Wizards’ Worlds (15 page)

Once she might have known him by the shield device, but the lords of the dales lay
in many unknown graves up and down the lands, and new men had risen, choosing their
own markings. Hertha could not put name to who would bear what he carried. The painting
was crude as if someone hardly versed in such work had made an effort to picture something
only imperfectly described. There was a strange cloudy representation of what might
be some kind of monstrous head, cutting across it, straight and far better pictured,
the blade of a drawn sword, as if that weapon barred the monster behind from some
prey. Cold iron—

The thought ran in her head as if he who rode so shouted it aloud. Cold iron, which
was indeed the bane of some of the Old Ones, a counter to their magic in itself.

Some outlaw, more foolhardy and reckless than most of their breed? Or a wanderer who
did not know the danger he unwittingly courted in such a place? With that snouted
helm so overshadowing his face she could not see him any clearer than if he wore a
mask. But the voice which hailed her! Hertha drew a deep breath of protest—yes,
that
she knew!

His mount, a war charger of good breed, paced slowly onward, the reins lying easy
on its neck as if the rider had no reason to control it to his will. She wanted to
run, but there was no refuge, no place to go where he could not follow—even into the
den of the Toads where once they did venture together.

“My lady—” His hail seemed to hang in the air between them as if she refused to let
her ears hear it. His horse stood quiet as he swung down with the practiced ease of
a fighting man, leaving that shield still hung in place. Now he came toward her, his
booted feet making a small crunching sound on the gravel. Somehow Hertha found her
voice, was able to raise hand and ward him off with the only gesture she could make.

“No!”

If he heard her he did not listen. Now she could see his sunbrowned jaw, his firm-lipped
mouth below the half mask of the helm. He paused and dragged his mail-enclosed gauntlets
from his hands, thrust them into his belt and then dealt expertly with the fastening
snaps of the helm, pulled it off to free his head with its frosted hair blowing free
in the breeze. His eyes were slightly narrowed as he regarded her with such a speculative
look that Hertha longed to be away from here, safe hid from all the thoughts which
his coming had awakened in her, nothing must defeat her purpose here. So, hardening
her resolve, it was her turn to take a step forward, both hands up, grimed, broken
of nail, raw of finger, between them, in that warding off gesture.

“My Lord Trystan—why?”

Somehow she could not find more words, though thoughts plagued her.

“I went to Lithendale; you were gone.” He spoke simply, as one might to a troubled
child. “They told me that you sought help in a strange and perilous place. So I came.”

Hertha ran her tongue across her lips, tasted a little of the bitter coating she had
laid upon her face.

“This—it is my task—” She tried to lash herself into saving anger. Always, save once,
she had defended her independence, carried her own burden without any help.

“I do not know witcheries,” he said gravely. “Perhaps it is true that yours may be
the only hands,” he glanced at her misused fingers then, “which can accomplish this.
Then again, my lady, it may also be that two can do better and quicker than one what
must be done.”

Before Hertha could retreat he was at her side in one swift stride, trying to catch
her hands. But she jerked away.

“Do not!” she cried. “They have protection.”

“Protection!” One eyebrow arched upward in an odd slant which she remembered of old.
“It would seem by the looks of those that you have had little of that this day. Tell
me,” now his voice had the ring of that which had been raised many times to command
men, “what do you do here and why?”

“Why?” She must disgust him and quickly, get rid of one who had no part of this and
who must not be drawn into her troubles. With a flap of her earth-stained clothing
she turned and stooped to catch up the basket. Settling that against her hip, she
pulled free the covers about Elfanor’s face. Even under these clouds the light was
without pity, showing the clear marks of the curse. While the baby’s eyes were open,
staring outward with that evil, knowing look. “See you?” she demanded fiercely, studying
him intently, watching for the first sign of revulsion.

However he had himself well schooled, that she must admit. He did not display the
disgust she was certain she would see.

“They told me—a changeling—” His voice was slow, even, again as if he were afraid
to alarm. “But you think, lady, that you have found an answer here?”

