Wizards’ Worlds (56 page)

The silence here brought odd thoughts to mind. This was a place in which to hide,
aye, but one with a secret life of its own so that now and then Thra glanced over
a shoulder seeking something she felt lurked and watched. Her uneasiness grew the
stronger with every step she took as she listened keenly for sounds of pursuit.

Now the trail widened, and, in spite of the clouds and the gloom beneath the trees,
more light showed ahead. She came out into a glade where two of the giant trees had
crashed and now lay together, the tangled mass of branches of the one twined past
any freeing with the upturned roots of the other.

Backed to this root-branch maze was a hut rough and yet sturdy, part of it being walled
with stone, and its roof looking strong enough for a storm shelter.

To her right a basin had been formed of the same stone and into that poured a gurgle
of water, welcome sight for her dry throat and dusty body.

Thra, screened by bushes, studied the scene before her. There was a crude chimney
on the cabin but neither scent nor sign of smoke. Two dark slits, hardly wider than
her own hand, flanked the bark-covered door—she sensed no life here.

A large butterfly spiraled. down, its brilliant golden wings banded with sable. Out
of a tangle of small plants sprang a gray beast, but its leap was not quick enough.
Not until it landed, baffled of its prey, was Thra able to identify it as a cat.

The beast settled on the fallen trunk of the nearest tree, elevated a hind leg to
wash with the meticulous care of one uninterested in butterflies. Thra took an impulsive
step into the open. The cat looked well fed, its presence here argued habitation.
Pausing in its washing the cat eyed her speculatively. Into Thra’s mind—

“Two-legs—a new two-legs—” There was critical appraisal in that.

Nor was she completely startled by such an invasion. Since she had entered the forest
anything seemed possible. This place had its own life. But—she wet her lips with the
tip of her tongue—the thought of addressing this furred creature as she might one
of her own kind was difficult to accept.

The cat looked from her to the cabin and back again before she ventured hoarsely:

“Someone lives here?” To her own ears her voice was too loud.

“The den is empty—now.”

Thra drew a deep breath. To be answered so! She advanced to the side of the basin,
went down on one knee, her right hand still near her sword hilt, as she cupped water
into the other, half lapped at its freshness.

The cat continued to watch as she pulled forth her water bag, dumped what remained
of its murky contents and filled it. Having made sure of that future supply, Thra
settled herself cross-legged to face the cat. There was a slumberous content in this
clearing which subtly eased both her mind and her body. She was aware of herb scents
borne by the rising wind and yawned—to catch herself sharply.

Sorcery wooing her? She had fled too long from danger to trust anything or anyone.
Pulling to her feet, she went towards the cabin still keeping eye on the cat.

Its gray body made no hostile move, the ears were not laid back against the skull,
no warning hiss sounded. Thra set hand to the door on which no latch string dangled
out in welcome. However, at the pressure of her fingers, it swung inward, moving easily.

In spite of the storm clouds the clearing light reached now within, spreading before
her like a carpet. A single room. To her right was the rough fireplace. Board formed
a bunk place. Over that was a shelf. There was also a box or coffer, a section of
log hollowed out. More shelves supported an array of mugs and bowls, some of wood,
others lopsidedly fashioned of fire-burned clay.

Yet there was another piece of furniture in the room and it was enough to center full
attention. All the rest was ill made, without true craft. This armorie might have
come from a high lord’s castle. Fashioned of reddish wood it was carved with the skill
of a master artist, following no general pattern, rather with a story deep chiseled.
The carving hid the opening of the door for she could discern neither crack nor hinge.

Twists of leaf garlands formed frames for squares, each of which embodied an intricate
scene. Some of the tiny people so depicted were no taller than her fingernail. Here
rode a company of men with hounds in the full cry of a hunt. While that which fled
before them—

Thra stooped closer. Even in the cabin’s gloom the carven pictures were visible. That
which fled hunched its shoulder, and the head did not seem altogether human in outline.

