The Warding of Witch World

24 Gryphon’s Eyrie, Arvon, Western Trail, the Waste

Alon hunched over the table, hands planted on either side of the glass hemisphere, its curved surface up. His face was gaunt and marked with the lines of hours of strain. Now he shook his head so violently Eydryth shivered. All his talent was summoned, but lacking focus.

He nodded toward her again and patiently, as she had for nearly all the morning, she played her harp and crooned wordlessly, striving this time to alter in the slightest the sounds, so that she might have the good fortune to hit on that which would be his aid.

They had discovered during the past days of labor that the full melding of Power did not reach what Alon needed. As a last resort Eydryth had suggested trying her own talent—the harp and song which had been her protection and weapon.

“No.” Small feet thudded across the room and Trevor was pounding on her knee. “No so—so!” His child’s voice was several notes higher than the scale which she had always considered the most powerful, likely to provide what she needed.

Eydryth swallowed. Her throat felt dry, as if she had been singing half the night in some inn for a grudged ration of dry bread and stale cheese.

Alon leaned back a little. His attention had turned to Trevor, who was continuing to demand his sister’s attention with a cry of “No—so.”

Eydryth reached for the goblet of herb-infused water Joisan had set there earlier before the rest of them had withdrawn to ensure such silence as was possible for this experiment. She allowed the liquid to rinse about her mouth and then swallowed.

Trevor had stilled his protest but had planted himself firmly before her, his fists on his hips, looking up as if he were supervising labor. When his sister put down the goblet, he came a little closer. Reaching out one finger, he touched a harp string.

They were made of quan iron, finally spun as threads, those strings. Nearly everlasting and embedded with a force no living mage could explain.

Eydryth heard the note. It was like a faint echo from the slight touch. She prided herself on the fact that she could remember any note she had heard—just as any ballad listened to once was recorded in her memory.

Now she touched the string in turn, with the familiarity of one to whom this instrument was a part of life itself.

It rang forth. She listened and again summoned it. This time she strove to fit her own voice to it. Three times she tried, Trevor crowding ever closer, looking anxiously up into her face. Then note and murmured croon melded.

Alon’s head jerked around to the hemisphere. It was no longer stubbornly clear. At the same time Trevor fashioned something which was not unlike a word—if “Ahhhhlaa” could be given that title. And it almost became one with the notes Eydryth added one to another, fluting still but in a different range.

The hemisphere before Alon was no longer vacant. A weaving of violet-blue swirled within it. As the harp continued and Eydryth and Trevor added their parts, Alon began an incantation.

At first his voice sounded hurried, as if he must reach some goal in a very limited time, and then the girl could sense that he was forcing himself to keep a measured beat. Beat—yes! The ancient words were also fitting themselves to that eerie music.

They were getting through—by the will of the Lady they were getting through! Not by the apparatus Alon had earlier used, which had so hopelessly failed them, but by this.

Her fingers felt sticky with sweat as they swept the strings. Her voice was once again drying her throat. Eydryth settled herself to endure. Trevor seemed to have no ill effects and his “Aaaaalaa” was clear and carrying.

Within the hemisphere the blue whirled vigorously and then was gone. They were looking at a face they had hardly dared hope to see again—Hilarion. There was excitement and exultation in his expression.

The warding—The words were mind-sent, not spoken. The warding—Symbols flashed in a wild pattern through Eydryth’s head. Some she recognized as representing certain powers still known; others were strange.

Alon sat staring down at the small representation of Hilarion, his hands on the sides of his head as if to hold within all that was being fed him.

At last there was an ending. “We have warded.” That was intelligible speech again. “Do you do likewise?”

However, the mist was upon Hilarion once again, sweeping across the hemisphere, and he was gone. Eydryth reached quickly for the herb drink and emptied two swift gulps down her aching throat. Then she offered it to Trevor, who drank more slowly as if he did not need refreshment so badly. She was watching Alon as he leaned back in his seat.

From the pile of parchments in a muddle not too far from his hand he drew one, and with his writing stick was setting down a mixture of lines, curves, triangles, and spheres. Did he remember it all? Certainly he must, for he had studied with Hilarion since boyhood and was adept-bred himself.

