Wizards’ Worlds (59 page)

“Trap!” The word sprang into her mind with the force of a blow.

That howl sounded again from the distance. Thra listened. This quarrel was none of
hers. Farne, a were, was an enemy to her kind. That he had not harmed her—had offered
the gesture of guesting rights—what difference did that make now? One sword against
a hound pack and the men who followed it—what could that avail?

“Nothing—” she said aloud, to answer the pressure rising in her mind, what the cat
would force upon her. “This is no ploy for me—”

There was no answer in words, instead for a moment which might have been lifted out
of real time she saw—not this hut, the furious cat—but rather another scene.

A net which writhed with the wild struggles of what it contained, a beast with a foam-flecked
mouth which strove to snap at the cords which so bound it and who flinched from that
weaving. Now she could see that it was no true net, rather hide strips interwoven
with linked chains which had a silver glint.

Silver!

Memory stirred as that picture broke. What had Farne said—the silver was the bane
of his kind.

“That is so!” She saw no prisoner now, rather the cat
still reared against the cupboard, its claws busy striving to rip the wood apart.

Guessing the secret of the armorie from her two former experiences Thra slapped the
uncarven side and the door opened. The cat leaped, attempting to pull down the sword.
But it could only set that swinging. Thra thrust the point of her own weapon within
and caught the loop of the belt, pulling it towards her.

The sheathed blade slid down and the cat crouched before her snarling. Once free of
the armorie the weapon appeared to draw light, and the eyes of the head which formed
the pommel glinted as might the eyes of a living beast.

Thra let the weapon slip to the floor. She expected the cat to catch it up as it had
the belt, but instead the animal stood guard, gazing straight at her.

“What would you have of me?” she demanded.

No reply flashed into her mind, no picture rose in answer. Once more the din of the
hunt swelled—almost as if that was her reply.

“Take it if that is what is needed!” she urged.

The cat did not move. Though no words formed in Thra’s mind there was a growing compulsion.

“No! Your Farne is no cup brother of mine, nor liegeman. What have I to do with him?
One sword cannot stand against a hound pack and huntsmen. I shall not—”

Yet, even as she made that denial, there was rising in her something which she could
not understand. Ensorcelment? She fought in vain but she stooped, utterly against
her true will, to take up the sword belt.

The cat arose from its crouch and uttered what was undoubtedly a yowl of promised
battle. It held her gaze for a long moment before it headed towards the door.

She turned as if another will possessed her, using her body awkwardly and against
every instinct. Thra, her own sword drawn, the belt of the sheathed one in her other
hand, followed the cat, at first stumblingly and then with
the even tread of one who goes to face some act of sworn duty.

Grimclaw sped ahead, not taking the faint path which had led her here but rounding
one of the fallen trees and heading straight through the brush which filled the small
clearing.

The clamor of the hunt had not dwindled. Apparently the hounds and their masters were
not on the move. As she went in that direction Thra continued to fight the will—the
thing which forced her to serve its purpose. Sweat gathered at the rim of her ring-sewn
cap, made tracks down her face.

She was one. Before her—how many? If she exhausted her strength in fighting this compulsion
what might that cost her later? She abandoned that inner struggle, allowed that which
possessed her full rein.

The din of the hounds slacked off but the voices of the men grew clearer. Someone
was roaring orders to lower that, fasten this—get on with it.

Grimclaw stopped short to look back at her. Thra dropped to her knees and crawled
forward through brush toward another clearing. With all the stealth she had learned
during her wandering she covered that ground and used her sword tip to lift a branch
of leafy shrub that she might see.

Five men, two of them now occupied with cuffing back the hounds, setting leashes to
their collars. He who was doing the roaring stood to one side overlooking the labors
of two of his fellows who were awkwardly striving to wind closer a net encompassing
a still upright and struggling captive.

Thra recognized with an icy chill of full anger the badges these hunters wore—the
running hound. But five of them and four hounds—against her—! She had no crossbow
even, nothing except her sword—she could not attack these!

