Tales From High Hallack, Volume 3

by Andre Norton

  “But you—the plague—” faltered Briary.

  “Listen, youngling, ends come to all living creatures, and the reason behind such we do not ever know. I am a healer; what I can do for these people, some I have known from their cradles, that I shall do. But I also know how fear twists minds, and I will not have you fall into their hands. Someone need only say ‘Outling,’ and point a finger—and the hunt would be swift and short. Perhaps your mother lost in just such a race. Go you to the shrine. You, I am sure, will find no barrier at the screen there. Go beyond and may all the blessings of seed and fruit, earth, and stream, be upon you. Go—I say—already they are on the move.”

  Briary glanced back over her shoulder. Those who had thrown themselves on the river bank no longer were apart but had drawn together, and Herta was right, in that their faces were turned toward the healer’s cottage.

  Though what Herta had said had not seemed possible to the girl, she was certain that the healer believed her own words, was moved by fear—

  Perhaps—perhaps they would also hunt down Herta if they fastened on Briary as the one who had somehow attracted ill fortune. After all, she was Herta’s fosterling from birth.

  It was too quick, too much, Herta’s words—

  “Healer—” A man’s voice, those by the river were standing now, moving in their direction.

  “Go!” She could not withstand Herta’s command after all these years of obedience. Briary turned and ran.

  As she went her clothing seemed to impede her movements, her skirts twisted about her legs to bring her down—as if such were not for her wearing. But she was still fleet of foot and, though she heard voices baying behind her as if hounds had been loosed, she gained the upper slopes, cut across recently mown fields, and then the pool was before her. The pool—and the screen. What lay behind that—who knew? Though some of the more venturesome had dived in the past to discover that there was space yawning at its foot.

  Now she struggled with clothes which were more and more of a hindrance, until she at last poised to dive, her small body still human in form but clad in fine gray fur.

  Down she fought her way through the water, straining to reach that dark line of the screen’s edge. And then one of her hands hit against it and she seized upon the edge to pull herself forward—into what? Some crevice in which her aching lungs would betray her?

  Fortune was with her: the screen was less than her struggling body in length. She was still in the water but she could fight her way up frantically, until her head burst from the pool and she could breathe again, tread water, and look about her.

  On this side of the barrier the expanse of water was far less, and facing the screen was a series of bars set in the stone as if to provide handholds to draw oneself out. She swam toward the nearest and pulled her body waist high into the open, her feet finding niches below into which they fitted by instinct.

  Then she was fully out and facing what lay before her, what the screen had guarded all these years. It was not a large building, rather tall and narrow, hardly wider than the open doorway that pierced its side directly before her.

  There was no door—only darkness—darkness thick as a curtain. Briary, not really knowing what she did, flung back her dripping head and gave voice to a call which no human could have uttered.

  There was something like an early morning fog which gathered to the right of that opening, gathered, thickened, as flesh upon bone. Then she fronted a being far stranger than her known world held.

  A woman, yes, for it stood on two feet, and held before its furred body a spear. Though the jaw was somewhat elongated, and the eyes set at a slight angle in the skull, which was framed with large furred ears, it was still enough like those she had dwelt among.

  “What clan, cubling?” the woman guard asked.

  Briary still clung to the handhold she had above the pool.

  “Lady,” she quavered, “I know nothing of clans.”

  The woman thing leaned forward a little and looked at her more closely.

  “Threb’s get. We thought you long dead, cubling. Neither of the People or of the Wasters are in truth, since Threb broke hearth law and lay with a Wasters to conceive you. So the Wasters have at last thrown you out?”

  “No! It was Herta—and the plague—she was afeared that they would fasten on me the cause of their deaths.” Somehow Briary felt she must make this statuelike figure understand and believe her.

  Quickly she spoke of the healer who had brought her life and how now her own presence might threaten with harsh judgment.

  “Ever the Wasters look beyond their own follies and errors to set the consequences upon others. Stupid they are—look you!”

