The Witch and Warlock MEGAPACK ®: 25 Tales of Magic-Users

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  “I am a stranger in this land, as you know,” said she at length. “Whence I come it matters not; but I have left those behind me with whom my fate was intimately bound, and from whom I am cut off forever. There is a weight in my bosom that I cannot away with, and I have come hither to inquire of their welfare.”

  “And who is there by this green pool that can bring thee news from the ends of the earth?” cried the old woman, peering into the lady’s face. “Not from my lips mayst thou hear these tidings; yet, be thou bold, and the daylight shall not pass away from yonder hill-top before thy wish be granted.”

  “I will do your bidding though I die,” replied the lady desperately.

  The old woman seated herself on the trunk of the fallen tree, threw aside the hood that shrouded her gray locks, and beckoned her companion to draw near.

  “Kneel down,” she said, “and lay your forehead on my knees.”

  She hesitated a moment, but the anxiety that had long been kindling burned fiercely up within her. As she knelt down, the border of her garment was dipped into the pool; she laid her forehead on the old woman’s knees, and the latter drew a cloak about the lady’s face, so that she was in darkness. Then she heard the muttered words of prayer, in the midst of which she started, and would have arisen.

  “Let me flee,—let me flee and hide myself, that they may not look upon me!” she cried. But, with returning recollection, she hushed herself, and was still as death.

  For it seemed as if other voices—familiar in infancy, and unforgotten through many wanderings, and in all the vicissitudes of her heart and fortune—were mingling with the accents of the prayer. At first the words were faint and indistinct, not rendered so by distance, but rather resembling the dim pages of a book which we strive to read by an imperfect and gradually brightening light. In such a manner, as the prayer proceeded, did those voices strengthen upon the ear; till at length the petition ended, and the conversation of an aged man, and of a woman broken and decayed like himself, became distinctly audible to the lady as she knelt. But those strangers appeared not to stand in the hollow depth between the three hills. Their voices were encompassed and reechoed by the walls of a chamber, the windows of which were rattling in the breeze; the regular vibration of a clock, the crackling of a fire, and the tinkling of the embers as they fell among the ashes, rendered the scene almost as vivid as if painted to the eye. By a melancholy hearth sat these two old people, the man calmly despondent, the woman querulous and tearful, and their words were all of sorrow. They spoke of a daughter, a wanderer they knew not where, bearing dishonor along with her, and leaving shame and affliction to bring their gray heads to the grave. They alluded also to other and more recent woe, but in the midst of their talk their voices seemed to melt into the sound of the wind sweeping mournfully among the autumn leaves; and when the lady lifted her eyes, there was she kneeling in the hollow between three hills.

  “A weary and lonesome time yonder old couple have of it,” remarked the old woman, smiling in the lady’s face.

  “And did you also hear them?” exclaimed she, a sense of intolerable humiliation triumphing over her agony and fear.

  “Yea; and we have yet more to hear,” replied the old woman. “Wherefore, cover thy face quickly.”

  Again the withered hag poured forth the monotonous words of a prayer that was not meant to be acceptable in heaven; and soon, in the pauses of her breath, strange murmurings began to thicken, gradually increasing so as to drown and overpower the charm by which they grew. Shrieks pierced through the obscurity of sound, and were succeeded by the singing of sweet female voices, which, in their turn, gave way to a wild roar of laughter, broken suddenly by groanings and sobs, forming altogether a ghastly confusion of terror and mourning and mirth. Chains were rattling, fierce and stern voices uttered threats, and the scourge resounded at their command. All these noises deepened and became substantial to the listener’s ear, till she could distinguish every soft and dreamy accent of the love songs that died causelessly into funeral hymns. She shuddered at the unprovoked wrath which blazed up like the spontaneous kindling of flames and she grew faint at the fearful merriment raging miserably around her. In the midst of this wild scene, where unbound passions jostled each other in a drunken career, there was one solemn voice of a man, and a manly and melodious voice it might once have been. He went to and fro continually, and his feet sounded upon the floor. In each member of that frenzied company, whose own burning thoughts had become their exclusive world, he sought an auditor for the story of his individual wrong, and interpreted their laughter and tears as his reward of scorn or pity. He spoke of woman’s perfidy, of a wife who had broken her holiest vows, of a home and heart made desolate. Even as he went on, the shout, the laugh, the shriek the sob, rose up in unison, till they changed into the hollow, fitful, and uneven sound of the wind, as it fought among the pine-trees on those three lonely hills. The lady looked up, and there was the withered woman smiling in her face.

