Flight of Vengeance (Witch World: The Turning)

by Andre Norton

  Nolar smiled at the memory of her own initial introduction to Witches. “They are awesome to encounter in person. I well recall my first meeting with two Witches at once.” She suddenly remembered what Ostbor had said, and hastened to add, “Her name, of course, is not truly Elgaret, but we in the family chose to use that name for her so that we might still speak of her.”

  Again, naggingly, Derren's expression seemed oddly blank, almost intentionally deceptive. “Of course, lady. I did not mean to offend.”

  “You have not. May I comb my hair before we eat? While taking advantage of your kind suggestion for bathing, I washed my hair, as you see.”

  “I must gather more wood for our fire,” Derren said, quickly rising to his feet. His mind was whirling. A Witch! He was in company with a Witch of Estcarp. What if she suddenly recovered her wits and exposed his true identity? But Nolar had said the Witch was bespelled, and her dreadful jewel, now that he dared to glance at it, was dull and lifeless, like any common crystal. Perhaps—dared he to hope?—perhaps he was safe so long as the Witch was senseless, and what more brilliant protection could he ask while in Estcarp than to be guarding one of their premier defenders? Derren supposed that he should feel lucky, but he could not totally suppress his innate fear of Witches, no matter how hard he tried.

  When he returned to the camp, Nolar was taking the last few strokes of her comb through her long black hair before coiling it back into her usual practical twist.

  The motion spurred a memory for Derren, who observed simply, “You have fine hair, lady, like my mother's.”

  Surprised, Nolar had paused, and looked up at him. “I thank you, Master Borderer. I do not think anyone has ever before noticed that I have hair. Now I must prepare our meal.”

  As she warmed a simple porridge, Nolar mused over her observations of Derren, especially in his reactions to her. This was the first time since Ostbor, and briefly, the Silver Raven Witch, that anyone had seemed to view her as an individual. Appearances weighed so heavily with most people. They saw Nolar's facial stain, not Nolar herself. For whatever reason, Derren seemed able to see Nolar, not just her disfigurement. After Ostbor's death, Nolar had not expected to find any other so accepting. And yet … what about Derren's behavior upon discovering that Elgaret was a Witch? There was something strange about that, although Nolar could not quite identify the source of her misgivings. With a suppressed sigh, she finally dismissed the problem to be considered later.

  Although the late summer days were still hot, the nights tended to be unusually chill. Nolar wondered whether the upheaval of the Turning might have somehow hastened the onset of colder weather. She unpacked heavier cloaks to wrap around Elgaret and herself. Derren admitted that he had not expected such unseasonable cold, and gratefully borrowed a spare cloak.

  By late the next day, it was obvious that their progress was going to be severely delayed. The very river itself had been affected by the turmoil deep within the earth. Nolar ventured to ask whether the Es River could have changed its bed, and Derren agreed that it was no longer flowing where he had previously observed it. They reined in and dismounted to try to walk the horses between the tumbled rocks and storm-torn trees. Derren had to carry Elgaret, for in her withdrawn state, she could be led on foot only if the surface was fairly uniform. Nolar trailed behind, leading the horses. The land here had definitely been distorted by the Turning. Instead of gently rolling river plain, the new and unexpected contours thrust up and fell away on all sides. When they finally emerged from the chaotic tangle of limbs and flood-displaced rocks, Derren suppressed a groan of dismay. A vast expanse of mud had flowed across their trail, forming a trackless and treacherous surface.

  “We shall have to turn aside to go around this, lady,” Derren said. “We dare not risk riding onto such as that. I have seen both men and horses founder and be lost in mountain mudslides. What may appear to be flat and shallow can in truth conceal a ravine where the unwary may sink from sight.”

  Shortly afterwards it was Nolar who first saw the pale blotch against the darker mud ahead of them to the right. She picked her way gingerly forward until she could distinguish the shape. One of the rarely seen snow cats of the high peaks had been washed down by the flood, its lithe body impaled by a sun-bleached tree limb. The delicately mottled fur stirred in the chill twilight breeze. With a low growl of disgust, Derren moved beside Nolar. He gestured angrily at the snow cat's body.