“Perhaps, only perhaps.” She felt odd, having prepared
herself to counter the shrinking she had expected from him. What kind of a man was
he who faced the results of dark evil without a change of eye or expression?

“Perhaps is sometimes all one can ask for.” Again he made one of those swift, sure
moves and she found the basket whirled out of her torn hands, held firm and secure
in his, as he looked down at the child. “What is it that you think must be done?”
he asked briskly.

She wanted to take the basket from him, to draw tight the coverings which made Elfanor
safe from prying eyes as well as this cold. But her tired body made her clumsy as
she stumbled, half fell forward, so that now he held the cradle upon one hip and his
other arm was about her, both drawing her close and supporting her.

“Come.” He countered her small attempt to pull away, led her to a pile of stones and
there seated himself, the cradle resting across his knees, she herself beside him,
unable to summon any strength to pull free from his hold.

She shivered, her hands lying uselessly on her knees. Then, to her great disgust,
she felt tears on her cheeks. So much of her wanted to yield, to let someone else
take command. Only—she need only look down at Elfanor, who as usual lay quiet, only
stared up into the face of the man who held her with those unblinking eyes, the sly
fires well alive deep in their depths.

Hertha summoned up all the strength she could muster, and broke free from his grip,
somehow got to her feet.

“The rocks—the last one—” She must keep to her task!

“Which rock?” He did not try to hold her back, only stood himself and then placed
the cradle carefully on the ground.

Hertha had already lurched away, afraid now that he would attempt to hold her again.
If he did, she might yield to that traitor part of her which his coming here had awakened
in a way which bewildered and weakened her resolve.

“The blue one, the last—I have searched, and searched. Two I found. The third—I cannot.”
She stumbled on, her torn hands outstretched as if to implore the ground itself to
produce the stone she must have. “The rocks,” she spoke more to herself than to him,
trying to return to her singleminded hunt, shut out all which was not atuned to that,
“one must be placed at each of the entrances, as a sealing. That is the task laid
upon me now.”

She was only half aware then he had passed her, to go to the nearest of the spoked
lanes and look down at the earth-encrusted boulder she had worked so hard to set in
place.

“This kind?” Trystan did not wait for her to answer. Instead, having studied the stone,
he too swung out in search among the tumble of rocks which lay spread out along the
crest of the ridge.

Hertha dragged her way on, stopping now and then to pull at a pile of smaller stones,
hoping each time to see hidden beneath them the blue she sought. She had been near
three-quarters of the way around the wheel now and there was no sign of the last one.
Did it exist at all?

“Ha!”

She turned. So quickly that she lost her balance and fell painfully to her knees.
For a moment she did not see him at all and then his head appeared nearly at ground
level and she remembered a notch of gully which ran there.

“I think that it is down here!”

Somehow Hertha got across the ground between them. Trystan was stooped, hurling small
rocks away from him with vigor. As Hertha came to the lip of that cut she could see
it too, buried, only a small bit showing above the soil now that he cleared it from
the rock fall. Blue like the others. But how could she raise it?

Having thrown aside the rocks, Trystan drew his sword and stabbed the earth, throwing
chunks of winter-hardened clay aside, yet working more slowly and with care
for the safety of his tool which was not to be foolishly blunted.

Hertha wiped the back of her hand across her forehead, smearing the herb grease on
her face. She stared down at where Trystan worked with a dull despair. He might free
the stone, yes, but how could she get it out of that tight lodging, then drag or roll
it to the final resting place? Strength seemed to have melted out of her body.

“There it is, my lady!” He stepped away, thrusting his sword once more into its scabbard,
looking down at the boulder he had uncovered with an expression of satisfaction.

From somewhere Hertha summoned croaking words. “Up—how does one get it up?”

That she could lift that piece of rock she had to acknowledge was beyond her powers.
Yet the task was hers alone, she was sure of that, as she had been since the first
of this ordeal.

