Wizard's Worlds: A Short Story Collection (Witch World)

by Andre Norton

  Come travel to the ends of the world and discover the secrets of the ruins of Salzarat . . .

  Walk a path of fear to the mysterious rocks known as the “Toads of Grimmerdale” . . .

  Venture to the city of sightless Dairine, who “sees” more with her hands than eyes dare behold . . .

  Ride through a land of twisted, ancient magic as a warrior searches for his lost swordmate . . .

  Enter into worlds of magic and delight. Welcome to the Wizards’ Worlds, the worlds of Andre Norton.

  Wizard’s World

  A Witch World Book

  Andre Norton

  Edited by Ingried Zierhut

  “Toys of Tamisan” from Worlds of IF, © 1969 by Galaxy Publishing Corp. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  “Wizards’ Worlds” from Worlds of IF. © 1967 by Galaxy Publishing Corp. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  “Mousetrap” from The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, © 1952 by Fantasy House, Inc. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  “Were-Wrath” from Cheap Street. © 1984 by Andre Norton.

  “By a Hair” from High Sorcery, © 1970 by Andre Norton.

  “All Cats Are Gray” from Fantastic Universe, © 1953 by Andre Norton.

  “Swamp Dweller” from Magic in Ithkar I. © 1985 by Andre Norton.

  Contents

  Falcon Blood

  Toads of Grimmerdale

  Changeling

  Spider Silk

  Sword of Unbelief

  Sand Sister

  Toys of Tamisan

  Wizards’ Worlds

  Mousetrap

  Were-Wrath

  By a Hair

  All Cats Are Gray

  Swamp Dweller

  Falcon Blood

  TANREE sucked at the torn ends of her fingers, tasted the sea salt stinging in them. Her hair hung in sticky loops across her sand-abraded face, too heavy with sea water to stir in the wind.

  For the moment it was enough that she had won out of the waves, was alive. Sea was life for the Sulcar, yes, but it could also be death. In spite of the trained resignation of her people, other forces within her had kept her fighting ashore.

  Gulls screamed overhead, sharp, piercing cries. So frantic those cries Tanree looked up into the gray sky of the after storm. The birds were under attack. Wider dark wings spread away from a body on the breast of which a white vee of feathers set an unmistakable seal. A falcon soared, swooped, clutched in cruel talons one of the gulls, bearing its prey to the top of the cliff, where it perched still within sight.

  It ate, tearing flesh with a vicious beak. Cords flailed from its feet, the sign of its service.

  Falcon. The girl spat gritty sand from between her teeth, her hands resting on scraped knees barely covered by her undersmock. She had thrown aside kilt, all other clothing, when she had dived from the ship pounding against a foam-crowned reef.

  The ship!

  She got to her feet, stared seaward. Storm anger still drove waves high. Broken backed upon rock fangs hung the Kast-Boar. Her masts were but jaggered stumps. Even as Tanree watched, the waters raised the ship once more, to slam her down on the reef. She was breaking apart fast.

  Tanree shuddered, looked along the scrap of narrow beach. Who else had won to shore? The Sulcar were sea born and bred; surely she could not be the only survivor.

  Wedged between two rocks so that the retreating waves could not drag him back, a man lay face down. Tanree raised her broken-nailed, scraped fingers and made the Sign of Wottin, uttering the age-old plea:

  “Wind and wave,

  Mother Sea,

  Lead us home.

  Far the harbor,

  Wild thy waves—

  Still, by thy Power,

  Sulcar saved!”

  Had the man moved then? Or was it only the water washing about him which had made it seem so?

  He was—This was no Sulcar crewman! His body was covered from neck to mid-thigh by leather, dark breeches twisted with seaweed on his legs.

  “Falconer!”

  She spat again with salt-scoured lips. Though the Falconers had an old pact with her people, sailed on Sulcar ships as marines, they had always been a race apart—dour, silent men who kept to themselves. Good in battle, yes, so much one must grant them. But who really knew the thoughts in their heads, always hidden by their bird-shaped helms? Though this one appeared to have shucked all his fighting gear, to appear oddly naked.

