Tales From High Hallack, Volume 1

by Andre Norton

  “My lady,” he said as they halted in confusion. “This is no place for you.”

  Almadis’s hand went to Meg’s arm. “Sir, if you come to give protection, that is well. But this much I shall do for myself, see an innocent woman free of any wrong—”

  “You give me no choice then—” He snapped his fingers, and his men moved in, he a stride ahead plainly aiming to reach Almadis himself.

  “Sir Knight,” Almadis’s hand was on her breast, and under it the moon token was warm. “I come not at your demand or that of any man, thank the Lady, save at a wish which is my own.”

  Otger’s twisted mouth was a grimace of hate, and he lunged.

  Only—

  From the staff Meg held, there blazed a burst of rainbow-hued light. Otger and those with him cried out, raising their hands to their eyes and stumbled back. From behind Almadis and Meg moved Mors and Nid, the ancient horse, whose head was now raised, and those three pushed in among the guard, shouldering aside men who wavered and flailed out blindly.

  Then Almadis was at the gate, and her hands were raised to the bar there. Beside her was the scholar, and with more force than either of them came Forina. And they came out into the crisp wind without the walls, the very momentum of their efforts carrying them into the mouth of the Way Wind road.

  There were cries behind them, and the screeching of voices, harsh and hurting. Almadis looked behind. All their strangely constituted party had won through the gates, the rear guard walking backward. Urgell and Osono had both drawn steel, and the smith held his hammer at ready. There were improvised clubs, a dagger or two, Ruddy’s pike, but none were bloodied. Urgell and Ruddy, the smith beside them, slammed the gates fast.

  Almadis could still hear the shouting of Otger, knew that they had perhaps only moments before they would be overwhelmed by those who were ready for a hunt.

  Meg swung up her staff. There was no wide burst of light this time—rather a ray as straight as a sword blade. It crisscrossed the air before them, leaving behind a shimmer of light the width of the road, near as high as the wall behind them.

  As she lowered her staff, she raised her other hand in salute to that shimmer, as if there waited behind it someone or thing she held in honor.

  Then she spoke, and, though she did not shout, her words cried easily over the clamor behind them.

  “Here is the Gate of Touching. The choice now lies with you all. There will be no hindrance for those going forward. And if you would go back, you shall find those behind will accept you again as you are.

  “Those who come four-footed are comrades—the choice being theirs also. For what lies beyond accepts all life of equal worth. The comradeship of heart is enough.

  “The choice is yours, so mote it be!”

  She stood a little aside to give room, and Tod and Tay, laying hands once more to Nid’s horns, went into the light. Behind them, his hand on the old horse’s neck, the laborer trod, head up and firmly. Almadis stood beside Meg and watched them pass. None of them looked to her or Meg, it was as if they were drawn to something so great they had no longer only any knowledge of themselves, only of it.

  At last there were those of the rear guard. Osono and Vill did not glance toward her. But Urgell, whose sword was once more within its sheath, dropped behind. Somehow her gaze was willed to meet his. The leaf Meg had given him was set in his battered helm as a plume, the plume that a leader might wear to some victory.

  Almadis stirred. She stepped forward, to lay her hand on the one he held out to her, as if they would tread some formal pattern which was long woven into being.

  Meg steadied Kaska’s basket on her hip and looked up to the glimmer as Castellan’s daughter and mercenary disappeared.

  “Is it well-done, Lady?”

  “It is well-done, dear daughter. So mote it be!”

  With staff and basket held steady, Meg went forward, and when she passed the gate of light it vanished. The Way lay open once again to the scouring of the wind.

  Black Irish

  From The Boys’ World, Vol. 38, No. 51, (December 17, 1939)

  As one man the students were on their feet. Cheek against the ice sprawled Charteris, Junior Academy’s ace defense man. Looming above him another skater wearing academy colors attempted to swerve, but, as if that body huddled on the rink were a magnet, he stumbled and went down with a crash over Charteris’ outflung arm.

  “You meant that, Mohun!”