“There is the rope which kept your pony’s sacks in place.” He stood, pinching his
lips as he looked down at the rock. “With the aid of the horses it can be pulled out.”

Hertha blinked. What he said made sense. She had been so bemused by her own fatigue
that such a move had not occurred to her. It gave her a spurt of energy and she was
on her feet once more, heading to where she had piled the pony’s gear. There was the
rope, sure enough, a strong one. Whether its strength was enough to carry through
Trystan’s suggestion she could not be sure until it was tried. Looping the coil over
her arm and shoulder, she brought it back and tossed the end to him.

He caught it neatly out of midair as it fell, then knelt to work a length around the
rock, taking advantage of any projecting angle to make the stone more secure. Finally
he looked up to her.

“Bring your horse, mine, and we shall see if this will serve.”

Her own placid mount caused no trouble, plodding
easily enough to the gully. But his beast pulled back on the reins he had left dangling
to the ground, the traditional “earth tie” of a fighting man, rolling its eyes and
snorting. Hertha pulled steadily on the reins and was glad that there was no battle—the
horse followed her at last, one reluctant step after another.

Trystan clambered out of the cut, was already making one end of the rope into a loop
about the horn of her saddle. The other he still gripped in his hand as he mounted
up, giving the now foreshortened piece of cordage a second twist about his own horn.

At his signal not only the horse he bestrode, but her own moved and she saw the rope
become as taut as a bowstring, snapping hard against the edge of the gully. She feared
to hear the crack of a breaking rope. Still that did not come. Trystan’s horse went
slowly on, step by step, her own following while the rope remained taut. The rock,
indeed, freed from its earth setting, was drawn up the side of the gully as it gouged
and scraped against the wall along which it swung.

The boulder arose at last over the edge, plopped near Hertha’s feet. She hurried to
it, worrying at the knotted rope, she would have nothing left to draw upon. Trystan
was beside her, his hands pushing her aside as they competently freed the stone.

“Now where? Where is this road which must be so guarded?”

She shook her head. “I must do it! Mine the sin, mine the payment!” She tried to edge
past him, to set her hands to the stone’s earth-grimed side. It must be done—she
must
do it!

“No.” His voice seemed to come from very far away, as if her head were so full of
the need for keeping her mind on action that she could not catch the words quickly.
“If it needs your touch, well enough. But remember, I, too, faced the Toads once in
a time.”

“Because then I tricked you.” Hertha was not aware
again that she was crying until she tasted the salt of her own tears. “All was of
my doing. Let me go. It must be placed before sundown—it must be!”

He did not answer her. Instead he bent and braced both hands to the boulder, releasing
his strength, sending it rolling in a wobbling fashion across the ground. Hertha hurried
after it with a cry of dismay. She reached it first, set her own energy, what remained
of it, to the pushing, and felt that it gave only inches.

He was once more beside her. “Together we once fought here, my lady. So shall we fight
again. I have not sought you out to lose you again in any battle which means all this
one does. Heave if you will and must, but with my help also. Surely whatever power
sent you here cannot deny you my aid, not now!”

Hertha could not raise breath to answer him. She labored at the stone, and it was
moving more easily, rocking from side to side. If she was not fulfilling the task
laid upon her,
she
would suffer. But she could not accomplish it all alone, of that she was sure.

The stone moved so slowly. Above was the darkening of clouds which were of no storm’s
signal but that of coming night. Night was when the Dark Ones arose to power, if they
could not get the stone in place before the last of daylight reached them! Hertha’s
breath came in shallow gusts of panting. Before them to the left was the last of the
open ways. Trystan changed position, coming about behind her so as to exert pressure
from the other side.

It seemed to Hertha that the very ground denied them aid, that certain shadows crept
out from the pillar bases to cover the rough portions and hide obstacles from them
as they labored.

“On now, my lady, just a short way—” He, too, was panting. Then he bent even closer
to the ground, going down on one knee as he set his shoulder firmly against the side
of the rock.