  There came a sharp scream. The falcon, full fed, now beat its way down to the body. There the bird settled on the sand just beyond the reach of the waves, squatted crying as if to arouse its master.

  Tanree sighed. She knew what she must do. Trudging across the sand she started for the man. Now the falcon screamed again, its whole body expressing defiance. The girl halted, eyed the bird warily. These creatures were trained to attack in battle, to go for the eyes or the exposed face of an enemy. They were very much a part of the armament of their masters.

  She spoke aloud as she might to one of her own kind: “No harm to your master, flying one.” She held out sore hands in the oldest peace gesture.

  Those bird eyes were small reddish coals, fast upon her. Tanree had an odd flash of feeling that this one had more understanding than other birds possessed. It ceased to scream, but the eyes continued to stare, sparks of menace, as she edged around it to stand beside the unconscious man.

  Tanree was no weakling. As all her race she stood tall and strong, able to lift and carry, to haul on sail lines, or move cargo, should an extra hand be needed. Sulcarfolk lived aboard their ships and both sexes were trained alike to that service.

  Now she stooped and set hands in the armpits of the mercenary, pulling him farther inland, and then rolling him over so he lay face up under the sky.

  Though they had shipped a dozen Falconers on this last voyage (since the Kast-Boar intended to strike south into waters reputed to give sea room to the shark boats of outlaws), Tanree could not have told one of the bird fighters from another. They wore their masking helms constantly and kept to themselves, only their leader speaking when necessary to the ship people.

  The face of the man was encrusted with sand, but he was breathing, as the slight rise and fall of his breast under the soaked leather testified. She brushed grit away from his nostrils, his thin-lipped mouth. There were deep frown lines between his sand-dusted brows, a masklike sternness in his face.

  Tanree sat back on her heels. What did she know about this fellow survivor? First of all, the Falconers lived by harsh and narrow laws no other race would accept. Where their original home had been no outsider knew. Generations ago something had set them wandering, and then the tie with her own people had been formed. For the Falconers had wanted passage out of the south from a land only Sulcar ships touched.

  They had sought ship room for all of them, perhaps some two thousand—two-thirds of those fighting men, each with a trained hawk. But it was their custom which made them utterly strange. For, though they had women and children with them, yet there was no clan or family feeling. To Falconers women were born for only one purpose: to bear children. They were made to live in villages apart, visited once a year by men selected by their officers. Such temporary unions were the only meetings between the sexes.

  First they had gone to Estcarp, learning that the ancient land was hemmed in by enemies. But there had been an unbreachable barrier to their taking service there.

  For in ancient Estcarp the Witches ruled, and to them a race who so degraded their females was cursed. Thus the Falconers had made their way into the no-man’s-land of the southern mou
ntains, building there their eyrie on the border between Estcarp and Karsten. They had fought shoulder to shoulder with the Borderers of Estcarp in the great war. But when, at last, a near exhausted Estcarp had faced the overpowering might of Karsten, and the Witches concentrated all their power (many of them dying from it) to change the earth itself, the Falconers, warned in time, had reluctantly returned to the lowlands.

  Their numbers were few by then, and the men took service as fighters where they could. For at the end of the great war, chaos and anarchy followed. Some men, nurtured all their lives on fighting, became outlaws; so that, though in Estcarp itself some measure of order prevailed, much of the rest of the continent was beset.

  Tanree thought that this Falconer, lacking helm, mail shirt, weapons, resembled any man of the Old Race. His dark hair looked black beneath the clinging sand, his skin was paler than her own sun-browned flesh. He had a sharp nose, rather like the jutting beak of his bird, and his eyes were green. For now they had opened to stare at her. His frown grew more forbidding.

  He tried to sit up, fell back, his mouth twisting in pain. Tanree was no reader of thoughts, but she was sure his weakness before her was like a lash laid across his face.

