by Byron Preiss
They turned away from the Dais of Beron. Ceria walked behind Hawkwind, noticing the too-straight set of his shoulders. She looked beyond him, at the deepness of the forest they approached; the afternoon sun had merged its shadows into dark depths, quite different from the happy, secure place she had left earlier.
Behind them, Evirae still stood before the dais, as the clearing gradually emptied. Mesor stood by, watching her and waiting. She stood with fingers folded, tapping her long elegant nails against each other. Then she raised her head and looked at Mesor.
“Get him,” she said.
Her confidant quickly vanished into the forest.
IX
Jondalrun, Tenniel, Lagow, and Tamark rode south on horseback toward the Alakan Fen. They had been elected by the Council to visit the witch, and the fen where she lived was the better part of a day’s hard ride from Tamberly Town. A dawn start saw them well on the way by full day, and Jondalrun pushed the group unmercifully, not stopping for food or rest. They are their rations of dried fish and corn in the saddle. They drove through scraggly forest and windswept highlands, riding southward, until they reached the Opain River, which they followed to the southwest. The slope of the land was downward, and the men passed several small lakes, fed by the river and its tributaries. As the sun reached its zenith, they still rode, until the horses stumbled beneath them. “A rest!” Lagow cried. “Before my mount’s heart bursts through his ribs!”
“At the fen,” Jondalrun shouted, not wishing to concede anything aloud to a man who had openly opposed his proposition of war. “The horses will rest and take grass at the edge of the fen. We will walk from there.” The men pushed on through dust raised by a growing wind. They would reach the tangled trees of the fen by midafternoon. Better to get there now than in darkness, thought Jondalrun. Thus they rode through a stretch of rocky ground covered with slippery lichens and moss, toward the home of the witch.
When Lagow spotted the maze of trees and vines a short time later, he dismounted. He took his horse to a nearby creek and let it drink for a moment, then led it to and fro. He said angrily to Jondalrun, “Why they did not die on their feet is a mystery to me!”
“They’ll have the night to rest,” said Jondalrun as he took his own horse to water.
Tamark dismounted. “There are wolves hereabouts, Jondalrun! Perhaps one of us should stand watch with the horses.”
“They hunt in the mountains, Tamark; they fear the fen’s quicksand. The horses will be safe here where they can graze.”
The fisherman wiped the lather from his horse’s flank, not totally convinced.
Tenniel watched the three other Elders in silence. He had not expected such bitterness between them. Though he had had to settle many a dispute in his time, he was still surprised. They were Elders of Fandora, not farmhands. If they fought among themselves, how could they be expected to face the Simbalese? Tenniel himself had deep regrets about the death of the inventor Amsel. He had joined the other two Elders in a moment of frenzied patriotism, but when he had seen the small, amiable man trapped in the burning tree house, he had been horrified. He had helped to kill a man—a traitor to Fandora, perhaps; but still he should have listened to Jondalrun. With all his anger and obstinacy, the old man had still wanted Amsel to have a just trial. If he had listened, Tenniel thought sadly, the inventor would still be alive.
Lagow stood by the edge of the creek. “On with it,” he said with a sigh, and started toward the fen. He had volunteered to be one of the four Elders who would supervise the war effort. The invasion seemed inevitable, and he felt that as a supervisor he would be in a better position to save as many lives as possible. There was one life he was sure he would save. His son would not go to war. If Lagow had to break the boy’s leg to ensure it, he would.
Tamark searched his riding pouch for the map that had been given to the group by Pennel. He too was resigned to the madness of war, and he felt that he could best help Fandora by becoming a supervisor with authority over the invasion plans. If it went as far as an invasion, he thought cynically; if the farmers crossing the strait did not drown in an hour’s time. Even with his experience, the waters between Fandora and Simbala would be more treacherous than the sorcerers. He wished Dayon had returned to Cape Bage. The young man knew more about the strait than many experienced sailors, for in his naiveté he had shown the daring necessary to journey though long-uncharted waters. Yet Dayon had set out on a trip two weeks earlier and had not returned. Tamark was worried.
