Five Senses Box Set

by Andre Norton

  Fogar could hardly hold back, match his pace to that of the Dark Lord’s company. No one in his right mind would hasten toward such a dire destiny as would likely be his; yet he found it hard to restrain the excitement rising ever higher within him—the knowledge that they marched toward what might well be the last struggle against Irasmus’s evil, at least for himself and his companion in misfortune.

  Every so often, the boy glanced quickly toward her, then away again. Her bearing intrigued him, and not merely because it embodied a calm and courageous acceptance of her own fate. Cerlyn held her hands, wrists trailing chains looped inward, cupped at the height of her waist. Just as the mage nursed his seeing-stone against him, she might also be bearing some treasure, but if so, it was not to be seen by him.

  Something else was curious, too. Twice, it seemed as if an insect buzzed within his ears and must be sent on its way with a shake of his head; then, for a second or two, a message that had been striving to find its way to him was made nearly plain.

  The apprentice found he could also sense, more clearly than ever before, the temper of the gobbes about him. The monsters were not forgetful of their charges—indeed, they crowded in far more tightly than was necessary to make sure of those two—but they were so absorbed in some concern of their own that they were in constant communication among themselves on a level the boy could neither hear norguess. Their movements were restless, as well. Watching them carefully, he became aware that their attention was fixed upon the Forest, though that realm remained as much an unbroken wall as ever.

  The place toward which the sorcerer and his slaves were now bound had been avoided for as long as Fogar could remember, although, in a peculiar way, it was his own because he had been born there. Their destination was that ill-fated site where Irasmus had claimed him, still wet from the womb, as a “demon’s son,” and where those of his own blood had been overrun by their formerly friendly neighbors in an attack that had equaled the worst frenzy of the gobbes. The youth often wondered what had set the Valley folk against their own kind. Had it been more of the master’s dealings with the Dark? Whatever the cause, outside the tower, at least, that spot, whose soil had drunk the blood of kin slain by kin, was by far the most evil-soaked area within the boundaries of Styrmir. What better location, Fogar thought grimly, for another gory slaying?

  Without warning, that inner excitement he had been feeling came to a head in a real thrust of pain, as though some message which must not go unheeded was about to be delivered. So sudden was its onset that he swayed, then fell, dragging Cerlyn down with him. Seemingly by chance, the girl’s hands, which she still held cupped, brushed his cheek, and he jerked his head to one side, in time to see a pale lump in the soil at his feet. Before he hit the ground, he strained with all his might to twist one arm under him and was quickly rewarded by a sharp prod against his skin. His fingers scrabbled vainly for a moment as he felt his handscaught up short by the wrist chain; then he had it—something smooth and solid. Luckily, the object was small enough for him to hide in his palm as their guards, the pattern of their sullen tramping interrupted by the misstep of their captives, stumped over to get them once more on their feet. The head slave driver raised his weapon while he pulled their chains taut once more, but in the end he contented himself with a snarled warning.

  Irasmus paid no heed to the slight commotion behind him; his focus was turned deep within his own mind as he studied each phase of the ritual he must perform, and he could not afford to spare attention elsewhere. His sorry horse plodded on, heavy footed, and its rider did not look over his shoulder; yet still Fogar dared not glance down at what he had in his grip.

  He did know he held a stone, a smooth rock that issued the same tingling alert to his nerves as had emanated from the last three rocks he had set in the spiral. This—he was so certain that he could have shouted it aloud—was of the Light! What good so small a fragment might do for his cause and Cerlyn’s in the battle to be he did not know. Only, as he continued to hold it, he could hear—not with his ears but with a sense for which he had no name—a breeze, such as might ruffle playfully the meadow grass.

