Wizards’ Worlds (10 page)

Nor was he unaware that there was still something dragging on him, trying to force
him to face about. That he battled with will and his sense of self-preservation, his
teeth set, a grimace of effort stiffening mouth and jaw.

One by one he pushed past the standing stones. As he went the way grew darker, the
weird light fading. And he was beginning to fear that he could no longer trust his
own sight. Twice he found himself off the road, making a detour around a pillar which
seemed to sprout before him—and thereby heading back the way he had come.

Thus he fought both the compulsion to return and the tricks of vision, learning to
fasten his attention on some point only a few steps ahead and wait until he had passed
that before he set another goal.

He came at last, the woman resting over his shoulder, into the clean night, the last
of the stones behind him. Now he was weak, so weary that he might have made a twenty-four-hour
march and fought a brisk skirmish at the end of it. He slipped to his knees, lowered
his burden to the surface of the Old Road where, in the open, the wind had scoured
the snow away.

There was no moon, the cloud cover was heavy. The woman was now only a dark bulk.
Trystan squatted on his heels, his hands dangling loose between his knees, and tried
to think coherently.

Of how he had come up here he had no memory at all.
He had gone to bed in the normal manner at the inn, first waking to danger when he
faced the crawling light in the hexagon. That he had also there fought a danger of
the old time he had no doubt at all. But what had drawn him there?

He remembered forcing open the inn window to look upslope. Had that simple curiosity
of his been the trigger for this adventure? But that the people of the inn could live
unconcerned so close to such a peril—he could hardly believe that. Or because they
had lived here so long, were the descendants of men rooted in Grimmerdale, had they
developed an immunity to dark forces?

But what had the thing or things in the hexagon said? That she who lay here had delivered
him to them. If so—why? Trystan hunched forward on his knees, twitched aside the edge
of the hood, stooping very close to look at her. But it was hard to distinguish more
than just the general outline of her features in this limited light.

Suddenly her body arched away from him. She screamed with such terror as startled
him and pushed against the road under her, her whole attitude one of such agony of
fear as held him motionless. Somehow she got to her feet. She had only screamed that
once, now he saw her arms move under the hindering folds of her cloak. The moon broke
in a thin sliver from under the curtain of the cloud, glinted on what she held in
her hand.

Steel swung in an arc for him. Trystan grappled with her before that blade bit into
his flesh. She was like a wild thing, twisting, thrusting, kicking, even biting as
she fought him. At length he handled her as harshly as he would a man, striking his
fist against the side of her chin so her body went limply once more to the road.

There was nothing to do but take her back to the inn. Had her experience in that nest
of standing stones affected her brain, turning all about her into enemies? Resigned,
he ripped a strip from the hem of her cloak, tied her hands together. Then he got
her up so she lay on his back, breathing shallowly, inert. So carrying her he slipped
and
slid, pushed with difficulty through the scrub to the valley below and the inn.

What the hour might be he did not know, but there was a night lantern burning above
the door, which swung open at his push. He staggered over to the fireplace, dropped
his burden by the hearth, and reached for wood to build up the blaze, wanting nothing
now so much as to be warm again.

Hertha’s head hurt. The pain seemed to be in the side of her face. She opened her
eyes. There was a dim light, but not that wan blue. No, this was flame glow. Someone
hunched at the hearth setting wood lengths with expert skill to rebuild the fire.
Already there was warmth her body welcomed. She tried to sit up. Only to discover
that her wrists were clumsily bound together. Then she tensed, chilled by fear, watching
intently him who nursed the fire.

His head was turned from her, she could not see his face, but she had no doubts that
it was Trystan. And her last memory—him looming above her, hands outstretched—To take
her again as he had that other time! Revulsion sickened her so that she swallowed
hurriedly lest she spew openly on the floor. Cautiously she looked around. This was
the large room of the inn, he must have carried her back. That he might take his pleasure
in a better place than the icy cold of the Old Road? But if he tried that she could
scream, fight—surely someone would come—

He looked to her now, watching her so intently that she felt he read easily every
one of her confused thoughts.