  “How many others have been slain so, lady? What has become of all the mountain beasts—the plants—the trees? It is far worse than this, to the south. Three days past, I tried to scout into the mountains, but had to turn back within a league. The land is no longer the land I knew. There are valleys now where there were none before, great springs of steaming water, new crags, and everywhere landslides. All the old vantage points and landmarks are gone. They are not just damaged; they are gone.” Derren's voice sank to an impassioned whisper. “I tell you, lady, this Turning was an evil thing.”

  As Derren spoke, Nolar had again recalled her magic-borne vision of the Turning's awesome destruction. Her natural affinity and sympathy for all wild creatures spurred her to extend a comforting hand, but even as she moved to reach out to Derren, she stopped herself. The land of Estcarp and its hapless inhabitants had been tormented by the Turning, but the Witches’ purpose had been both compelling and totally defensive.

  “What of Pagar's army, Master Borderer?” Nolar asked. “The sole reason for the Turning was to protect Estcarp from an invasion that could be halted in no other way.”

  Derren stood very still. “I am a forester's son, lady. My life has been lived among trees and animals. The ways of armies and Witches are beyond my understanding.”

  “I lately heard a merchant say much the same,” Nolar replied thoughtfully. “It did not seem to occur to him that there could be no trade unless there was order and peace in the land. Invading armies, so I hear, pay scant heed to preserving the lives of animals or farming folk, for that matter.”

  “I am fairly rebuked,” Derren conceded. “War is not my trade, lady, but I have seen enough of it to know that your words are true.” He glanced back at the snow cat one last time before turning toward the tethered horses. “I know that animals die in storms, and trees are blown down or broken. It is just that I have never before seen so much destroyed in one night's space.”

  “Nor had anyone before, to my knowledge,” Nolar agreed. “My late master, Ostbor the Scholar, had studied all the writings he could find upon great happenings in the past, yet I cannot remember his ever reading of any such thing as this Turning. We may hope that no other may be required again to scourge the very earth, for surely the loss to Estcarp has been grave indeed.”

  By the following midday, they had climbed well into the foothills—or rather where the old foothills had been, for as Derren had feared, the mountain trees and vegetation had been grievously harmed by the drastic changes in the land. The little shade that could be found had to be sought beside boulders or heaps of debris. Hours of leading the horses through the blasted landscape weighed heavily on their spirits. Nolar, therefore, reacted more violently than she would ordinarily have when a small brown blur streaked up her leg onto her riding skirt. After an initial jerk of complete surprise, she snatched up the creature.

  Derren peered at it between her fingers and said, “It is only a mouse, lady. Still, womenfolk often take fright from such. Here, give it to me and I shall kill it for you.”

  Nolar gently cradled the quivering scrap of fur in her hand. “No, thank you, Master Borderer. I have frequently searched the meadows for plants, so I well know these little mice. They do not distress me, so long as they stay out of my grain bin. See how frightened it is. Just think how all that was familiar to it has been wiped away. It does not know where to run. I believe it can shelter in my pocket for the present. Perhaps we can find some piece of surviving meadow where we may release it.”

  Late that afternoon, Nolar's hope was fulfilled wh
en Derren spied a small green area along a low hillside which had been relatively undamaged. He smiled when Nolar dismounted and carefully placed her tiny passenger in the long grass, where it crouched for an instant before scampering away.

  As she remounted, Derren said, “You have a kind heart, lady.”

  Nolar returned his smile. “Perhaps. More likely I act because I know what it is to feel alone in a strange place. How much farther is it to Lormt, do you think?”

  “This would seem to be the same trail that we had to abandon beneath the mudslide,” Derren suggested. “I must admit, lady, that it could truly be some other mountain trail instead, but it must lead somewhere, and if we have strayed, we should find someone to direct us. I shall scout ahead now to see how this track runs for the morrow.”

  Derren helped Elgaret down and rode on while Nolar moistened a journeycake into soft mush that the Witch could swallow easily. Derren soon returned to report that the Es River had definitely been relocated some distance away from its old bed.

