Sisters in Fantasy

by Edited by Susan Shwartz

  Yet when he knelt to retrieve his pack, he found his map. As he picked it up and read his notes, the memory came back to him, sharp and clear, and he laughed in triumph. Dweomer the lady had, strange and powerful dweomer, but she knew nothing of the ways of men, who write things down to outlast their remembering. Of course, if he told this story of a sorceress in the woods and her cat-eyed servants, no one was going to believe him anyway. As he set off, he was wondering just how to phrase the thing to the merchant guild of Aberwyn, or if he should say anything at all.

  Five men on horseback, and a couple of mules carrying supplies—the effort seemed more than one stinking bondman was worth, but at stake was the honor of the thing, Addaric decided. This snot-faced Grunno belonged to Lord Cadlomar, and if he had the gall to go sneaking off, then Addaric would fetch him back for his lordship if it took him a fortnight. They took the hounds to Grunno’s hut and let the dogs sniff his greasy blankets while his filthy woman watched, gasping for breath with a sound like mice chittering. When they brought the dogs to the edge of the village, they picked up the scent at once and went baying across the pastureland with the riders trotting after, the kennelmaster first, then the four men from the warband. The boy with the mules followed as best he could.

  At the edge of the pasture, the ground turned rough with rock and burrow, and Omillo, the kennelmaster, called in the big black-and-gray boarhounds. Addaric rode up to join him.

  “He’s got a good head start,” Omillo said.

  “So he does. But we’ve got horses. We’ll get him, sure enough.”

  Yet that evening they reached the big river, so newly discovered that most people called it only “the one that flows into the Gwyn” or “the western one.” Here in late summer it flowed so broad and shallow that a man could wade in it for miles and let it wash all his scent away. As they milled around on the riverbank, the hounds snapped at each other in sheer frustration.

  “Well, young Addaric, which way do you think he went?”

  “That’s an easy one—upstream. Down would bring him right back to the Gwyn and settled land again.”

  On the morrow Addaric was proved right. Although they had to crisscross the river for a tedious ten miles before the hounds picked up the scent, find it they did. They sang out and raced away to the northwest while the men followed at a cavalry pace, walking and trotting, stopping frequently to rest the pack. Still they were moving far faster than a frightened man could run. Toward evening the hounds found a leather sack, which they grabbed and shook, growling.

  “It must stink of the man,” Addaric remarked. “Looks to me like he’s run out of food, too.”

  The very next morning, for a few brief moments they thought they’d found their prey. As they traveled across wild meadowland, they saw far ahead of them a small shape that had to be a man walking. With a whoop of triumph they kicked their horses forward, but the whoop died when they realized that the fellow was coming calmly toward them, not running away. When they met, Addaric at first thought he was a peddler, because he was carrying a heavy pack of the same sort that a traveling man would use, but there was not one out here to buy ribands and needles and trinkets. The fellow was imposing, too, a tall man with the raven-dark hair and cornflower blue eyes so common in the province, but tanned and tough with a calm if watchful look about him that seemed to say he’d faced worse trouble than five riders before.

  “Good morrow, good sir,” Addaric said. “You’re a good long way from settled country.”

  “I could say the same of you, lad.” He smiled to take any sting from the words. “My name’s Paran of Aberwyn.”

  “Well, by the gods! Truly, good sir, I’ve heard of you. I’ll wager we all have, and many a time, too. The bards all call you the bravest man in Elditina, going off alone for months like that.”

  The men with him muttered their agreement and rode up close to get a good look at this famous person. Paran turned embarrassed.

  “Er, just on my way home,” he muttered, stepping back a little. “And what of you? What brings armed men to a wilderness?”

  “Looking for an escaped bondman. One of my lord’s men had the blasted gall to run away, and his lordship sent me to get him back again.” Addaric couldn’t help letting his pride sound in his voice, that Lord Cadlomar had placed him in charge. “Have you seen any trace of him?”