“So.” He let the writing stick fall and roll from him, his attention only for the symbols he had outlined. He looked up at

Eydryth and Trevor then, and for a moment or so he was the youth she had met in Estcarp, all somberness gone from his face.

“Ibycus has destroyed one gate,” she said hesitatingly.

“Yes, but it should be visited once again—the new warding full-set!” He flung out an arm and pulled Trevor to him in a hug. “How knew you the way, little brother?”

“I just did.” All that temporary authority appeared to have deserted the boy. “We go to hunt gates now?”

Alon shook his head. “Not yet—we have others hunting them for us. Also we must keep an eye on Garth Howell.” Some of the tension had again stiffened his features. “But we must tell Ibycus.”

“Through that?” Trevor wanted to know, pointing to the hemisphere.

“No—that has done its duty, little one. It has held more power than we can control. See—” He tapped the crystal with a fingertip and it shattered, the broken bits in turn becoming dust. Now he turned to the girl. “Rest, hearts lady. We shall need the full meld to search out Ibycus, and that at moonrise.”

She had laid aside her harp and now he had an arm about her shoulders, was drawing her up against him. She needed that steadying, for she felt that without it she could not keep her feet.

But that Alon had managed to do this—and those at Lormt… Hilarion, the others had found the answer. It was enough to make one feel dizzy with relief.

They might still have Garth Howell to reckon with, but who knew—Perhaps with study Alon could turn this same formula on that haunt of Darkness and seal it also. After this hour Eydryth could believe anything was possible.

Ibycus had taken a place close beside the boy, who now appeared in the depths of slumber. Now and again he regarded his ring, staring into its dull stone as if he would summon up answers to questions his mind proposed but could not solve. Though the day advanced, they made no move to travel onward. All of them could guess that locked in the sleeper was the information they needed the most now.

The Kioga kept out of the grove, their attention mainly for the mounts, since they wanted no more such wanderings as had drawn Guret away. He described several times to the tribesmen the nature of those ground-clinging creatures which had held horse and man at bay.

“Those of the Mantle Lands have mounts indeed,” Obred remarked as he chewed his noon rations. “But they are not close kin to their herds as we, the People, have always been. How was it, then, that this young lordling has also the gift of calling? And why Vasan, who had not chosen him at the fall roundup?”

“I think”—Lero glanced around him as if to make sure there were no others than his own tribesmen about him—“that the Mother of Mares has some purpose in all this.”

As one, the three of them made the touch to forehead and then heart which honored that sacred name. There were many stories of the way the Mother dealt with those in which She had some interest, and it could be that the strange wandering gelding indeed had a purpose—to bring Guret to the scene before the stranger was pulled down. He remembered now the odd fact that the urings (as the stranger named them) had fled him even before his sword started harvesting their lives. Her Hand over him? Perhaps; only a shaman could have borne witness to that.

“Where does the old mage think to lead us now?” Obred changed the subject.

“That is his choice and we have yet to hear it,” returned Guret.

Ibycus held his ring-befingered hand out over the boy lying still within the sanctuary of the fane.

“Hardin of Hoi?” he called softly as one might to awaken one from rest. “Hardin of Hoi.”

The boy’s eyes did not open, but his head turned from one side to another and a faint frown line showed between his brows. Like all those of the Mantle Lands, he was plainly of the Old Race, pale of skin in spite of life in the open, dark of hair with the delicate, slanting brows of the same shade. Though he had not yet reached his full man’s growth, the firmness of his jaw and his well-formed features showed that he was indeed well to look upon.

“Hardin of Hoi!” called Ibycus for the third time, and this time more loudly.

Aylinn sat cross-legged at the boy’s head, her healer’s eyes sharp to catch the difference in him. At her back was Kethan, the weight of Uta resting across his legs, a low purr to be heard now and then.

But Elysha was on the other side of Hardin’s body and now she put out a hand warning off Ibycus. The mage looked up with a frown to which she paid no attention; rather, she leaned forward a fraction and spoke herself.

“Hardin, son of Ylassa…”

There was a small choking cry from the boy in answer to that and his eyes opened, staring straight at her.