The Elders set out through a maze of twisted trees, reeds, rushes, and ferns, their boots occasionally sinking deep into rust-colored mire. Mist surrounded them, drifting in languorous, clammy caresses over their necks and heads. Birds would burst into sudden flight nearby, startling them, and on rare occasions they would see something large and indistinct in the mist, moving slowly away from them.
They hacked through curtains of cattails with scythes. All about them were the sounds of the fen: bubblings as noxious gases were released from beneath the stagnant water, the deep mournful croaks of frogs, and sometimes a distant bellow that would cause them to stop, knuckles white on the shafts of their crude weapons. The deeper they went into the swamp, the darker it grew, as though it was always evening there at the center. They glimpsed the cold glimmerings of foxfire on stumps. The smells increased until they felt like gagging—noisome, evil odors of corruption and death. Once in a while they would pass a bush filled with small black seed pods, and Lagow, accidentally crushing one of these between his hand and a tree trunk, was refreshed by the sharp citrus smell it gave off. Thereafter they walked with a handful of them, crushing them beneath their noses when the smells became too intense.
This was the Alakan Fen, a vast miasmic swamp which covered the low pass between the Cirdulan Mountains. It, and the mountains to either side of it, effectively prevented easy access from the Southlands into Fandora. A perilous trade route existed along the spine of the mountains, coming down eventually through Hightop Pass. Other than that, Fandora was isolated, and proud of it.
For hours, it seemed, they struggled toward the center of the swamp, slapping at mosquitoes and wiping the cold-water condensation from their necks. At one point a red adder struck at Tenniel from a log—its fangs embedded themselves in the leather of his boot, and he danced back in shock and fear. Tamark seized him by the shoulders, then reached down and took the adder by the neck just back of the head, pulling it free of the boot. He flung it away from him.
“You do not seem at all fearful,” Tenniel told Tamark.
“I have done the same to poison eels that have leaped into my boat,” Tamark said. “Teeth do not frighten me.”
At last the thick vegetation and morass began to thin. The ground started to rise slightly, and eventually the four found themselves on a dreary, open low steppe covered with stagnant pools and brown grass. In the center of this was a small hut made of mud and reed and a few stones. They approached it cautiously.
A fire smoldered before the hut, and crouched beside it was what seemed to be a bundle of rags and hair. After staring a moment, Tenniel realized with disbelief that the filthy, ill-smelling pile held life within it.
She stirred from her crouch and raised her head, staring at the men. She was even worse than they had expected—shriveled and old, her face crevassed with dirt-caked wrinkles, splotched and swollen in places with disease. She lifted an arm that was like a stick wrapped in dead leaves and pointed it at the men.
“What do you want?” Her tone of voice surprised them.
There was something missing—the witch was reputed to be all-knowing, all-wise. There should have been a hint of that in her voice—an assurance, an arrogance. Instead, it was merely an old woman’s voice, querulous, even slightly frightened.
The four men ranged themselves before her: Tenniel and Lagow leaning on their staffs; Tamark impassive, stern gaze fixed elsewhere; and Jondalrun, arms folded. Ready, Lagow did not doubt, to wring the old woman’s reedy nec
k if he was not given a talisman.
“Woman,” Jondalrun said in a flat, hard voice, “Fandora goes to war against Simbala. We need a token to protect our men against the Sim warlockery. I think it is a foolishness, myself, but the majority desires it. Give us, then, some magical working that will ensure us victory.” Briefly he explained the situation, how the children had died. Then he was silent, and the silence of the fen surrounded them.
The old woman lowered her head again. At first Tenniel thought she had fallen asleep, so quiet and motionless she was. Then he was aware of a slight dry sound, like two pieces of uncured leather rubbing together, and with a start he realized that the old woman was laughing. Or crying? He was not sure.