“I shall kill you,” she said distinctly.

“As you tried to do?” He asked that not as if it greatly mattered, but as if he merely
wondered.

“Next time I shall not turn aside!”

He laughed. And with that laughter for an instant he seemed another man, one younger,
less hardened by time and deeds. “You did not turn aside this time, mistress, I had
a hand in the matter.” Then that half smile which had
come with the laughter faded, and he regarded her with narrowed eyes, his mouth tight
set lip to lip.

Hertha refused to allow him to daunt her and glared back. Then he said:

“Or are you speaking of something else, mistress? Something which happened before
you drew steel on me? Was that—that
thing
right? Did I march to its lair by your doing?”

Somehow she must have given away the truth by some fraction of change he read in her
face. He leaned forward and gripped her by the shoulders, dragging her closer to him
in spite of her struggles, holding her so they were squarely eye to eye.

“Why? By the Sword Hand of Karther the Fair, why? What did I ever do to you, girl,
to make you want to push me into that maw? Or would any man have sufficed to feed
those pets? Are they your pets or your masters? Above all, how comes humankind to
deal with
them?
And if you so deal, why did you break their spell to aid me? Why, and why, and why!”

He shook her, first gently, and then, with each question, more harshly, so that her
head bobbed on her shoulders and she was weak in his hands. Then he seemed to realize
that she could not answer him, so he held her tight as if he must read the truth in
her eyes as well as hear it from her lips.

“I have no kinsman willing to call you to a sword reckoning,” she told him wearily.
“Therefore I must deal as best I can. I sought those who might have justice—”

“Justice! Then I was not just a random choice for some purpose of theirs! Yet I swear
by the Nine Words of Min, I have never looked upon your face before. Did I in some
battle slay close kin—father, brother, lover? But how may that be? Those I fought
were the invaders. They had no women save those they rift from the dales. And would
any daleswoman extract vengeance for one who was her
master-by-force? Or is it that, girl? Did they take you and then you found a lord
to your liking among them, forgetting your own blood?”

If she could have she would have spat full in his face for that insult. And he must
have read her anger quickly.

“So that is not it. Then why? I am no ruffler who goes about picking quarrels with
comrades. Nor have I ever taken any woman who came not to me willingly—”

“No?” She found speech at last, in a hot rush of words. “So you take no woman unwillingly,
brave hero? What of three months since on the road to Lethendale? Is it such a usual
course of action with you that it can be so lightly put out of mind?”

Angry and fearful though she was, she could see in his expression genuine surprise.

“Lethendale?” he repeated. “Three months since? Girl, I have never been that far north.
As to three months ago—I was Marshal of Forces for Lord Ingrim before he fell at the
siege of the port.”

He spoke so earnestly that she could almost have believed him, had not that bowguard
on his wrist proved him false.

“You lie! Yes, you may not know my face. It was in darkness you took me, having overrun
the invaders who had taken me captive. My brother’s men were all slain. For me they
had other plans. But when aid came, then still I was for the taking—as you proved,
Marshal!” She made of that a name to be hissed.

“I tell you, I was at the port!” He had released her and she backed against the settle,
leaving a good space between them.

“You would swear before a Truth Stone it was me? You know my face, then?”

“I would swear, yes. As for your face—I do not need that. It was in the dark you had
your will of me. But there is one proof I carry ever in my mind since that time.”

He raised his hand, rubbing fingers along the old scar
on his chin, the fire gleamed on the bowguard. That did not match the plainness of
his clothing, how could anyone forget seeing it?

“That proof being?”

“You wear it on your wrist, in plain sight. Just as I saw it then, ravisher—your bowguard!”

He held his wrist out, studying the band. “Bowguard! So that is your proof, that made
you somehow send me to the Toads.” He was half smiling again, but this time cruelly
and with no amusement. “You did send me there, did you not?” He reached forward and
before she could dodge pulled the hood fully from her head, stared at her.