“Leave be!” ordered the roarer at last. He approached the captive to inspect the bonds
tying the net to a tree.
“The beast is well caught and ray lord will want to see the rest of it. Jacon, get
you to camp, you and Ruff, taking those hounds. M’lord will not favor any who care
not for
them.
And we do not know how many of such beasts slink hereabouts—”

“ ‘Twould be better to haul the were with us—” began one of those who had been busy
by the tree.

Bull throat laughed. “It is well caught. M’lord truly had the proper secret for that
after all these years. Silver they cannot break. See how it twists itself even now
so that bare bits touch it not.”

The prisoner so enfolded was writhing constantly, and, between the voices of the hounds
being cuffed into order and those of the men, Thra caught desperate panting sounds
which could only have come from the captive.

“Silver and—fire.” There was brutal satisfaction in that strong voice. Aye, it was
by
his
order that Rinard had been hung—with men shouting wagers on how long he would kick
before death was merciful. Thra would have given all she possessed at that moment
for a crossbow—he was so good a target standing there with his thumbs hooked in his
belt, a grin stretching lips near hidden by a greasy beard. “There will be a handsome
fire perhaps of m’lord’s own lighting—and good ale drunk this night!”

The two men he watched stepped back from their captive. In spite of the seeming helplessness
of the netted creature, they appeared to have little liking for being near it. Thra
started at a cold touch on her hand and was fearful that she might have so betrayed
herself. It was Grimclaw.

“Behind—” the word blazed in her mind.

Behind what? It was hard to believe that those restless hounds had not already scented
her or the cat. Away—get away before they, too, were trapped. Part of her mind seemed
to scream that, but to no avail.

“Behind!” The cat’s order was emphatic. It crouched upon its belly, one paw advanced
gingerly to draw it forward and then the other. So it angled away from her and
the hounds. Also it was plain that she was expected to follow.

Thra hesitated. As she did so the man who had given the orders slouched across to
stand by the netted creature. He leaned down to pick up an end of the rope which clearly
showed the silver knotted in it. With evil deliberation he thrust this toward the
captive, inserting the end through the mesh of the net.

She both heard and felt—the cry rang in her mind worse than a wound, and a searing
pain stroked her left cheek, leaving stinging agony behind. What was aimed at the
captive had also touched her.

On hands and knees, using all the skulker’s skills she had learned, Thra followed
the slinking cat. They moved away from the clearing even as the men led away the leashed
hounds, but only so for a short distance before the cat made a deliberate turn to
the left. “Behind” was plain now, they were heading to the rear of those trees where
the net had been anchored. She had to bite down upon her lower lip, call upon full
strength not to betray herself as the transfered torture of the captive continued
to scorch her own flesh.

Grimclaw halted. There were no more spurts of pain, maybe the hound master had tired
of his game. She could hear a heavy breathing—perhaps from the prisoner.

Longing to be elsewhere Thra was still bound to obey that other will. Not too far
away a twist of brown and silver was looped about an upstanding tree root—surely one
of the anchors of the net.

With the blade of her own sword between her teeth, Thra reached for her belt knife.
The rope was thick and she feared that, even if she could sever that, the metal within
would not break. But, as the strands parted, the silver did not seem so hard as she
had feared—it must be unusually pure and so more workable. She pried and pulled loose
an end, twisting that back and forth until it broke.

As the rope end swung free Grimclaw reached up and
caught it between ready jaws stretching it taut while Thra, with all the caution she
could summon, started on the next.

“Two more—but two more!” No invasion of her thoughts by Grimclaw, that had come from
the captive. Thra did not resent his message, rather threw open her mind as well as
she could for a picture of what must be done.

She followed the rope to her left—there was a second loop to be loosened, then hurriedly
knotted about a branch to give the appearance of being untouched. She was sawing at
the third when there came a shout in the clearing setting both Thra’s hands to tear
frenziedly at the bonds.