  She turned a fraction and sent the point of her spear into that dark behind her. It split and light poured out upon them, streaming from a land beyond. In Briary arose a mighty longing to race, not from what lay behind but toward what lay ahead.

  “Their plagues are borne of dirt, of their rooting in their own waste.” The guardian was scornful. “This land was ours before they befouled it, and every secret it had it freely shared with us. See you this?” She stabbed forward again and then swung the spear toward Briary. Impaled on its sharp point was a thing which wriggled and squirmed and yet seemed more vine section than any animal.

  “This they have torn from its rooting wherever they discovered it; for to them it was nothing, and it covered ground which they wanted for their own purposes. Yet it had its duty which it did well. As other growth struggles for water to live, so this struggles for refuse and filth. They need only leaves to lay upon their ailing and aid would come. But they are fools and worse. Now, your gate is open, cubling; I make you free to the world in which you rightfully should have been born.”

  But Briary’s eyes were on the plant. She suddenly roused herself and made a half leap to catch the vine with one hand. It rolled itself about her arm, and it was as if she had stuck her hand into a fire. Yet still she held to it.

  The woman’s green eyes measured her. “There is a price,” she said evenly.

  Briary nodded. Of course, there would be a price. But there was Herta, who knew herbs as a mother knows her children, and in Herta’s hands this might yet save the village.

  “If you return to the waste world”—the woman’s voice was cold—”you will turn from all which is yours, and you may well pay for it with your blood. Outlings are hunted when they are seen. And it cannot be promised this gate will open to you again.”

  Briary huddled on the edge of the pool, her head turned to what lay beyond that doorway—a clean land in which her kind had found refuge. But between those flowers, and distant trees, and the warm sweet wind which beckoned to her, stood the vision of a sturdy woman, her gray hair knotted at her neck, her shoulder a little crooked from the many years of carrying a healer’s bag.

  Perhaps it was that portion of human blood which anchored her, but Herta she could not abandon.

  “For your grace, thanks, Lady.” She raised the arm about which the vine still clung. “This I must take to her who brought me into life and dealt always kindly with me.”

  Fearing that perhaps the guard might strive to take it from her, she dived once more, heading for that passage to the world she knew.

  She made the journey as quickly as she could, climbed from the outer pool, and reluctantly put on her skirt and bodice though they were quickly wet through from her fur.

  It was approaching dusk; that would serve her. She slunk as fast as she could from shadow to shadow. Then she saw—the cottage door was open wide—strewn outward from it were smashed pots and bottles, torn-apart lengths of drying herbs.

  “Herta!” Only fear moved her now as she leaped forward. And she found what she sought, a bundle of torn clothing about bloodied and bruised flesh. But still living—still living!

  Through the night she tended the healer, trying to find among the debris the nostrums she needed, not daring to strike a light, lest she draw some villager. Oddly enoug
h her sight seemed unhindered by the lack of any lamp, and she worked swiftly with practiced hands.

  It was breaking dawn when Herta roused. She stared at Briary and then her face became a mask of fear—

  “Off with you! I would not have them gut you before my very eyes.”

  “Listen, Heart-Held.” Few times in her life had Briary used those words but she realized they had been with her forever. Swiftly she swung up her arm to which the vine still somehow clung and repeated what the guard had told her.

  “Bindweed, rot guts.” Herta looked at her offering in wonder. “Yes, it has always been rooted forth wherever found. Cattle eat of it and die, as do the fowl of the barnyard. And now you say that it, also, has its part and the folly has been ours. Well, enough, one can only try to do one’s best.”

  She somehow got to her feet and Briary found that the vine slipped from her furred arms smoothly as metal. Looking at that she thought she knew its price which had never been fully stated.

  “I shall go,” she said in her new hoarse voice. “None shall see me with you. Certainly not all of those in the village have turned mad. You have been their ever-present aid for many seasons. Let the bindweed work but once and they shall know shame at their madness. But not if I remain.”

