout, “AID!” over the field where the battling guards and villagers could no longer be seen.
*
Back at last at Lormt, a gesture from Nalor, two of the elderly scholars pushed a table closer to the high blazing fire of the chamber where dried herbs swung on cords anchored well above. Mereth crouched on a stool within close reach of the flames’ warmth, nursing a mug of cordial hot enough to be a blessing to her frosted hands. She watched Nalor whisk a length of bed sheet across the table and Duratan, aided by a guard, stretch the village girl thereupon, face down, the herb mistress at the last moment turning the youngling’s head gently to one side. A low swung lamp chained to a beam above the table revealed the child’s abused flesh.
To Mereth’s astonishment, the ghastly skinless wounds did not continue clear across the back as would signs of a severe lashing. Instead they could be seen on left shoulder, left arm, and left hip; t
he rest of the skin was bruised but untorn.
Mistress Bethelie, bringing with her a small steaming kettle, folded cloths in a pack under one arm, appeared beside Lady Nalor as the men left.
Her face was contorted, flushed with anger. “What manner of brutes are these village louts?” she demanded.
Lady Nalor made no answer, but she opened one of her medicine pouches to take out slender tweezers. Mereth guessed her intention, pulled herself up, setting aside her drink, and twitched one of the cloths from the housekeeper’s grasp.
Stretching this flat on her palms, Mereth pushed Bethelie aside to stand at the Herb Mistress’s side as, with obvious care, Nalor began to free the wounds of the bits of stem, matted leaves, and portions of blossoms, which clung so tightly to the raw flesh that they seemed to be embedded.
Once she had cleared these all away, she nodded to Mereth, who had immediately clapped one side of the waiting cloth over the other, that nothing escape.
“Feel it?” Nalor asked.
Mereth nodded, the cloth pressed tightly between her hands. Feel it, she did. Perhaps not as strongly as did Nalor, who was of the Old Race and had some of the Talent: rage, blistering, concentrated rage, such an emotion as might drive a man into battle with no thought of himself, simply to slay and slay until he, in turn, would be slain.
And, though there was no possible physical cause, the emotion was rooted in the folded cloth she held.
She must continue to hold; she could not reach for her slate to write any of the questions churning in her mind. Thus Mereth stood and watched Nalor go about her healing work, while keeping half her attention on the wadded cloth into which her nails burrowed.
At length Mistress Bethelie supervised two of her own staff as they carried away the girl, heavily swathed in bandages. But there was no time, even then, for questions and answers. Either Mereth had become accustomed to the burning of the strange rage, or else much of that had subsided. She still clasped the cloth tightly, however as cudgel-battered men began to be either carried in or aided by comrades. There came both defenders of Lormt and villagers, bloody, bruised, and somehow scarcely aware of their surroundings. Lady Nalor paused to snatch up a glass bowl and curl a summoning finger at Mereth.