The Warding of Witch World

by Andre Norton

  “Did they also tell you that she had agreed?” Elysha asked.

  “Lies! They serve the father of lies there! They have a new leader—one Jakata—he is mighty in power and has made covenant with that which waits beyond—”

  It was Ibycus who interrupted. “Waits beyond what?”

  Firdun and Kethan had released their hold on Hardin and now he swung around to confront the mage. “Beyond a gate—the greatest of the gates. It spoke to them—the Garth has spell dreamers, three of them—and by those they know what happens elsewhere. Jakata says that the time wheel has spun and these are the old days come again. He is an adept—and from behind him the Dark will rule.”

  Ibycus was nodding. “And this gate, boy—does Jakata hunt it now, to the west?”

  “Yes, he was summoned. It is said—I heard the guards speak—that there was a blood-drinking and a soul-darkening. . . . Oh”—his face lost years; it was now the desolate one which might be shown by a hopeless child—“I—I dreamed. They used pain and other ways I do not understand save that they were against all which was of the Light.” He looked nearly as pale as the image behind him now. “I was a warrior. I have ridden against the hill demons when they come to ravage and I have slain in the name of the Light—but they overthrew me and I am . . .

  “Stranger”—he grasped at Firdun now—“use your sword. I know that you march against the Dark. Let my defiled blood be the first you shed! Give me that much armsman’s grace!”

  Aylinn moved to face him.

  “Look upon me, Hardin. Have you seen my like before?”

  He lifted his head. “You—you are one of the moon-called.”

  “As is your mother. Whose temporary dwelling is seated there?” She pointed to the throned one.

  “The One in Three.” He moved his hands and Firdun dropped his last hold on him, allowing him to make the gesture he wished. Trailing lines of blue followed his passing fingers. He gasped and staggered, save that Kethan was there to steady him.

  Aylinn held out her wand until it nearly touched his breast. “Hardin of Hol. In Her eyes you are a worthy son of one who serves Her well. There is no spot in you, no rot through which the Dark can reach. Take and hold.” She extended the wand until it brushed his hand.

  Very slowly his fingers advanced to grasp it, and then hers withdrew, and hold it alone he did. The moonflower at its tip spent its scent on the air. Hardin fell to his knees. With both hands he gave the wand back to Aylinn.

  “Reborn you are, Hardin. Chosen servant of One in Three. And as such—”

  “As such”—his voice was now firm—“I shall live and ride, hold the sword of war, the open land of peace, for all my days. And”—there was an eagerness on his face as he arose once more and went unerringly to Ibycus—“mage, what I know is yours and perhaps it can make a difference.”

  Ibycus moved his ring finger and a line of light broke free. It did not quite touch Hardin, but it was evident that it was meant to indicate him.

  “I think you have much which will be of aid to us,” the mage said. “Now let us listen.”

  It was almost, Firdun thought to himself, like one of the storytelling sessions which were used in the Kioga camps for impressing upon children the history and hard-learned knowledge of those who had gone before.

  Jakata plainly had many of the skills granted by history to the mage company of adepts—those mages who had once ruled and then brought close to complete death and ruin this world. He had sought out Garth Howell when it was merely a repository for half-forgotten and little-understood knowledge. Though he appeared a young man, it was said that he had not apparently aged a season since he had been there.

  At first he had spent time listening courteously to those who had long studied there. But he had also gone seeking for himself in sections of the underground storage rooms which had not been entered for generations. He had always shown an aptitude for the solving of puzzles and began to bring out in the meetings of the scholars unusual matters hitherto unknown. At last it had become a custom for him once every so many tendays to conduct what was not quite a class or an exhibition, but a combination of both, and so drew to him most of the younger students.

  From these he had chosen a devoted band to whom his word was the revelation of one of the Great Old Ones. Yet he had given no sign that he sought anything but knowledge for the sake of knowledge.