  “Couldst thou have thought there were such merry times in a madhouse?” inquired the latter.

  “True, true,” said the lady to herself; “there is mirth within its walls, but misery, misery without.”

  “Wouldst thou hear more?” demanded the old woman.

  “There is one other voice I would fain listen to again,” replied the lady, faintly.

  “Then, lay down thy head speedily upon my knees, that thou mayst get thee hence before the hour be past.”

  The golden skirts of day were yet lingering upon the hills, but deep shades obscured the hollow and the pool, as if sombre night were rising thence to overspread the world. Again that evil woman began to weave her spell. Long did it proceed unanswered, till the knolling of a bell stole in among the intervals of her words, like a clang that had travelled far over valley and rising ground, and was just ready to die in the air. The lady shook upon her companion’s knees as she heard that boding sound. Stronger it grew and sadder, and deepened into the tone of a death bell, knolling dolefully from some ivy-mantled tower, and bearing tidings of mortality and woe to the cottage, to the hall, and to the solitary wayfarer that all might weep for the doom appointed in turn to them. Then came a measured tread, passing slowly, slowly on, as of mourners with a coffin, their garments trailing on the ground, so that the ear could measure the length of their melancholy array. Before them went the priest, reading the burial service, while the leaves of his book were rustling in the breeze. And though no voice but his was heard to speak aloud, still there were revilings and anathemas, whispered but distinct, from women and from men, breathed against the daughter who had wrung the aged hearts of her parents,—the wife who had betrayed the trusting fondness of her husband,—the mother who had sinned against natural affection, and left her child to die. The sweeping sound of the funeral train faded away like a thin vapor, and the wind, that just before had seemed to shake the coffin pall, moaned sadly round the verge of the Hollow between three Hills. But when the old woman stirred the kneeling lady, she lifted not her head.

  “Here has been a sweet hour’s sport!” said the withered crone, chuckling to herself.

  SMALL MAGIC, by Janet Fox

  Old Ive’s eyes darted nervously around the room as he entered. He had passed through ruined corridors where the webs of spiders trembled in the cold wind and vermin darted into crevices and crannies in the fallen stone where they had their nests. This inner chamber had all its walls intact; the flags of the floor were clean-swept and a modest fire burned on the hearth. One wall bore a tapestry in faded purple and gold—the hunt of the unicorn, though the edges were raveled and frayed.

  He was a wizened old peasant with a sundark skin and a closed and suspicious expression. His first sight of the wisewoman had surprised him. He had known she was not old, but on first appearance she had seemed a mere girl with her hair loosely woven into a single plait, an odd, pale brown that in the firelight s
eemed the color of ashes, a loose gown of dun cloth making her body seem fragile and undeveloped. Yet now as the wisewoman faced him, standing in the firelight, he could not have called her a girl. Her eyes were a penetrating clear dark gray and the form beneath the gown had a tense vigor even in repose.

  “They said…you were a weaver of spells,” he said in a peevish rusty-gate voice as he continued looking her over with a surreptitious sidelong gaze.

  Graye grew a trifle irritated with the old fool, and there was a muted thumping sound so that Old Ive looked frantically toward the door. “Soldiers,” he said, in a strained voice.

  “No.” Graye smiled, an old joke with herself.

  “Are you sure? The villagers have talked of naught for a month but the slaughter at TorCaerme, and they said the rebels were being harried in this direction by Lutin’s men.

