Flight of Vengeance (Witch World: The Turning)

by Andre Norton

  She found him busily scrubbing a wooden table in the large common room. He was a burly, bald man with good-humored features. Like all of the faces in Es City just now, his was somber. “Could you tell me,” Nolar asked, “where I might find a guide to Lormt?”

  The innkeeper blinked, reminding her of the owl in Ostbor's attic. “Lormt, lady? No one goes to Lormt but old, half-witted scholars.”

  “I am neither old nor half-witted,” Nolar pointed out patiently, “but I require a guide to Lormt. You have seen my aunt. Her head was injured during the recent upheaval at our mountain home. I came to Es City hoping that the Witches might be able to heal her, but they are themselves stricken and unavailable. I have been told that Lormt holds many writings on healing, as well as wise men who might help us.”

  The innkeeper paused in his scrubbing, obviously considering her problem. “Maybe that is true, lady,” he replied in a dubious tone. “I wouldn't know myself, never having gone there nor knowing any who has, but I can ask about. With the damage to the south, few folk are venturing that way. I haven't heard whether the way to Lormt is passable. As you may know, there is only one track going to Lormt, and from what little I've heard of it, it never has been well kept.”

  Nolar tried to cling to some hope in spite of the innkeeper's discouraging remarks. “I see. I would appreciate your arranging for a guide. It would be worth a piece of silver to me if you could find a reliable person.”

  Nolar waited at the inn for two days before the innkeeper reported with honest regret that he could find no one in the city planning to travel to or even toward Lormt. By that time, Nolar had decided that she would probably have to find her own way to Lormt. There remained the problem of transporting the Silver Raven Witch. Nolar had hoped that a knowledgeable guide could have advised her whether a horse litter might be preferable to the risk of letting the Witch ride a horse. Without a guide Nolar still needed a second horse, and frankly explained her need to the innkeeper.

  He thought for a moment, and then said, “A merchant was here last night. While his party was on the road to Es City, one of his apprentices was killed during the Turning. He had no need of the extra horse, and was talking of selling it. The merchant said he was staying at the Sign of the Snow Cat. I can send a lad to ask his price, and if you like, I can look at the animal for you, to be sure it is suitable for your aunt's use.”

  Nolar gratefully accepted his offer. By early that evening, she was the owner of a second sturdy, well-mannered horse. The innkeeper agreed to arrange for her journey provisions. He seemed genuinely concerned that she and her aunt should be traveling unescorted.

  “Lady,” he said, “there are all manner of ill folk on the roads these days. Of course, you need have no fear of the Borderers and Guardsmen, but there are many other armsmen separated from their troops and ranging freely.” Worried, the innkeeper glanced to both sides, then confided in a lowered voice, “It is said that all of Duke Pagar's invaders perished in the Turning, but word keeps passing of stray Karstenian spies and armsmen scattered free on our side of the mountains. And there are outlaws, lady, giving homage to no man and abiding by no law but their own greed. I urge you to reconsider. In a few days, I could find a trustworthy lad to ride with you if you must go to Lormt.”

  Nolar deliberately lowered her veil, and tried to ignore the innkeeper's involuntary recoiling from her. “You are kind to show such interest, Master Innkeeper, but as you see, my face is not one to attract either ardent attention or unwelcome fellowship. Outlaws, I gather, are chiefly drawn to plunder, but my aunt and I carry no great wealth to tempt any robber. My mind is set. I must go to Lormt, and I must leave early on the morrow.”

  The innkeeper shook his head in continued disapproval, but efficiently organized her departure. The next morning, he even walked part of the way down the street toward the City wall. “Have a care, lady,” he called, as she rode on, leading the Witch's horse. “I will tell the Borderers's patrol leaders of your trip so that they may bear a watch for you.”