“Mother—” he began and then, so swiftly he caught them all by surprise, he drew in upon himself, one hand pawing at his side as if to palm a weapon. “You are—” It was clear that he was fully conscious now. But he paused, his eyes surveying her sharply.

“Last midsummer we shared a guesting cup,” Elysha returned in an ordinary voice. “I was the Lady Ylassa’s chamber guest.”

He rubbed his hand across his eyes. “Yes. You brought her the message—you rode with her out of Hoi.” He was on his knees now and he grabbed at her shoulders, digging his fingers in as he gave her a vigorous shake. “Shadow creeper, her blood debt is mine.” With the force of his attack he overbore her backward.

Kethan sprang to action with Firdun. Thin and wasted as the boy seemed to be, his rage was such that it took the two of them to hold him.

Elysha arose, smoothing some tatters from her shirt at the edge of her jerkin. But it was Aylinn who swung past her to where the three still struggled, and her wand blazed.

Hardin gave a choked cry and all the strength seemed instantly wiped out of him. He flung back his head and his eyes went wide. He stared now at the great seated figure as if nothing else existed now in his confused world.

“Hardin.” Still smoothing her torn sleeve, Elysha deliberately moved so she stood between him and the throne, that he could see her fully. “The Lady Ylassa is safe. She was called by the Voices and serves them now.”

“My lord—he said—” the boy choked on the words and was plainly struggling for control. “When he ordered me with him on a hunt…” Now there was another note in his voice, anger was returning. “We—he said we were to guest in Garth Howell. But—they gave me of the guesting cup and when I drank—” Again he sought for and found self control. “I was a prisoner and they said that he—he had given me freely to them and I was of value because I was her son!”

“Did they also tell you that she had agreed?” Elysha asked.

“Lies! They serve the father of lies there! They have a new leader—one Jakata—he is mighty in power and has made covenant with that which waits beyond—”

It was Ibycus who interrupted. “Waits beyond what?”

Firdun and Kethan had released their hold on Hardin and now he swung around to confront the mage. “Beyond a gate—the greatest of the gates. It spoke to them—the Garth has spell dreamers, three of them—and by those they know what happens elsewhere. Jakata says that the time wheel has spun and these are the old days come again. He is an adept—and from behind him the Dark will rule.”

Ibycus was nodding. “And this gate, boy—does Jakata hunt it now, to the west?”

“Yes, he was summoned. It is said—I heard the guards speak—that there was a blood-drinking and a soul-darkening… Oh”—his face lost years; it was now the desolate one which might be shown by a hopeless child—“I—I dreamed. They used pain and other ways I do not understand save that they were against all which was of the Light.” He looked nearly as pale as the image behind him now. “I was a warrior. I have ridden against the hill demons when they come to ravage and I have slain in the name of the Light—but they overthrew me and I am…

“Stranger”—he grasped at Firdun now—“use your sword. I know that you march against the Dark. Let my defiled blood be the first you shed! Give me that much armsman’s grace!”

Aylinn moved to face him.

“Look upon me, Hardin. Have you seen my like before?”

He lifted his head. “You—you are one of the moon-called.”

“As is your mother. Whose temporary dwelling is seated there?” She pointed to the throned one.

“The One in Three.” He moved his hands and Firdun dropped his last hold on him, allowing him to make the gesture he wished. Trailing lines of blue followed his passing fingers. He gasped and staggered, save that Kethan was there to steady him.

Aylinn held out her wand until it nearly touched his breast. “Hardin of Hoi. In Her eyes you are a worthy son of one who serves Her well. There is no spot in you, no rot through which the Dark can reach. Take and hold.” She extended the wand until it brushed his hand.

Very slowly his fingers advanced to grasp it, and then hers withdrew, and hold it alone he did. The moonflower at its tip spent its scent on the air. Hardin fell to his knees. With both hands he gave the wand back to Aylinn.

“Reborn you are, Hardin. Chosen servant of One in Three. And as such—

“As such”—his voice was now firm—“I shall live and ride, hold the sword of war, the open land of peace, for all my days. And”—there was an eagerness on his face as he arose once more and went unerringly to Ibycus—“mage, what I know is yours and perhaps it can make a difference.”