She shivered. There were old tales aplenty in Greer. Men and women—in ancient days
they were said to have
shared lordship with—others. That which fled here, which was partly like unto herself—was
also something else. Thra turned quickly to the next picture.

The squares
were
allied. Here that which ran had dropped to all fours, upper limbs had become shaggy,
the hands were paws.

What of the upper panels? Thra straightened to look. Here was one of a forest glade
containing a pool beside which lounged a youth bare of body. He dabbled one hand,
leaning over to gaze into the water’s mirror. So skillful had been the craftsman who
had wrought this that Thra never doubted he had taken a living likeness for his model.
The scene was one of peace and content.

However in the next square the head of the lounger was up as if startled, he might
be listening. In the next—the beginning of the hunt. One saw so well pictured the
baying of hounds one could almost hear their cries—

“Found! Found! And away—!”

So the boy from the pool changed. Still, oddly, as Thra followed the pictured story
from one square to the next, she found nothing threatening or wrong in the alteration.
Rather her sympathy was all for the pursued. He was the hunted—even as she herself
had been. She found herself scratching with a fingernail at the foremost hound as
if to claw it away.

Now she squatted on her heels to see the finish the better, unaware that her heart
was beating faster, her breath came raggedly as if she too ran that course.

A sharp hiss jerked her attention from the last scene. The cat stood just within the
open door, staring in turn at the armorie. Thra looked back to the cupboard. In the
last square the runner had thrown up a desperate forepaw to hook claws about a loop
of low-hanging vine.

“Two legs,” Thra spoke aloud, using the cat’s designation, “or four legs?”

“Both—neither—”

The answer was instant but one she could not understand. The cat still watched the
armorie.

“Both, yet neither?” Thra shifted to view the right-hand side of the armorie. Only
there was no continuation of the hunt such as she had expected to find.

Rather she looked at a small, deeply incised scene of a room, as if she were a giantess
spying through a window. Here was no hunt, not even a peaceful lounger.

Instead, stretched on a bed was a woman, attendants gathered about her. A maid fed
wood to a fire on the hearth over which hung a kettle. Such was the detail of the
scene. Thra could near hear the bubbling of the water. What she saw was a bold representation
of a birthing.

Quickly she sought the next square. Here the babe had safely arrived, held up for
the mother to view. Only there were expressions of aversion, horror, on the faces
of all those gathered there, even upon that of the mother.

A child so greeted—why? Thra hurriedly went to the next square. A man was now present,
one of high degree by his ornamental robe. His face was stern set, and, plainly by
his orders, one of the nurses was placing the blanket-wrapped baby in a rush basket.

The fourth scene—another man, a huntsman by his clothing and gear, was mounted on
one of those ponies used for transport of game. This rider stooped to take the basket
from the nurse, while the stern-faced man watched.

Now a forest—which suggested by the skill of the carver just such a one as held Thra
now—dark and secret. Here was the hunter leaning sidewise once more in his saddle
to drop the basket into a stand of rank growth.

So far the story was plain enough. She had heard, even in the south where life had
once been easier, old and grim tales. Men did not slay those of their own blood, but
a newborn babe conveniently left in a wild place—gone before being presented to the
Kin—Yes, that might well have been done. She returned to that earlier scene—horror—truly
that had been also in the mother’s face. This babe must have been recognized at once
as something monstrous.

Left abandoned, then what? Thra traced with her finger the vine wreathing the hunter
at his cruel task. Some fault in the wood had here produced a streak of darker hue
and the artist had taken advantage of
it to add to the somberness of the picture.

Then—next—from a bush showed a face, or was it a beast’s eager muzzle?

Man or animal, or both together? Next that lurker had come into the open and the mixture
was plain. A furred, animal-like head with pricked and large pointed ears, supported
on human shoulders giving way to a woman’s full breasts.

She who advanced out of
hiding appeared more human in the next scene where she had gathered to her the babe
so that a small eager mouth had found one of her nipples. There was peace, joy, on
the animal woman’s near human face.