  “I haven’t, at that.” Paran thought for a moment. “Now listen, lad. Before the day’s over, you’ll come to a forest, and a wild, huge one it is. Don’t go in there. I swear it to you: that forest is no place to go a-hunting anything down. If you honor me, then for the love of our gods, let the poor bastard be.”

  When he stared directly into Addaric’s eyes, the lad felt himself blushing and looked away.

  “I’ve got my orders from our lord,” he stammered.

  “Lords have been given cut-down versions of truth’s cloak before. Your bondman’s only going to die in that forest, anyway, so stay out of it.”

  Perhaps some of the gods agreed with Paran. The hunters had ridden only a scant couple of miles when the sky began churning with gray clouds and the wind brought a smell of damp in the air, but the rain did hold off till evening, and by then they were within sight of the forest. For some time they’d seen it on the horizon like a second bank of clouds; just as the sunset turned the sky blood-colored they came within clear sight of it. The meadowland bordering the river stopped abruptly in a tangle of shrubby growth; then the trees began, a dark wall, stretching out and back farther than any of them could see or guess. The men paused their horses in a little knob and simply stared at it for a long time.

  “I see what Paran meant,” Addaric said. “We’re going to have a hellish time in there.”

  “Are we turning back?” Matun, his closest friend in the warband, edged his horse up beside him.

  “What? And lie to your lord? I’d rather die than that.”

  Yet the forest was so silent, so dark under the scarlet sky, that he felt his battle-hardened nerves run just a little cold. His nerves grew on him, too, after they’d made camp. Since they needed meat for the dogs, Omillo took a short hunting bow and one of the pack and started toward the forest to track them a deer. Addaric went with him some ways across the meadow.

  “Be careful in there.”

  “What? And haven’t I been hunting in our lord’s service for a good twenty years now?”

  “I was just thinking of Paran’s warning. They say he knows wild country better than any man alive.”

  When Omillo walked into the trees, the forest seemed to cover him over like deep water. Addaric waited, pacing back and forth, until he returned, staggering under the weight of a three-month fawn while the dogs pranced around him and drooled in anticipation.

  They’d no sooner reached the fire when the rain came, pouring down and dousing them and the flames both in a matter of minutes. Cursing and swearing, Omillo had to hack the fawn up in the dark while the dogs crowded round and whined, and the other men swore at the wet night ahead of them and the meager meals, too—they’d been looking forward to the roast meat. Although Addaric wanted to set a watch, everyone grumbled, and since he was young and only a temporary commander at that, he gave in. Yet he himself slept so restlessly, dreaming of voices in the forest and things creeping through tangled undergrowth, that he woke some two hours before dawn.

  By then the rain had stopped, but he and his bedroll were soaked straight through. Since they’d all slept wet on many a campaign, the rest of the men were hunched up with their saddles over their heads and still asleep, but he got up, buckling his baldric over his shoulder and feeling the weight of the sword at his hip as a solid comfort. He walked away from the camp until he stood some twenty paces from the forest edge and thought of Grunno, somewhere in the ominous dark. He was probably so terrified that he’d be glad to go home and take his flogging.

  “You’ll never find him.”

  With a yelp Addaric spun round, but there was no one there. He heard l
aughter, then, coming from everywhere and nowhere, a woman’s mocking-sweet laugh.

  “You took a fawn from my woods. I’ll have a price for that. What will you give me?”

  “By the black ass of the Lord of Hell, show yourself, wench, and then maybe we’ll talk about bargaining.”

  “Let me warn you somewhat. If a price isn’t offered me, then I take what I want.”

  “Oh, will you now?” Addaric drew his sword. “Just try to steal from us.”

  She laughed again, a mocking ripple that blended with the riversound, grew loud, louder, until it seemed to ring in his head and deafen him.

  “Hold your tongue! Stop that! I said stop it!”

  The laughter died away. In the camp someone shouted. Matun and Omillo came running, swords in hand. But there was no one there, no woman, no speaker, only the wind, rising as the eastern sky began to turn gray. When Addaric told his story, everyone mocked and said he’d been having naught more than a nightmare. He felt the shame of their laughter burn his cheeks, and it ran through him and poisoned his stomach so badly that he couldn’t eat breakfast.

