Steel Magic

by Andre Norton

  The toad shivered, its bulk quivered, its mouth shut. Then out from between those lips fell a round, glowing bead which rolled to the foot of the wall where Sara crouched. The bead was as clear as glass and at its core she saw a ring of dark metal.

  The ring! In that moment she had to choose. She could not carry both ring and knife. If she took the talisman in her mouth she would have to leave behind her only weapon.

  Sara moved quickly because she was afraid that if she waited she would not be able to do anything at all. She tossed the knife at the toad and saw it land on the creature’s broad back. The thing writhed and twisted, and then crumpled as might a bag from which air had escaped.

  She sprang from the wall and snapped up the bead. It was hard to mouth but she held it.

  “Kaaaw—” A black bird such as those which had followed her and the fox dived from the air, sounding its battle cry. Sara moved with terrified speed, making the passage of the stepping stones in bounds, returning to the shelter of the dead wood. She paused under that cover trying to plan, fearing to travel the spider-infested path without the knife.

  She had dropped the bead between her paws and it was only at that moment she remembered that the ring itself was iron and so might be her protection. But first the glass shell about it must be broken.

  Dropping it on a nearby rock did not crack the covering. She stood upon it with the full weight of her forepaws, but it only sank in the mold and did not break.

  “Kaaaw—” One of the birds hopped along bare branches just above her and he was answered from the air. Sara took the bead in her mouth once more and ran at her best speed. As she went she bit at what she held, hoping her needle-sharp cat’s teeth could crunch through.

  With a leap she cleared the body of the spider guard where she had been trapped. Perhaps if she just kept running she could escape any harm. But there was the beat of wings in the air, a quick stab of pain in one ear. Sara backed against a tree trunk where a mat of dead branches made cover to keep off the birds. She would have to break the bead or she would never get out of the wood, she was sure of that now.

  With her nose and forepaws she wedged the globe against a half-buried stone and then, finding another such stone, she pushed it against the outer surface of the bead with all her strength, moving it slightly so that the globe was ground between the two rocks. She was losing hope in her plan when with a small “pop” the bead was gone. Some dust glittered on the mold about the ring and that was all.

  Sara mouthed the band, ready to run again. There was a scream from above. The birds were rising, leaving. Sure that she had a chance now, Sara ran, not realizing at first what was happening about her. For, as she sped among the trees, change spread with her.

  Lumps of fungus dwindled, fell away. There was a cool wind rising, driving through the brittle branches, bringing with it a sweet cleanness. As she flashed about the pool where the lizard had lain, the water was no longer dull and scummed. It bubbled and sparkled, moved again by some long-choked spring.

  When Sara reached the spot where she had crept beneath the web wall, she no longer faced the stretch of murky stuff. The web was now only bits of patches, for the wind was tearing at it, shredding it loose. So she ran easily out into the moonlight to climb the slope to where the fox waited.

  At the top of the rise she paused to look back. All the dead trees were bending and twisting in the wind. Most of the web wall was gone. It was as if the strong blast of air was sweeping away all the evil which had hidden there, making it ready for life again. She saw a whirl of birds rise up against the moon. They wheeled as they flew toward her, uttering their hoarse calls.

  Sara turned and ran at her best speed. Perhaps the wood was free of evil now, but it appeared that the black birds still had the power to hunt.

  The Fox Gate

  Before Greg was transformation indeed—change as great Sara had seen in the wood. The village that had lain under the witch’s spell came to life again. It’s people, freed from their animal shapes, worked busily about their ruined homes. Two of those who had run as wolves now stood erect as lord and lady of the tower, to press upon Greg and his companions what shelter and food they had to offer. But when they had rested for a short space, Arthur’s knight urged that they ride on, and now Greg was as impatient as he.

  Though they pushed on into the gathering darkness, they did not lose their way, for, as the gloom thickened, there came a glow of light from the hilt of the great sword resting across the saddle before Greg, a light that was reflected and fed by a similar beam from the fork-spear. And this lighted their path as well as if a torch were being carried before them.