In other scenes the baby grew with its foster mother, played, lived seemingly happy
and content. Until in the last scene of all a boy, at that age between youth and manhood,
stood staring at a huddled body on the ground, a body from which stood a cruel arrow.

Thus he had been deprived of a mother and then—on the fore of the armorie—hunted himself.
Thra was not aware that her jaw had set grimly and her hand had gone to sword hilt
again. What of the panels on the other side—she hurried to look.

Here were the wreathing vines again dividing the familiar squares but all of those
were blank! Except for the very first one where there were only scratches, perhaps
marking out a general sketch of a scene yet to be completed. She squinted closely
at those, feeling cheated of the rest of the tale. So much so that she thudded her
fist home on the meaningless marks.

As flesh met wood there sounded a sharp sound and the well-concealed door of the armorie
began to swing open, folding back.

Light! At first, bemused, Thra thought there must be a torch inside. Then she saw
that radiance issued from the wooden walls which had been highly polished. To her
nostrils came a clean scent such as she had once known to be used in the laying up
of fine clothing.

The color of the inner wood was a clear ivory. There was no hint of mustiness nor
dust. Nor could she, on investigation, see any hinge or latch.

However, it was what hung within which caught her full attention. Two pegs set at
her own shoulder height were there, one on either side. From one depended a sword.
The hilt was plain of any gem setting, seemingly made of the same ivory which lined
the cabinet. Its pommel was wrought into the head of a beast—such as was neither man
nor animal. A plain scabbard shielded the blade—and the belt was of white leather
studded with small yellow gems.

Against the opposite wall was looped a second belt. This was of sleek black fur—thick
and plushy, so shiny it might still be a part of the coat of some well-kept, cleanly
beast. It was near four fingers wide, and, though it supported no weapon, there was
a large clasp for its fastening made to match the head of the sword pommel. Save that
this human-animal countenance was snarling, its open mouth revealing curved tusks
ready to rend and tear.

Though the metal of the buckle was dark other colors played across its surface, red,
orange, like flames, icy blue, the gold of the sky at sunset.

Thra put out her hand, then snatched it back, for, as her fingers passed within the
armorie, they tingled and smarted. There was some protection here she could not understand.

Power—the power of a blade which could become awesome when the hilt fitted a hand
trained to wield such a weapon. The other—more power she did not understand,
from which she shrank. How long had these hung here waiting—and for whom?

The bare side of the armorie was frustrating. She shivered, it would have been better
for her had she never stumbled upon such a mystery. Even though the cabin was shelter.
Still she was not uneasy enough, as yet, to leave that. There was—

Thra sought the right word—waiting! Aye, that was it! Here hung these waiting—but
not for her. Someone else— who?

On impulse she looked to the cat. It no longer lounged at ease. The light from the
open door of the cabin had grown less. Was this an early coming of evening or the
storm at hand? The animal gazed into the open, the tip of its tail swung slowly back
and forth.

“Four-legs—” she began. Instantly the cat looked to her. “Whom do you wait?”

“Wait?” The cat’s head lifted a fraction. “Two-legs-four-legs—both pass in their own
time.”

“But you remain?”

“I remain,” the shared thought concurred.

There had been no cat picture in all that carving. Still Thra was sure that the animal
before her had some part in the mystery. The cabin looked long deserted—

“Who?” This time her voice sounded unnaturally loud but not loud enough to drown out
a roll of thunder. At least she would remain here until the storm was over. She shucked
off her pack.

If she expected any answer to her half question, she was to be disappointed. The cat
withdrew to face out again into the rain. Thra, used to making the most of any meager
comfort, moved swiftly past the crouching animal to pull grass, break off small thornless
branches, to be dumped into the bed place. She would sleep this night in better ease
than she had for some time.

There was even a stack of dusty wood lengths by the
hearth and these she used for a fire. Honest flames leaping there banished some of
the strangeness of the cabin. The roll of thunder grew louder, there came a crack
of lightning so near the jaggered light seemed about to probe inward for her.