  The initial league of road from Es City was clear, so the riding began easily. Once the City was out of sight, however, the trail tended more directly east along the Es River bank, and Nolar had to dismount and lead both horses. The river had evidently flooded during the cataclysm, for large swaths of earth had been newly raked from both banks, leaving drifts of gravel, uprooted trees, and other storm wrack swept into obstructions around which high water still swirled. Near sunset, much reddened and dimmed by lingering dust and clouds, Nolar heard riders approaching toward Es City. She had already tethered her horses for the night, and was spreading a cloak for the Witch to lie upon when three men reined in on the rough track nearby. Two were riding erect, but the third was slumped in his saddle as if he were exhausted or hurt. Their leader raised a hand to Nolar and called, “Are you well, lady? Can we help you?”

  “Are you Borderers, sir?” Nolar called back, and the leader nodded.

  “Aye, lady. We have been searching for stragglers from Pagar's army, or outlaws, or any who would trouble honest folk. Can we escort you to Es City?”

  Nolar walked toward him so that they wouldn't have to shout at one another. “I thank you, sir, but my road leads to Lormt. I seek healing there for my aunt, who was sorely injured in the Turning.”

  Concerned, the Borderer looked down at her. “You should not travel alone, lady. I cannot spare a man just now, for Goswik here took an arrow in his shoulder before dawn and we hasten to a healer's care in Es City. It was only a single outlaw who will trouble no one else. Truly, lady, this open country is not safe. Will you not ride with us to Es City?”

  Nolar shook her head. “Thank you, no. I must seek the healers in Lormt, for we have already asked the Witches in Es City, and they were not able to help us.”

  The second rider had been examining his wounded companion. “The bleeding has begun again,” he said gruffly.

  The leader twitched his reins. “We must ride on. Take care, lady, you and your aunt.”

  Nolar decided to move her camp to an area a bit less conspicuous, behind some bushes that shielded the view from the track itself. The night passed quietly. As soon as it was light enough to see the trail, Nolar led the horses to the river to drink. She felt a prickling unease, as if she were being observed by some hidden watcher. She had heard no hooves nor telltale jingle of harness, but her sense of being watched persisted. As she brewed a morning cup for the Witch, Nolar listened for any unnatural sounds. There—the click of a displaced pebble. Without turning, she said in a normal tone of voice, “You need not crouch behind that bush. It is far more comfortable here on these large rocks, and I have an extra cup if you will share our drink.”

  For an instant, there was silence, then she heard someone walking openly toward her over the loose gravel. She glanced up, confronting a tall young man in the dark riding dress of the Borderers. “You have very keen eyes, lady,” he said, taking a seat on one of the low boulders by her small fire.

  “And ears, Master Borderer. It is difficult to move quietly on this kind of rock. I must take my aunt's cup while the drink is hot.” On her way back to the fire, Nolar extracted their spare cup from her saddlebag. As she poured, she looked at the stranger. He had the black hair and gray eyes of the Old Race, and although his clothing and gear appeared worn from long use, it was clean and in good repair.

  He returned her frank appraisal. “My thanks for the drink, lady,” he said, accepting the cup. “You are some distance from Es City.”

  “As are you. No doubt your reasons for being here are as sound as mine. Shall we exchange them? I am Nolar of Meroney, and yonder is my poor aunt … Elgaret.” The name had simply popped into Nolar's mind. She had to call the Witch something, and somehow “Elgaret” seemed appropriate. “I live in the mountains to the north.” She was careful not to specify how far north. “During the recent upheaval folk now call the Turning, my aunt was sorely injured about the head. I sought aid for her from the Witches at Es Castle, b
ut they are themselves much affected by the Turning, and so we must seek healing elsewhere. I am traveling now to Lormt to question their healers, and if necessary, search their ancient archives.”

  The young man dipped his head. “I have heard of the scholars of Lormt, lady. I hope your quest there may be fruitful. As for myself, I am Derren, son of a forester from the south. When the fighting began in our area, I joined the Borderers, and have been quartering the mountains since.” He turned away suddenly, toward the dust-shrouded southern peaks. “The trees have been cruelly hurt. It will take many years for the forests to recover.”