  Dazedly Neil Mohun watched the thick scarlet stream dribble from the ragged tear in Charteris’ hockey glove. He shook his head, trying to clear it of the mist between his eyes and the slashed leather.

  “No, I didn’t,” he denied slowly. But then the rest of the team was upon them and Mohun found himself on the edge of the solicitous group about Charteris. No one had listened to him.

  Back in the dressing room Neil tugged his sweater over his head. He winced as the fabric scraped across a swelling lump. Somewhere behind his eyes there was a dull ache.

  Surely Charteris wouldn’t believe that Neil had deliberately taken that spill. Why, their feud was a sort of class joke. Only yesterday Anderson had made some fool remark about Neil’s “fixing” Charteris before they entered the fencing finals. Just because they had been rivals in sport and classroom since their first days at Junior Academy, they were supposed to be deadly enemies. But, of course, they weren’t!

  Neil paused, his shirt half on. If Charteris stuck to that absurd story of his there might be trouble. Charteris was popular, more popular than the reserved Mohun could ever be.

  With his dark head held high Neil strode back to the dormitory. From certain Down County ancestors he had inherited a liking for meeting trouble head on.

  The halls were unusually empty. A single freshman pelted up the stairs at the required double, casting a somewhat awed glance at the upper classman as he passed. Athlete Mohun moved in exalted heights a frosh hardly dared to dream about.

  Neil entered his room. The bleak severity of its regulation furnishings seemed even more angular in the light he snapped on. He crossed the room to change the entry on his absence card. A place for every man, and every man in that place, thought Neil, might well be the academy’s private motto. Sleeping, waking, working, playing, the authorities knew where every student was every minute of the day. There was no such thing as privacy. He leaned his aching head against the cool pane of the window. It would be nice to have a little uninterrupted peace and quite right now.

  “Neil, what happened down at the rink? It’s all over the school that you lost your temper and half murdered Charteris!” Jimmie Doran stormed into the room, demanding the attention of his roommate.

  Mohun grinned crookedly. “Even allowing for the romantic additions of amateur news-gatherers, that is a bit steep,” he commented. “We had an accident. Charteris tripped, I tried to avoid him, was clumsy and ended by falling myself. I slashed one of his hands with my skate. He chose to believe that I did it purposely.”

  Jimmie’s round face was grave. “Is that what Charteris said?”

  “Yes. Pleasant, isn’t it?”

  “He’s crazy!” stated Jimmie with conviction. “No one would do a thing like that—”

  “Apparently they”—Neil made a comprehensive gesture which included the quarters—” think that I could.”

  “But why didn’t you tell them—”

  “I tried. They wouldn’t listen to me. I’ll see Charteris at the hospital tonight. He may change his story.”

  “And if he doesn’t?”

  “It may be—nasty.”

  Jimmie shook his head. “I don’t like it. Anderson is hot-headed.”

  “He’s been talking?” asked Neil quietly. The pain in his head was pounding again. It was difficult to understand what Jimmie was saying.

  “Too much. Watch out, Neil. The council has a way of making it unpleasant for a man.”

  Mohun stiffened. There was a pinched look about his nostrils, a line about his firm mouth. “You mea
n they would ‘silence’ me, refuse to speak to me except officially?”

  “Men have been ‘silenced,’” Jimmie met Neil’s level gaze.

  “Until they broke. I know.” There was something grim about the set of Neil’s square jaw. “But I’m not guilty, and neither am I very breakable—as they shall discover if they try that. But they wouldn’t dare. I’m going to see Charteris.”

  He was breathing rather fast when he reached the hospital—less from his walk than from the uncomfortable feeling that perhaps Jimmie’s apprehensions were well founded and there was something to fear. To fear! Neil’s shoulders went back as he unconsciously braced himself to face what might come.

  “Dr. Harnett,” he caught sight of the senior physician, “how is Charteris, sir?”

  “He’ll do. Took five stitches in that hand of his. Nasty cut and he’ll have to watch it: liable to tear it open before it’s healed if he uses it. Odd, never saw a skate cut like that before, clean as if it had been done with a knife.”