  Slowly there had come a splitting of the company at Garth Howell. Those older mages, well-entrenched in their studies for the sake of learning alone, stood aside and Jakata made no attempt to influence them, in fact paid them great courtesy whenever the occasion demanded.

  Of the others a handful had left—again no one gainsaying their withdrawal. So in the end the active members of the community were all his fervent followers.

  The Mantle Lordships for the most part held to the ancient belief in the Voices—those revered as being the spirits of ancestors willing to remain in touch with the world that those of their blood might be aided by their advice. Here and there, however, a lord like Prytan was intrigued by the rumors of what might be going on and, if he was ambitious, started casting about for ways in which he might profit.

  At length Jakata had said that he was commanded to provide a Voice himself—one for the coming age of new rule. He ordered a pilgrimage to Dragon Crest to offer a blood sacrifice. But on the way they had been subjected to such a storm of magic as they had never believed existed, and Jakata had been aroused to a claim of Power beyond any mage since the Great Old Ones.

  They made a capture, and a rich one: one of the fabled Gryphon line whom all knew were favored by the Light above most. And in spite of the rage of the magic, he had been readied for sacrifice, only to have his own talent somehow aided by the release of such potent Power, and he escaped.

  However, Jakata had not been dismayed by this. Instead he was feverishly set on a new venture. A sacrifice at Dragon Crest was as nothing to the opening of the portal through which some great leader could come and, through his dream seekers, he learned where that portal was, with the promise that when they reached it all would be made plain to them.

  Hardin had been chosen as sacrifice this time and was being transported with the company westward. When he came to that part of the story, he faltered, for he could not himself explain how he was freed.

  Ibycus cut in. “It is more than you they want for the feasting of their Dark lord, Hardin. Therefore they loosed you, being sure that the bonds of spirit they had set upon you were well locked. So were you brought to us—though”—he smiled—“it was all a little clumsy. I think your Jakata perhaps left the details to someone of his company not so well schooled.

  “However, they shall get what they want, for we shall seek out the gate even as they are doing. And though none can ever foresee the end, by the time we reach there we shall have our answer.”

  The next morning they moved out. Hardin joined Guret and showed himself nearly as good a horseman as the Kioga—they were soon talking horses together. Also he was able to play their guide northward for the space of two days, having scouted in the hills during the demon raids and learned some of the skills.

  On the third day they found the remains of the camp from which he had escaped, or been allowed to escape, and then Kethan as pard tracker took over. The young Silvermantle lord watched the were go into action with amazement. His people knew the weres, of course. At intervals their nobles had hosted weres. But none had ever come into Hol, and to see the tawny pard slip into the tall grass where a man had ridden was a surprise.

  However, Kethan’s shadow horse still had a rider. Uta had fit herself in the saddle there and the mount accepted her easily. So they went, Kethan on trail and the Kioga and Firdun taking turns riding point.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  The Wellspring of Evil, the Waste, West

  I t was a good morning, and the land around was not yellow clay, though the growth on it was sparse and rough, with here and there a curiously twisted
tree to stand sentinel. Also the scent was running well, though there began to be more about it than the natural odors left behind by men and horses. There seemed to be a whiff now and then of a faint stench—a taint such as might be given off by old death lying long unburied.

  Kethan followed a hint of water which must have drawn those others before him. That brought him in sight of tumbled blocks of masonry: Such stones he had never seen before, for they were the dark green of fir needles mottled here and there by bands and trails of a lighter shade.

  Cautiously he scouted the place. Here the grass had grown tall. If he went belly deep in it and stalked as if following a pronghorn, he did not believe he could be sighted save from the air—or by the trembling of the grass he crept through.

  There came a sharp hiss and he swerved to the right. A grass serpent nearly as thick around as one of his own furred limbs raised head, viewed him with unblinking eyes. The reptile bulged thickly in the middle, which meant it had recently fed and only wanted now to find a place to rest and digest its meal. Kethan backed away and the weaving head began to lower again. Such snakes were edible but not to the taste of any who could find more palatable food. Anyway, he was far more suspicious and curious than he was hungry at that moment.