  “The earth here must have moved considerably,” he mused. “I have never before seen so large a stream displaced.” Derren paused and looked keenly at Nolar. “I must be plain, lady. Not far from here, our trail has simply vanished. The whole hillside has slid into the valley below. We had best journey along the ridge until we can descend into the next valley … if there is one left. The morrow's passage will be difficult, so we must try to rest well this night.”

  In the morning, there was no question of riding the horses on the treacherous scree. Derren again carried Elgaret in his arms, and Nolar led the horses. After a hasty midday meal, they pressed on, anxious to find even a rough herdsman's track that might be suitable for riding. As Nolar repacked their now scanty supplies, Derren ranged ahead on foot. He was hurrying when he returned, and his voice was excited.

  “Lady, I think we may have found Lormt. Come and see—it is beyond that rise, in the next valley.”

  Nolar scrambled eagerly after him, almost tripping among the loosened pebbles. After so many years, she thought, she could at last look upon Ostbor's beloved Lormt. She reached the rocky crest and gazed down, then drew back as if lashed by a whip.

  “Oh, no,” she breathed, not knowing whether to laugh or cry. All of her shining childhood imaginings crumbled before her eyes, just as the walls and towers below had been reduced to rubble. Great, important Lormt, treasure house for all scholars was … was in ruins. Ostbor had warned her of the ravages of time, but he had spoken before the unimaginable violence of the Turning. Nolar turned away for an instant, her eyes blinded by tears. Angry at her weakness, she wiped her face with her neglected veil and forced herself to look again. Tiny figures were creeping across the mounds of shattered stone. Two of Lormt's fabled round towers stood unscathed, along with the remnant of a third. The fourth corner tower and most of that short wall, as well as one entire long outer wall had completely collapsed. The ground supporting that side of the complex seemed to have sheared away and dropped more than a tall man's height. From this distance, the two remaining walls appeared whole. Like the sharp-peaked tower roofs, the walls were sheltered by steep pitched roofs covered with slabs of dark mountain slate. Nolar could make out two buildings within the enclosing walls. One long, high structure nestled against the far wall, a high, horizontal strip of windows running its full length. A smaller, squatter building was tucked behind the gate wall abutting one undamaged corner tower. Nolar strained to see any glint from the Es River, since Ostbor had often mentioned the ease of fishing so close to the dormitory area. There was no flash of reflection from water. The Es River no longer ran in sight of Lormt, unless it was buried somewhere beneath the rubble. As she scanned the surrounding hillsides, Nolar made out little scattered fields and occasional huts such as herdsmen used. Not all, then, had been lost in the Turning. Some people and some housing had survived. She took a deep breath and turned to Derren.

  “That is truly Lormt, Master Borderer, although it has suffered much damage since my old master's day. Can we find a safe track down to it?”

  Derren surveyed the rock-strewn slope. “If we walk, lady. I can carry your aunt.”

  “We should not have been able to journey here without you,” Nolar said. “I thank you for my aunt and myself.”

  For a moment, Derren seemed genuinely abashed, then he resumed his authority as experienced guide. “Have a care on this slope, lady,” he warned. “The soil appears loose all the way down, and likely to give way.”

  Even forewarned, Nolar slipped twice during the descent, but each time she was halted by the steadying weight of the horses. At the base of the incline, they stopped for a much needed rest before mounting to ride the remaining distance to the gates of Lormt.

  As they neared the sheltering walls, Nolar recalled her recent impressions of Es City. Both complexes proclaimed their age and solidity by their very presence, but the stones of Lormt were far more massive, drawing the eye to their individual dimensions. Nolar wondered how the builders could possibly have moved such enormous blocks, not to mention how they could have originally hewed and dressed the stones. The seams between blocks were so tight that she doubted a knife blade could be inserted in any crack. She thought again of the chaos of the Turning, and marveled that even stones of this size could have remained, unmortared, as standing walls. Ostbor, she knew, would have been wildly curious to hear from the resident scholars how they had fared.

  Nolar wondered how they might be received, even whether the gates of Lormt would be open to them at all. She discovered on close approach that the metal-bound gates were a trifle askew, and several old men and two youths were busily engaged in trying to repair the lower hinges. Old men hurried in and out.

