The Warding of Witch World

by Andre Norton

  What Simond felt, she did not know; Mangus seemed only puzzled. But the witch jewel in Frost’s hold flashed again.

  There had been a question asked, that much Trusla was as certain of as if she had heard the words. Now there was silence.

  But only for a breath or two. Then from nowhere she could discern, came an ear-torturing roar such as might burst from the jaws of some beast mightier than they had ever seen.

  The shaman seemed to huddle down into her chair, draw in upon herself. Yet she showed no sign of fear, only of one facing a burden which must be carried with care.

  There followed a clatter of someone entering the room, armed and ready, an axe in hand as if some attack had already begun. Like the shaman, he was dressed in furred garments, but he wore no feathered cloak, instead three long black feathers pointed at an angle backward from a beaded band about his forehead and hair.

  A thong of hide supported on his chest a rounded ball half black as the feathers, half gold. And the face he turned toward the southerners was grim as he bowed his head quickly to the shaman and asked something in his own tongue. He could not be much older than Simond, but he walked with the assurance of a well-tested armsman.

  “It is well,” the shaman spoke in the trade tongue. “This one is Odanki, of my own kin blood. He is a rover, one who has seen ice palaces.”

  He was staring suspiciously at all of them now. “What would you do, south people?” His trade speech was curt.

  “Sister,” the shaman spoke now to Frost, “try this one with your testing. We have no Speaking Fire, but already your Power and mine have melded enough that I will be bound by the Voice of Arska. Even as we have all heard, that Great One seems to wish to take part in this.”

  Frost’s hand shifted to confront the Latt. Instantly the jewel flared to life.

  The Latt stepped back, frowning, his upper lip lifting a little as some beast might threaten a snarl. But now the shaman slid off her too-high seat and came to him swiftly, laying a hand on his axe arm. She spoke with a solemn intonation like an oath, and he listened to her, his snarl fading, a look of wonderment on his face.

  Then suddenly he dropped to one knee and, catching hold of the nearest edge of the other’s feather cloak, raised it to his lips.

  “Arska,” continued the shaman, “has brought you one of our best. But now since I am also chosen for this searching I must speak with my people, assure them that Arska will raise up those to help them in time of danger.”

  She passed their circle of chairs, the hunter falling in behind her, and was out of the door and gone before any one of them could summon words.

  “Lady”—Mangus broke the silence left by that swift exit—“this all who know them can tell you of the Latts: they are a proud people, rovers with no settled home. If they give their word, so it is kept. If they cannot for some reason keep it, then the next of kin will pick up their duty. Their hunters are fine fighting men and know much of their frozen world. Of the powers of their shaman . . .” he shrugged. “I am not talented; I cannot vouch for what they can do.”

  “She is a true sister,” Frost answered, “her power runs deep and full, though it comes from another source. There is nothing of the Dark.”

  “But,” Simond cut in, “did she not say that any guide who would volunteer to go with us must do so of free will? Was this one not summoned?”

  Frost smiled. “As you, Simond? We are but the tools of Greater Forces and a workman chooses his tools to suit the work which must be done. Also, I do not think the shaman chose this Odanki; I believe he was summoned by something greater than she. And by this”—she patted her once more dead gray pendant—“that was certainly proven.

  “Now”—she looked to Mangus—“this map you and your knowable captains have put together—where will it lead us?”

  “In truth, Lady, across the world as we know it. Look you.” They all crowded around the table from which he had lifted his drinking horn and looked down at the maze of lines, some drawn in sturdy black and some in less steady red.

  “See—this far upcoast . . .” he was running a thick forefinger along one of the black lines, “you can go without too much danger—though the icebergs are much larger in number this season. Here”—he stabbed down—“you will swing westward, clear to Arvon’s land, though I do not think any of them have ever ventured to explore it.

  “This is Dargh. Of that you keep clear. It is surely of the Dark and they say that men there eat their own kind in times when the waller fish do not run well. Beyond Dargh, on the continent itself, there is a Sulcar trading post. We call it End of the World—I cannot twist my tongue to give you its native name.”

  “There are natives there?” Simond asked.

  “Yes, their land is free in places from the ever-steady ice because of hot springs. There is even feed for their load beasts. Horses, mind you”—he held out a hand about four feet from the floor—“no larger. And yet there are grodeer nearly as tall as this house and they say other strange beasts. I have seen great tusks of ivory once in a while which have come from End of the World and men tell strange tales of furred walking mountains. But then why should we laugh at such tales? For the farther a man travels, the more marvels he chances to see.

  “You will learn what you can there. These Latts speak of ice palaces on this side of the ocean. Perhaps such lie farther north there also, for our legends speak of such.”

  “These red lines . . .” Simond pointed to the closest on the map, “what do they signify?”

  “Tracks of ships which have never returned,” Mangus answered shortly. “These northern seas hold as many traps as a land where the Dark abides. Yet the legends tie in with some of these voyages and so we record them.”

  He rolled the map up as if he did not want to think of some of those records, and handed the roll to Simond.

