by Andre Norton
“You ride to the hunt with the prairie men?” Now the woman looked to Kryn. “There is no loot here to tempt such as you. But even the winds have brought rumors of the blood and fire you have left behind you….”
“Landwife,” he said forcefully. “We are not kin to such. Doubtless they would indeed find us prey to their taste.”
“It is not the season for caravans.” She reached now for another kind of root, a round red one, which she did not peel, but sliced with vigor. “Also this is afar from the route. What manner of wanderers are you, then?”
Nosh came to the other side of the table so she fronted the woman squarely.
“Landwife, I am one who searches, and this Hold Heir travels with me for the present.”
A last slash of the knife and the red root was also finished. However, the woman did not now reach for another. Instead she sat very still looking straight into Nosh’s eyes.
“One who searches,” she repeated. “Searches for what, seeker?”
Nosh took the chance. She loosed the bag and plucked out the top Finger. It blazed even as she was sure it would.
“Landwife, this led me through the storm, drew me, because it sought its fellow. And that fellow lies somewhere here!”
Slowly the woman placed the bowl on the table and placed the knife crosswise on its rim.
Then her two gnarled hands arose, wrists pressing wrist, fingers outstretched and pointing upward. The gesture of those of Lyr.
“Long and long, and long again,” she said softly. “But come at last. So the Light rises. Come then, searcher.”
She arose abruptly from her bench and Nosh, in spite of bare feet, followed her, Kryn looming behind her. They went through a far door into a stable, this a part of the house as was the custom in the outlands. There was a stall in which a large varge grunted as it fed noisily, and Nosh knew enough of the land ways to recognize that this beast was the herd leader and so cherished as best might be done through bad weather.
“Stay!” The woman held up her hand to stop the other two. “Longnose does not take kindly to strangers—something which has proved of value many times over.” She squeezed past the bulk of the varge toward its massive, horned head.
As all herd leaders, the animal wore a bell, and it was into that wooden cup the woman now pushed her hand. A moment later she withdrew her fingers and between them flared the brilliance of a Finger.
The woman chuckled. “A good hiding place, searcher. There is none but me who could so lay hands on Longnose.”
She led them back into the kitchen. Now there was authority in her again and she pointed to the bench on the far side of the table. The Finger she had laid in the middle of the board on which she was shifting various containers, waiting roots and strings of dried fruit and vegetables to the other end.
“Sit,” she commanded. “Eat.”
There was a pan steadied on three legs at the edge of the fire and from that she flipped fritters of meal studded with lumps of sweetness which Nosh thought might be bits of the same dried fruit as hung on the cords from the dark ceiling overhead. To wash this down she poured leather jacks of varge milk to which barley water had been added.
Nosh found she was indeed once more famished. However, even as she ate, she eyed the Finger which had been so strangely hidden here.
The woman did not take up her slicing knife again. Instead she seemed for the first time determined to talk. They might have at last discovered the right key to bring her into speech.
“The storm dies. There will not be another for at least three or four days. Where do you travel from here?”
It was Kryn who matched question to question. “How far are we from Dast?”
“Dast! If that is your goal, armsman, you may run into storms again. Look you here…”
She pushed aside the bowl and cleared a space before her. “Here you be.” Her finger dipped in a thick brown liquid, making a blotch mark on the table top. “And here—Dast…”
The matching splotch appeared some distance away.
“In the cold season the raiders do not ride. Or so it has always been. But this season there have been raids. Here,”—she made a third mark—“there is a village— small, yes, some seven houses. It lies to the north and a little eastward. If you strive to make your march to Dast, you cannot do so easily without the aid of those at PanHigh. The Lady forbid that the raiders have ridden that far. The hunters there know well the way to Dast and can show you the shortest trails.”
“But—Landwife, it may be that my search lies not in the direction of Dast,” Nosh said.
The woman looked from the Finger to Nosh. “Searcher, there are tales—very old tales. When the great shrine of the Lady was plundered and the symbol of Her power seemingly shattered beyond all mending—those of Her close servitors who remained alive took up the Fingers. Perhaps this much of the tale has been told you.”
Nosh nodded.
“The dark powers had waxed strong at the defeat of Lyr. It was decided by those who took the Fingers that they must scatter and westward, also afar, that they might not be traced. For this much safety they were granted: That the evil who now searched for what might remain from the defeat could not follow with body, mind or power, the going of the bearers. Nor did those who fled plan any future meeting lest they be betrayed. There was only the guide you know—that Finger calls to Finger when they are close enough. But it is in my mind that you must now venture northward in your search and, since it is an ill season for that, think well before you turn away from Dast.”
On impulse Nosh reached out her hand and laid it over the one the woman had been using for the drawing of that crude map. “Who are you?” she asked baldly.