She stared at them again, and in those eyes he could see a terrible sadness. In a dry, hissing whisper she said, “Who am I, that ye ask this thing of me? I know,” and she raised one emaciated hand to forestall an answer, “I am she whom ye call the witch of the fen. I am she,” she shouted suddenly, “damned to an exile of mud and mist, and the babbling of occasional fools!”
She was silent after this outburst, save for mumblings to herself. Tenniel and Lagow looked at each other uncertainly; even Tamark seemed surprised. Only Jondalrun was unmoved.
“You are she with the knowledge we need,” he said bluntly. “We’ve no time for idle conversation. Give us what we want.”
She grinned a yellow, mirthless grin. “Long I’ve crouched here on this desolate mound,” she said slowly. “This be my only respite from the monotony—visitors like yourselves. Otherwise, I am forgotten. Do any of you even know my name?” she shouted.
Tenniel, to his great surprise, found himself pitying her. He realized suddenly that she had been young once, perhaps even comely, hard though that was to believe; she had had a past, had had parents, perhaps even love. She had delved into the mysteries of nature, and she had been punished. Perhaps she had meant no harm. Yet they had called her “witch” and banished her.
Tenniel felt a great sadness well up within him. He wanted to go and leave the old woman in peace.
“Let’s let her be,” he muttered, half to himself. Jondalrun looked at him, and Tenniel, surprised, noticed uncertainty in that look. Then Jondalrun turned again to the witch.
“I’m sorry, old woman,” he said. “But we must have protection.”
“I would lie to ye if I could,” she said. “I would see your trip be for naught, but I know that would eventually bring ye back for revenge. Even such as I cling to life.” She plunged a hand into the crusty folds of her robe, and withdrew it, holding a handful of small black pods. Lagow recognized with surprise the same pods that they had been carrying to ward off the odors of the fen.
She offered the pods to Jondalrun. “These be all over the swamp,” she said. “String them into wristlets, and guard them well, for they be all that will protect you from the enemy you do not suspect.”
Jondalrun put them in his pouch. “What do you mean?” he asked. “How are we to know their use?”
“I will say no more,” she answered. “Begone, ye men of families and homes, who would risk them on so foolish a thing as war.” She settled back into her crouch, and became once more a motionless pile of rags.
The men retreated slowly and quietly. When they reentered the morass, Jondalrun paused to pick more of the magical seed pods, and gruffly instructed the others to do likewise, until oncoming dark threatened. Thereafter they made a more rapid return, following their own trail. They camped at the edge of the swamp, spending a weary, mosquito-ridden night. The next morning they collected more seed pods, until their pouches and saddlebags threatened to burst.
On the ride back to Tamberly Town, Tenniel noticed that Jondalrun was silent, as he had been for the most part on the ride to the fen, but this was a different kind of silence; almost, Tenniel thought, as though he were ashamed.
X
Near the outskirts of Overwood, a man was tied to a tree. It was Willen, the Northwealdsman; he stood trussed to a small sapling in the center of a secluded clearing bounded by carefully trimmed shrubbery. It was a bower that was meant for contemplation, where those so inclined could come for peace. Willen, however, was not feeling peaceful. He had left the dais quite proud of himself; he had delivered the ultimatum to Hawkwind in no uncertain tones, and he fancied he had left an impression. He had, in fact, been so taken with himself and the assurances he had received that his normal caution had lapsed. He had been absorbed in his prideful reflections when suddenly a net had dropped upon him from a tree and he had been taken forth-with to this place, where he had been tied for several hours. It was now late afternoon.
“I tell you once more,” he said tightly to his guard, “I am here as an emissary from the Northweald! Severe trouble will be the result of this! If I do not return soon, my companion will carry word back that I have been detained!”
The guard merely shrugged. He was one of Princess Evirae’s personal staff, chosen because he had the admirable quality of being able to follow orders without thinking much about them. Mesor said the Princess had wanted the Northwealdsman detained, and this had been done. Now he was content to play a game of rough-side-up with bark chips while he awaited further orders, and the imprecations of his captive bothered him not at all.
