The Warding of Witch World

by Andre Norton

  The huge body settled beside hers. Raising the tankard, she drank three mouthfuls, enough to half-empty it. Then she nodded to the one her companion held. There was no hesitation, Gruck drank, but those strange eyes were now fastened on the altar before them.

  More and more the colors spun about them, but there was no sense of vertigo, of being caught up in something which would threaten body or spirit.

  Warmth, an out flowing of welcome, of peace.

  Then the stirring in her mind—Goddess touch? Perhaps, but secondhand. This was not threatening, but it was very different. This time that strange thought-touch came without any fear or pain to distort it.

  No hurt. Those were not her words, nor any message of Gunnora’s. Destree knew too well the aura of those.

  Then more slowly, Go—go back?

  A question. One she could not answer as she wished.

  “A gate”—she began to form her own words—“open—shut—not open—Power gone.”

  There was a feeling of withdrawal, of an empty space.

  Then: Gruck must stay—here!—The latter part of that was a desolate cry, though it came by thought, not lips.

  “Yes . . .” her feeling of peace was gone, torn asunder by what she had to say.

  The feeling that she must speed on, break into that despair, struck her forcibly.

  “This is the shrine of Gunnora: I am Her Voice.” Destree was not really aware that she was speaking her thoughts aloud now. “She sent me to aid you, for all living creatures of the Light are dear to Her. And Her Hand is over you and will hold you so.”

  Now the mind-touch seemed to twist in his head as if someone fumbled to enter a key into an unknown lock.

  I am Gruck. The pattern was rough at first and then grew more smooth. A laborer might be learning the way of a new tool. I am—there was hesitation and then the exchange continued, one who walks the woods, and tends the beasts of the Alatar. Second guardsman of the west.

  A paw-hand stirred and went to his belt as if to assure him that that much remained of the past.

  I found a strange stone—light shone from it—when I touched it. He was making a supreme effort now to control that time of panic that she now experienced with him, in part. There was first black nothingness and then there was HERE! I hungered for I could find no proper food and—and I killed—but without pain. The hand on his belt moved to touch a rod looped to it. There came another beast—one like one red-minded—and that I had to kill with these. He held out his hands. For I could not mind-touch it and it was akin to those beasts who are mad with the coming of deep summer.

  “To defend oneself,” Destree returned carefully, “is no crime. If you had done evil you would not sit here now at the very heart of Gunnora’s place.”

  To those who hunted, to you—I am so different of body that you see me as—

  Destree’s mind shuddered away from a smudged picture of something indeed so monstrous that she could not believe such lived—save in the very fortress of the Dark itself.

  “No!” she was quick to protest. “But, Guardsman Gruck, this I cannot hide from you: There is but one village of people in this valley. They are very simple folk, but long ago their kind were hunted by monsters and so they fled south. They remember the tales of the old days.”

  His mind-touch was growing ever stronger and clearer. So I am such a monster returned to harry them? Their hunting will not cease?

  Destree sighed. So had her thoughts already turned. Foss would be out and there would be killing, for she did not expect Gruck to surrender his life without battle. But if there was to be no battle? She could not stand between the valley and the stranger. Already Foss had warned her that any influence she might have had, had waned. Nor could she expect Gunnora’s active aid. What she had now, communication with the refugee, was a mighty gift. But Gunnora was not a warwoman—all her Powers were of peace.

  Therefore—there was but one answer. Gruck must go, get as far away from this valley as he could travel. Only . . . where?

  To the west lay wasteland and the sea. But to the northeast there was rumored a land in which the Old Ones still lived, and others with them perhaps as strange in their ways as Gruck. Thus he might find welcome there.

  But—Destree closed her eyes and felt the drag of great sorrow and loss—he could not go alone. All she had sought to find here, the little she had done in the name of the Light, was that to be extinguished? Death trod many trails in this land; she had skirted such before she reached this haven. Yet it was Gunnora’s will which had sent her to Gruck, and therefore she was left no choice.

  I am one who knows the woodland, he cut into her dreary thoughts. I can find a place, for where there are forests to guard, then it would be as always. His head was up and he was staring again at the altar. Then he was silent.

  But Destree felt it filling her, also, that outreaching which was all-encroaching. And she had known that urge from old. It had been that which brought her from the desolation of the Port of Dead Ships to this very shrine.

  “There is a reason,” she said slowly, wanting to deny acceptance and knowing that she could not.

  In my world—Gruck again touched his belt—there are certain orders laid upon one. Alatar says, “Go you there, let this be done,” and so it is. Nor can one turn aside from duty. I think, you who call yourself Voice, that this Lady Gunnora has already extended a blessing to me, a stranger not of Her following, so that now I am to be sped as if by the Alatar to something which must be done.

  Slowly Destree nodded. She had held fiercely to her strength for many years, standing up to foul usage and facing down strong evil. For the first time since she was a small girl she felt the smart of tears in her eyes, drops flooding upon her cheeks.

  “We go.” Again she spoke, with voice as well as mind, and those two words might have been a blood oath offered before one took up shield and sword. “Now—there is much to be done. I do not know how long those of the village will wait before they seek the shrine. We must be gone before they come. I cannot defame the Lady by any struggle in Her own place.”