“I am Raganat, searcher. But that name means nothing. It is but worn for this time and this life. However, the blood in me is that of one Lyr loved and brought into safety here—to wait. Peace comes to me for I have fulfilled the task laid upon those of my blood so very long ago. However, searcher, do not set your task above wisdom. This season will be a harsh one. And death rides on the prairie as it never has before. Somewhere, somehow, there is a great stirring of the Dark. Doubtless because of what you have done, and will do. So walk with care. And you, armsman, all things are ordained to come to pass in due time. Through some will we do not understand, you go with the searcher….” she paused, having now turned that very level and searching gaze on Kryn.
“This may not even be to your wish. I can only tell you that never has the Lady stinted on the payment for those who serve her well. It can be that at the end of this journeying lies an answer to your own desires. If Dast awaits you, you will reach it.”
Nosh had listened so closely. Before her eyes and ears this Landwife had become another person, in her way as impressive as the Lady Lathia D’Arcit. That the advice she gave was good, the girl could agree. But she also knew that if the call came upon her, she would have no control over it and must answer the summons no matter what peril stood in between.
Kryn had not commented on what Raganat said, and Nosh could guess that he had not found it something he wanted to hear. Why, out of all the men Jarth led, this one had been drawn into the pattern which held her she did not know. His hatred of all kinds of power might even yet be a danger to them both. Yet the Landwife seemed to think that he, also, had in some way been chosen to take this path.
They checked their clothing; there was still dampness and they brought parts closer to the fire. The leather needed to be carefully treated. Kryn settled at last on a stool, rubbing his mail with an oiled cloth Raganat supplied, making sure that no rust could develop from the drenching of the storm.
The zark, having eaten of dried meat until its middle section was visibly distended, stretched once more before the fire, well content to simply bask in the heat.
Nosh, after seeing to her clothing, tried to help their hostess, only to be refused. It would seem that Raganat trusted no one else in her handling of food. While the smell of the baking bread
was fragrant through the room, overlying that of the dried herbs hanging from the rafters in a ragged tapestry.
Kryn, having done his best by his mail and his sword, ventured out to return with armloads of firewood from the piles stacked about the outside of the house, a secondary protection against the searching fingers of winter winds. He built up a supply which brought a satisfied mutter from Raganat. Then he went to study the table map before she wiped it away.
It fitted in part with that Lathia had given them, as he saw when he pulled that scrap out of his wallet. Though the guild mistress had made no mention of this village PanHigh. Now he traced the way from that eastward and was pleased to see that it did not stray so far from Dast.
Nosh still had three Fingers left to find but they could not just go trotting off into nowhere hoping to pick up this mysterious drawing of hers. Not with perhaps another storm on its way. He must use all his persuasion— if he possessed such—to talk her into the sensible plan he himself wanted to follow.
They spent a second night in Raganat’s house, though this time Nosh insisted until she was obeyed that the old woman occupy her own cupboard bed while she shared the space before the fire with Kryn. For awhile she lay awake watching the slow dance of the flames which, with the coming of night, had shortened their range. The good smell of the bread they had had still warm for supper was comforting.
Tomorrow they must head out into the wilderness again. Raganat had impressed upon them both some landmarks to follow which would bring them to Pan-High. Her story of the scattering of those carrying the Fingers was a little daunting, but Nosh somehow thought that her suggestion to look northward for the remaining ones might be well worth heeding. After all, there had been that one in the bridal crown of Sofina and she came from a northern people.
Sleep came at last. But this night it was not deep and easy. She suddenly found herself in a strange place where she could see only immediately around her— there was a tabletop on which was a globe full of swirling fire that moved faster and brighter as she watched—but the evil in it was like a fog reaching out to engulf her, and she knew that somewhere this did exist and the danger threatened was very great and waiting for her.
It seemed in that dream that she made a great effort and broke away from that place. Then there was a sweep of white fire behind her as if one of the Fingers moved to set up a barrier between her and what abode there, and she felt safe again.
She did not speak of her dream in the morning—it was too vague. Instead she tried to give Raganat thanks for all they owed her. But the woman brushed aside her words and Kryn’s.
“What is owed to travelers, it is paid. And may the Hands close about the two of you, closing off all evil and dark.”
She did not stand outside the house to watch them off though Nosh looked back to wave. So they headed once more into the open alone—traveling northeast now as well as Kryn could judge. They must watch carefully for the landmarks they had been given, though here in the open he was now somewhat dubious about such guides.
CHAPTER 26
There was very little speech between them while they plodded on as the day lengthened. They had passed quickly over the few fields about the landcroft they had left which had been cleared for planting. Nosh wondered how Raganat had been able to accomplish so much work and keep this prairie outpost going. She had not mentioned any other sharing her home and there were indeed no indications that anyone did.
Kryn discovered the first of their landmarks, a cairn built from rough stone which must have been brought from some distance and which marked the northeast boundary of that landcroft.
In addition to their packs each carried generous supplies in another bag, which Raganat had pushed on them, refusing to listen to their protests.
There was a faint gleam of sun and some of the ice was puddling away from the grass and from a stand of what Nosh recognized as half-wild berry bushes angling outward from the cairn. Luckily there was no cutting wind from the north to be endured today. In fact it seemed almost unnaturally still, so one could easily hear the crunch of ice-brittle grass as they tramped.