Ibycus moved his ring finger and a line of light broke free. It did not quite touch Hardin, but it was evident that it was meant to indicate him.

“I think you have much which will be of aid to us,” the mage said. “Now let us listen.”

It was almost, Firdun thought to himself, like one of the storytelling sessions which were used in the Kioga camps for impressing upon children the history and hard-learned knowledge of those who had gone before.

Jakata plainly had many of the skills granted by history to the mage company of adepts—those mages who had once ruled and then brought close to complete death and ruin this world. He had sought out Garth Howell when it was merely a repository for half-forgotten and little-understood knowledge. Though he appeared a young man, it was said that he had not apparently aged a season since he had been there.

At first he had spent time listening courteously to those who had long studied there. But he had also gone seeking for himself in sections of the underground storage rooms which had not been entered for generations. He had always shown an aptitude for the solving of puzzles and began to bring out in the meetings of the scholars unusual matters hitherto unknown. At last it had become a custom for him once every so many tendays to conduct what was not quite a class or an exhibition, but a combination of both, and so drew to him most of the younger students.

From these he had chosen a devoted band to whom his word was the revelation of one of the Great Old Ones. Yet he had given no sign that he sought anything but knowledge for the sake of knowledge.

Slowly there had come a splitting of the company at Garth Howell. Those older mages, well-entrenched in their studies for the sake of learning alone, stood aside and Jakata made no attempt to influence them, in fact paid them great courtesy whenever the occasion demanded.

Of the others a handful had left—again no one gainsaying their withdrawal. So in the end the active members of the community were all his fervent followers.

The Mantle Lordships for the most part held to the ancient belief in the Voices—those revered as being the spirits of ancestors willing to remain in touch with the world that those of their blood might be aided by their advice. Here and there, however, a lord like Prytan was intrigued by the rumors of what might be going on and, if he was ambitious, started casting about for ways in which he might profit.

At length Jakata had said that he was commanded to provide a Voice himself—one for the coming age of new rule. He ordered a pilgrimage to Dragon Crest to offer a blood sacrifice. But on the way they had been subjected to such a storm of magic as they had never believed existed, and Jakata had been aroused to a claim of Power beyond any mage since the Great Old Ones.

They made a capture, and a rich one: one of the fabled Gryphon line whom all knew were favored by the Light above most. And in spite of the rage of the magic, he had been readied for sacrifice, only to have his own talent somehow aided by the release of such potent Power, and he escaped.

However, Jakata had not been dismayed by this. Instead he was feverishly set on a new venture. A sacrifice at Dragon Crest was as nothing to the opening of the portal through which some great leader could come and, through his dream seekers, he learned where that portal was, with the promise that when they reached it all would be made plain to them.

Hardin had been chosen as sacrifice this time and was being transported with the company westward. When he came to that part of the story, he faltered, for he could not himself explain how he was freed.

Ibycus cut in. “It is more than you they want for the feasting of their Dark lord, Hardin. Therefore they loosed you, being sure that the bonds of spirit they had set upon you were well locked. So were you brought to us—though”—he smiled—“it was all a little clumsy. I think your Jakata perhaps left the details to someone of his company not so well schooled.

“However, they shall get what they want, for we shall seek out the gate even as they are doing. And though none can ever foresee the end, by the time we reach there we shall have our answer.”

The next morning they moved out. Hardin joined Guret and showed himself nearly as good a horseman as the Kioga—they were soon talking horses together. Also he was able to play their guide northward for the space of two days, having scouted in the hills during the demon raids and learned some of the skills.

On the third day they found the remains of the camp from which he had escaped, or been allowed to escape, and then Kethan as pard tracker took over. The young Silvermantle lord watched the were go into action with amazement. His people knew the weres, of course. At intervals their nobles had hosted weres. But none had ever come into Hoi, and to see the tawny pard slip into the tall grass where a man had ridden was a surprise.

However, Kethan’s shadow horse still had a rider. Uta had fit herself in the saddle there and the mount accepted her easily. So they went, Kethan on trail and the Kioga and Firdun taking turns riding point.