  “Are you not attached to any troop?” Nolar asked. “Yes-tereve three riders stopped to bespeak me on their way back to Es City. One had been wounded by an outlaw's arrow. They said they were Borderers.”

  “There are many of us on patrol just now,” Derren replied. “My own troop was disbanded a week since so that some could return to their fields and the wounded among us could be properly tended. I had thought to report to Es City to see if I could be of further use. There is obviously no point in trying to ride south for any scouting into the mountains.”

  Nolar could hear the regret in his voice, and his expression was withdrawn, almost haunted. She thought it advisable to distract him from his evident distress. “Would you by chance be at all familiar with the road to Lormt?” she inquired.

  Derren roused himself from his preoccupation. “I have never traveled to Lormt myself, no, but I have heard that only one trail leads there. Amid the mountains as Lormt is, it may well have been damaged by this Turning, as you say it is being called. Would you allow me to travel with you and your aunt? It is scarcely safe for two ladies to take this road alone.”

  “So everyone is at pains to assure me,” said Nolar dryly. “But I confess that I do agree with the assessment. I tried to hire a guide in Es City, but no one showed interest in traveling this direction. If it would not unduly delay you, my aunt and I would welcome your escort to Lormt.”

  Derren stood up, handing the cup back to Nolar. “I shall fetch my horse, then, and we may start, lady, if you are ready for the day's journey.”

  As he walked away, Derren was thinking hard. This unexpected diversion might provide the very security he needed. He had told the Estcarp woman some truth: he was the son of a forester, and he had been scouting for weeks through the border mountain lands. What he had deliberately not mentioned was that his father had been forester to a lord in Karsten. Pagar of Geen had seized that estate in his scramble for the dukedom. Derren had prudently joined Pagar's forces, and because of his dark hair and gray eyes, as much as for his able scoutcraft, he had been sent to spy along the Estcarp border. He had tracked the Falconers, with considerable difficulty, and had even slipped into Estcarp itself. In fact, he had been in Estcarp the night of the horrendous “Turning,” and had found himself effectively trapped on what was for him the wrong and potentially deadly side of the border. Risking all, he had dared to approach a decimated Borderer troop, initially feigning deafness to excuse any obvious mistakes he might make through ignorance of Borderer customs.

  He found the chaotic Turning, however, had so severely shaken the Borderers that he was not pressed with any awkward questions, but was accepted as a scout separated from his own troop. Derren's deepest fear was that he might be confronted by one of Estcarp's terrifying Witches, who were said to be able to draw the truth out of any man by their fiendish magic. When the Borderers he had joined recovered sufficiently from their injuries to ride back to Es City, Derren had stayed behind, saying that he must seek the remnants of his troop. He had tried to work his way south, but to his horror found that the land was no longer as he had known it—all landmarks had been wiped away as if they had never been, and the’ very contours of the land were suddenly strange and different. For days now, Derren had fought to suppress a despairing conviction: that even if he were to return to Karsten, the old familiar land there would be transformed into something both ruined and foreign. He shook himself to dispel the horrid thought. These two women of Estcarp—they must be his chief concern for the present. No one would question his being their escort. He could deliver them to Lormt and then slip away through the uninhabited mountains back to Karsten without fear of notice or pursuit.

  As he led his horse back, Derren wondered fleetingly why the woman named Nolar kept her face half covered. The little he had seen of it appeared to be presentable. He had never heard that Estcarp's women customarily went veiled; certainly, the injured aunt's face was exposed. It would probably be wise to appear to ignore the matter for now. He could not risk rousing suspicion by asking questions whose answers he, being a Borderer, would be presumed to know.

  It was a great help to Nolar to have Derren's physical assistance with the Witch. Nolar was somewhat surprised to find herself thinking of the Witch by the name “Elgaret.” So far during the trip, Nolar had tried to say “Aunt” when she addressed the Witch. She trusted that the simple practice might protect her later at Lormt, preventing her from thoughtless or possibly dangerous errors before strangers. “Aunt Elgaret” the Silver Raven Witch must therefore be, and although she was a small-boned woman, it was still a considerable exertion for Nolar to lift her onto the horse several times each day. Nolar thankfully relinquished that task to Derren, who seemed commendably gentle, yet strong, despite his gauntness.