  By touch alone, not yet able to risk a look at his prize, the boy tried to identify this find. Like the much-larger discs from which he had built the spiral, it was nearly flat, but its outline was oval rather than round. And the longer he continued to clutch it tightly, the stronger grew the sensation of—of life, sparking and sparkling through it. Fogar would not have been surprisedhad the rock suddenly split open and sent forth a green shoot to reach for the sun. This feeling of imminent rebirth expanded outward from the rock until he perceived that the whole Valley was being freed, to cringe no more beneath the iron mace of the Winter King but rise and kiss the flowering scepter of the Spring Queen (would She truly come again?). The youth had, he now knew with a leap of the heart, a weapon. Of its nature and use he was still ignorant, but he would learn—yes, he would learn!

  In the irregular circle to which Irasmus led them, what vegetation contrived to grow looked unhealthy; all bushes and plants Fogar could see were wizened and shrunken. Considering that the soil had been watered with blood, the boy thought, it was a wonder that anything natural could rise in such a place. What should have clawed their way up were growths of the Dark.

  His examination of what might well be the place of his death, as it was of his birth, was interrupted when the gobbe nearest him seized him roughly by his arm, with a pull that almost overset him once more. The creature then freed his ankles, while another monster, he was pleased to see, did the same for his companion. As the rusty loops fell heavily to the ground, a thought flashed through Fogar’s mind. The demons used iron, it was true, forging ugly weapons for themselves and shackles for their slaves; yet what did all the old tales say? Iron and magic did not mix. Even the blades of ancient heroes, though wrought by gods, had been fashioned of other metal.

  However, though the dark mage had supplied his soldiery with that metal for daily use, the gobbes now tossed not only their prisoners’ chains from them butalso cast down their axes and such other weapons as they normally bore. Only Fogar and Cerlyn were left touching iron—their wrist chains, which had not been loosed—as the demons scuttled away.

  With ill grace, the creatures heeded the orders that now issued from their master. They chopped and pulled at the plants which had dared to root at the old feasting site until they had cleared a space fully the size of the Dark Lord’s tower room. However, the apprentice noted that they kept well to the outside of this “chamber” area, though they sometimes bent their bodies at strange angles to seize upon some vagrant tuft of vegetation that lay within the circle.

  Irasmus did not seem over anxious about the quality of their work. He still hunched in his saddle cradling the sphere, head bent, as if he could, in fact, only see clearly if that seeing-stone was able to pick up what lay around him—or below.

  The afternoon was well gone. The Wind was no longer urging forward those from the Forest but rather slowing their advance, as if the time of meeting with the wizard’s army was not yet. However, Falice was now close enough to clearly see the two captives. The cupping gesture of the girl’s hands kept her watchful— certainly their position signified Cerlyn carried something, yet nothing was visible—to physical eyes, at any rate. But to the inward sight—? The Forest’s daughter cast forth a questing tendril of Wind—and then she “saw”!

  Even as the mage husbanded his globe, so did the Valley maid hold what was assuredly a goblet, though so faint was the outline Falice could discern that perhapsnot even the power of the Wind could bring that cup into full visibility. However, the force that flowed back along her inquiring thread was a surge of power that held in it a lift of the heart such as the Stone imparted to her at times. This was not born of the Breath, but it was of the Light; and each power was aware of the other.

  Something was closed in one of Fogar’s hands, as well; yet his burden must have substance, for his fingers were curled about
it in a screen against prying eyes. Again the Forest girl probed, but this time she was answered by a familiar energy song. The boy held a stone, which, small as it must be, was as awake—and ready for action—as its great counterpart in the glade. Yet, vital as seemed the strength of both objects, Falice could not foresee the use of either as a weapon. To her Wind-enhanced sight, the chalice Cerlyn cupped showed empty, while the stone Fogar kept was small enough to be curtained by a closed hand.

  However, that ball thing which Irasmus fairly worshipped, lifting it directly before his sharp, sour features, was now close enough for the Forest maiden to see plainly, identify—and know for a peril of the most potent. The Wind tightened about her for an instant, shaping phantom armor against the conflict to come and also sharing this knowledge: the Dark Lord held a key, and he was now seeking a gate to be unlocked.

