Web of the Witch World ww-2

by Andre Norton

  “Where will we go?” Loyse asked.

  It might be folly to head into the unknown, but still every nerve in Simon screamed against remaining to be picked up by any force Aldis might have summoned. Slowly he unhooked that belt with its betraying boss. The long dagger and dart gun he would need. He looked at Loyse. She wore riding clothes, but had not even a knife at her belt.

  “I do not know” he replied to her question. “Away from this place—and soon.”

  “Yes, oh, yes!” Carefully she edged about Aldis, balanced to look out the door. “But what of her?” Loyse nodded to the unconscious agent.

  “She remains.”

  Simon looked out below. There were tufts of coarse grass crushed beneath the flyer. The machine had landed on the edge of what might be an islet of solid ground. So far, so good. The grass had been flattened enough so that he thought they need not fear any life lurking in it. Wherever the lizard thing had gone, it had not yet appeared near the door. Simon dropped out, his boots sinking a little into the footing but bringing no ooze of water. Holding out his hands to Loyse, he eased her down and gave a little push towards the rear of the flyer.

  “That way—”

  Simon pulled at the door, setting the flyer to rocking. But the jammed metal gave as he exerted his full strength. That would shut Aldis in and—well, he could not leave even a Kolder-ruled woman to the things which made this foul country their home and hunting ground.

  The ridge of ground on which they had crashed ran back, rising higher. But it was only an island, giving root room to the grass, a bordering of reeds, and some stunted brush. On three sides were murky pools—or perhaps only one pool with varying shallows and deeps. The water was scummed, and where cleared of that filthy covering, an opaque brown beneath which anything might lie in cover. As far as Simon could see the best path out still remained via the sunken tree lengths. How waterlogged and rotted those were was now a question. Would they crumple under the weight of those using them as bridges? There was no way of knowing until one tried.

  Simon kept the dart gun, but he handed the knife to Loyse.

  “Do not follow on any log until I have already cleared it,” he ordered. “We may be only going deeper into this sink, but I do not propose to try the water way.”

  “No!” Her agreement was quick and sharp. “Take care, Simon.”

  He summoned up a tired smile which hurt his bruised face. “Be very sure that this is advice I shall hug to me now.”

  Simon caught a branch of a moss-wreathed tree which stood at the edge of the grass plot. A measure of the ancient bark powdered in his grip, but there remained still a hard core firm to his testing. Holding to that, he swung out, to land on the first of the logs. The wood did not give too much, but bubbles arose in the water, breaking to release so vile a stench that he coughed. Still coughing he worked his way along to a mass of upended roots where he rested. Not that the mere walking of that way was fatiguing in itself, but the tension in his body had stiffened his joints to make every effort twice as hard. To climb over the roots, find footing again beyond was a task which sapped his strength yet more. He stood there, to watch Loyse come the path he had marked, her pale face set her body as stiff as his. How long did it take, that crisscross trailing from log to log? Twice Simon looked back, sure that they must have come some distance, only to see the flyer still far too close to hand. But at last he did leap to another grass-covered ridge, hold out his hands to Loyse. Then they sat together, shivering a little, panting and rubbing the hard muscles of their legs which seemed to have locked during that ordeal.

  “Simon—”

  He glanced at the girl. Her tongue moved across her lips as she stared at the stagnant water.

  “The water—it can not be drunk—” But that was not a statement, it was a question, a hope that he would say she dared. His tongue moved in his own dry mouth as he wondered how long they would be able to stand up to temptation before they were driven by thirst to scoop up what could be rank poison.

  “It is foul,” he replied. “Perhaps some berries—or a real spring later on.” Very pallid hopes, but they could help to stave off temptation.

  “Simon—” Resolutely Loyse had raised her gaze from the slimy pool, was gazing back over the path they had come. “Those trees—”

  “What about them?” he asked absently.

  “The way that they grew!” Her voice was more animated. “Look, even with those that have fallen, you can see it! That was no grove! They were planted—in lines!”

  He followed her pointing finger, studied the logs, the few trunks still standing. Loyse was right, they were not scattered. When they had been rooted firmly they had stood in two parallel lines—marking some long lost roadway? Simon’s interest was more than casual, for that way ended at the islet where they rested.

  “A road Simon? An old road? But a road has to lead somewhere!” Loyse got up, faced away from the trees at the island.

  It was little enough to cling to, he knew. But any clue which might be a signpost in this unwholesome bog was worth following. A few moments later in a line from the trees Simon came upon evidence to back their guess. The coarse grass was patchy, rooted only here and there, leaving bare expanses of stone. And that stone was smoothed blocks, laid with a care for the joining of one to the next—a pavement. Loyse stamped upon it with the heel of her boot and laughed.

  “The road is here! And it will take us out—you shall see, Simon!”

  But a road has two ends. Simon thought, and if we have chosen to go the wrong way this could be only leading us deeper into Tormarsh, to confront what or whom dwells there.

  It did not take them long to cross the ridge of higher ground come once more to where water spilled across a dip. But on the other side of that flood stood a tall stone pillar, a little aslant as if the boggy ground had yielded to its weight. On top of that was a ragged tangle of vine, the loops of which drooped in reptilian coils about a carven face.