  The shame drove him into the forest, too, when the time came. Since there was no use in taking all five men to crash around and warn Grunno they were coming, Addaric left the others with the horses while he and Omillo took the two best hounds after their prey. As they walked across the last stretch of open land, Addaric felt a little coldness around his heart. He’d ridden to battle and never felt fear, but now the coldness tightened around his lungs and grew tendrils down into his stomach. For a moment he thought of turning back, but the shame of it forced him to walk into the silent darkness of the trees.

  “Here’s the deer track I found yesterday,” Omillo said. “We can follow it a-ways and hope the dogs pick the scent out of the air.”

  Out of his saddlebags Omillo got Grunno’s sack and let the hounds sniff it. For a moment they milled around, confused; then one of them growled and headed straight off down the path. Although Addaric tried to keep up with Omillo and the dogs, his baldric kept catching on the shrubs and bracken. Once they left the river behind, the path twisted through bush and bracken until Addaric had no idea where the open country lay. He felt things watching, eyes from among the ferns, eyes above him in the leaves, and he heard voices whispering in the rising wind. Once he thought he felt a hand grab his arm, but it was only the twiggy touch of a sapling. He drew his sword and cut the thing clear through.

  Ahead, as if at a signal, the hounds sang out and leapt forward. With a shout, Omillo darted after. Addaric tripped, swore, got up, and hurled himself after, but at that precise moment the rain broke again, pattering first on the canopy far above, then slashing down like so many spears made of water. The wind howled and shook the trees in a flurry of falling leaves.

  “Omillo! Hold a minute! I can’t see you.”

  He tripped again, or something tripped him. He felt a clutch at his ankles and went down, sprawling into the mucky-wet leaves on the deer trail. In the howl of the wind he was sure he heard laughter. Yelling for Omillo, he scrambled up, but the rain was sweeping through the woods in a gray curtain. Stumbling and swearing, he followed the path until he came to a fork. When he found not a trace of man or dog on either path, he had the grim thought that he’d expected no less. No matter which he took, it would be the wrong one. He was sure of that. For a long time he stood there, the rain drenching his clothes and running down the steel blade of his sword, simply stood and listened to his heart pound.

  “You won’t trap me so easy, wench.”

  Addaric turned and went back the way he’d come, but the rain had turned their tracks into mere mud and leaf-mold, and in the driving grayness one thin spot in the underbrush looked much like any other. Addaric knew he was lost not fifty yards after he started. He kept walking for want of anything else to do, used his sword to slash his way through bush and bracken alike for the sheer pleasure of venting his rage on the woods.

  It wasn’t only the rain that kept him company. He could feel eyes upon him, hear voices, and at times, he caught a glimpse of something moving out of the corner of his eye. Whenever he turned to look directly at this mysterious something, it would disappear. When the growling in his stomach told him it was well past noon, he sat down in the muck beneath a tree and choked back the tears that threatened to shame him.

  “I’ll just sit here. Curse it all, I should have done that in the first wretched place! Just sit here and let Omillo find me. He can give the dogs the scent from my saddle.”

  But the rain was washing the forest clean in a steady gray pour while the wind plucked at the leaves and sang of death by starving, death from cold, or perhaps even a worse death from the things that clustered round to mock him in the rustle of branch and leaf. All afternoon, as he sat there waiting, he saw them. In the water drops bright eyes gleamed, in the rough bark fingers pinched. Once, when he looked sharply to his left, he saw a tiny naked girl-child with a lizard hanging on her shoulder like a pet. Then she disappeared, if indeed anything had ever been there at all, and laughter rippled in the trees. Addaric gripped his sword hilt in both hands.

  “I won’t go mad. Even if I starve, I’ll die sane. It’s a battle, and curse you all to the hells, I’m going to win.”

  The voices snickered in disbelief.

  At sunset he struggled to his feet on aching legs and braced himself against the trunk. As the rain died away, the voices around him grew hushed, expectant. Clutching his sword like a talisman, Addaric waited with them in the damp dark. It wasn’t long before he saw a light moving among the trees, the distant, bobbing glow of a torch.

