Wizards’ Worlds (32 page)

Seeing him so brought a picture into Tursla’s mind: that of Affric unsure of foot
as if he had been caught in some snare, stumbling and falling, falling against one
of the upright pillars which bore Volt’s own face deep carven. Her wish—dream! Had
that indeed left Affric like this?

If so, she had not done all that she had wished. For between two of Affric’s followers
was the stranger she had seen mounted on the road, the one Mafra had named Simond.

His helm was gone, so his fair hair, near as bleached as her own, shown in the torch
light. But his head rolled limply forward on his breast. It was plain his legs would
not support him and he had to be kept on his feet by the help of his guards. There
was a matting of blood in his hair.

“Done!” Unnanna’s voice rang out silencing the murmurs of those gathered there, producing
a quiet through which the sounds of the marsh life without could be heard. “Done,
well done! Here is that which shall give us new life! Did I not say it? Into our hands
has Volt brought this one that we may drink of his strength and—”

Tursla did not know if she had made some signal but
the guards suddenly released their hold upon Simond and he fell forward. There must
have remained some spark of awareness in him, for he put out his hands, though he
was on his knees, to catch at the edge of the step on which the chair stood. Now he
raised his head by visible effort and lurched forward and up, for he grasped at the
chair itself, and dragged himself to his feet.

The girl could not see his face. Without knowing she had done so, she broke from Mafra’s
side and edged along, pushing by others, seeing none of them, coming closer to where
the captive stood.

“What do you want of me?” he asked as he edged around, so that he half faced the Torfolk.

Affric took a step forward and spat. His mouth was a vicious slit.

“Half-blood! We want from you what you have no right to—that part which is of Tormarsh!”

There was a sound like the far-off squall of a wak-lizard. Unnanna laughed.

“They are right, half-blood. You are part of Tor. Let that part now give us what we
need.” Her tongue curled over her lower lip, swept from side to side as if she licked
moss-honey and savored the sweetness of that delicacy.

“We need life,” she leaned closer to the arm of the chair where Simond still had his
hand, using that hold to support him. “Blood is life, half-breed. By Volt’s word we
dare not take it from our own kind, and we cannot take from one who is full outlander,
for between the twain of us there is no common heritage. You are neither one nor the
other; therefore you are ripe for our purpose.”

“You know of what House I am.” Simond held his head high and now his eyes caught the
Clan Mother’s in a compelling stare. “I am the son of he who took Volt’s axe—by Volt’s
own wishing. Do you think then that Volt will look with approval on the fate you would
give me?”

“Where is the axe now?” Unnanna demanded. “Yes, Koris of Gorm took it; but is it not
now gone from him?
Volt’s favor follows the axe. With it destroyed, he has lost interest in you.”

The murmur which had begun at Simond’s words died away. Tursla pushed closer. She
had done as Mafra had urged, laid her mind open to whatever power lay in her. But
she felt no swelling of force, no new warmth within. How then could she stop this
thing which was of dark evil and which would indeed bring an end to the Torfolk?

“Take him—” Unnanna was on her feet, her arms spread wide. In her pale face there
was exultation.

Tursla moved. Those about her were so intent upon the scene before them that they
were not aware of her until she was through their line and had shoved past one of
Affric’s followers to reach Simond. Once there she stationed herself before him, facing
the man moving in to obey Unnanna’s order.

“Touch me if you dare,” she said. “I am one Filled. And this one I take under my protection.”

The nearest man had raised his hands to sweep her aside. Now he stood as rooted as
one of the dead trees, while those behind him retreated a step or two. Unnanna leaned
closer from her perch upon the chair.

“Take him!” She lifted her hand as if to strike Tursla in the face, so drive her away.
The girl did not flinch.

“I am one Filled,” she repeated.

