The Wanderer

by Wilder, Cherry;

  “Half a dozen dark shapes rose up from behind the bushes and were all amongst us. Two seized my bridle. Breckan held a huge dagger at the lord’s throat, and when I cried out and tried to break free, I was struck from my horse by one of those on the ground. Lovill swung a halter of rope about Lady Malm’s neck; he called to his creatures for light, and there were torches. Then he spoke up in a loud voice and said they were his prisoners: the hostages of Tusker Lovill, the Wild Boar.

  “Then Lord Malm spoke or asked to speak, and when the knife was taken from his throat, he begged this brigand to take him alone and the gold they carried and let his good lady go free, for she was on an errand of mercy. But Lovill told him to be silent, and Breckan gave the lord a blow on the head.

  “Then we were all forced a short way along the track; I was made to walk with my hands tied behind, and two of the brigands rode upon my horse. I did not see plainly what happened next, but there was a little flash of light, and Lady Malm tried to escape. I believe she used a simple bit of magic, a hand movement and a spell that twisted her halter from Lovill’s grasp. But her horse stumbled, and Lovill cried out again, calling her a witch and worse names. And then … oh Maddoc …”

  Wennle shook his head, and his face, turned to hers, was deathly pale with staring eyes.

  “What, Master Wennle? What was it?”

  “There was a strange light,” he whispered. “The torches burned with a strange greenish light. It played around all of them, Lovill and Breckan and their followers. They changed before our eyes—their faces—their whole bodies. Maddoc, I swear that they took on the shapes of monsters, hideous, half-human creatures! They reeked, they had slavering mouths and sharp teeth, their hands were huge, hairy, claw-like …”

  “The Voimar …” Gael found herself whispering too. “Creatures from the old tales. I heard they were seen but could not bring myself to believe it.”

  “It was the shock!” said Wennle ruefully. “I saw Lady Malm, who is a brave woman, faint dead away and slip from her horse. Yet I swear, Maddoc, that their true shape is human, as we first saw the two warriors. This is-magic!”

  “What happened next?”

  “We went on, the whole monster pack, with the lady slung across her saddle. After a few miles, I thought I saw the walls of a town.”

  “Silverlode,” said Gael, “an abandoned mining town.”

  “I never entered it,” said Wennle. “Tusker Lovill drew me aside, just as he was in this terrifying guise. He sorted me out and my horse, while the others went on into the town. A single henchman from the demon pack remained and held me. Lovill was suddenly himself again, yet very fierce.

  “He shook me and swore that my lord and lady were lost forever if I tried any tricks. I must ride, he said, on to the Halfway House and on to the king’s court and there find ransom for them …”

  “Master Wennle, they must be rescued!”

  The steward slumped in his chair, worn out with the mere telling of his ordeal.

  “It would endanger them,” he whispered hoarsely. “Who … who would rescue …?”

  “There is the garrison at Hackestell,” said Gael Maddoc. “There are the Rift Lords and their followers.”

  “I was told not to try any tricks.”

  “How will they fare, the lord and lady, in the hands of such creatures?” she asked. “It will take ten, twenty days, a whole moon of days, to go to the king’s court and convince them of the need for ransom.”

  Wennle had begun to tremble in all his limbs; he could not answer her. Gael looked about for the old woman, who came anxiously to observe the sick man.

  “We must put him to bed,” said Gael. “See, here is gold for his lodging in one of the rooms.”

  Mistress Cluny blinked, did not take the money. Between them they half-carried the old man to one of the traveler’s cells on the south wall and laid him on a pallet bed with clean coarse sheets. He seized Gael’s hand feebly.

  “Oh, kedran …”

  “Rest, Master Wennle,” she ordered. “We can undertake nothing till the morning. I will think what is best to do.”

  She sat by him in the small curtained cell, listening to his rattling breath. Mistress Cluny fetched a draught, which she fed to Wennle; he breathed easier and fell asleep. Gael Maddoc tiptoed away and returned to her place at the eastern hearth. She had her supper, scarcely knowing what she ate. The steward’s story had awakened strange echoes of that stirring tale of the Bloody Banquet of Silverlode.