  Where did the mountain road lead? Greg had entered it through Merlin’s mirror and he had no idea of where it went beyond that point. He noticed that those who rode with him had their hands close to their sword hilts and that they kept careful watch of the heights on both sides of the road, as if fearing some ambush.

  They came to the place where Greg had spent the night in his half cave. There it was necessary to dismount and pass one at a time, leading the horses down the broken slope. When they were once more on level ground, Greg was almost too tired to climb again into the saddle.

  “Mount, young sir!” Arthur’s knight urged him. “Time passes. Even now the east and the west may be facing the enemy. And how may Pendragon ride to battle without his blade? Mount—we must hurry!”

  Painfully, Greg obeyed and rode on, nodding with weariness, not aware that the knight had taken his reins and was leading the horse he bestrode. But he roused quickly when the knight shouted an alarm.

  The moon had risen and before them was drawn up a force, a silent barrier across the road. There were men—or things that looked like men—and these were flanked by monsters. Along their ranks, pointed at Arthur’s men and at Greg himself, were blades of smoky red flame. At the back of this dark company was a shimmering silvery curtain—Merlin’s mirror?

  “Ho for Pendragon!” It was the knight who raised that cry as he drew his dwarf-forged blade. Those of his band echoed the cry and showed their own weapons.

  Greg’s horse, when the hold on the reins loosened, cantered on toward the line of the enemy. The boy heard the shouts of Arthur’s men, the pound of hoofs on the roadway. His own horse, frightened, began to gallop. Points of dark fire gathered before Greg in a menacing wall. He held Excalibur tightly to his body with his left arm, while in his right hand he lifted the fork-spear. And the moonlight, pallid and weak though it was, centered on that, making it a banner of white flame. The dark wall wavered, moved before him. Greg cast the fork-spear, and the enemy’s line curled back from its touch, while the horse galloped on toward the misty curtain.

  Behind that, Greg saw a man mounted on one of the winged horses. He was a big man, with a golden beard and a helmet topped by a carven dragon with eyes of fire as red as the surcoat which covered the man’s back and breast. Behind him was a great host of knights and archers under a banner that crackled in a high wind.

  The bearded man faced Greg and held up his hand in a gesture of both entreaty and command. Somehow Greg found the strength he needed. Raising Excalibur in both hands, he hurled the sword up and out. End over end the giant blade went through the curtain. Then, as if drawn to a magnet, it flew to the outstretched hand of Arthur Pen-dragon. Three times the Warder of the East whirled the sword over his head as the banner behind him dipped in salute.

  Then Greg’s horse was at the edge of the mist, and Greg himself was engulfed in a swirl of fog. From afar he heard shouting, the clash of blade meeting blade, the singing of bowstrings. Then he rolled across grass and opened his eyes—to see above him, plain in the warm sun of afteroon, a fresh blaze cut upon a tree trunk.

  Eric shrank back from the water into which the sea-thing had rolled. His first plan for spending the night in the cavern no longer pleased him. All he wanted was to return to shore, get away from the island as quickly as he could. He launched the boat, hoping to be free of the cave b
efore the light utterly failed.

  He kept the horn on his knees as he used the spoon paddle, determined not to lose it again. It took him much longer to edge through the narrow passage to the outer cave, for he feared ripping the skin covering of the craft on a rock, and he inched along until he could see the gray of evening reflected on the water ahead.

  Against the lap of the waves, the sound of surf, Eric strained to hear any other noise. The monster of the inner cave might not have been the only one of its kind abroad. Eric’s worst fear was that something would rise from the depths to attack the boat.

  It was more difficult to get out to sea than it had been to enter the cave originally. For then he had had the waves at his back and now he must head into them. Eric was so tired that every time he raised the spoon paddle his shoulders ached with the effort. But he made it at last, and gave a sigh of relief when he saw the island only a shadow on the sea, at his back instead of before him.