  She was wondering whether their communication would fail once they were away from the inner shrine, but it seemed that this gift would last. Gruck first watched her and then helped her make up packs. Herbs for healing, and the ones for clearing the mind should she be allowed to call upon the Lady. There was a thick cloak and two hide packs she had put together to use when exploring.

  But save for her belt knife there was no weapon, and for the first time in years she wanted the feel of a sword hilt, the weight of a blade.

  Gruck insisted on the larger pack being put together with twice as much in it as his own burden. The girl found herself explaining, as she selected and bagged, the reason for this or that being added to their store. Between times he watched the baking of journey cakes, for which she recklessly used the last of her meal and all the dried berries and nuts of the former season.

  It would soon be dusk. She dared not show a light, lest they were already spied upon by Foss and his hunters. But Chief kept trotting out at intervals, slipping as a black shadow through any cover available and always returning with reassurance.

  The dark of night would serve them. Her efforts at preparing for their leaving had left her tired, but they must put as much space between them and the village as they could. And Gruck agreed with her. She had treated the wound in his arm, finding it already nearly closed, and he seemed not to feel any stiffness there.

  Then came night and for the last time Destree went, this time alone, into the inner shrine:

  “Give us fortune, for we shall serve You as best we can,” she said slowly. “I know that I am not only Your Voice but now Your hand also and I have a task before me. But—Lady, when all is well again . . . let Your peace be with me.”

  She stood with bowed head and it was as if a hand touched for a blessed moment the tight braids of her hair.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Karsten Southward

&nb
sp; L iara held her eyes stubbornly to the fore and refused to glance backward. After the exhausting struggle through the broken lands, they had gained the holding of the Lady Eleeri, a place which fairly breathed the threat of magic at one, or so Liara held to that thought.

  The keep in which they had sheltered to rest and regather supplies was fully as impressive as Krevanel itself—but held none of the grayness of spirit she had so often known in her own suite of chambers there. Light seemed to cling and clothe its walls as the days remained fair and the weather favored them.

  Three separate herds grazed in the wide, rich green of the valley. But none of any one herd strayed into territory which was claimed by another. The Keplians were utterly free.

  Time and again the stallion Hylan would come into the courtyard and the Lady Eleeri, as if summoned, would be ready to meet him there. That they communicated by mind Liara was well aware, but such talent was not hers, nor did she seek it. It was difficult enough to hold to her belief in herself among those of her own species, for none of her traveling companions awoke in her any desire to know them better.

  Having had his conference with Eleeri, the stallion would leave, not only the keep but also the valley. And each time he returned it was not alone. Once he teamed with a mare who bore a crusted slash down her shoulder and nosed ahead of her a foal who stumbled and wavered. Eleeri was already waiting—as if her speech with Hylan could traverse miles. With her was Mouse who ran lightly forward to aid the colt. Hylan’s second disappearance was longer and he came back alone. This time there was blood on his own forelegs and one could almost feel the heat of anger which steamed from him.

  “Gray Ones,” Denever reported that night as they shared out supplies around the great hall table. “They are usually trailers, ready to pull down stragglers. Why do they prowl about now?”

  “An excellent question,” Lord Romar returned. He had finished his food early and pushed aside his plate. Now he had spread out fanwise on the board before him half a dozen knives, plain as to hilt, but with the blue-green sheen of blade which meant quan iron—that legacy of the Old Ones which was rarer than any gem Liara had heard of.

  For this keep was not only the holding of his Lady’s claiming, but also held secret stores which delighted the fighters now made free of them. There was a quan mail shirt for most of them—though Liara had refused to take that offered. She was caught in a web of magic; she had no mind to become so entangled that the person who was Liara would cease to be.

  “Yes, the Gray Ones nose closely,” said Krispin, the Falconer. On his wrist perched Farwing, whom he had been feeding bits from his own place. “Also, their number grows.”

  “They were the servants of the Black Tower once.” Eleeri had taken one of the knives from her mate’s collection and was running a finger up and down as if trying so to test its edge. “The tower and he who held it are gone.” There was a stillness about her face as if she were remembering only too well something which had struck close to the heart. “Who or what calls them now?”

  Mouse sat still, her jewel between her hands. When she looked up, her gaze traveled from face to face about the board. They were clear enough to see in the golden light of the lamps.

  “They are drawn . . .” she said.

  “By what we plan to do?” Keris demanded, shifting in his seat. He could never doubt the statement of any witch, young or old, but they were far too apt to speak obscurely.

  “Perhaps,” was the only answer Mouse offered him.

  “It is well maybe that we move out soon,” Denever said. “If they seek to set a cork to bottle us up here, of what value will a full fight be? Your—your liege—Hylan”—perhaps he, too, found it difficult to accept the Keplian as a full member of their party—“can he say whence these come?”

  “Always,” Lord Romar answered, “they roam. Not long since, this was their territory. Perhaps they seek to make it so again. But this time they have no Dark lord to give them aid. However, you are right. We have found two gates and mapped them—that through which my dear Lady came, and that water-washed one which Lady Mouse assures us is now and has been a long time inactive. How many lie before us—who can tell?”