  A sudden movement of the sorcerer’s hand sent the gobbes to seize the prisoners and push them forward into the circle. Then the monsters took positions around that ring just within its boundary, facing the two who had been forced on into its very heart.

  Falice tried to advance with the Sasqua, but it wouldseem that the Wind would deny them, for they could not lift feet far enough to move forward. Once more the girl wielded her wand, as she had done to dissolve that other barrier, but the branch merely swung through the air and did not open a way for the Forest force. Yet surely they were here for a reason!

  Irasmus now climbed awkwardly down from his saddle and passed into the circle. He began a measured pacing around its circumference, just a little inward from the gobbes, who stirred and showed their fangs. The creatures were afraid—Falice did not need the Wind to translate those grimaces. A thick, musky scent was also rising from them, yet their fear went unnoticed—or ignored—by their master.

  Returning at the same stately pace to the center of the ring, the mage now turned to face outward. With one hand gripping the globe, he fronted the deepening dusk beyond. Twilight was falling—or perhaps the forerunner of the Nether Night—but it was gathering fast.

  For the first time, a sound arose other than the whispering of the Wind: the sorcerer had commenced a chant. He had also begun to move, swinging the sphere, still tight in his hold, first toward Cerlyn and then to empty space, and repeating the same gestures with Fogar. Again, the Forest girl needed no Breath-borne explanation: this was a preparation for the offering.

  Falice signaled with her wand, and this time the Wind did not stay the Forest folk. They marched. The ponderous strides of the Sasqua woke a ringing echo from the earth, yet none of those within the circle appeared to hear their advance, for not one turned to witness their coming.

  Fogar had been exerting a steady pull on the end of the chain which bound the wrist of his stone-holding hand. The iron links were loosening—he was certain now. He dared to tug a little more. Yes, the bond no longer bit into his flesh! Carefully, he slid a finger around the metal loops to keep them from falling away. He was tense, his every sense alert. Gone was the time for recalling dream memories and striving to learn from a patchwork pieced of their facts. He now knew what was going to happen, and, if the Light was with him, he held a weapon allied to it.

  “Arshabentoth, Mighty One, Eater of Souls—come to your feasting!” Irasmus’s voice rang out. Above his head he elevated the globe, no color swirling through it any longer; it held only a solid clot of darkness.

  Outside the ring, true night had closed in. Under its cover, those from the Forest posted themselves about the outer rim of the clearing at the ready.

  And, though they might not be seen, others were forming another circle beyond the Sasqua. Hope-starved men, women who had lost the gift of tears—all strained forward, reaching, calling without words, not to the evil Irasmus would summon but to its opposite. The people of Styrmir, reclaiming a fraction of their old life were gathering.

  Though most of the Valley had been blanketed by night, a glow of light remained within the circle. Falice could not be sure of the source of that pale gray luminescence, but the rising stench was enough to let every being present know what must also be approaching—there!

  “Arshabentoth!” Irasmus repeated his entreaty. Hisvoice sounded hoarse, as if to speak that Name even a second time put a strain on his throat.

  Fogar let the last segment of useless chain clank to the ground, hearing an echo of the sound from where Cerlyn stood. She, too, was free. Perhaps, if the two of them could not fight, they would be able to flee—

  But in front of Irasmus, in that wide space that had been left vacant and from whose boundary even the gobbes had been quick to edge away, the pale light brightened. No longer the hue of a haunt’s grave robe, it was now shot with fiery lines of red that looped up and over the intended sacrifices and bound them in a cage of force.

  And then That Which had been summoned . . . came.

  27

  “ARSHABENTOTH !”

  Irasmus staggered forward a step or so toward the form slowly materializing in the center of the circle. It was—

  Cerlyn stared at the thing, unable to summon any words to describe what she saw there (or did she see it? Could a human mind truly perceive such a shape?). Still, ill-defined as it was, it broadcast waves of evil as powerful as if they defied the very Wind at its worst fury.