  “Where do you go?” There were seldom seen tears on Herta’s cheeks.

  “That lies in fortune’s hands. But see it is nearly light and—” The girl shivered, “I hear voices.”

  Herta reached for her but she slid from the other’s grasp, and somehow only the bulky clothing remained for Herta to hold. Then she was running free with the rising first wind of morning around her, up and back, up and back.

  She was Outling with nothing now here to hold her unless she was weak in purpose. The gate to her own place might indeed be closed by her choice, but she had the right to go and see.

  Reaching the side of the pool, Briary paused once to look down to those about Herta’s cottage as the morn’s light made them clear. And then she dove arrow quick and smooth into the water, down and down, until the dark edge of the screen was before her. Nor did she hesitate to see what her choice had cost her but swam on, for this was the thing she had to do.

  Stonish Men

  On Crusade: More Tales of the Knights Templar (1998) Warner Aspect

  I buried Osbert this morning. It was a long, hard task, my age-aching bones complaining bitterly. But as a true Templar he deserved as good a resting place as I could contrive. I am the last now, and there have been signs that the natives are growing bolder. It will be soon that they will come to this, the first and last Templar stronghold in this strange and unknown world. I only trust that I shall be able to meet them armed, and with sword in my hand as a true Knight of the Lord. Our treasure is hidden well, and I do not think it shall ever be found.

  It all began with a grim hunting, leading to torture and death. I was but a senior novice of the Temple then, Owen de Clare, professed and vowed in my native England to the finest barrier Christendom could raise against the infidels—the Poor Knights of the Temple. We grew too great, too mighty, for that thrice-damned Philip of France. He wanted to dabble his hands in our treasure chests, and the fact that we owed him no allegiance—being answerable only to that Voice of the Almighty, the Pope himself—irked his arrogant pride and outreach for power.

  They came upon us without warning. It had been subtly and secretly planned, and the Pope himself helped in the beastly death hunt that was turned against us. Many of us died by fire and torture.

  But our Temple, a hardly known one, was on the seacoast and we had ships to hand. Yes, we had hunted the Infidel by sea as well as land. I was with the Knight Commander when he saw there was nothing ahead but our taking. And it was to me, yet a boy scarce out of training, that he entrusted our treasure. Not the gold and gems the king’s butchers wanted, but the Casket. Sealed shut it securely and always was, save at certain Great Days when it was revealed only to those who were full sworn.

  “Go,” he ordered me. “Take the way over the rooftops. You are still agile and sturdy enough to dare those. Get to the harbor and the True Spirit and give the order to make sail at once, lest the last of our brothers be caught in this trap.”

  Go I did, and that climb over the rooftops was sometimes as perilous as a seldom-dared mountain path. But it was made, and I carried the Casket to the True Spirit. As with all others of our fleet (we swept the Infidels from the inner seas even as we had overwhelmed them on land), we set sail.

  Hope held for us refuge among the Scots, some of which wore our device. Thus we set a course out of the inner sea and to the north.

  But it would seem that the wrath of the Dark and the Evil still stalked us, for we were caught in the greatest of storms, our small fleet scattered.

  The winds drove us hard. Three men were carried overboard by the waves. But the power of that which lay within the Casket brought us through—though our course the sailing master could not guess. In the end, when we were lacking in water and food and might die aboard our craft, land was sighted to the west. To that we headed, coming at last into a narrow inlet between shores that sloped sharply upward and were crowned by the greatest trees I had ever seen.

  We came to anchor there—forever. Our ship had been so battered that we dared not turn again to the sea. This was the edge of the world itself, and perhaps we were the first of our kind to set foot on it.

  There was a sharp, steep climb using a narrow ledge to the cliff top, and we stood wonderingly among the trees. Not far away a deer raised its head to look at us inquiringly, as if our kind were unknown to it. Osbert, my sword brother, was quick of eye and ready with bow, bringing it down.