  To Eric it seemed that that shadow reached in a black block from the island to the shore and that his path was covered by its gloom. The last red bands of the sunset were across the sky where it met the water, and in the air wheeled and called the sea birds.

  They coasted on outstretched wings over the waves, skimming not far above his head. Surely they must be some of those that had perched upon the ledges to watch his battle with the monster. And now they followed him as if keeping watch. But for whom—for what?

  Each slap of wave rocked the light boat. It would be so very easy for something to rise out of those waves, to turn the craft over. He must not think of that! His one bit of good fortune was that the shoreward wash of the waves carried the boat along, easing his paddling.

  As the minutes passed and the beach drew nearer, Eric’s confidence increased. So he was ill prepared for the trouble which did meet him.

  The boat grounded gently and he jumped into the receding wash of the surf to draw it up. While the sea birds had seemed his enemies on the island, gathering to watch the attack of the giant bird, now they proved his friends. For, as Eric scrambled over the wet sand, the flock which had escorted him to land flew shrieking toward the dunes, uttering the same call they had given when he had leaped into the nest.

  Eric spun around. The dunes made hills and valleys where the wind drove rippling sand. Coming out of several of those valleys were creatures no taller than he. They scuttled swiftly on webbed feet, moving to encircle him.

  Their scaled skins gleamed wetly in the last glow of the sunset, the tangled mops of their green hair hung over their small eyes—which were fixed on Eric. If they kept on moving, they would push him back to the sea.

  He held the horn and the spoon. The spoon had stood between him and the fury of the giant bird, had saved him in that battle in the cave with the unseen monster. Now it must clear a path through this mob of mermen. He twisted the sling of the horn through his belt, making very sure he could not lose it.

  Then, holding the spoon before him, Eric moved straight ahead to meet the line of attackers. A swift dip of his odd weapon into the sand, a flip of grit into the faces of two of the creatures sent them wiping frantically at their eyes as they cried aloud in high, thin voices like the screams of sea birds. But others were closing in and Eric swung the spoon. It jarred against one of the mermen, who in turn stumbled against his nearest fellow, tripping him up.

  Eric sped through the gap so opened in their line. He dodged into a space between two of the dunes, only to face the rising slope of a third. To climb the sandy hill at speed was, Eric discovered, a difficult feat. At any moment he expected to feel a webbed hand close about his ankle and pull him down. But with aching ribs and pounding heart he reached the top of the rise, still ahead of his pursuers.

  A green paw was grabbing for him, and behind that leader the rest of the pack crowded close. Their clamor shrilled in his ears, bewildering him. Now they had ringed the foot of the dune, were advancing from all sides. Eric did not see how he could escape.

  He chopped down at the first paw with the spoon, made the leader tumble back. Then, because he could think of nothing else, he hurled the spoon at the advance and brought the horn to his lips—to blow with all the breath remaining in his laboring lungs.

  There was a thunderclap of sound. The green men froze, then charged at him, yowling. But a shimmering gray curtain was before him and Eric, desperate, leaped through it.

  On a windy hillside he faced Huon, who stood brave in silver armor with a green surcoat, a helmet on his head. Behind him were the knights and archers from Caer Siddi and over their heads whipped in the wind the banner which had been on the castle tower.

  Though Eric believed he had securely fastened the horn, it now left him, swinging up into the air. Huon snatched it. With one hand he saluted Eric, with the other he raised the horn to his lips. There was a second blast of sky-cracking sound and Eric was picked up by it, or by the wind, or by some strange force, and swept away.

  Panting, he leaned against a tree. And before him, as tired and dirty as he was himself, Greg sprawled on the ground.

  “Kaaaw—”

  Sara leaped ahead, but a wing scraped across her tail. She kept her mouth clamped tight on the ring and fled at her best speed toward the marking of star and circle where the fox must be waiting. Now the black birds were attacking her as she had seen bluejays attack a cat, and she feared their sharp beaks and claws.