  “May I see Charteris, sir?” asked Neil impatiently.

  The doctor shook his head. “He’s had something to make him forget hockey for awhile. That’s a bad bump you have there yourself. Better let me see it.”

  In spite of Neil’s protests he was borne off to be treated. And it wasn’t until after mess that he reached the haven of his room again.

  “See Charteris?” demanded Jimmie almost before Neil was across the threshold.

  “Couldn’t. Doc wouldn’t let me in.”

  “Anderson is talking,” began Jimmie.

  “He seems to make a habit of it,” replied Neil wearily, and reached for a book. He was very tired of Charteris, Anderson, and the whole mess. His head ached and he wanted nothing so much as to crawl into bed and forget everything.

  “Mohun!”

  Neil looked up. Just within the door stood Anderson. Behind him were his usual companions, Crawford and Hendriks.

  “Well?” Neil was not cordial.

  “We want to see you.” They were already in the room. Hendriks closed the door, standing with his back against its panels. As if, thought Neil for one amused second, I might try to escape.

  “We have something to say to you,” began Anderson. His flat mouth was really too wide for his narrow jaw, decided Neil critically. And why did he keep moistening his lips that way?

  “Why don’t you say it?” prompted Mohun.

  “The students,” Anderson complied, “want an explanation of what happened on the rink.”

  “The students,” prodded Jimmie, “or just you and your friends?”

  Again Anderson’s tongue flickered over his thin lips. “I speak for the students,” he retorted.

  “Ha, a distinguished guest,” Jimmie waved him toward one of the cots. “In your official capacity have a seat.”

  “Anderson!” A core of steel sounded in Neil’s voice. “I have no explanation to make to you or your friends. What happened today is my business and Charteris’. We’ll settle it without outside interference.”

  “You’re making a mistake, Mohun,” warned the other.

  “Not interested.”

  “You may be in the future!” Anderson’s long face was pale and he could not conceal the angry tremble in his tone.

  Neil arose leisurely and came around the table, his six feet topping Anderson by a good two inches.

  “I prefer to handle my private affairs privately. Do you understand English, Anderson? Or do you want to meet me at the gym and take a lesson in language—and manners?”

  Anderson’s smile was three-quarters sneer. “You’re a fool, Mohun, if you think anyone would accept a challenge from you—now.”

  Neil stared at him. And then he moved. As Anderson’s head snapped back from his blow, Neil Mohun laughed.

  As Anderson stumbled away between two supporters, Jimmie turned upon Mohun.

  “You’ve done it,” he accused. “They’ve got you just where they want you.”

  “It’s my business,” flared Neil, “and I’ll handle it!”

  “Do!” snapped Jimmie. “How long do you think it will take Anderson to spread his tale—with additions of his own? Remember that crack he made about your ‘fixing’ Charteris before the fencing finals? Suppose he repeats that now?”

  “I like a fight—”

  “You’ve got one,” Jimmie told him morosely.

  *

  “There will be a meeting of the class at four o’clock today.” The announcement rang in Neil’s ears long after the speaker had finished. He marched to mess still thinking about it.

  “What, Mr. Dumbjohn,” Upperclassman Kimberly inquired of the humblest frosh at the table, “is the most important athletic event of the coming week?”

  “The fencing finals, sir.”

  Kimberly coughed as Neil looked up.

  “Why?” asked Mohun.

  “I—I do not know, sir,” the frosh suddenly lost his nerve and glanced appealingly at Kimberly.

  “Surely, Mr. Durcourt, after that prompt reply you have some idea upon the subject?”

  The freshman did not answer. Neil smiled pleasantly. “One might almost believe,” he suggested, “that Mr. Durcourt’s recitation was coached.”

  “I don’t care for your attitude, Mohun,” said Kimberly as they arose from the table. “But I think I shall leave the council to deal with you.”

  *

  “I have heard that the black Irish hold grudges but to do what Mohun did—”

  Neil stepped well within the room where Anderson was holding forth. “As the black Irishman under discussion,” he interrupted, “perhaps I may be allowed a few words.”