  Liara felt strangely fatigued, as if somehow the light of the lamps on the quan iron blades had drawn from her some of her energy. She had a full day behind her and, if they marched, a number of aching, burning strides out into the unknown tomorrow.

  A hand touched her shoulder and she flinched. Why she had given such a reaction to so light a contact, she could not have told. But it had seemed for an instant that some dangerous shadow slipping by had wafted against her.

  The witchling? She still gripped her jewel and Liara could see the power in it was awake or waking, for the light shone between her fingers.

  “Sister in the Light.” Mouse’s voice was hardly more than a whisper, well covered by the sounds of those about them rising and discussing what must be done before they moved. “You have been sadly plundered of what was yours to have. But hold this ever in mind: That which is born to the Light cannot be taken—unless it turns willingly into the darker path. And you will not!” Mouse’s last word was as emphatic as an order. Then she was gone, leaving Liara, muddle-thoughted, behind her.

  She was busied enough the next morning to keep under control questions and the general uneasiness which she was unable to throw off. Though they had now traveled with the party for a goodly length of time, the ponies were as uncontrollable as ever and she must stand by the head of each, keeping it steady, while its load was lashed in place securely enough to stand all tests of a rough trail ahead.

  A third Keplian now joined them. Romar told the party, “Hylan is our guard marshal, and this land lies under his protection. Thus he cannot be one of us as he wishes. But the mare Sebra, who is this season barren, joins us at her desire.”

  They were over the border of Karsten and now they wound toward the southwest. To the east lay the end lands of Escore and there was another party searching there. The Falconers and the Borderers scouted ahead with greater care, for they had entered halfway through their second day afield a countryside which had been mauled and torn by warring. Liara had heard enough to know that after the Turning, when Duke Pagan and all his forces had been swallowed up, this countryside had been ravaged and fought over by outlaws and small lords quarreling for some advantage over their fellows.

  For the first time, while she viewed the charred stone of burned-out holds, saw unsown fields, with here and there the yellowed bones of a draft animal—or perhaps even a man—Liara realized this is what Alizon might come to with its eternal intrigues and assassinations, its gobbling up of lesser enemies by the greater. She had never before questioned the way of life she had been born into. It was enough to try to see ahead what she could do for her own safety and that of her line. Suddenly she wished that Kasarian rode with her on this trail. She still did not know what ploy her littermate was engaged in, but that he held some touch with Lormt, with the Lady Mereth, there was no denial. Was Kasarian also hunting a gate? The two she had seen so far—a pillar wind-bitten and moss-covered, and then a quiet pond, its waters so clear one could see no sand at the bottom, but rather a stretch of blue-gray rock—were not impressive in themselves.

  The travelers were well armed and they rode taking every precaution they could against surprise. She had tried their dart guns but was far from a good shot. Swords were not part of the schooling of a Hearthmistress of Alizon—but knives, now . . . She hugged her right arm against her for a moment and felt the quan iron with its tepid warmth—the blade never appeared to grow as cold as true steel—against her forearm. There were two more in her belt; one rode within the collar of her jerkin between her shoulders, the other in her boot. With these there were few who could match her.

  They camped that night in a shatter of ruins that had no cover nearby, so that nothing could steal upon them unawares. Mouse made her report to Gull, though no spoken word was to be heard. Then she informed the
others that the sites of four gates had been located within Estcarp but none of them appeared to retain any power. It might well be that the destruction of the Magestone had indeed sealed them all. Yet who could be sure?

  Liara shared the rotation of the guard, and by the stars she thought it might be near midnight when she caught that whiff of scent out of the night. Unlike the stench of that thing of the crevice, this had a familiar odor, one which something in her found exciting.

  Memory clicked and she was back with Lord Volorian, trotting behind his burly body, trying to keep up as well as listen properly to the stream of knowledge he was half growling at her. Volorian’s kennels were famed throughout Alizon. Pups whelped there brought fabulous sums—if they were sold at all. Almost she could feel now the fur on some small, plump, squirming body, hear the rough purr answering to the proper scratching behind the ears.

  But—there were no hounds! Liara stiffened; her hand slipped, bringing sleeve knife into her grasp. Perhaps, she tried to assure herself, there were hounds from the destroyed manors and keeps they had seen, gone feral in a pack, interbreeding and managing to live off the land.

  She listened with all her might, hearing the scrape of a thick iron-studded boot sole at the next post. Hounds did not hunt silently unless that was brutally enforced by some huntsman. But more and more she believed that somewhere, not too far away, a pack of four-footed danger drew in upon them.

  Hound scent? She had as noiselessly as possible shifted her position to face in the direction in which she believed that advance lay. There was a full moon tonight and the open land about the ruin was open to see.

  Hound scent? She drew that smell more deeply into her nose and then saw a quiver of shadow advance from a copse of trees well away. Those were no hounds!

  Instantly she was alert. She had never seen a live Gray One—and the two bodies she had viewed had been more manlike than dog. But Liara knew what came. And even as she was about to shout an alarm, the enemy struck—with a weapon she had not been expecting—directly at her.