  The monstrosity towered as tall as one of the Forest people now. Its body, however, was still evolving and apparently not to any definite pattern of development, for its appendages changed constantly, one type of supposed hand or foot melting into another, then yet a third. Evidently, either the creature could not control its physical form while entering this new dimension, orelse it was, in some fashion, trying on various shapings to test their effects.

  This Being was of the Dark; that could not be denied. But there was something else about it which was—wrong. Gifford’s young scholar refused to allow what she saw before her to distract her from remembering past lessons about such entities. Knowing whom Irasmus planned to invoke when he had amassed sufficient power, her teacher had searched old records and even combed legends for information on the Great Dark One’s appearance. The loremaster had not expected such a manifestation as this, and even Cerlyn, after what he had told her, had been awaiting something quite different.

  The girl had learned that, in the days before the Covenant, when such Underdwellers had been free to come and go without open challenge, most of the High Ones of the Dark had assumed near-human guise when on her world’s level. She recalled all too clearly the descriptions of that dark master, who would answer to the name Irasmus had just spoken—and it bore no likeness to this.

  More stirring in that central place, but human movement this time. The mage, his globe now held before his face as if he used it to aid eyes that had indeed been deprived of a measure of sight, stood very close to his female prisoner—so near that she could see a spasm of feeling akin to pain twist his thin features. He raised the seeing-stone yet closer to his eyes as he called once more: “Arshabentoth!”

  “Your longed-for Lord seems to have altered somewhat.” The girl was startled to hear those words fromFogar. She had never truly believed that, when the end came, he could stand forth like this and speak almost as dryly as Gifford correcting her for some error of lesson recitation.

  Irasmus did not appear to hear him at first, but, a moment later, he spun to face Fogar, the ball whirling in his hands.

  “This—slug—is the first dainty I offer you, Mighty One,” he said expansively, in a mockery of merchant’s patter, “and this is the second.” Releasing the globe with one hand, he reached out as if to grasp the chains that no longer bound the girl and so hurl her forward, but his fingers passed through empty space. Cerlyn, sensing that her moment in this conflict was near, raised the all-but-invisible bowl to lip level.

  I—am—summoned—

  As with the Wind’s touch, the Dark Thing’s message entered its listeners’ minds more powerfully than words spoken aloud.

  “Eater of sou
ls—feast upon this, my bounty!” Irasmus’s gesturing hand struck the girl’s shoulder, almost sending her off balance and into those appendages the creature seemed to have at last decided would be arms, with huge talons sprouting from what were, by its present whim, hands.

  “This one is not He whom you call.” Fogar offered an insolent comment again. As he spoke, he slid an arm about Cerlyn’s waist, steadying her against him, and she felt a sudden shock of energy at his touch.

  The would-be master held the ball so close to his face that it rubbed the tip of his nose. His features twisted in rage—which was fast becoming fear.

  The two in the circle were dimly aware that the gobbeson watch were moving in closer to their leader and his prisoners. No longer silent, the horrors were gabbling as if to attract the attention of the newcomer.

  “I did not summon you!” The wizard might be amazed at the result of his dabbling in hell spells, but his sinewy body straightened, and he seemed to be getting his fear under control.

  Fogar and Cerlyn were not the only ones to feel a sudden nearly irresistible pull—one that actually drew them closer to Irasmus; all others present were similarly drawn. The Forest folk howled and pounded their clubs against the earth, as if by clamor and drumming they could break what seemed to them an unseen bind-vine. Falice described a circle in the air with her wand, pointing its tip directly toward the man who still faced the under one with confidence.

  “Ayyheee!” Her voice fitted into Wind’s, and quickly enough so that the ragged mob of land grubbers, who had begun to run toward their master, slowed at once. Under the calming touch of the Breath, the Valley people stood fast again, and their anger raised a barrier to his efforts to draw energy from their awakening talents.