  “You had your chance for an explanation, Mohun,” Shaffer, the class president, frowned at him, “and you chose to refuse. We don’t like your attitude, and we don’t like the whole affair. What have you to say for yourself?”

  Neil’s jaws set squarely. Shaffer’s irritated impatience added to the affair of the mess hall only confirmed his stubbornness. “I say that the matter is a private one.”

  “I’m afraid we can’t accept that—”

  “Then don’t!” Neil’s fists clenched. “Do as you please, I am not answerable to the class.” He walked out of the room.

  “Well?” he demanded when Jimmie joined him.

  “What could you expect, you stupid fool? They’ve voted to ‘silence’ you.”

  Mohun laughed harshly. “Good enough.” He shrugged and went on his way.

  “Charteris came back from the hospital today,” Jimmie ventured one evening. “And I don’t think he was any too pleased with Anderson’s efforts on his behalf. He tried to talk to some of the fellows—”

  “I’m not interested in Charteris,” Neil returned curtly.

  The days slid swiftly into weeks as the lines between Neil’s eyes grew deeper and his sullen stubbornness became more and more a part of him.

  Students who had qualified in riding and were on the selected list might explore the reservation bridle paths. Neil, since his trouble, had taken full advantage of this. Once away from the academy he could forget a little of what had happened to him since that disastrous spill on the rink.

  He drew reign as he glanced down the valley. Just how had the present state of affairs come about anyway? His dislike of Anderson, Charteris’ story, his loss of temper—they all added up. But why—

  With a snort of pain Neil’s horse reared, pawing the air with its front hoofs.

  Mohun clung with knee and thigh, using sheer wrist strength to bring the frantic animal under control. As the horse obeyed, a snicker of laughter came from behind. Neil crashed through the thin underbrush in the direction of the sound. Two small boys scuttled away.

  “Johnny Carruthers!” Neil recognized the tow-headed youngster known in the district as “the worst boy in the countryside.” Nor did he miss the bean shooter in Johnny’s fist. But Johnny and his companion escaped.

  Furious at the thought of what might have been—horse an
d rider over the cliff—Neil started back down trail. That Carruthers kid needed a talking to.

  Halfway down, Neil met another rider. Charteris drew to the side of the path. As Mohun cantered by, Charteris leaned forward in the saddle as if to speak. But when Neil’s eyes flicked over him with no sign of recognition, he settled back again.

  Mohun rode on at a slower pace, allowing the horse to choose its own gait. Why was Charteris riding? If what the doc had said was true, he had little practical use of his left hand and that roan brute he was on needed both hands and the full attention of any rider fool enough to bestride him.

  Neil made a quick decision and urged his reluctant mount back up the slope. If Johnny Carruthers was still in action … At a shout from above Mohun used his spurs. Under their tormenting prick the black bounded on, its hoofs drumming on the path.

  “Hold on!” the Irishman shouted. In the clearing a whirling, maddened horse neared the edge of the cliff, his rider tugging fruitlessly at the reins. Neil eased his feet out of the stirrups.

  Then he lunged, his hands closing about the reins of the roan. He gritted his teeth as a pawing hoof scraped his knee, ripping cloth and drawing blood. But a hundred and seventy-eight pounds of dead weight at its head brought the horse to terms.

  Neil sprawled on his back, the sweating animal almost on him. Then Charteris slid out of the saddle.

  “Hurt?”

  “Not seriously,” Neil panted. “But I’d like to break Johnny Carruthers’ neck. The little beast is back in the woods shooting beans at the horses.”

  “What!” Charteris started for the trees, a purposeful look about him.

  “No use, he’s gone by now,” Neil called. “He tried the same trick on me.”

  Charteris turned. “Is that why you followed me?”

  Neil hesitated and then nodded. “Yes, I knew you couldn’t use your hand.”

  Charteris stooped to pick up Neil’s hat. “I am beginning to think that there are other fools besides Johnny Carruthers around here,” he announced.

  Neil puzzled that out, and then, in spite of the throbbing of his bruised knee, he laughed. “Is this a pipe of peace, Charteris?”