  He made a half circle of the broken wall, for a circular wall it was proving to be. Once more he picked up the scent trail. Only—

  Kethan crouched low and pawed at his nose, though he knew that he had no way of shutting that stench out of his nostrils. This was not the faint hint of evil which he had sorted out of the tracks, but a blast of noisome smell.

  While it came up from the trail true enough, it was stronger when he turned his head back toward the wall. That, he was sure, was its real source, and he was not going to leave some station of the Dark behind without learning its nature.

  He sent out a fine mind-probe, then started so that he nearly arose to full height in his cover. Those he followed had plainly left this place, but what had they left behind?

  Once more he drew himself forward, belly brushing the grass bent down by his weight. Now he could see a break in the wall which was not caused by age but had been intended. The trail led from that, and along it he now padded.

  Kethan did not want to try the mind-probe again—it was too easily a way of alerting something on guard. Yet he had sensed in it more pain than anger. Now he was at that gate and able to see what lay beyond.

  In the exact center of a circular pavement of the same green stone was the curbing of what could only be a well. But set up beside it, to cast an ominous shadow, was what Kethan first thought to be one of those dread knights who served Garth Howell.

  Then he could smell the freshly spilled blood, and saw the pool of it about the boots of he who stood there. No, rather he was propped up by spears wedged into cracks of the pavement, his body lashed to them, even his neck and forehead in loops to keep them aloft, for his helm was missing.

  His hands had been shorn of gauntlets and were lashed before him, and the fingers—

  Kethan’s nose wrinkled. They had been hacked away. Blood spotting on the curb of the well suggested where they might have disappeared.

  Kethan did not approach the corpse directly; rather, he slunk along the wall, making a full circle of the space and surveying it from all sides.

  There came suddenly, over the buzz of insects which were gathering in swarms, a faint moan. The eyelids in that uplifted head twitched. Kethan halted, paw raised.

  So—it was true—this one still lived. That he was evil, Kethan did not in the least question. Though why his own must have treated him so was perhaps something to be discovered, might be useful for his own party. Ibycus—the picture of the mage grew strong in his mind. Toward it he aimed another sending and knew he was answered.

  There were birds—the scavengers of the Waste gathering. He watched them with care waiting for the rus to appear. But if they hunted, they had not found this prey.

  He had no wish to be caught within those sinister walls and found a way for himself across a broken section, retracing his own trail to meet the sooner with those who followed. That they might communicate the better, he assumed man’s form just as the first of the Kioga outriders came into view, bow strung and ready, his trained mount following a weaving way.

  Obred did not join Kethan. The were knew—and had become more or less indifferent to the fact—that the tribesmen found it hard to accept one of his kind, even once proven to be wholly of the Light. Now he waved and Obred flourished his bow.

  It did not take long for the rest of the party to come into view—Lero urging the pack animals, in spite of their complaining, to a pace to keep him and them well in sight of the rest.

  Ibycus was in the lead, but Elysha was close after—not entirely to the mage’s wishes, Kethan was sure. Then came Kethan’s sister, matching pace companionably with Trussant, on whom Uta still balanced, then Firdun and Guret, armed and flanking Hardin, though certainly they were not acting as guards.

  Ibycus dismounted somewhat stiffly. The hand bearing the ring was against his breast and Kethan thought he saw a play of color there—but not the blue of true Power.

  “So what have you found us this time, young Kethan?” he asked as he tramped forward.

  “A puzzle,” Kethan returned, “and a dying man.”

  “One hurt?” Aylinn was off Morna in an instant, swinging the strap of her bag across her shoulders. “Where is he?”

  The Kioga took up watch, riding in circle around the green ruin as Kethan led the rest into the place of the well.