  There was a name she recalled from the aftermath of this terrible feast. Huarik the Boar and some of his followers were buried in Silverlode: they had come home no more. Yes, here was the name—Huarik’s young wife, mourning her fallen lord, took her infant son home to the hall of her father, Lovill of the Eastmark!

  Who could doubt that Tusker Lovill, the Wild Boar, was this same child grown to manhood? Surely, at a word, the Lords of the Eastern Rift would raise a company to root out the young boar whose father had killed their fathers! Gael stirred the remains of her posset with a wooden spoon, shaking her head. This might cost the life of the hostages, Lord and Lady Malm. Perhaps, instead, the Wild Boar, entrenched in the dark underground labyrinths of Silverlode, could be taken by stealth or magic? Who would be bold enough to risk such an effort?

  Gael Maddoc saw her ring flash in the firelight, and she thought of another saying of Druda Strawn. She had her answer. “Nothing passes on the High Plateau that is unknown to the Shee.”

  She looked toward the hostess and the young man who were seated quietly under one of the candleracks, playing Battle. Mistress Cluny came to her at the fireside, bringing drink. Gael Maddoc fixed her eyes upon the old woman and said:

  “How came the old man, Master Wennle, to such a pass?”

  “How should we know?” answered Mistress Cluny warily. “He told us nothing. He very nearly did not come here at all …”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The roan horse came in riderless, about noon,” replied the old woman. “My son, Gwil, followed its tracks as best he could and found the old man where he had fallen and brought him back.”

  “Mistress,” said Gael, with great urgency. “I must speak with the light folk. This is a matter of life and death.”

  “They will not parley,” said the old woman. “Think no more of it!”

  “I have words to summon them,” said Gael Maddoc. “Shall I cry them out, here in this hall?”

  “You are too bold, kedran,” said Mistress Cluny.

  Her eyes were brown, flecked with gold, and her voice was stronger than it had been.

  But Gael Maddoc would not stand down before her. “I have but to ride to the Eastern Rift and tell my story … the old man’s story … of two great Eildon nobles waylaid and captured by the son of their old enemy, Tusker Lovill, son of Huarik,” she said. “Even their reverence for the high ground will not hold the Rift Lords. I could return with an army to dig out the Wild Boar from Silverlode!”

  “This is wild talk!” said Mistress Cluny. “What have the Eilif lords of the Shee to do with old treachery?”

  “Nothing passes upon the plateau without their knowledge,” said Gael firmly. “Here are innocent travelers waylaid, who made no trespass. I am their guide, and I will have them back again!”

  She sprang up then and strode into the center of the mighty hall between the two candleracks. She held out her arms to the empty air and uttered the third and most powerful of Druda Strawn’s invocations. The words were old; the gist of them was: “Come scions of Tulach Hearth, come Bright Ones, heed my cry! Be seen in the dark world! Give ear to my true need! Luran, awake!”

  Her voice echoed through the Halfway House and fell away into a chill silence. The old woman and her son quickly slipped away. Gael Maddoc walked back to her place by the fire, her steps loud on the wooden floor. She sat with her hands on her knees and let desolation sweep over her as the moments passed and there was no answer.

  Her magic ring winked so sof
tly that it could have been the firelight reflecting in its one green eye. She was not alone. In the settle across the hearth there lounged a young man. He wore finely-dressed russet leather, a tunic of antique cut. Gael thought of that moment in the sacred cavern when she first saw Blayn of Pfolben, perfectly handsome.

  The young man had fine hard features, as if the skin were tightly stretched over his high cheekbones, his pointed chin. His hair was red-brown, fine and luxuriant, glowing in the firelight as his skin glowed, with a faint bronze luster. His eyes were light brown, very penetrating. His thin brown hand toyed with a heavy chain of gold looped about his neck. He wore rings, one with a yellow stone. He was a strange being, one of the light folk. All men and women, however beautiful, were by contrast earthy, dark, mortal.

  “Well, kedran,” said the newcomer in a bell-like voice. “I am awake!”

  “Lord …” said Gael Maddoc as firmly as she could. “Lord Luran, I must ask the help of the Eilif lords of the Shee …”

  “You have asked before,” said her companion. “What is your name?”