  Once more he attempted to lever himself up, away from her. Tanree saw one arm lay limp. She moved closer, sure of a broken bone.

  “No! You—you female!” There was such a note of loathing in his voice that anger flared in her in answer.

  “As you wish—” She stood up, deliberately turned her back on him, moving away along the narrow beach, half encircled by cliff and walls of water-torn, weed-festooned rocks.

  Here was the usual storm bounty brought ashore, wood—some new torn from the Kast-Boar, some the wrack of earlier storms. She made herself concentrate on finding anything which might be of use.

  Where they might now be in relation to the lands she knew, Tanree had no idea. They had been beaten so far south by the storm that surely they were no longer within the boundaries of Karsten. And the unknown, in these days, was enough to make one wary.

  There was a glint in a half ball of weed. Tanree leaped to jerk that away just as the waves strove to carry it off. A knife—no, longer than just a knife—by some freak driven point deep into a hunk of splintered wood. She had to exert some strength to pull it out. No rust spotted the ten-inch blade yet.

  Such a piece of good fortune! She sat her jaw firmly and faced around, striding back to the Falconer. He had flung his sound arm across his eyes as if to shut out the world. Beside him crouched the bird uttering small guttural cries. Tanree stood over them both, knife in hand.

  “Listen,” she said coldly. It was not in her to desert a helpless man no matter how he might spurn her aid. “Listen, Falconer, think of me as you will. I offer no friendship cup to you either. But the sea has spat us out, therefore this is not our hour to seek the Final Gate. We cannot throw away our lives heedlessly. That being so—” she knelt by him, reaching out also for a straight piece of drift lying near, “you will accept from me the aid of what healcraft I know. Which,” she admitted frankly, “is not much.”

  He did not move that arm hiding his eyes. But neither did he try now to evade as she slashed open the sleeve of his tunic and the padded lining beneath to bare his arm. There was no gentleness in this—to prolong handling would only cause greater pain. He uttered no sound as she set the break (thank the Power it was a simple one) and lashed his forearm against the wood with strips slashed from his own clothing. Only when she had finished did he look to her.

  “How bad?”

  “A clean break,” she assured him. “But—” she frowned at the cliff, “how you can climb from here one-handed—”

  He struggled to sit up; she knew better than to offer support. With his good arm as a brace, he was high enough to gaze at the cliff and then the sea. He shrugged.

  “No matter—”

  “It matters!” Tanree flared. She could not yet see a way out of this pocket, not for them both. But she would not surrender to imprisonment by rock or wave.

  She fingered the dagger-knife and turned once more to examine the cliffs. To venture back into the water would only sweep them against the reef. But the surface of the wall behind them was pitted and worn enough to offer toe and hand holds. She paced along the short beach, inspecting that surface. Sulcarfolk had good heads for heights, and the Falconers were mountaineers. It was a pity this one could not sprout wings like his comrade in arms.

  Wings! She tapped her teeth with the point of the knife. An idea flitted to her mind and she pinned it fast.

  Now she returned to the man quickly.

  “This bird of yours—” she pointed to the red-eyed hawk at his shoulder, “what powers does it have?”

  “Powers!” he repeated and for the first time showed surprise. “What do you mean?”

  She was impatient. “They have powers; all know that. Are they not your eyes and ears, scouts for you? What else can they do beside that, and fight in battle?”

  “What have you in mind?” he countered.

  “There are spires of rock up there.” Tanree indicated the top of the cliff. “Your bird has already been aloft. I saw him kill a gull and feast upon it while above.”

  “So there are rock spires and—”

  “Just this, bird warrior,” she dropped on her heels again. “No rope can be tougher than loops of some of this weed. If you had the aid of a rope to steady you, could you climb?”

  He looked at her for an instant as if she had lost even that small store of wit his people credited to females. Then his eyes narrowed as he gazed once more, measuringly, at the cliff.