The Clan Mother’s face twisted with stark rage. “Stand aside,” she hissed as might
one of the pallid vipers of the deep muck. “In Volt’s name, I order, stand aside!
And if you are truly Filled—”

“Ask it of Mafra!” challenged the girl. “She has said it—”

“Shall it be needful then—” Mafra’s voice rang out from the gathering of the Torfolk,
“for a Clan Mother to state this again? Do you aver that on such a thing there can
be a false swearing, Unnanna?”

The crowd stirred, fell away to form a lane. Along that Mafra advanced. She did not
totter now, but walked as
firmly as if she could indeed see what lay before her, bumping into no one, but keeping
straight course down that open way until she, too, came to stand before the chair
of Volt.

“You take much upon you, Unnanna, very much.”

“You take more!” Unnanna shrilled. “Yes, once you sat here and spoke for Volt, but
that day is past. Rule your own clan house as you may until the messenger of Volt
comes to call you. But do not try to speak for all in this time.”

“I say no more than is my right, Unnanna. If I say this house daughter is Filled,
then do you deny it?”

Unnanna’s mouth worked. “It is your word before Volt, then? You take on you much in
that, Mafra. This one came not to the moon dancing—who then filled her?”

“Unnanna—” Mafra raised her right hand. Her fingers moved in the air as if gathering
threads of mist and rolling them into a ball. In the silence which now fell between
them, she made a tossing motion, as if what she had pulled out of invisibility had
indeed substance. Unnanna shrank back until her shoulders touched the high back of
the chair.

Suddenly she flung both hands up before her face. From behind that slight defense
she sputtered words which had no meaning as far as Tursla was concerned. But that
Unnanna was, for the moment, at bay, the girl understood. Turning a little she caught
at Simond’s arm which was closest to her.

“Come!” she ordered.

Whether they could win from Volt’s Hall, and if so what she might do then, Tursla
had no idea. For the moment all she could think of was to get away from this place
where only the slender thread spun by custom had so far protected her.

She did not even look to Simond. But he apparently yielded to her urging, for when
she stepped away from Volt’s chair he did in truth come with her. Hoping that he
would continue to be able to stay on his feet, Tursla led him forward.

Affric moved into their path. His good arm raised, he balanced a short stabbing spear.
Tursla met his gaze squarely and moved closer to Simond. She said no word but her
intention was plain. Any attack upon the stranger would be met by her. To raise a
weapon against a Filled One—Affric snarled, but he gave way when she did not, just
as those others made a path for her, even as they had for Mafra.

Somehow they reached the outer wards of the Hall. Tursla was breathing as fast as
if she had run all the way. Where now—? They could not return to the clan houses.
Not even Mafra could hold back the weight of outraged custom long enough for Simond
to escape. And the trails out from here would be speedily covered.

The trail to the pool, the sea! That flashed into her mind even as if some voice out
of the mist had reminded her. For the first time she spoke to her companion:

“We dare not stay here. I do not think even Mafra can long hold Unnanna. We must go
on. Can you do it?”

She had noted that he staggered though he kept his feet. Now she could only hope.

“Lady—by the Death of the Kolder—I shall try!”

So they went into the boiling of that strange, heavy mist. She could not even see
beyond the length of an outheld hand before her. This was the strongest folly. If
they missed the road, the step-tussocks farther on, the marsh itself might claim them
and no one would ever know how they passed.

Still she walked, and brought him with her. After a space they went side by side,
as she drew his arm about her shoulders, took a measure of his weight. He muttered
now and then—broken words without any meaning.

They were well away from the clan-house isle when once again the deep-throated alarm
trumpet of the Torfolk aroused echoes across the marsh. Now they could expect
pursuit. Would this mist which enclosed them work as well to delay the hunters? She
feared because such as Affric knew the outer ways of the Tormarsh far better than
she.

On and on, Tursla fought a desire to hurry. For he whom she now half supported could
never step up the pace. The surface of the road was still under them. She was, she
realized, trusting in an inner guide which was an instinct and something she had never
called upon before. Unless it was that same feeling of rightness which had led her
this way when she had met Xactol under the moon. Always she listened, after the echoes
of the alarm died away, for any sounds which might mean they were closely followed.