  “Oh!” Aylinn would have run forward, but Elysha seized her by the arm.

  “What you see may not be,” she spoke sharply. “This one is of Garth Howell.”

  “But he is injured,” Aylinn insisted angrily. “By Healer’s Oath—”

  “Even for Healer’s Oath,” Elysha admonished, “would you bring disaster and the Dark upon us all?”

  The girl struggled, attempting to free herself, but Elysha held her back. It was Ibycus who approached the tethered man, the others giving him good room.

  The mage upheld his hand and pointed the ring, not at the man’s breast but at his loop-held head.

  “By the Star, by the wave, by the earth which holds the grave,” the mage said slowly. “Speak now, you who have been sent to give us what message your lord wishes.”

  The bluish lips in the gray face moved, but the eyes above remained closed: “You—follow—death—” That voice came very faintly as if from far away.

  “As all men do from the time of their begetting,” the mage made answer. “Did Jakata think playing games fit to frighten children would hold us back?”

  Now the finger he held up blazed like a black flame. “You have served your master—”

  But the figure before him might not have heard anything he had to say. “The One who comes claims its day. Follow, fools, and die the sooner for it.”

  Then the mouth dropped open and a dark tongue protruded between a yellow straggle of teeth.

  Ibycus wrote in the air with the ring, and the symbols which began as slashes of blood turned to spears of darkness. He spoke aloud. Those symbols moved sluggishly. It might have been they resented his command, but at length they wavered toward the dead man, fastened on him. The rest of the company pressed back as flame burst from the wracked body, eating with a raging intensity until there was nothing left but a scorched mark on the pavement.

  “He—he was Salsazar, of Jakata’s guard. He was on duty the night I got free.” There was a shakiness in Hardin’s voice.

  “He was not of the living as we know them—perhaps for many years,” Elysha answered.

  “Out—out with you!” That cry came from Firdun. He grabbed for Aylinn, bringing Elysha also, as the woman still had grip upon the girl. “Out with you—a ward has broken—what comes?”

  Kethan leaped forward and had an arm around the mage, jerking him backward, pushing Hardin as he reached him. Then they were outsid
e the space. But not before Kethan, at least, caught sight of what was rising from the well. He had seen death new-come, he had seen the evidence of death long past left to crumble back to the earth. But these figures rising as if winged from that dark circle were death unnaturally alive—and they were many. Shadows at first, they lapped like water over the well curb and floated about the wall.

  However, broken as that was, it seemed to prevent their coming farther. The things were becoming more solid of body. Not all were of humankind. There were monsters among them which only the most blackened mind of a Dark mage could conceive. And about them was such a stench that the travelers reeled farther back.

  Ibycus shook himself free from the hold Kethan still kept on him. His ring was still blazing. Now he shouted over his shoulder to Firdun: “The curse of Unwin in the Day of Last Desolation. Remember it, boy!”

  His hand was on Firdun’s shoulder now as they faced the battered walls. Through the holes they could see what gathered, growing stronger with every moment in the air.

  Firdun’s voice came as loud as Ibycus’s in a measured range of words. Old words, words which, when they were uttered, seemed to make the ground under their feet move. And the mage matched him word for word, his flaming finger still at point.

  The sun over them paled. Guret and his tribesmen could no longer control the horses; they reared, struggled loose of rein hold, and scattered. Kethan staggered as a warm and heavy-furred body leaped to his shoulder. And then he was standing, one arm around Aylinn and the other supporting Uta on his chest.

  Above the circle of the broken wall the sky darkened, yet more gray-white became the things now rising above its edge, struggling. They might be throwing themselves against some barrier. Ibycus’s hand, now raised high, became a torch, the flame bending toward the broken-edged circle.

  The mage’s voice rolled thunderwise and Firdun’s words were like lightning bolts in accordance to this storm of Power. Yet it was plain that some manner of control was being exerted to keep those unholy emanations rooted still to the vile source from which they had sprung.