  “I would not have to ask that of any of my clan,” she told him deliberately. “Such a feat would be play as our children delight in.”

  The red stain of anger arose on his pale face.

  “How would you get the rope up there?” He had not lashed out in fury to answer her taunt as she had half expected.

  “If your bird can carry up a finer strand, loop that about one of the spires there, then a thicker rope can be drawn in its wake and that double rope looped for your ladder. I would climb and do it myself, but we must go together since you have the use of but one hand.”

  She thought he might refuse. But instead he turned his head and uttered a crooning sound to the bird.

  “We can but try,” he said a moment later.

  The seaweed yielded to her knife and, though he could use but the one hand, the Falconer helped twist and hold strands to her order as she fashioned her ropes. At last she had the first thin cord, one end safe knotted to a heavier one, the other in her hands.

  Again the Falconer made his bird sounds and the hawk seized upon the thin cord at near mid-point. With swift, sure beat of wings it soared up, as Tanree played out the cord swiftly hoping she had judged the length aright.

  Now the bird spiralled down and the cord was suddenly loose in Tanree’s grasp. Slowly and steadily she began to pull, bring upward from the sand the heavier strand to dangle along the cliff wall.

  One moment at a time, think only that, Tanree warned herself as they began their ordeal. The heavier part of the rope was twisted around her companion, made as fast as she could set it. His right arm was splinted, but his fingers were as swift to seek out holds as hers. He had kicked off his boots and slung those about his neck, leaving his toes bare.

  Tanree made her way beside him, within touching distance, one glance for the cliff face, a second for the man. They were aided unexpectedly when they came upon a ledge, not to be seen from below. There they crouched together, breathing heavily. Tanree estimated they had covered two thirds of their journey but the Falconer’s face was wet with sweat which trickled down, to drip from his chin.

  “Let us get to it!” he broke the silence between them, inching up to his feet again, his sound arm a brace against the wall.

  “Wait!”

  Tanree drew away, was already climbing. “Let me get aloft now. And do you keep well hold
of the rope.”

  He protested but she did not listen, any more than she paid attention to the pain in her fingers. But, when she pulled herself over the lip of the height, she lay for a moment, her breath coming in deep, rib-shaking sobs. She wanted to do no more than lie where she was, for it seemed that strength drained steadily from her as blood flowing from an open wound.

  Instead she got to her knees and crawled to that outcrop of higher rock around which the noose of the weed rope strained and frayed. She set her teeth grimly, laid hold of the taut strand they had woven. Then she called, her voice sounding in her own ears as high as the scream of the hawk that now hovered overhead.

  “Come!”

  She drew upon the rope with muscles tested and trained to handle ships’ cordage, felt a responding jerk. He was indeed climbing. Bit by bit the rope passed between her torn palms.

  Then she saw his hand rise, grope inward over the cliff edge. Tanree made a last great effort, heaving with a reviving force she had not believed she could summon, falling backward, but still keeping a grasp on the rope.

  The girl was dizzy and spent, aware only for a moment or two that the rope was loose in her hands. Had—had he fallen? Tanree smeared the back of her fist across her eyes to clear them from a mist.

  No, he lay head pointing toward her, though his feet still projected over the cliff. He must be drawn away from that, even as she had brought him earlier out of the grasp of the sea. Only now she could not summon up the strength to move.

  Once more the falcon descended, to perch beside its master’s head. Three times it screamed harshly. He was moving, drawing himself along on his belly away from the danger point, by himself.

  Seeing that, Tanree clawed her way to her feet, leaning back against one of the rocky spires, needing its support. For it seemed that the rock under her feet was like the deck of the Kast-Boar, rising and falling, so she needs must summon sea-legs to deal with its swing.

  On crawled the Falconer. Then he, too, used his good arm for a brace and raised himself, his head coming high enough to look around. That he was valiantly fighting to get to his feet she was sure. A second later his eyes went wide as they swept past her to rest upon something at her own back.