There were ploppings from swamp sloughs where small creatures, disturbed by their
passing, leapt into hiding; and the hoarse cries and calls of other life. They did
not move out of the mist, nor did that grow any thinner.

Time lost any measurement. From one moment to the next Tursla could only hope that
they were still well ahead of any pursuers. That she had been proclaimed Filled would
save her, for a space, until her false claims would be proven. But she could not hope
to protect Simond.

Why did she risk all for this stranger? Tursla could not have answered that. But when
she had seen him in that vision which had visited her in Volt’s Hall she had known
that, in some way, they were linked. It was as if some geas of power had been laid
upon her; there was no avoiding what must be done.

They were nearly to the end of the pavement now. Though she could see nothing, the
girl could sense that in an odd way as if the knowledge came to her by a talent which
had nothing to do with sight, hearing, or touch. She halted and spoke sharply to her
companion, striving to bring him, by the very force of her will, out of the daze of
mind in which he walked.

“Simond!” Names had power; the use of his might well awaken him to reality. “Simond!”

His head raised, turned a little so he could eye her. Like the Tormarsh men he was
of a height such that they could see each other on a level. His mouth hung a little
open; there was a runnel of blood from one temple clotting on his cheek. But in his
eyes there was also the look of intelligence.

“We must take to the swamp itself here.” She spoke slowly, pausing between words as
one might do with a small child or a person gravely ill. “I cannot hold you—”

He closed his mouth and his jaw line finned. Then he tried to nod, winced, and his
eyes blinked in pain.

“What I can do—that I shall,” he promised.

She looked on into the mist. Folly to venture so blindly. But this mist might lie
for hours. With the Torfolk aroused they had no hours; they might not even have more
than the space of a dozen breaths. She had as yet heard no sounds of pursuit, for
Torfolk were wily and had learned long since to move with practiced silence through
their territory.

“You must come directly behind me,” Tursla bit her lip. That they could do this at
all she was dubious. But there was no other choice.

He drew himself straight. “Go—I’ll follow,” he told her quietly.

With a last glance at him the girl stepped out into the mist. That inner guide had
led her aright; her foot came down on the firmness of the hassocks he could not see.
She went slowly, lingering before she took each step to make that he saw her, though
for him this blind journey must be much worse, for he did not have the same certainty
which was hers.

Step by step she wove a way, trying hard to remember how long this most perilous part
of their flight must last. Still he did not call to her, and each time she turned
her head she could see him well upright, safely balanced on a foothold.

Then she stumbled out on firm ground, the tenseness of her body leading to pain in
her back and shoulders, a warning tremble in her legs. This was, at last, that island
like a finger which marked the last part of the way to the pool. With her feet firmly
planted she waited once more for him to draw close to her. When he gained that solid
stretch of land he fell to his knees and his body swayed from side to side. Swiftly
she knelt beside him, steadied him.

There was the sheen of sweat across his face and the clotting blood melted under that.
He breathed heavily through his mouth, and his eyes, when he looked at her, were dull.
He frowned as if she were difficult to see and he must expend much effort to hold
her within his range of vision.

“I—am—near—done—Lady—” he gasped, word by painful word.

“There is no more. From here the footing is good. It is only a little way.”

His mouth stretched in a stark shadow of a smile. “I can—crawl—if—it—not—be—too far—”

“You can walk!” she said firmly. Rising, she stooped and locked both her hands under
his nearer armpit. Exerting the full of her remaining strength, Tursla indeed brought
him to his feet. Then, pulling his arm once more about her shoulders, she led him
on, until they were on the rocks above the silent pool encircled in sand.

Her hands fumbled first with the fastenings of her robe. She moved now in answer to
her knowledge of what must be done. The answer slipped into her mind as the maker
of dye might measure and add a handful of this, a counter of that, while intent on
boiling some fire-cradled mixture. There was custom to be faced here also. Only by
a certain ritual might that which she must summon be approached.