“What have you done with the toad-face, girl? Was that some trick of paint, or some
magicking you laid on yourself? Much you must have wanted me to so despoil your own
seeming to carry through your plan.”

She raised her bound hands, touched her cheeks with cold fingers. This time there
was no mirror, but if he said the loathsome spotting was gone, then it must be so.

“They did it—” she said, only half comprehending. She had pictured this meeting many
times, imagined him saying this or that. He must be very hardened in such matters
to hold to this pose of half-amused interest.

“They? You mean the Toads? But now tell me why, having so neatly put me in their power,
you were willing to risk your life in my behalf? That I cannot understand. For it
seems to me that to traffic with such as abide up that hill is a fearsome thing and
one which only the desperate would do. Such desperation is not lightly turned aside—so—why
did you save me, girl?”

She answered with the truth. “I do not know. Perhaps because the hurt being mine,
the payment should also be mine—that, a little, I think. But even more—”
She paused so long he prodded her.

“But even more, girl?”

“I could not in the end leave even such a man as you to
them!
”

“Very well, that I can accept. Hate and fear and despair can drive us all to bargains
we repent of later. You made one and then found you were too human to carry it through.
Then later on the road you chose to try with honest steel and your own hand—”

“You—you would have taken me—again!” Hertha forced out the words. But the heat in
her cheeks came not from the fire but from the old shame eating her.

“So that’s what you thought? Perhaps, given the memories you carry, it was natural
enough.” Trystan nodded. “But now it is your turn to listen to me, girl. Item first:
I have never been to Lethendale, three months ago, three years ago—never! Second:
this which you have come to judge me on,” he held the wrist closer, using the fingers
of his other hand to tap upon it, “I did not have three months ago. When the invaders
were close pent in the port during the last siege, we had many levies from the outlands
come to join us. They had mopped up such raiding bands as had been caught out of there
when we moved in to besiege.

“A siege is mainly a time of idleness, and idle men amuse themselves in various ways.
We had only to see that the enemy did not break out along the shores while we waited
for the coasting ships from Handelsburg and Vennesport to arrive to harry them from
the sea. There were many games of chance played during that waiting. And, though I
am supposed by most to be a cautious man, little given to such amusements, I was willing
to risk a throw now and then.

“This I so won. He who staked it was like Urre, son to some dead lord, with naught
but ruins and a lost home to return to if and when the war ended. Two days later he
was killed in one of the sorties the invaders now and then made. He had begged me
to hold this so that when luck ran again in his way he might buy it back, for it was
one of the treasures of his family. In the fighting I discovered it was not only decorative
but useful. Since he could not redeem
it, being dead, I kept it—to my disfavor it would seem. As for the boy, I do not
even know his name—for they called him by some nickname. He was befuddled with drink
half the time, being one of the walking dead—”

“ ‘Walking dead’?” His story carried conviction, not only his words but his tone,
and the straight way he told it.

“That is what I call them. High Hallack has them in many—some are youngsters, such
as Urre, the owner of this,” again he smoothed the guard. “Others are old enough to
be their fathers. The dales have been swept with fire and sword. Those which were
not invaded have been bled of their men, of their crops—to feed both armies. This
is a land which can now go two ways. It can sink into nothingness from exhaustion,
or there can rise new leaders to restore and with will and courage build again.”

It seemed to Hertha that he no longer spoke to her, but rather voiced his own thoughts.
As for her, there was a kind of emptiness within, as if something she carried had
been rift from her. That thought sent her bound hands protectively to her belly.

The child within her—who had been its father? One of the lost ones, some boy who had
had all taken from him and so became a dead man with no hope in the future, one without
any curb upon his appetites. Doubtless he had lived for the day only, taken ruthlessly
all offered during that short day. Thinking so, she again sensed that queer light
feeling. She had not lost the child, this child which Gunnora promised would be hers
alone. What she had lost was the driving need for justice which had brought her to
Grimmerdale—to traffic with the Toads.