Wizards’ Worlds (22 page)

Now! Gathering all her strength, pulling on every reserve she believed she might have,
Dairine launched a direct thought blow at the weaver. That weird figure writhed, uttered
a cry which held no note of human in it. For a moment, it hunched so. Then that misshapen,
nightmare body fell back, out of Dairine’s range of sight. She was aware of no more
mental pressure. No, instead came a weak panic, a fear which wiped away all the weaver’s
strength.

“They—they are going!” Rothar cried out.

“For a while perhaps.” Dairine still held the creatures of the loom in wary respect.
They had not thought her a worthy foe, so perhaps they had not unleashed against her
all that they might. But while the weavers were still bewildered, shaken, at least
she and Rothar had gained time.

The young man beside her was already shaking off the cords. Those curled limply away
from his fabric-covered body, just as they fell from hers as he jerked at them. She
blinked. Now that the necessity for focusing her eyes on the weaver was past, Dairine
found it hard to see. It was a distinct effort for her to fasten on any one object,
bring that into clear shape. This was something she must learn, even as she had learned
to make her fingers see for her.

Though he winced as he tried to use his left arm, Rothar won out of the pit by drawing
on the root ends embedded in the soil. Then he unbuckled his belt and lowered it for
her aid.

Out of the earth prison, Dairine stood still for a long moment, turning her head right
and left. She could not see them in the dusky shadows among the trees, yet they were
there, weavers, spinners, both. But she sensed also that they were still shaken, as
if all their strength of purpose had lain only in the will of the one she had temporarily
bested.

All were that weaver’s own brood—the arachnoid-human, the arachnoid complete. They
were subject to the Great One’s will, her thoughts controlled them, and they
were her tools, the projections of herself. Until the Great Weaver regained her own
balance, these would be no menace. But how long could such a respite last for those
she would make her prey?

Dairine saw mistily a brighter patch ahead, sunlight fighting the dusk of this now-sinister
wood.

“Come!” Rothar reached for her hand, clasped it tight. “The shore must lie there!”

The girl allowed him to draw her forward, away from the leaderless ones.

“The signal fire,” he was saying. “But let me give light to that and the Captain will
bring in the ship.”

“Why did you come—alone from that ship?” Dairine asked suddenly, as they broke out
of the shade of the forest into a hard brilliance of the sun upon the sand. So hurting
was that light that she needs must shelter her eyes with her hand.

Peering between her fingers, Dairine saw him shrug. “What does it matter how a man
who is already dead dies? There was a chance to reach you. The Captain could not take
it, for that rogue’s spell left him too weak, though he raged against it. None other
could he trust—”

“Except you. You speak of yourself as a man already dead, yet you are not. I was blind—now
I see. I think Usturt has given us both that which we dare not throw lightly away.”

His somber face, in which his eyes were far too old and shadowed, became a little
lighter as he smiled.

“Lady, well do they speak of your powers. You are of the breed who may make a man
believe in anything, even perhaps himself. And there lies our signal waiting.”

He gestured to a tall heap of driftwood. In spite of the slippage of the sand under
his enwrapped feet, he left her side and ran toward it.

Dairine followed at a slower pace. There was the Captain and there was this Rothar
who risked his life, even though he professed to find that of little matter. Perhaps
now there would be others to touch upon her life, mayhap even her heart in years
to come. She had these years to weave, and she must do so with care, matching each
strand to another in brightness, as all had heretofore been wrought in darkness. The
past was behind her. There was no need to glance back over her shoulder unto the dusk
of the woods. Rather must she search out seaward whence would come the next strand
to add to her pattern of weaving.

Sword of Unbelief

1

Fury Driven

M
Y
eyes ached as I forced them to study the hard ground. From them a dull pain spread
into the bony sockets that were their frames. The tough, mountain-bred mount I had
saved from our desperate encounter with the wolf-ravagers stumbled. I caught at the
saddle horn as vertigo struck with the sharp thrust of an unparried sword.

I could taste death, death and old blood, as I ran my tongue over lips where the salt
of my own sweat plastered the dull gray dust of this land to my unwashed skin. Again
I wavered. But this time my pony’s stumble was greater. Strong as he was, and war-trained,
he had come near to the end of endurance.

Before me the Waste was a long tongue of gray rock, giving rootage only to sparse
and twisted brush, so misshapen in its growing that it might well have been attacked
by some creeping evil. For there
was
evil in this country, every sense of mine warned that, as I urged Fallon on at a
slow walk.

That wind which whipped at my cloak was bitter, carrying the breath of the Ice Dragon.
It raised fine grains of gray sand to scour my face beneath the half shading of
my helm. I must find some shelter, and soon, or the fury of a Dune-Moving Storm would
catch me and provide a grave place which might exist for a day, a week, or centuries—depending
upon the caprice of that same wind and sand.

An outcrop of angular rock stood to my left. Towards that I sent Fallon, his head
hanging low as he went. In the lee of that tall fang I slipped from the saddle, keeping
my feet only by a quick grasp of the rock itself. The ache in my head struck downwards
through my shoulders and back.

I loosed my cloak a little and, crouching by the pony, flung it over both his head
and mine. Little enough shelter against the drive of the punishing grains, but it
was the best I had. However another fear gnawed at me. This flurry would wipe out
the trail I had followed these two days past. With that gone, I must depend upon myself,
and in myself I had lesser confidence.

Had I been fully trained as those of my Talent and blood had always been—then I could
have accomplished what must be done with far less effort. But, though my mother was
a Witch of Estcarp, and I was learned in the powers of a Wise Woman (and had indeed
done battle using those powers in the past), yet at this moment I knew fear as an
ever-present pain within me, stronger than any ache of body or fatigue of mind.