  “Not soldiers—not this time,” said the witch remembering idly when the armies of Prince Lutin had come through, reducing this place to the ruin it now was, killing all the male defenders including a father, a brother and two uncles. She had been taken to a hunting lodge in the hills with Aunt Maev, the fey one. There was only the memory, most of it at second hand for she had been young, not much pain, like an old scar, long-healed that one touches, from time to time in reassurance that it’s still there. She realized that she had been staring blankly at Old Ive and forced herself to return to the present moment.

  “They say you have Power,” he was saying. He scrabbled among the folds of his grimy surcoat and slowly drew out a coin, thin and polished by much handling. He had Graye’s interest, for the moment. Most of the villagers paid in baskets of grain or shoats. “I got me an enemy, lives next to me down past Runningwater. He’s been a thorn in my side for years. Claims my fence is built over on his land. I want a curse on him, you know how to do it, a sickness…or maybe a fire.” His pouched old face dwelt on the delicious possibilities.

  The rapping began again, this time in the stones of the wall, mortar beginning to sift down in fine streams. Ive was lost in his hate and did not seem to notice.

  “No, I can curse no one. My magic is small and peaceful. Herb teas, fortunes sometimes, unbinding.”

  “That,” said the old man, spitting the word like a wad of phlegm, “is no magic at all.” His eyes narrowed, filled with an ignorant malice. “So they were wrong about the Power. You’re just a woman—like any woman.” He stood there silently a moment as his slow mind dredged up other possibilities. He took a step toward her.

  As he did, the tapping began again and objects on the table beside them began a sympathetic vibration. Graye pointed to the table, her eyes blank with concentration. A clay jar began to move, very slowly, as if it were something ponderous, inching its way across the scarred wood. Old Ive watched it with slack mouth and when it reached the edge and fell to shatter on the stones, he turned and scuttled away, calling querulously on the old gods to defend him. Graye looked down the drafty corridor to be sure that he had gone, then returned to her antique high-backed chair by the chimney corner and sank down exhaustedly. Aunt Maev had talked about this or that member of the family having the Power, as if they could change the course of rivers or move mighty mountains, but what had she done here—put to flight a poor ignorant peasant—what a use for the Power. She wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry about it, so she only sat there for some moments, holding her aching head in her hands.

  Not many days later she was bringing some dried herbs into the village for barter when she noticed that few villagers were about, the cottages silent and closed in upon themselves. Crossing the square, silent and patterned in sunlight and shadow, she saw a village woman who had once come to her for a tonic.

  “Goodwife, what is troubling this place?”

  “Soldiers have been seen, the broken army of the one they called the Wolf of TorCaerme. The Prince is on his heels so both armies may pass this way, and since Branwynhouse is destroyed we have no protection. Perhaps you, with your Power—”

  Graye smiled wryly. Didn’t the woman know that if the village were invaded their wisewoman could only run and hide with the rest. “I’ll do my best,” she said ironically and was surprised to see that the woman looked somewhat reassured.

  As she walked home under the burden of her sack of meal, she felt a sense of unease as she approached her dwelling. All was quiet, the jagged and fallen stones lightly furred with green moss, frost-touched creepers growing around and through the crumbling walls. She saw the archer out of the corner of her eye, just as he fired. If she had not seen him—

  The arrow veered in midflight, swept past her with a hollow whistling. She heard the man curse at the miss, and she tried to mindgrip a stone at his feet and send it hurtling up at him, but her anger had made her over-reach herself and she only ended up with an agonizing headache, saw-toothed jags of silver moving on the edges of her vision.

  He cursed again, stepping out into the open, approaching her without fear. “I could not see you well,” he said breathlessly. “I fired not knowing you were a maid; thank the gods you were not killed.” He was dressed roughly in a leather shirt topped with light mail. His clothing was grimy as if he’d traveled a long way, but beneath the armor and the grime, he seemed not much more than a boy, loose-jointed and coltish, the thin frizz of a blond beard on his jaws. “I’m scouting for Kyrellin; this is the house of the Brothers Branwyn, is it not?” He spoke gravely, with an authority he didn’t quite yet command, as if war were a game he played at.