  “My name is Gael Maddoc,” she replied. “Last night, by the Black Menhir, I called upon the Shee with a question of my own. Tonight I ask help for two Eildon nobles, Lord Mortrice of Malm and his wife, the Lady Malveen. They have been taken for ransom by brigands in Silverlode.”

  “How shall we help?” Luran waved a hand, making her ring sparkle. “This is the violence of the dark and mortal world.”

  “Not all, lord,” she said. “Tusker Lovill, the robber chieftain, has had access to some magic. His followers go about as the Voimar to frighten travelers.”

  “Mother Cluny is right,” said Luran with a sad laugh. “You are very bold, Gael Maddoc. Where did you get that strong summoning? ‘Scions of Tulach Hearth’ indeed. We had not thought to hear our dear hearth named again by a mortal. What do you know of magic?”

  “I have the summoning from a holy man, the Guardian Priest of Coombe, Druda Strawn, who has spoken with you before. I have seen some magic in the Southland, where I served the Lord of Pfolben, and in the Burnt Lands. Lord, I was rescued there and helped to lead others to safety; I found a string of magical tokens that pertain to the lands of Hylor.”

  She drew out the gold medallions of the Hallows, threaded on their thong. They looked old and dark as she held them toward Luran, but suddenly, as he made some sound, the tokens blazed with golden fire and leaped to his hand. Stranger than all, Gael became aware of others who were present, watching unseen, crowding round. She flung up her head at a sweet, almost twittering sound in the air.

  “Hush!” said Luran fondly, not addressing Gael. “It is Gwendyre’s home working, for sure. Take the hallow-string …”

  The string of coins vanished from his outstretched hand. He veiled his eyes and sat with bent head. Gael understood in him, in this Eilif lord, a kind of helpless pity; it seemed to her that there were points of likeness between the dark and the light race. Then without a sound the Hallows, on their thong, were laid gently on the arm of Gael’s settle.

  “That is truly an ancient token,” Luran said at length. “Tell me the tale. Where did you find it? How did you come to the Burnt Lands? You are a kedran of Coombe in the Chyrian lands below the high ground …”

  Gael cleared her throat, finding herself parched and dry at the very memory of the desert. Luran waved a hand, and Mistress Cluny was there again, wearing a blue surcoat over her workaday gown. She brought two fine goblets and a flagon of golden wine. After one sip, Gael found she could tell the story of her journey to the Burnt Lands pretty well. Nothing was lost on Luran and on those others listening. They understood the terrors of the Afreet and the sandstorm and the shortcomings of Blayn of Pfolben. They followed Gael and her cohort all the long unknown way through the desert to Seph-al-Ara, the town of the Zebbecks.

  When the tale was done, Gael was bold enough to say:

  “I believe that these tokens, which Druda Strawn calls the Hallows of Hylor, will lead me on some quest.”

  Luran smiled.

  “Perhaps you have been summoned to perform a service for—for the light folk.”

  “Anything within my power, lord,” she said. “But only when I have freed those prisoners, the lord and his lady.”

  “Now you are bargaining …” grumbled the Eilif lord. “Come, let us see if your nerves are still good.”

  He rose to his feet; Gael Maddoc strung the golden tokens around her neck and took his outstretched hand. His touch was cool and invigorating: they walked from the eastern hearth to the very center of the vast, shadowy chamber as if performing a dance step. They stood under the largest candlerack, and Luran raised a hand. He uttered a single word in old Chyrian, and it seemed to be simply “Tulach!”

  She felt the darkness gathering instantly, moving about her like a dark whirlpool; she was conscious of movement but could see nothing. She felt the hand of Luran still; the experience lasted only a few heartbeats. Then Luran had gone, and she had come to another place.

  It was a very old lofty chamber, lined with tarnished, lovely hangings, beautiful as moonlight. The fire in the broad hearth burned green and blue: something stirred on the bearskins before the fire, and she saw that it was a very large dog—a mountain dog, still quite young, with a thick golden coat. She stiffened a little as the creature stood up. The dog came toward her, but with sounds of pleasure, wagging its tail, stretching, eager to be stroked. She dared to sit on one of the padded settles, near a low round table, and the dog laid its great head in her lap. The door of the chamber creaked open, and they came in.