  The beaked nose, the sharply pointed chin, small, overshadowed by that stronger thrust above it, the whole unhuman aspect—

  “Volt!” So had that mummy figure they had chanced upon in the sealed cliff cavern appeared in those few minutes before Koris made his plea and took from its dried claws of hands the great ax. What had the seneschal said then? That Volt was a legend—half-god, half-devil—the last of his dead race, living on into the time of human man, giving some of his knowledge to the newcomers because of his loneliness and his compassion. Yet here had once been those who had known Volt well enough to raise a representation of him along some highway of their kind.

  Loyse smiled at the pillar. “You have seen Volt. Koris has told me of that meeting when he begged of the Old One his ax and was not denied. There is none of the Old One lingering here, but I take his stone as a good omen, not one of ill. And he shows us that the road runs on.”

  There was still that stretch of water ahead. Simon searched the bank of the island and found a length of branch. Stripping away its rotten parts for a core tough enough to serve his purpose, he began to sound that waterway. Some inches of ooze and then solid stone, the pavement ran on. But he did not hurry, feeling for each step before he took it, having Loyse follow directly behind him.

  Below the pillar bearing Volt’s head the pavement emerged on the higher land once more, and as they went, that strip of solid surface grew wider, until Simon suspected that this was no small islet but a sizable stretch of solid ground. Which would provide living space, and so they could not fear discovery by the Tormen.

  “Others have lived here.” None of the vegetation grew tall and Loyse pointed out the blocks of stone which vaguely outlined what had once been walls, stretching away from the road into spike-branched brush. One building? A town or even the remains of a small city? What pleased Simon most was the density of the growth about those blocks. He did not believe that any living thing, save a very small reptile or animal, could force a path through it. And here, on the relative open of the anc
ient road, he could see any attacker.

  The road, which hitherto ran straight, took a curve to the right and Simon caught at Loyse to bring her to an abrupt halt. Those blocks of stone, which had elsewhere tumbled into the negation of any structure, had here been moved, aligned into a low wall. And beyond that wall grew plants in rows, the tending of watchful cultivation plain to read in the weedless soil, the staking of taller stems.

  It seemed that here the sunlight, pale and greenish within the swamp world, focused brighter on the plants where buds and blossoms showed as patches of red-purple, while winged insects were busy about that flowering.

  “Loquths,” Loyse identified the crop, naming a plant which was the mainstay of Estcarp weavers. Those purple flowers would become in due time bolls filled with silken fibers to be picked and spun.

  “And look!” She took a step closer to the wall, indicating a small hollow niche constructed of four stones. In that shelter stood a crudely-shaped figure, but there was no mistaking the beaked nose. Whoever had planted that field had left Volt to protect it.

  But Simon had sighted something more—a well-trod path, which was not a part of the old road, but ran away from it to the right, winding out of sight on the other side of the field wall.

  “Come away!” He was sure that they had made the wrong choice, that the road had brought them into Tormarsh and not toward its fringe. But could they retrace their trail? To return to the vicinity of the flyer might be going directly into enemy hands.

  Loyse had already caught his meaning. “The road continues—” Her voice was lowered to a half whisper. And the way ahead did look rough and wild enough to promise that it was no main thoroughfare for those of Tor. They could only keep on it.

  There were no more fields walled and planted. And even those scattered blocks of ruins disappeared. Only the fact that now and then they spotted a bare bit of pavement told them the road still existed.

  But their earlier thirst was now more than discomfort, it was agony in mouth and throat. Simon saw Loyse waver, put his arm about her shoulders to steady her. They were both staggering when they reached the road’s end—a stone pier which extended into a hellish nightmare of quaking mud, slime and stench. Loyse gave a cry and turned her head against Simon as he wrenched them both back and away from that waiting gulf.

  10 JAELITHE FOUND

  “I CAN GO no farther . . .”

  Simon kept Loyse on her feet with an effort; her stumbling had become a weaving he could barely support. The sight of the quagmire beyond the road’s end had sapped all her strength.

  He was hardly in better case himself. The need for water, for food, racked him. And he had kept the girl on her feet only because he was sure that if they gave way now they might never be able to go on again.

  Being so lightheaded Simon did not see the first of those balls which had plopped to the ancient roadway and burst to release a cloud of floury particles. But the second fell almost at their feet, and he had caution enough left to stagger back from it, dragging Loyse with him.

  But they were ringed in, the dusty puffs rising and melting into a thin wall about them. Simon held Loyse against him, his dart gun ready. Only one could not fight a cloud rising sluggishly. And he had no doubt that this was a deliberate attack.

  “What—?” Loyse’s voice was a hoarse croak.

  “I don’t know!” Simon returned, but he knew enough not to try to cross the line of the cloud.

  So far these flaky particles had not reached towards the two they confined. And they arose straight from the broken balls from which they had issued as if still attached to those sources. They were not so thick that Simon could not see beyond. Sooner or later someone would come to the sprung trap—then would be his turn. There was a full clip of the three-inch needle points in his dart gun.