  “Come! Come!” To human ears, that might only have been the bark of an excited fox, but to Sara it was a promise of help. The large red body of her woodsguide flashed down to circle her, snarling at the birds. But they were not to be driven off so easily.

  Again Sara felt a sharp stab of pain as a claw raked her ear. She wanted to squawl her rage, but remembering the ring she held she kept her mouth shut and ran. Her pace was slowing, her throat was dry, her chest pained. There—there was the star-in-circle!

  Now the fox was leaping into the air, battling the birds. Black feathers fluttered down. Her guide caught one body in his teeth and shook it limp. But the rest of them darted past him at Sara. She arose on her hind legs, striking out with unsheathed claws. Then she gave a last great spring and landed beside the picnic basket in the center of the star.

  The fox barked and the birds swooped, still overhead. “Use the ring! Change shape with the ring!”

  Sara’s mouth opened, the ring fell out upon the lid of the basket.

  “Touch it and wish!” The fox bounded back and forth outside the circle.

  Sara put up a footsore paw and laid it on the iron circlet.

  “I want to be myself again,” she meowed.

  The fur on the back of her paw faded, the pads grew into fingers. Then, in a few more moments she was truly Sara again, outside as well as in, with a smarting scratch across her cheek, and so tired she could hardly move.

  Once more the fox barked, but now she could no longer understand. He nodded his head vigorously toward the path in a way she could not mistake, and she got wearily to her feet. The ring! There it was on the lid of the basket. She picked it up and slipped it on her finger, doubling her fist about it for safekeeping. Then she hooked her arm through the handles of the basket and started after the fox.

  The birds had drawn off the moment Sara had used the power of the ring. And, though she could still hear their harsh cries, they no longer flew to attack. But she was too tired to walk far.

  However, the fox did not go with her on the woods path. Instead he slipped between two trees, giving reassuring barks and whines to urge her on.

  They came to an opening in the woods where Sara could look through a frame of branches as one might look through a window. And she was not too surprised to see beyond the frame the room of the mirror where the tapestries still moved in the wind.

  Merlin was there, facing her. He smiled and nodded and held out his hand, palm up. Sara pulled the cold ring from her finger, glad to be free of it. She tossed it through the frame of branches and saw it fall into Merlin’s gra
sp, his fingers close about it. Then the opening into the room of the mirror was gone and in its place was another stretch of woodland where Eric and Greg sat together under a tree, both of them looking very much as if they had been in a rough-and-tumble fight.

  “Greg! Eric!” Sara broke through the bushes. She put down her basket and caught at her brothers to make sure that they were real and they were all truly together once more.

  “Sara!” Both boys held her hands tightly. From behind came a sharp bark. The fox had followed her and now he trotted purposefully on, looking back over his shoulder in summons.

  Sara was so used to obeying that gesture that she freed her hands from her brothers’ grasp and picked up the basket again.

  “Come on.”

  They threaded a way among the trees until before them stood an arch of stone covered inches deep with green moss, with the carven mask of a fox set to crown its high point.

  “The gate!” Eric ran forward. “We’re able to go back—”

  Sara turned to the fox and held out her hand. The big animal walked to her and just for a moment her fingers rested on his proud head. Then he barked impatiently and Greg pulled her on.

  But there was no going through the gate. They could see no barrier though but it was there, an invisible wall between them and their own world.

  “What’s the matter?” Eric’s head was up, his face flushed, he was shouting aloud to the trees about them. “We got back your talismans, didn’t we? Then open the gate! Right now!”

  Sara looked at Greg and her lip trembled. She was almost as frightened now as she had been in that wicked wood among the spider hunters. Would they never be able to leave Avalon? It had been an exciting adventure, but she wanted it to end—right now!

  “Open up!” Eric aimed his fist at the space between the stone pillars, only to have his hand rebound from an unseen surface.

  Then, to one side there was a shimmering of silver light. Sara caught at Greg’s arm, Eric moved back. The tall column of silver broke into a mist of small, glittering sparks and in the midst stood Merlin.