  “Omillo! Omillo! I’m over here!”

  “Oh, I know where you are, sure enough.” It was the woman’s voice that answered, full of her musical laughter.

  With barely a sound they slipped through the trees and underbrush to surround him, the woman slender and boyish in her short gray cloak, but beautiful with moonbeam pale hair and violet eyes. With her were three young men in buckskin tunics, all armed with bows. By the light of the torch she carried, Addaric could see the glittering points of nocked arrows.

  “I’ve come for the price of my fawn. What’s your name, lad?”

  “Addaric of Belglaedd.”

  “Addaric of Belglaedd? Addaric of Belglaedd, Addaric of Belglaedd.”

  All at once his head was swimming with a longing for sleep. As he leaned back against the tree, the weight of his sword seemed to pull his arm down of its own will.

  “You called me a wench, too. I’ll have repayment for that as well as the fawn. What will you offer me?”

  “I’d die before I gave you one cursed thing.”

  She set her hands on her hips and frowned. All at once he realized that the torch hung above her in the air and flowed with the bluish light of something other than fire.

  “You come to my woods hunting a man as if he were a deer. I shan’t have that. And then you kill without offering me dues. I shan’t have that, either. I’ll take you as my price for the fawn.”

  When the archers snickered, she waved them into silence. Addaric looked at the drawn bows and saw his death glittering on arrow points. With one last wrench of his will, he raised his sword, determined to drag her to the Otherlands with him.

  “Oh, you utter lout, I’m not talking of killing you. How strange that the gods would make such a pretty lad but not give him any wits! You’re coming with me, Addaric of Belglaedd, Addaric of Belglaedd, Addaric of Belglaedd.”

  Addaric tried to swing at her, but the sword fell from his hand as he crumpled into sleep. Dimly he was aware of being picked up, then carried a long way only to be laid down on something soft and warm. He heard her whispering his name three times again; then the sleep deepened to a welcome darkness that swallowed him whole.

  When he woke, he found himself lying naked in soft blankets, and around him was the dim glow of sunlight filtering through the walls of a round tent, about ten feet across, made of hides stitched toge
ther with thongs. Leather cushions lay scattered on the floor, and brightly colored bags hung from the tent poles. He sat up, rubbing his eyes, realizing that his muscles no longer ached. In a blinding glare of sunlight, the woman pushed open the tent flaps and came in, carrying a wooden bowl. Once the flaps closed again, he could see her better in the dim light, her pale hair, unbound to fall down her back in a spill of gold, her delicate face. Her eyes were oddly hidden, so much so that he couldn’t tell their color.

  “I’ve brought you somewhat to eat,” she announced.

  She handed him the bowl, then sat down facing him and studied him so curiously that he bundled the blanket firmly around his waist.

  “You people grow hair on your faces and on your chests. Fancy that.”

  Addaric had the annoying feeling that he was blushing. In the bowl he found a flat cake of some coarsely ground grain, smeared with wild honey, and slices of cold roast venison. While he ate, she clasped her arms around her knees and watched. She seemed younger than ever, a lass about his own age of nineteen, perhaps, and very pretty indeed.

  “I’ve told you my name. Won’t you tell me yours?”

  “I won’t, never. My people call me Melario. It means wood rose in their tongue. Or you may call me Briaclan, that means the same in yours.”

  When he finished the food, he handed her the bowl. With a smile of cold triumph she raised it high, then rose and with a ritual care set it outside the tent door. All at once he realized that he never should have eaten her food. Why, he wasn’t exactly sure, but he felt the sting of an old tale at his mind. Too late, now: still smiling she came back to stand over him.

  “And just what do you want with me?”

  “Oh, come now. What kind of a man are you, that you can’t guess?”

  Since he thought she was setting him a riddle, he honestly tried to think of an answer, but with a laugh she unclasped her belt, then pulled off her tunic. Naked she was so beautiful that he could think of nothing but her body, glowing softly as if her flesh captured sunlight. Then she lay down next to him on the blanket and kissed him on the mouth.