  Now the cloud began to move. Not in at them but around, speeding in that circling until Simon could no longer distinguish particles but saw only an opaque milky band.

  “Simon. I think they are coming!” Loyse pulled a little away, her hand was on knife hilt.

  “So do I.”

  But they were to be given no chance at defense. There was another dull popping sound. A ball from which the circle would not let them retreat, fell, to break. From this came nothing they could see. Only they wilted, to lay still, their hands falling away from the weapons they never had a chance to use.

  Simon was in a box and the air was driven from his lungs. He could not breathe—breathe! His whole body was one aching, fighting desire for breath again. Simon opened his eyes, choking, gasping in pungent fumes which arose from a saucer being held by his head. He jerked away from that torment and found he could breathe now, just as he could see.

  A wan and murky light came from irregular clusters on the walls well above where he lay. Stone walls, and the damp and chill of them reached him. He looked to the one who held that saucer. In the pallid light perhaps details of features and clothing were not too clear, but he saw enough to startle him.

  Simon lay on a bed for this other sat on a stool and so was at eye level. Small, but still large-boned enough to appear misshapen, too long arms, too short legs. The head, turned so that the eyes met his. Large, the hair a fine dark down, not like hair at all. And the features surprisingly regular, handsome in a forbidding way, as if the emotions behind them were not quite those of Simon’s kind.

  The Torman arose. He was quite young, Simon thought; there was a lank youthfulness about his gangling body. He wore the breeches—leggings such as were common to Estcarp, but above them a mail jerkin made of palm-sized plates laid scallop fashion one over the other.

  With one more measuring stare at Simon the boy crossed the room, moving with that feline grace which Simon had always found at odds with Koris’ squat frame. He called, but Simon heard no real words, only a kind of beeping such as some swamp amphibian might voice. Then he completely vanished from Simon’s sight.

  Although the room had a tendency to swing and sway Simon sat up, steadying himself with his hands. His fingers moved across the bed coverings, a fabric fine and silky to the touch. Save for the bed, the stool on which the young Torman had sat, the room was empty.

  It was low of ceiling, with the massive beam across its middle forming a deep ridge. The lights were clustered haphazardly about. Then Simon saw one of them move, leave a cluster of three and crawl slowly to join a singleton!

  Though the stone walls were damp and chill, yet the swamp stench did not hang there. Simon got warily to his feet. The radiance of the crawling lights was dim, but he could see all four walls. And in none was there any opening. Where and how had the Torman left?

  He was still bemused over that when, a second or so later, he heard a sound behind. To turn quickly almost made him lose his balance. Another figure stood on the far side of the bed, slighter, less ill-proportioned than the boy, but unmistakably of the same race.

  She wore a robe which gleamed with small fiery glints, not from any embroidery or outer decorations, but from strands woven into the cloth itself. The down which had fitted the boy’s head in a close cap, reached to her shoulders as a fluffy, springing cloud, caught away from her face and eyes by silver clasps on the temples.

  The tray she held she put down on the bed for lack of table. Then only did she look at Simon.

  “Eat!” It was an order, not an invitation.

  Simon sat down again, pulling the tray to him, but still more interested in the woman than what rested on its surface. The paleness of the light could be deceiving but he thought that she was not young. Though there was no outward signs of age such as might appear among his own kind. It was rather an invisible aura which was hers—maturity, wisdom, and also—authority! Whoever she might be, she was a woman of consequence.

  He took both hands to raise the beaker of liquid to his lips. It was without any ornament, that wide-mouthed cup, and he thought it was of wood. But its satiny surface and beautiful polish made it a thing of beauty.

  The
contents were water, but water in which something had been mixed. This was not ale or wine, but an herb drink. At first the taste was bitter, but then that sharp difference vanished and Simon drank eagerly, relishing it the more with every mouthful he sipped.

  On a plate of the same shining, polished wood were cubes of a solid, cheese-seeming substance. As the drink, they had a wry taste upon the first bite, and grew more savory later. All the time Simon ate the woman stood watching him. Yet there was an aloofness about her; she was doing her duty by feeding one whom she found unacceptable. And Simon began to prickle under that realization.

  He finished the last cube and then, his faintness gone, he got to his feet, favored the silent watcher with much the same bow as he would have used to greet one of the Guardians.

  “My thanks to you, lady.”

  She made no move to pick up the tray but came forward, around the end of the bed, so that a large cluster of the crawling lights revealed her more clearly. Then Simon saw that the lights were indeed crawling, breaking up their scattered companies to gather along the beam overhead.

  “You are of Estcarp.” A statement and yet a question as if, looking upon him, the woman doubted that.

  “I serve the Guardians. But I am not of the Old Blood.” His appearance, Simon decided, was what puzzled her.

  “Of Estcarp.” Now it was a statement. “Tell me, witch warrior, who commands in Estcarp—you?”

  “No. I am Border Warder of the south. Koris of Gorm is marshal and seneschal.”

  “Koris of Gorm. And what manner of man is Koris of Gorm?”

  “A mighty warrior, a good friend, a keeper of oaths, and one who has been hurt from his birth.” From whence had come those words for his use? They were not phrased to match his thinking, yet what he had said was the truth.