by Andre Norton
Thunder rolled. She was out in the night while the wind tore the door loose from her last attempt to hold to reality, slammed it shut behind her. There was a swirl of leaves about her. In the distance she did see a flash of lightning though as yet no rain had fallen.
“No—!” Despairingly she still denied what she was doing. Only there was no escape, no turning back. This was a nightmare in which she was caught and from which no effort of mind could awake her.
That which governed her body was in full control. She did not stumble, but walked swiftly and then broke into a trot. Into the lane—yes, she knew where she was going—to the standing stones!
Her panic was worse than any physical pain—it filled her, made her want to scream, to throw herself to the ground, to snatch for a hold on every bush and tree she passed. Yet she could do nothing but go ahead, answering this compulsion. She began to believe that, even though she might not save herself now, she must conserve any energy remaining to her for a last effort if a chance were given her to fight back.
A wall stretched before her, marking the boundary of the Lyle land. Gwennan scrambled over, knocking her knee painfully. Here was the edge of the wood. The wood—no, not in there! Yes, she would go to the stones, she argued with what compelled her, but not through the wood!
Apparently that small victory she was allowed. For she did not rush headlong under the trees but was permitted to skirt that growth into the open meadow.
As in that scene which had come to her in the kitchen the stones were luminous in the night. They gave off a grey-white glow, while from the crest of the tallest spun a thin streamer pointing skyward as the lighted wick of a candle might stand, unmoved by the wind which buffeted Gwennan herself.
On the girl came to the foot of the mound. Along the sides of the tallest stone were now visible those symbols which she had heretofore seen only as faint lines. These were harshly strong, dark against the light. Also they appeared to move, although when she stared straight at any one it was fixed, solid. Then that above and below the one she so watched flowed and surged. Step by step she began to climb to the three rocks.
There was warmth against her breast.
The pendant! She had forgotten the pendant. There flashed into her mind a sharp picture of that dial with its ray of light, light which moved again, touching first this and then that of the symbols. As if it were busily weaving a pattern—building a force. In her warmth grew, the panic shriveled away. She was strengthened, encouraged.
Gwennan reached the twin stones just as there came a great crack of thunder. The sky itself might have been riven in two just above her head. Lightning struck into the wood, releasing a blinding flash which dazzled the eyes for an instant.
She staggered. That had struck something. There was an echo following. Then she heard, not another rumble of thunder, but a cry—low yet carrying—a growl. Movement flowed along the edge of the wood which hid Lyle House. There seemed to be a glow, very faint, still discernible.
A torch—Tor? Had he been in wait for her? Had this compulsion been some trick of his devising? She could not have put into words any firm belief, still the feeling that he could indeed command something she did not understand grew stronger in her.
The glow advanced steadily from the under-hanging shadow of the trees. It was no torch, rather it outlined some kind of moving figure, one still too dim for her to recognize. The figure itself exuded the light.
Then the wind carried to her the sickening stench she had smelled twice before. Though this certainly was no black monster indistinguishable in the night’s gloom. It was alien, however, frighteningly alien.
Gwennan dared not try to retreat from the mound, to attempt to cross the open field behind. This was a hunter. Her knowledge of that came as if it were emitted along with the stench of its body. There was a sense of avid hunger, of also the need to pursue—to cut down—
Gwennan’s hand slipped within the front of her coat, caught the pendant as one would desperately clasp a talisman. Such a small defense against that which prowled towards her. She took a step closer to the twin rocks, her shoulders brushed both stones as she edged between them. Though what protection they could afford—
Was it thunder which rent open the world—or another and greater, more tangible power? One Gwennan could not recognize? She was blinded—not by any answering lightning flash, but rather because dark, intense and thick, closed her in—held her. Dark and cold—and a sickening feeling that there existed no stability—that she was being whirled out of all which was right and normal for her kind.
The dark fell away—not being lifted or dispersed evenly, but as if rents slit in a bag, tore and twisted to give her freedom. There was no night now. Rather light was all about her. She crouched on the ground, her shoulders against solid rock and before her stretched a countryside—no field or meadow of her own knowing—another place.
She cried out, flinging up one arm to hide her eyes. What had happened back at the standing stones she knew? Had she fallen, been injured so that what she saw now was hallucination? Only it was unchanging. Instead of any sun there was a green glow. The watch which she held in her other hand warmed a little more. There was security somehow in the touch of it—as if the medallion were an anchor holding her to a point of precarious safety. She fought a small battle with her fear and lowered her arm, forcing herself to look about.
Before and below her stretched open land—though, as she turned her head slowly, first right and then left—she sighted a dense shadow which she believed marked a forest, taller, thicker, more of a barrier than any wood she knew. The open land possessed a covering of short, thick vegetation akin to moss. That was broken here and there by circular patches of what appeared either to be bare sand of a dull golden color, or others formed of low-growing, profusely blooming flowers, a grey-white in color.
There was something odd about those patches. The ones formed of sand appeared, in a way, wholesome, attractive while the flowers repelled. Gwennan lifted her head higher to view the sky. There was no sign of any sun—no source for the green light. Only when she looked earthward again, she believed she could detect shimmering flecks of gold above the sand, wan wisps of leaden-grey over the flowers.