  So we filled our bellies, and drank from a stream seeking the sea. Thus we became wanderers, ever seeking a place we could hold.

  For there were men after all in that forest: strange, half- naked of body. They would have brought us down. However, their stone-tipped arrows, the flint-pointed spears, made no dents in our armor, which we had worked hard to keep at its best.

  Thus using the stream as a guide, always aware of the need for careful watch, we traveled westward, seeking a resting place. For each of us in his heart knew that there would be no returning.

  With us went the Casket of the treasure, each man being honored to carry it in turn. It gave a core of strength that banished our despair, for we believed that it was indeed our leader in some way.

  Ever we sought a place that might be easy to defend. Two of our company we had lost along the way. One was brought down by a huge bear that only the ax of Wulf could end. And Piers ate some berries that were the seeds of a demon that racked him into the quiet of death.

  Then we found what was our goal—an isle in a wide river. There were rocks on that river island; and we labored, knight, novice, and seaman, to build our crude fort. The heart of it was the place of that treasure that had been given us to guard.

  Years passed; the commander died of a coughing rheum, two who went hunting in the woodlands never returned. We were a handful, still faithful to our trust. By the Blood shed by our Precious Lord, we so held to our faith and honor.

  So we dwindled, and today I have buried my sword brother, who was as dear to me as blood kin; and I stand alone—to wait for the coming of the savages who have showed more and more boldness. There will be none to bury me, yet I hold my honor to the end, for that which we guarded is safe and in a place where no naked savage can find it. Perhaps in time—all things are ordered by our Lord—there will come one fit and needful to take up the task again.

  They were a small party to dare the river, though recent reports had not suggested that hostiles had made forays in this direction. Somewhere ahead of their clumsy craft, which rode the current erratically, was the outpost of Deerfield. Three of them were aboard: Galvin Rodder, rafter, trapper, guide, or whatever he chose to turn hand to, had been wary all morning, sniffing the air like a hound on trace. He spoke to his companions, Matthew Hawkins, man of God, and his
son Owen:

  “Preacher, we-uns may be in for trouble. An’ I’d like firm ground under me when it comes. Maybe that there isle up ahead. That there they say is a ghost place. The Injuns swear it was held by the Stonish Men.”

  Matthew Hawkins was alert at that moment more to Rodder’s hint of legend than to what might be behind them. Though he was pledged to bring the Word to heathen souls, he could not always restrain his own private hobby of gathering all the queer stories and legends that seemed to abound in this land of trees hardy enough to resist only the most determined of invaders.

  “Stonish Men?” he now queried.

  Already the raft was heading toward the island where ledges of rock broke through the general green.

  “They was supposed to be hereabouts. The Injuns swear as how they had stone bodies—no arrow nor spear could bring them down. I tell you, Preacher, we-uns were not the first white skins to travel west—there’s a capful of tales like to this.”

  Behind him Owen Hawkins was listening, but he was more intent on watching the shores on either side. His hand tightened on his rifle. Maybe it wasn’t proper for a man of God to go armed, but nothing said his son, who had taken no such vows, could not make himself well acquainted with the best weapons he could afford.

  He had little interest in the old stories his father liked and sought. Most of it must be rubbish. This land hid far more forceful dangers, and that odd feeling he always had as a warning was stirring.

  From the cloaking of forest behind them came the boom of a shot. Galvin grunted as a red splotch appeared high on his shoulder.

  “So they’s nosed out our passin’, an’ now they is ready to make their move,” he gasped. “This here raft ain’t no place to make a stand—it’s gotta be th’ island. We got no chance in Hell . . . pardon, Preacher . . . of outrunnin’ them. An’ in the open, they can pick us off just as they please.”

  “The island will prove a shelter, then?”

  “I ain’t sayin’ yes and I ain’t sayin’ no—it’s a maybe thing. But I sure don’t want to lose what hair I’ve got me left!”