  “It was. Now it’s mine. What’s left of it.”

  “I’ll need food,” he said. “I’ve ridden all day.”

  Having recovered from her headache, she led the way inside. The scout rummaged around, helping himself to some bread and apples, wolfing it all down, then looking around for more. Infected for the moment by his enthusiasm she helped him, finding a chunk of salt-meat she’d put away for lean times. “How did you know this was Branwyn?” she asked, amazed at his appetite.

  He paused as he fed wood profligately into her fire, making a huge blaze. “Kyrellin is of a branch of that family; he thought to find allies here against the Prince. They are all gone, then?”

  “All but me. He will find no allies here. Perhaps he should travel to the south. He might reach the mountains and—”

  The young soldier grinned lazily. “Perhaps the Wolf of TorCaerme will want to hear the advice of an addle-headed wench.” But he seemed very sleepy now that he had eaten, and he was almost dozing in her chair, with a satisfied look as if thinking that he had made a very successful invasion. It was too bad, thought Graye, that he couldn’t rest after his long ride, but she needed a messenger herself.

  The rapping sounds along the walls began, letting her know that her Power was returning a little. The soldier’s eyes came open suddenly, and he saw her gesture toward the fire, and as if on command, it was leaping at him, showering him with sparks. He jumpd up, slapping at his clothing, backing away from her.

  “Tell your commander that there is no aid for him here, and that he will find no kinsmen, only enemies.” She had not finished speaking when the soldier gripped the door, crying out when he felt its thumping vibration and thrust himself through it.

  “And if he does come here I’ll—” She waited a moment to be sure he was gone before continuing. “I’ll frighten him with noises and with tricks to scare children,” she said, breaking into laughter that she had to admit was a trifle hysterical.

  * * * *

  She had thought the waiting was bad, but when she saw mounted men appear through the trees, she wished for a twelvemonth of the waiting. She let fall the bucket back into the cistern with a hollow echoing splash that complemented the hollowness she felt inside.

  The lead rider’s horse stumbled as they reached the summit of her hill, then it groaned and sank down under him, lathered sides pumping. With a low
oath the rider extricated himself from the tangled stirrups, drew a knife he carried at his belt and cut the beast’s throat. Though it may have been a kindness, the distracted look of anger on his face made it seem more a revenge. What he looked like Graye couldn’t tell because of the helmet, the beard and the grime, but she heard one of the others call him Kyrellin.

  Having approached them silently and now only standing quietly among twilight’s ballooning shadows, she managed to give the impression of almost, a materialization. There was a babble of perturbation, a few muttered curses, excited horses jerked their heads, caromed off each other. Kyrellin glanced up and then as if trying for effect himself, wiped the knife on the tail of a shirt so filthy it could not be further soiled. She saw that his hands were still stickily red between the fingers.

  “She’s the one young Olin spoke of,” said one of the soldiers. “He called this a witch-house and said he feared to come back here.”

  Kyrellin shot him a look that silenced him. The others began to calm their mounts and to unsaddle and tend them in embarrassed silence. “Olin lives up to his name,” said Kyrellin. “Young…and untried.” His voice was silken and soothing, a tone Graye did not like—the purr of a tiger. He removed his helmet as he looked at the ruin of the great dwelling and Graye remembered her aunt referring to “that hawk-nosed Kharis branch of the family.” A puckered scar was aslant his right cheek and brought the corner of his lip up in a permanent sneer.

  “My father spoke of this place. A house to stand against storms, he called it. I had hoped—” He seemed to come back to himself and glared at her angrily as if she had been spying on his inmost thoughts. “Is there no man in charge of the house?”

  “As I told you, all died.”

  “Then perhaps that is why you neglect your duty and allow a kinsman to stand outside in the cold air. A man is needed to set the house to rights and I need a place to quarter my officers while we regroup and plan strategy.”As he spoke he was entering without bothering to wait for her invitation, which never came in any case.