Nothing moved, there was no wind. The far reaches where stood the forest, dark walls betrayed no trembling leaf, no sway of branch. It was as if this was a painted landscape, set in place as one might lower the backdrop of a theater’s stage.
Gwennan had somehow lost all surprise; her bewilderment was blunted. Holding the pendant had given her respite from fear. Instead curiosity began to stir. Though as yet she had no intention of venturing from her place by the rocks. Now she slipped her hand along that nearest one, proving by its rough touch that more than one of her senses testified that she was really here.
No wind—no sound—
Then—breaking the silence as a tap might shatter a thin panel of glass, there came the trill of a high-noted horn. Gwennan’s head swung right. Movement at last in that wall of the wood. From its verge streaked light shapes, skimming close to the ground. As they came they gave tongue, belling like hounds hot on the scent of a quarry they coursed, one which they were fast running to bay. She could see them cross the golden sand, but they leapt high to avoid those patches where grew the flowers. They were no hounds of earth. Their coats were largely white but they were marked on feet, tails, and ears with gold. While their eyes glowed brilliant green—too large in size to match their long, narrow heads.
Again the horn sounded. Now, out of the woods, came, at a steady canter, a huge deer—or was it a deer? Gwennan could only apply the terms she knew and that did not quite fit. The creature was as large as any horse, and its branched antlers were also golden, as were its hooves. On its back was a rider, though there was no saddle nor bridle.
A woman rode so. Her golden hair was fastened at the nape of her neck, but its long strands blew forward and about her as if she had brought with her some tamed breeze of her own as a
servant. She was dressed in breeches of a color both blue and green, shifting from shade to shade as might the waves of the sea. A jerkin of the same color left her arms bare to the shoulders save for broad wristlets of green-gemmed gold which extended well up her forearms. One of her hands cradled the curved horn, and in the other she carried a short spear of gold, the point of which gave off flashing light.
As she drew nearer, following the questing pack of her hounds, her head was held high and Gwennan could see her features clearly. The girl shivered. This was not her world—yet there rode Lady Lyle—or a younger copy of her, the years banished and strength and beauty fully hers once more.
The deer came to a halt, but it seemed restive, moving its feet from side to side, raising its hooves, to replace them with an impatient stamp, while the hounds, as they drew level with the higher spur of ground where Gwennan still knelt by the stone, appeared to have lost whatever trail they had been coursing. They scattered, questing here and there, sniffing warily a goodly distance from each clump of flowers, giving tongue, when near those, to low growls.
None of the pack appeared to notice nor scent Gwennan, for which she was thankful. Nor did the woman look in her direction. Rather she stared at that arm of the wood which lay to the left, as if she expected something or someone to soon emerge from that direction.
There sounded no peal of horn—rather a brazen bellow, harsh, grating on the ear. The hounds pulled together into a pack, fell back to surround the rider and her beast. She slung her horn by its golden cord across her shoulder, took the spear, which looked to Gwennan to be too small and frail to be of much use, in both hands.
The girl stared toward that other strip of woods. Again movement among the outer run of trees. What padded out of that shadow were no clean-limbed hounds. Rather there shambled from concealment under the low branched trees humped figures, shuffling yet covering the ground with deceptive speed. Some stood or moved on two legs as if humanoid, several padded on four paws. All were the misshapen things of men’s darkest nightmares. There was a thing with wings and an owl-like head. Yet, though the wings quivered ceaselessly, it did not take to the air—perhaps those wings could not support it there.
Another was a stumbling caricature of a man, its body completely haired. It swung heavy arms which ended in hands equipped with long curved claws. A third ran four-footed. Its forequarters were those of a wolf-like beast, the bare hind legs were human, and it possessed no tail. There were others—all grotesque, twisted. From some Gwennan quickly looked away, feeling a little sick.
They, too, had their master and he was also mounted. A huge reptilian thing slithered in the wake of that pack. Its scaled back was fringed with upstanding plates of bone. Between two of the largest of those a man balanced. His head was also bare, and those tight curls of golden hair were as familiar to Gwennan as the other rider’s features had been—he wore Tor’s face.
Like the woman, he was dressed in breeches, boots and jerkin, but his were of ashen grey, much akin to the shadowy color of his beast’s hide. And he carried, balanced across his thighs, a black rod which lacked any point, yet still must be, Gwennan guessed, a weapon.
The monster band loped or shuffled on, coming to a halt still some distance from the woman and her hounds. Thus the two parties confronted each other. There was no speech, both hounds and monsters were also utterly silent now—though they eyed each other with a hot hatred plain to read in every line of their tense bodies.
Were the two riders communicating in some wordless fashion? Gwennan thought that perhaps they were. This was, without a doubt, the meeting of long-time enemies, yet it seemed they were not about to openly enter into battle.
She shifted her own weight a fraction and—
In her hand the pendant seemed to move, pushing against her palm. Its once-gentle warmth became a blazing coal. She was startled, not only into a low cry of pain, but into dropping it to swing at the end of its chain. The dialed face was up, the symbols on it afire. She was sure her fingers had been seared—still there were no burn marks on her flesh.