  Derren dismounted and called to the nearest old man. “Sir? Can you tell us where we should go? This lady's aunt seeks healing.”

  The old man, gaunt and bald, peered at them, reminding Nolar for a painful instant of Ostbor himself.

  “Come in, come in,” he invited. “You look as if you have traveled far. Come rest your beasts and water them. Yes, by all means—we do not yet understand why, but our well in the courtyard has suddenly commenced a much freer flow—colder, too. A result, we are sure, of the recent turmoil. This way, this way.”

  Despite his evident age, he moved nimbly and they had to hurry to keep pace as he preceded them through the gates into the great open courtyard. The well he had mentioned was housed in the interior corner to the right, with a sheltered opening down to the water, over which a sturdy windlass unreeled buckets suspended on braided cords. Troughs for the animals stood nearby, freshly filled and clean-scrubbed, even amid the general disarray. Derren lifted Elgaret down into Nolar's care and led the horses to a trough. At the well, the old man drew up a bucket from which Nolar dipped a cup for the Witch and then one for herself.

  “Feels like snow-melt, eh?” commented the old man cheerfully. “We have lost the river, but I must say, this well is a wonder now compared to what it used to be. If the increased flow holds, we shall be fortunate. By the way, should you care to sup, our dining hall was lost when the outer wall fell, but we have made a place to eat in the storehouse. This way, this way.” He darted toward the squat stone building to the inside left of the gates.

  Derren called across that he would see to the stabling of the horses, and then join them. Nolar guided Elgaret into the storehouse, where makeshift trestle tables had been set up, and evidently one corner had only recently been converted into a kitchen. Settling Elgaret into a high-backed chair, Nolar sank gratefully onto a bench.

  The old man bustled back into her view with two rough wooden bowls full of steaming porridge.

  “We did save most of our grain,” he prattled on, as if Nolar had demanded a full report on Lormt's supply status, “although we lost the greater part of our root vegetables in the subsidence. It may be possible to dig out some of them before they spoil. I understand that Ouen has plans to excavate for the root bins as soon as our more urgent
digging is finished.” He stopped abruptly. “But I have not introduced myself. I am Wessell. Provisioning is my trade, and I must say the earthquakes have quite upset all of our normal arrangements. Still, we were spared flooding. As you must know, nothing ruins grain so fast as having it exposed to the wet. Now that the river has shifted, I don't suppose that we shall have to worry as much about flooding, always excepting the spring rains. But there—I haven't let you speak. Forgive me. We have been so much upstirred of late that I scarcely know what I am doing. Do take some of this barley water. It is most refreshing in hot weather.”

  Nolar smiled at his earnest, if overwhelming, helpfulness. As she spooned some porridge for Elgaret, she said, “You have been very kind to see to our wants so promptly. Our journey here has been long and tiring. I am Nolar of Meroney, and this is my aunt, Elgaret.” She paused, weighing how much she should disclose and to whom. It was rather like the decision she had made regarding concealing her face. Ostbor had assured her that knowledge and honesty were most highly prized at Lormt. Nolar had decided before she entered Lormt's gates that she would proceed as she was, unveiled. Of all the places in Escarp, Lormt should allow her presence as a seeker of healing. If her face offended them, she thought grimly, then the scholars could look elsewhere. Now that she was within Lormt's walls, however, she somehow sensed that surface appearances did not matter as they did in the outer world. Certainly Wessell had not drawn back from her, and his eyes appeared to be clear and keen.

  Nolar faced him and declared, “My aunt is a Witch of Estcarp, injured by the Council's recent … exertions. My late master, Ostbor the Scholar, often told me that healing lore could be found at Lormt as in no other place, so I have brought my aunt hither.”

  Wessell looked shrewdly at Nolar. “We of Lormt have scant reason to welcome Witches, no more than they implore us to share our knowledge.” He cocked his head to one side, rather like an inquisitive bird eyeing a doubtful morsel. “Our healers are overburdened just now, treating our own folk and others who have come to us for refuge. Master Ouen would ordinarily receive you, but he is thoroughly occupied with the recovery. So many are displaced. Healers.” He squinted at Elgaret's still form. “Would your aunt require a healer, or a scholar to search out writings on healing?”