  “Stymir still has provisions to load. Give this to him as I promised. He has made two trips north and knows well some of the dangers. In fact he fought off a raid of the Dargh man-eaters three seasons ago. And he added two new islands to our records—one of which had some strangeness about it that he would never talk about.”

  “A place of the Dark?” Trusla was only too aware of strange places and usually there was good reason for keeping away from them.

  “Perhaps.”

  A workman was waiting impatiently at the open door and they guessed that Mangus had taken time from pressing duties for this meeting. Frost said that she wished to consult with the Sulcar wisewoman again, so once more Trusla and Simond were left to return alone to that newly constructed warehouse-to-be where the passengers and the crew of the Wave Cleaver were temporarily housed.

  “Ice palaces,” Trusla spoke. “Real palaces?”

  “More likely just the edges of great glaciers,” Simond returned. “Such at a distance might well seem to be as great as Es and perhaps wind-carved into towers and walls.”

  “These Latts . . .” she began again, Simond seeming very far away suddenly, as if he were caught up in some tight weaving of thoughts. “They have beautiful furs. And their shaman—she is not as strange and apart as some of the wisewomen even in the south.”

  “We shall certainly learn more,” Simond agreed. “They will have us to Lormt when we return and shake out of us every bit of memory our minds hold—all to add to their store.” He laughed. “Perhaps before we come to the end of this venture we shall be able to even astound Morfew himself.”

  This venture, Trusla thought. Yet the Latts said that some master thing of the Dark had driven them from their homelands. What kind of monster must they face, perhaps among those ice palaces?

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Korinth, the Northern Sea

  T he constant sounds of activity had died away with the coming of sundown. But the growing town was still alive when Trusla went to the impromptu market down on the wharf. Another ship had made port at nooning and samples of its cargo were already being placed to catch the eye—and gather a crowd.


  This had been a risky project on the part of the captain, for he had not carried building materials or needful supplies, but rather what those in the bare-wall town might consider at this point to be luxuries. There were fabrics which could make curtains and wall hangings, dishes both for display and daily use, even such things as spices and those dried flower petals which would fight the heavy scent of woodsmoke in the rooms.

  To Trusla’s surprise there were buyers enough gathering to bargain with those the captain had designated to be merchants for the day. And she saw change hands lengths of ivory tusks, and bundles of furs at a brisk pace, the buyer going away with this ornamentation for houses perhaps still roofless.

  It was when she was shouldered aside by one of the brawny women who wore a heavy hammer in her belt that Trusla stopped short, refusing to move again in spite of another shove.

  What had drawn her eyes was an earthenware bottle. It was wide-mouthed and its cover had been removed to show its contents. How such an object had turned up in this cargo, and moreover, how the present owner had obtained it, she could not guess. Somehow she could not believe that the seller knew what she was offering, for it was a woman tending this trestle table. The contents of that jar were a door into the past—though to the eye the jar was filled with sand—red-gold sand—seemingly as fine ground as dust. Such sand she knew—such sand had changed her life and opened a door upon the world for her.

  “Xactol!” she whispered. Did or did not that sand stir a little? Or was it only her wish that made it seem so? “Sand sister.”

  She jerked at a silver bangle on her thin wrist. It was all she could think of now for exchange. The woman looming over her had put down a full gold piece out of Estcarp for a length of dull blue and rust red weaving and a set of carven wooden bowls. Now the stall keeper was looking to her.

  “Your jar.” Trusla pointed so there would be no mistake.

  The stall keeper picked it up, turning it this way and that. “Out of Estcarp—well fired, can be used at the hearthside if you wish. The sand . . .” She must have caught Trusla’s glance; the girl feared spillage due to the other’s quick movements. “That is nothing. The dealers there pack them so against breakage. Two silver twists, Lady.”

  She was studying Trusla closely now, seeming to have noted for the first time that Trusla was a stranger, not a townswoman.

  “I give this.” The fen girl held out her bangle. It was surely worth more than two twists of that silver wire which the traders used for small transactions. Then she thought that the woman was eyeing her almost with suspicion and she added hastily, “Such are made in my village.” She was improvising. “I find it here to be a lucky matter.”

  Now the woman grinned. “Ah, don’t we need all the luck we can draw to us, Lady? It is yours.” But she was quick enough to drop the bracelet into her money pouch. “Here”—she reached down into a box beneath the table—“you need the rest of your luck, or what you hope to hold can run out with the first dip.” She slapped down on the table a round of smoothed wood which was plainly meant to cork the jar and Trusla speedily put it into place.

  Holding her prize tightly, she made her way through the crowd and back to the warehouse-inn. Simond was off with the captain and their map, but for the moment she was very glad she was alone.

  Settling down on one of the two stools their small alcove held, she loosed the hide curtain and let it fall into place to give privacy. The jar she placed with care on the other stool, as she had no table. Her hand went to loosen that cover and then she let it fall instead to the top of the stool. For the moment she did not want to prove herself right or wrong, she just called on memory.