That cry, short and low as it had been, drew the attention of those two below. Their heads turned sharply, their eyes sought her. She felt rather than saw their mutual surprise, for their features remained nearly expressionless. Now the deer and the dragon thing turned, pacing evenly in line but well apart, bringing the riders to her hillock. Gwennan pulled herself up to stand. She could not guess what form of danger she was about to face, but she had pride enough to determine not to meet it on her knees—as if she were some frightened animal pursued to eventual extinction.
Tor—Lady Lyle—she could only see them so in spite of their strange dress and the weird companies they now headed. Their brilliant eyes rested on her and she thought she saw something other than just a faint shade of what might be recognition. It was the lady who spoke first.
“Farfarer—you are welcome for what you bring—”
He who was Tor laughed. “That is the full truth, kinswoman. Only do you think to snare this other to your aid in our battle? I believe you have built too high on far too little. None of the others can now come to your calling—no matter how sweetly rings that horn of yours. Is that not so, outworlder?”
Now he demanded an answer from Gwennan. “My blood kin here believes that you will serve as a battlemaid in her train. I do not doubt that she has schemed mightily towards that end. But what has our war to do with you? You are one of the others — the short-lived — the unmemoried. Nothing lies in this world for you except—”
He snapped his fingers and the creature with the owl head turned that fully towards the girl, showing red pits of fire where its eyes might rightfully be set.
“Except perhaps a closer meeting with such as this one, my faithful and obedient servant.” His voice was low, like the purring of a giant cat, assured of its prey. “You are mortal and the beasts always hunger for rich blood. Is that not so, my followers?”
From the nightmares that had drifted along behind him as he had approached the hillock came grunts, slavering sounds, growls, and a full-throated howl from the wolf-man.
6
Gwennan tried to shape words of protest—even to scream—but she might have been struck dumb. It was that woman who was, and yet was not, Lady Lyle who spoke:
“It is true you have a choice. This is a very old struggle. Yet it is always new born within each of us—and each of you who are of the other blood also. Though you do not understand, feeling perhaps only the lightest touch of it in some dream. You—”
Tor’s laughter cut through her speech, drowned it out. One of the beasts (that which was a vile caricature of a man, haired and utterly terrifying to Gwennan) now strode past its master, clawed paws outstretched as if it sought to reach up and pull the girl down.
“You have no choice!” The man denied what the woman had said, crying that out to the girl with arrogant assurance. “You shall join this struggle—whether it is your will or not. There must be some measure of the old blood in you, outworld woman, or you would not have found your way this far. Now that strength one of us can claim to our own purposes!”
The rock held her steady, as if it walled her about. In a way that rough textured stone remained for Gwennan a touch of reality. But it was the pendant which she really clung to, cupped in one hand, the other folded fast over it. The metal pulsed with growing heat. Still she set her teeth and held on as she would cling to a weapon. She did not know how she had come here, and she trusted nothing in this green-lit country. That mounted woman might wear Lady Lyle’s face (or rather a youthful semblance of that) but sight of those features carried no reassurance. There was an alien aura about all these lifeforms. Gwennan would willingly ally herself with neither. Now the ape-like monster was at the very foot of the hillock.
Gwennan pressed the watch more firmly. Within her she cried out for escape. Back! Just let her get back where she belonged—into her world where no nightmare would last, and no shaggy beast stump across t
he land!
And—
As if the very strength of her horror and terror had been enough to turn an unknown key, she once more plunged into that dark—into the place where she had no being, nor any right to travel. There was a whirling within her head, a thrust of pain, striking more at the essence of her identity than her body. Cold—and—pain—then once more light.
Here was not the half sight of a storm-ridden night. Nor did she front the green of that world in which the hunters rode. Instead rich radiance shone about her. She blinked, half-blinded—still so shaken from her journey through the other-where that it was difficult to understand, to feel even truly alive.
Herself—who? This present uncertainty of identity fostered a continuation of the pain which had struck in the dark. Her thoughts could not be wholly formed, they were shattered— Who—and where? Color—masses of color against high walls. Sound rose and fell—the intoning of a solemn chant. She knew ail this aided one part of her, drawing together shattered shards of identity—but into a new pattern. Gwennan, that other Gwennan, was lost. Realization came as a forlorn cry from deep within her—a fading cry for help she could not answer.
She was—Ortha—Seer of the Great Temple. Did she not sit now on her accustomed place on the tripod seat of the Seer, before her the murky surface of the Future Mirror? The waves of color the Ortha part of her identified easily—Those were the robes of the Noble Blood permitted to gather here during a time of Farseeing. She need only turn her head and before her there would be the High Thrones, on them the Voice of the Past and the Future, and the Arm of Purpose, the Chosen in this generation.
Yes! Her back straightened proudly as the familiar cadences of the Calling Hymn sent energy flowing into her, preparing her for what she must do. Though, she was remembering far more clearly now, this was not one of the appointed seeing times—rather an emergency meeting to which she had been summoned out of Pattern. There was danger and upon her would fall the full responsibility for any warning.