It was close to nooning when they caught sight of a rise in the land and sighted the first copses of trees venturing out into the plains. A lightning-blasted tree at the fore of that copse was their second guide point and it was under that they shucked off their packs, dragged away the grass, and brought out their provisions—flat cakes of meal which had been fried after baking so that rich juices and fat had soaked in. Even cold these were a feast for travelers. But they were careful with their drink—taking only sips enough to wash down those crumbling cake bites. Raganat had poured out what was left of the water they had carried with them out of Kasgar and substituted an herb drink which she said was better than water in this cold season.
Nosh gave the zark bits of her cake as there was surely nothing the creature could hunt in this frozen land. While for it to stay too long from cover would send it back into the deep torpor she had seen it in after their battle with the storm.
They tightened again the buckling of their trail bags. Kryn half drew Bringhope as if he feared the cold might freeze it into the scabbard, then proceeded to check belt and bootknife also.
Such preparations made, they took the trail once more. But they were not far along, skirting the copse as they had been told to do, when a wandering shift in a slight wind brought a scent which stirred unhappy memory in both of them, if not the same memory.
“Fire!” Nosh put a name to her memory and nearly came to a full stop. But there was more than just the aroma of burned wood in that odor now growing stronger.
Kryn’s hand went up as if he were leading a scouting party and Nosh recognized the signal for a cautionary one. From the open beyond the trees they headed right into what concealment the leafless growth could supply; having to go at a much slower pace.
Kryn caught a gleam from beneath a low-spreading bush and his sword was out and ready. When there came no move he used the blade for a downward stroke and, as the branches were pushed aside, they saw a slight body lying facedown. The wrinkles of a mail shirt much too large had been divided by a terrible blow, which must have nearly severed the spine.
Nosh put her hand to her mouth to stifle a little cry. Though the day was cold, the odor of death was thick here. Kryn, sword still in one hand, took hold of the shoulder of the corpse and rolled it over.
From a bruised and bloody face sightless eyes of the same greyish hue as the sky stared upward. The dead had only been a boy, far from his full growth. Now that he had been turned Nosh saw, and it sickened her, that already scavengers had been at work here.
“No raider—he has not the face marks,” Kryn observed. “And that mail shirt was never his.”
Nosh forced herself to kneel beside the body, take up one of the cold hands, though inwardly she shuddered away from that touch, to turn it over. The palm and fingers were callused, the nails ragged and blackened.
“He worked in the fields,” she said as she replaced that hand gently on the broken body.
Kryn got to his feet, stood looking about him. “The ground here—it is too hard. I cannot risk sword or knife to dig. And there are no stones for cover.” He remembered that lone grave for Ewen when he had tried to keep a friend’s body from the wakwolves.
Nosh looked up to where he stood. She realized well the truth of what he said. Yet in her there was revolt against going on, leaving this boy to the bone-cracking mercy of wild things.
In the end they had to make that decision and both of them were grim of face as they went on even more cautiously. The dead boy must have fled from this direction. Yet their way led so and if they swerved from it, they might well court the danger of becoming fully lost in a wide land where, as they had already had proof of, death waited.
The whiff of burning reached them several times. Kryn had waved Nosh into single file behind him and now he hunched down so that the brush formed a curtain. So they came out on the bank of a st
ream, hardly more than a brook. The mud of each bank was cast with footprints of both mounts and men, remaining intact after the freezing of the sleet. On the other side of the water there was a very distinct trail leading on—to PanHigh they were now both sure.
Nosh followed Kryn’s example of keeping as best she could to cover on the bank. They did not try to cross the stream to the other side, but moved along in the tangle, parallel with that trail across the water.
Now the smell of fire was strong and other odors as well—all an open threat. Time and again Kryn halted, the girl behind him, and listened. But there were no sounds save the sighing of the rising wind.
Then the brush thinned. Kryn dropped his pack and went to hands and knees, having mouthed a whispered order for Nosh to remain where she was. He crawled on into that thinning cover and left Nosh to wait, so tense she felt every wind-set motion of a branch about her was a herald to sudden peril.
Kryn reached the edge of what poor cover the last brush offered. He was looking out at murder and desolation.
There were fields, some showing a faint promise of winter-sown crops. However, those before him were churned and beaten back to formless clay. The fields fanned out from what must once have been a village of some sturdy comfort, for the smoke-blacked walls of the buildings were of stone, quarried and set with good workmanship. It could have been a principal garth of his own land.
Whoever had passed here must have been madmen. Every one of the houses had been sacked and burned. There were fire-ravished barns from which came the stench of meat—the animals which had sheltered therein must have been imprisoned to die.
But this monstrous intaking had not been done within hours, or perhaps even days. There were indeed some faint curls of smoke from the larger barns and one or two of the houses; however, those could have smoldered on, even in spite of the storm, if the brands were hidden.
Nothing stirred—except scavengers—black-winged things which, even this far away, he could hear screaming as they fought to fill their bellies. Slowly, still keeping a last bush between him and the open, Kryn stood up.