As I crouched beside Fallon, this dread arose like a flood of bile into my throat,
the which I would have vomited forth had I could. Yet, it was too great a part of
me to allow itself to be so sundered. Feverishly I drew upon those lesser arts I had
learned, striving so to still the fast beating of my heart, the clouding of my thoughts
by panic. I must think rather of him whom I sought, and of those who had taken him,
for what purpose I could not imagine. For it is the way of the wolfheads to kill;
torment, yes, if they were undisturbed, but kill at the end of their play. Yet they
had drawn back into this forbidden and forbidding land taking with them a prisoner,
one worth no ransom. And the reason for that taking I could not guess.

I set a bridle of calmness upon my thoughts. Only so might I use that other Talent
which was mine from birth. So now I set my mind picture upon him whom I sought—Jervon,
fighting man, and more, far more to me.

I could see him, yes, even as I had sighted him last by the fire of our small camp,
his hands stretched out to warm themselves at the flames. If only I had not—! No,
regret was only weakening. I must not think of what I had not done, but what I must
now be prepared to do.

There had been blood on the snow-shifted ground when I had returned, the fire stamped
into cold charred brands. Two outlaws’ bodies hideously ripped—but Jervon . . . no.
So they had taken him for some purpose I could not understand.

The dead wolfheads I left to the woods beasts. Fallon I had discovered, shivering
and wet with sweat, within the brush and brought him to me by the summoning power.
I had waited no longer, knowing that my desire to look upon the shrine of the Old
Ones, which I had turned aside to do, might well mean Jervon’s death, and no pleasant
death either.

Now, crouching here, I cupped one hand across my closed eyes.

“Jervon!” My mind call went out even as I had brought Fallon to me. But I failed.
There arose a cloud between me and the man I would find. Yet I was as certain that
behind that shadow he still lived. For when one’s life is entwined with another’s
and death comes, the knowledge of that passing through the Last Gate is also clear—to
one trained in even the simplest of the Great Mysteries.

This Waste was a grim and much-hated place. Many were the remains of the Old Ones
here, and men of true human blood did not enter it willingly. I am not of High Hallack,
though I was born in the Dales. My parents came from storied Estcarp overseas, a land
where much of the Old Knowledge has been preserved. And my mother was
one of those who used that knowledge—even though she had wed, and so, by their laws,
put herself apart.

What I knew I had of Aufrica out of Wark, a mistress of minor magic and a Wise Woman.
Herbs I knew, both harmful and healing, and I could call upon certain lesser powers—even
upon a great one, as once I had done to save him who was born at the same birth with
me. But there were powers beyond powers here that I knew not. Only I must take this
way and do what I could for Jervon who was more to me than Elyn, my brother, had ever
been, and who had once, without any of the Talent to aid him, come with me into battle
with a very ancient and strong evil, which battle we had mercifully won.

“Jervon!” I called his name aloud, but my voice was only a faint whisper. For the
wind shrieked like a legion of disembodied demons around me. Fallon near jerked his
head from my hold on his bridle, and I speedily set myself to calming him, setting
over his beast mind a safeguard against panic.

It seemed to last for hours, that perilous sheltering by the fang rock. Then the wind
died and we pulled out of sand drifted near to my knees. I took one of my precious
flasks of water and wet the corner of my cloak, using that to wash out Fallon’s nostrils,
the sand away from his eyes. He nudged at my shoulder, stretching his head towards
the water bottle in a voiceless plea for a drink. But that I did not dare give him
until I knew what manner of country we would cross and whether there would be any
streams or tarns along the way.

Night was very near. But that strangeness of the Waste banished some of the dark.
For here and there were scattered rock spires which gave off a flickering radiance,
enough to travel by.

I did not mount as yet, knowing that Fallon must have a rest from carrying a rider.
Though I am slender of body, I am no light weight with mail about me, a sword and
helm. So I plowed through the sand, leading Fallon. And heard
him snort and blow his dislike of what I would have him do—venture farther into this
desolation.

Again, I sent forth a searching thought. I could not reach Jervon. No—that muddling
cloud still hung between us. But I could tell in what direction they had gone. Though
the constant concentration to hold that thread made my head throb with renewed pain.

Also there were strange shadows in this place. It would seem that nothing threw across
the land a clear dark definition of itself, as was normal. Rather those shadows took
on shapes which made the imagination quicken with vague hints of things invisible
which still could be seen in this way, monstrous forms and unnatural blendings. And,
if one allowed fear the upper hand, those appeared ripely ready to detach themselves
and move unfettered by any trick of light or dark.

I wondered at those I followed. War had been the harsh life of this land now for so
many years it was hard to
remember what peace had been like. High Hallack had been overrun by invaders whose
superior arms and organization had devastated more than half the Dales before men
were able to erect their defense. There had been no central over-lord among us; it
was not the custom of the men of High Hallack to give deference beyond the lord in
whose holding they had been born and bred. So, until the Four of the North had sunk
their differences and made a pact, there had been no rallying point. Men had fought
separately for their own lands, and died, to lie in the earth there.

Then had come the final effort. Not only did the Dale lords unite for the first time
in history to make a common cause, but they had also treated with others—out of this
same Waste—the Wereriders of legend. And together what was left of High Hallack arose
with all the might it could summon to smash the Hounds of Alizon, driving them back
to the sea, mainly to their own deaths therein. But a land so rent produces in turn
those with a natural bent towards evil, scavengers and outlaws, ready to plunder
both sides if the chance offered. Now such were the bane of our exhausted and warworn
country.