“Netted, by the Fangs of Rane! Netted as any beast!”

Gloating in that voice—and it was not the bull roar of the hunters’ leader. Perhaps
this was his lord.

“Were—” The tone of voice made the word an obscenity.

“Kinsman—” That answer was Farne’s, she could never have mistaken his voice even though
she had already been sure he was the captive.

“Beast—devil begotten—”

“Begotten by your blood, kinsman—do
you
claim devil’s blood?”

Thra laid hand to the last knot of rope and gave a jerk into which she put all the
force she could summon. The silver mesh sawed at her fingers cruelly but she twisted,
not caring. As she fought another voice broke in:

“’Ware, m’lord. Perhaps there may be more of his breed nearby. On guard, you dolts,
on guard!”

The cord parted leaving bleeding gouges in her fingers. She curled hand around sword
hilt in spite of the pain. The sword she had dragged with her from the hut lay at
her feet. Grimclaw burst from the bushes wild-eyed to stand before her.

“Give me the spell spear!” That was the lord’s voice. “And you—stand near the brush
toward any devils this one may summon. Give me room for a cast now—”

Thra staggered back as a body swung at her. He who had been hanging in the net was
free. And this was not the man who had left her in the hut but a furred, four-footed
thing which had no right to run in a sane world.

Without thought Thra aimed a blow at the creature. Its yellow eyes blazed as it skidded
to a halt and from the hairy throat came a deep warning growl.

Could it possess her by its will? Thra set her back to the broad trunk of a tree.
Between them lay the sword from the armorie. The yellow eyes shifted from her to that.
The beast advanced a paw towards the belt and then drew back as if it, as well as
silver, carried some malignant spell.

Then the lord of the hunters thrust through the brush, though he came warily, a spear
held at ready. Farne, if indeed it was Farne, showed fangs. But the man’s eyes had
flickered on to Thra. She had but a moment to duck sidewise before that spear thudded
between her arm and her side. Instantly she scrambled on, seeking to set the tree
between them.

“There be another! This one yet unwitched!”

The bushes in the direction Thra had headed tossed and crackled as some one forced
a path through to bring them face to face. Farne moved—was before her again.

She steadied herself against the tree. Better take a spear through her here and now
than fall helpless into their hands. She was already damned in their eyes and wanted
to die cleanly.

The man now facing her was much younger than the leader of the hunters. Slim and agile,
there was that about him which proclaimed some kinship with Farne when the latter
walked two-legged. Only the eyes were different. Beneath the edging of a helm his
were as blue and cold as winter ice.

He was also armed with a spear but now he pounded the butt of that against the forest
muck and whipped out a sword of light-colored metal. Was that also forged of silver?

He thought to take her alive then, perhaps for a fate
like that promised Farne. Would his liegemen help to net her while she fought their
lord?

“So this one does not run on all fours. What does such a devil know of skill with
steel?”

“M’lord, watch yourself. These creatures deal in foul witchery—” That was the leader
of the hunters. “They can make a man see what is not—”

Thra kept silent. If they believed her were they would indeed be wary of ensorcelment
and in their wariness might lay some small chance for her. Not, she knew grimly, that
she would be fortunate to live through this encounter, but it was far better to die
on steel.

“Watch
you
well!” ordered the lord. “Since this one would use a blade so shall I. Mayhap I can
thus prove that such are not to be so dreaded as foolish tales would have us believe.”
He lunged at her with the confidence of one who has yet to meet his match.

Blade rang against blade. Thra saw a shift in those cold eyes. Had he truly thought
to bring her down with that simple thrust? Was it ignorant self-confidence past belief,
or knowledge that he had won many times before?

Her worn blade shivered with that contact and she feared meeting a second such blow
would shatter that too-often honed length. That other sword from the armorie, how
far away now did it lie? She thought of Grimclaw—could the cat drag it to her? The
cat had claimed the weapon from the cupboard yet her own hand had burned when she
reached for it. Could one depend upon anything dark with witchery?