  Their initial morning's ride passed mainly in silence. The farther south and east they went, the more damage they encountered from both the Turning and the storms that had accompanied it. When they dismounted to avoid the midday heat, they were grateful for the patch of shade beside some enormous boulders swept down by the flooding. Derren settled Elgaret on a folded cloak and turned deferentially to Nolar. “You seem uncommonly quiet, lady. Have I offended you in any way? I must tell you that I am not used to the company of women, having spent most of my days in the forests or with other men, so I can claim no courtly manners.”

  Nolar looked at him gravely. “If there be a fault, Master Borderer, it is surely also mine. I, too, have lived overmuch alone, and have small ease in talking to others.” She thought Derren appeared relieved to hear this, presumably feeling that he need not attempt artificial courtesies. For herself, Nolar had always preferred silence to idle chatter. When she was small, the mountain children had taunted her by calling her “Tightmouth.”

  Derren wiped his brow with his sleeve. “I came along this way some weeks ago, lady. A few leagues on is a broad area of sand bank by some trees where you might care to bathe this evening.” He hesitated. “That is to say, it was there then. You have seen how fiercely the river still flows at times, and how much debris has washed down. We shall have to see whether bathing is possible.”

  Nolar nodded appreciatively. “That is a welcome thought. Both my aunt and I would value the opportunity if it arises.”

  Derren squinted at the haze-dimmed sun. “It would likely be wise to rest now during the heat of the day. I shall keep watch, lady, if you care to sleep.”

  “Pray waken me, then, in a while,” said Nolar, “and I shall take my turn at watch-keeping.”

  That evening, as the shadows lengthened, Derren found the spot on the river bank that he had recalled. As he had feared, the storm-fed flood had drastically changed the whole area. What had been a fair sand beach suitable for bathing was now submerged under racing, soil-clouded waters. The entire clump of shade trees Derren remembered had been swept away. Stubbornly, he scouted ahead until he found a backwater, a side pool to the river, relatively untouched by the flooding. He helped Nolar guide Elgaret to the water's edge, then withdrew to rub down the horses and make ready their night camp.

  The water in the small isolated pool had settled into clarity and although cold, was now clean and refreshing. Nolar carefully attended to Elgaret before hastily bathing herself. It was a quiet pleasure to put on clean clothing after several days of hard riding. Nolar had brought Elgaret back to Derren's campsite and was collecting the cookpot
and utensils for the evening meal before she realized that she had forgotten to cover her face. She jerked her head up to find Derren staring at her, but there was no sign of revulsion on his face.

  “You now see, sir, why I favor a veil,” Nolar said briskly.

  Derren did not look away from her. “I have seen such marks before, lady. I hope that yours is not painful to you.”

  Nolar was astonished at this first indication in so long that anyone might care how she felt. “No, it gives me no pain, but it seems frequently to disturb those who must look upon it.” She stopped abruptly. In midsentence, Derren had frozen, the color draining from his face. Nolar turned anxiously to see what frightful thing could so rivet his gaze. Her heart sank. Derren was staring at Elgaret. Nolar had of course changed the Witch's gown after their bath, and now by oversight, the distinctive Witch jewel hung clearly in view outside the fabric.

  Derren raised a slightly trembling finger to point at Elgaret. “Witch!” he whispered.

  It did not immediately occur to Nolar that this was a curious reactions for one of Estcarp's Borderers. Instead, she sensed Derren's intense disquiet and strove to reassure him. “Yes, Aunt is a Witch, but as you see, she has been blasted by the Turning, and can no longer respond to the world. You have nought to fear from her. Her jewel, being similarly affected, has no fire, and thus is also powerless.”

  Derren turned blindly toward Nolar, then focused his attention on her. “Forgive me, lady. I was startled. My troop had no Witch to … advise us.”