  There were four or five of them, and they were difficult to see; they kept flickering in and out of her sight, of her very consciousness. Their voices were like cracked bells, jangling a little, or like birdcalls, or like the sound of the sea. She made out an old man, tall as a tree, but the others were female, the Fionnar, the pale ones, the fair ladies of the Shee, consorts of the Eilif lords.

  One thing was certain: all but one of these ladies were very old, as old as the hills, as old as the woods of Eildon, as old as the stones of Achamar, as old as the springs of the Chyrian lands, as old as the sands of the desert.

  Gael stood up, and the dog moved back to the hearth rugs where it stood sadly sweeping its tail back and forth, as if hoping to be noticed. Gael made a bow, and the bell voices chimed. The youngest and easiest to distinguish separated from the group. A few shreds of mist swirled away, and Gael was confronted with a beautiful woman, ageless, in a broidered gown of blue and green. Her skin was drawn tightly over her bones and had the magical sheen of her race. Golden hair lay smoothly under her white coif; her eyes were grey and fathomless.

  “I am Ethain of Clonagh,” she said graciously. “Sit down my child. I see you have made friends with Bran. Let us take some mulled wine.”

  “Fion Ethain,” Gael bowed and sat down again.

  There were silver cups and a pottery jug of mulled wine, steaming. Ethain sat down, and two more ladies drew closer, smiling at Gael. One swiftly altered her looks by magic—now she had a round soft face and clouds of dark hair lying in long swathes upon the shoulders of her wine-red velvet gown.

  “Myrruad Ap Tzurna,” she said. “This is Ylmiane—or that is all the name she goes by.”

  The old creature wore her years; her eyes were jet black, her face impossibly wrinkled. She was swathed in creamy, silvery fabric of the Shee, a floating bed gown. She peered at Gael and laughed in a strong voice.

  “Maddoc,” she said, like a bird talking. “Maddoc, Maddoc, Maddoc. You were bred by the Holywell—is it not so?”

  “Yes, Highness!” said Gael, bobbing her head.

  “There, you see?” said Ylmiane softly to her companions. “It is the one that was to come. Now it is here.”

  At last the old Eilif lord approached the table by the fire. He adjusted his ancient face and was a handsome knight, enormously tall, with long greyish ringlets, a scar on his cheek, and a long surcoat, quartered with
many crests.

  “Captain Maddoc,” he said in an echoing tone, “I am Hugh McLlyr of the Fishers.”

  He smiled wryly at her, lifting the corner of his mouth. Gael Maddoc sipped the warm wine and took heart.

  “Good Sir Knight,” she said, “You are a long way from the Sea!”

  And the Eilif lord and all the Fair Ladies burst into laughter at her timid jest. The room rocked with merriment; they applauded Gael and patted her hands with a touch so light it could not be felt. Luran was with them all again, and he nodded approval at her.

  “Well, Mother,” he said to the Lady Ethain. “You have heard our dear Ylmiane speak. Captain Gael Maddoc could indeed serve us!”

  “If we undo this foolish working at Silverlode,” said Myrruad in a low voice.

  “It was a rash deed,” said Hugh McLlyr, “and in a dark season. Let the dark child of Coombe undo the knot I will ride with her if it would help.”

  Luran sat down at the round table and his mother, the Lady Ethain, poured wine into his silver cup when it appeared.

  “We accept your bargain, Captain Maddoc,” she said. “We will assist you in bringing these poor Eildon souls out of Silverlode.”

  “In return you must ride on quests for us,” said Luran. “Some would say this was an honor for one of the dark race …”

  “Indeed I feel it as the greatest honor …” said Gael.

  She looked as closely as she dared at the old ones and began to share with Luran feelings of helpless pity for them. All the light folk spoke a little apart in that Old Chyrian she could scarcely understand, then between one breath and the next they had swirled away, leaving only Luran to parley with her. She could not have sworn how they left the chamber—through the open door or simply by vanishing away.

  “All!” said the youngest of the Eilif lords sternly, fixing Gael Maddoc with his golden eyes. “All of them, all of us … do you understand me? Only folk of the half-blood will remain, here and there in the lands of Hylor.”