He was about to have his calmness disturbed, however, for Willen had been playing a game of his own with the rough bark. Ever since he had been tied to the tree, he had been dragging the ropes about his wrists back and forth across the surface. Now, after several hours’ work, they had frayed sufficiently to snap. The first indication the guard had of this was when Willen burst his bonds and ran across the sward toward the shrubbery. Though the guard was slow of wit, he was not slow of wind. He overtook Willen, tackling the Northwealdsman just as they reached the edge of the bower. They rolled upon the grass, kicking and striking at each other. The guard’s greater bulk eventually began to tell—Willen was rolled over and pinned beneath the other’s body. One of the guard’s hands was on his chest, the other poised in a fist over him; then there was a sudden crashing in the shrubbery. They both looked up toward the noise, and what they saw made them stop in mid-struggle, posed ludicrously.
“Release that man!” said the Princess. Evirae, astride a beautiful spotted horse, had emerged from the shrubbery. From Willen’s viewpoint, her huge pile of hair seemed to reach above the treetops. The jewels interwoven in it sparkled, and small bells set there surrounded her with music. Her riding gown was a brilliant yellow, and her long sleeves were gathered by silken bows, that they might not interfere with her travels through the forest.
Behind her was a man, also on horseback. Willen had seen him next to her at the ceremony. He was Mesor, Evirae’s chief aide. The two reined in, narrowly avoiding those on the ground. Evirae dramatically pointed a finger tipped with a long nail at the guard. “How dare you so treat an emissary from the Northweald!”
The guard scrambled to his feet, confused. “Your pardon, milady . . . I but did what you—”
“Silence!” Evirae cried. The horse reared slightly and snorted at her twitch of the reins, giving her order added emphasis. Mesor smiled slightly at this.
“We will deal with you later,” Evirae told the guard. “Return to Overwood and await my word!”
The guard swallowed, nodded, and left. Evirae did not watch him go. She turned instead and smiled down at Willen, who was still sprawled on the ground before her horse. “Mesor,” she said, “do help our guest to his feet, and see that he is made comfortable.” Mesor swung down from his horse and assisted Willen, brushing dirt and twigs from his tunic. He learned the Northwealdsman’s name and passed it on to the Princess. Evirae dismounted, extending her hand to him. Willen took it, carefully avoiding the nails; he had heard tales that she painted them with poison—though, faced with her beauty, he found this hard to believe. “Please accept my apologies,” she said to him, and her voice was more lilting than the first birdsong after a rain. “I had no idea that fool wo
uld forcibly restrain you. I had told him only to ask that you await me at this private place. I wish to talk to you, Willen Northwealdsman, about an urgent matter of state.”
Despite his years as a hunter, the Northwealdsman was still naive to the ways of the Overwood. This woman’s beauty moved his heart. He sensed a sweetness and helplessness in the Princess that made him feel protective toward her; and at the same time he was acutely aware of his lack of manners and courtly ways. She led him gracefully—it was hard to imagine her doing anything ungracefully—to the shade of the sapling. There they sat, Mesor spreading a small quilt for them. He then returned discreetly to the stallions.
Willen sat cross-legged next to Evirae, close enough to smell the various subtle perfumes she wore. He was also very much aware of his own unwashed state, and hoped that the breeze would remain in his favor.
“I need your trust, Willen,” Evirae said earnestly. “I need your pledge of secrecy. What I am about to tell you could mean the future of Simbala. Do you pledge not to reveal to anyone else what you will now hear?”
Willen hesitated. “Yes?” Evirae said. “Speak frankly—this is too important a matter for protocol.”
“Milady, I must say in advance that if you try to talk me into withdrawing the ultimatum I gave to Hawkwind—”
“By no means!” Evirae said. “I think the Northweald is well within its rights, for reasons I hope to make clear to you. Now, will you listen?”
“As you will,” Willen said. He was intrigued by her words, and totally captivated by the storybook intrigue. “But,” he added, “if I do not return to my companion by sundown, he will leave without me, and the embargo will begin.”