  There had been a shelving floor of such sand under the moon and that sand had moved, given birth to one whom Trusla sometimes saw fleetingly in dreams and had always longed to see again. Xactol—sand sister—that one had named herself, and in Trusla she had awakened knowledge that there was indeed a need for one who was unlike her companions. Since then Trusla had made small experiments on her own—very carefully.

  When she had returned with Simond, each saving the other from certain death, the witches had wished to test her, for being Tor and apart, they thirsted to know what powers or talents those of her race might have. But the witches were no longer all-powerful and already she had mated with Simond, thus destroying most of her value to them. But inside she was sure that her sand sister had awakened more than Trusla could understand.

  She remembered one day when she and Simond had gone fishing (or he had fished and she had explored the small island they had chosen) and she had discovered a stretch of silver-gray sand. It had not held the same feeling for her, yet it drew her to it.

  On its surface she had drawn—designs she had not remembered she knew, though she was a weaver. And the designs had sent her into a sort of dream in which she had done something which had great meaning. But when she had roused again at Simond’s call, the sand was bare of any marking and of the dream she remembered only that feeling of accomplishment.

  Now—if it were true that she held in this jar sand out of Tor, what might she do?

  “Trusla!” Simond’s voice drew her back into the here and now. She saw the curtain sway at his touch, but she knew he would not enter without her bidding. Swiftly she transferred the jar into her own pack. Why she must keep this secret she could not say—only that for now it was hers alone.

  She swept aside the curtain and Simond stood smiling widely. He kissed her cheek and then threw himself on the bunk, his legs stretched out, one arm reaching for Trusla to draw her to his side.

  “No more hammers, no more mud, no more sawing.” He made a kind of chant out of it. “The Wave Cleaver is loaded and shipshape, as the captain says. With the dawn we can be off again away from this mud pie and off to do what we are meant to do.”

  Trusla could understand his excitement and she was careful to try to equal it. But she feared she would never make a good sea rover. The cramped cabin was so small that this alcove seemed a lord’s hall when she stole a look around. Luckily only yesterday she had washed and freshened with dried herbs almost all of the clothing except what they now wore. And Simond had spent hours burnishing their mail coats and making sure their weapons were keen of edge.

  His smile had faded a little and there was an anxious note in his voice as he continued, “There is this, heart holder. Because of the addition of the Latts to our party, our quarters will be changed. I shall have a hammock with this Odanki in the mate’s quarters and the shaman will come with you.”

  She should have expected something like this. Frost, by reason of her rank, had a hastily constructed cubby off the captain’s main cabin and the rest of them would have to make what room they could.

  “The Latt woman seems one of goodwill.” Simond had sat up again now and was watching her. “Were it instead that wisewoman whom Mangus gives ear to now.”

  Trusla laughed. “Were it so, I think I should choose to walk—there is the shore and later maybe ice thick enough to bear one up. Yes, I think that the Latt will be a good cabin mate. Only . . .” Now she threw her arms around him tightly. “It will not be Simond to keep me warm at night!”

  “My loss also, dear one. Now—let us see to the packing.” But his return embrace and the hoarseness of his voice was a small comfort she could cherish.

  • • •

  Their sailing out of Korinth was certainly not a quiet and unnoted one. The green-robed drummer led a procession of women who whistled and moaned, and made sounds so close to enraged waves that Trusla could close her eyes and believe the sea already washed about them.

  Not to be outdone by the invoking of Sulcar powers and good fortune, the Latt party was nearly as great. But here it was the men who chanted, waving spears and axes as if challenging to battle. Their chosen champion had added a sword to one of the packs he shouldered. From the second one fluttered feathers and Trusla guessed that that held the possessions of the shaman. Cuddled in the left ar
m of the woman was a small furry shape which moved, turning a round head constantly as if it would see everything as quickly as possible.

  The Latts knelt and raised a keening cry—one which could touch even those not of their race. Then they deliberately arose and turned their backs, though still they stood in ordered ranks, as if they must not look upon the withdrawal of the shaman and her champion.

  Nor did she turn her head to look at them, but marched steadily up the gangplank, Odanki a step or so behind, the creature still held in her arm. Trusla eyed that warily. Sharing a cabin with another woman was one thing, but that the shaman had brought a pet with her. . . .

  However, they stood a little away from her as the ship cast off moorings and they began their journey to the open sea—luck cheers from those thronging the walk rising even above the cries of their wisewoman and her followers.

  Trusla hesitated for a moment and then made her way to the shaman. “Wise One, our cabin lies this way.”

  Those dark, oblique eyes fastened on her and the woman nodded. Now that she was close enough, the girl could better see the creature in the wisewoman’s arms. At first she thought it a child bundled so heavily in furs that only a section of its reddish face and two large eyes were visible.

  Then the shaman set it carefully down. Though it stood on its hind feet, this was no child. It was entirely covered, except for the palms of its quite humanlike hands and face, with thick dark hair over which lay an outer sheen of silver as if every tip bore frost. With one of those hands it held tightly to the shaman’s bead-twisted legging-boots; the other was at its mouth as it stared over its fists at Trusla.