Andre Norton - The Warding of Witch World

“It is well,” the shaman spoke in the trade tongue. “This one is Odanki, of my own kin blood. He is a rover, one who has seen ice palaces.”

He was staring suspiciously at all of them now. “What would you do, south people?” His trade speech was curt.

“Sister,” the shaman spoke now to Frost, “try this one with your testing. We have no Speaking Fire, but already your Power and mine have melded enough that I will be bound by the Voice of Arska. Even as we have all heard, that Great One seems to wish to take part in this.”

Frost’s hand shifted to confront the Latt. Instantly the jewel flared to life.

The Latt stepped back, frowning, his upper lip lifting a little as some beast might threaten a snarl. But now the shaman slid off her too-high seat and came to him swiftly, laying a hand on his axe arm. She spoke with a solemn intonation like an oath, and he listened to her, his snarl fading, a look of wonderment on his face.

Then suddenly he dropped to one knee and, catching hold of the nearest edge of the other’s feather cloak, raised it to his lips.

“Arska,” continued the shaman, “has brought you one of our best. But now since I am also chosen for this searching I must speak with my people, assure them that Arska will raise up those to help them in time of danger.”

She passed their circle of chairs, the hunter falling in behind her, and was out of the door and gone before any one of them could summon words.

“Lady”—Mangus broke the silence left by that swift exit—“this all who know them can tell you of the Latts: they are a proud people, rovers with no settled home. If they give their word, so it is kept. If they cannot for some reason keep it, then the next of kin will pick up their duty. Their hunters are fine fighting men and know much of their frozen world. Of the powers of their shaman…” he shrugged. “I am not talented; I cannot vouch for what they can do.”

“She is a true sister,” Frost answered, “her power runs deep and full, though it comes from another source. There is nothing of the Dark.”

“But,” Simond cut in, “did she not say that any guide who would volunteer to go with us must do so of free will? Was this one not summoned?”

Frost smiled. “As you, Simond? We are but the tools of Greater Forces and a workman chooses his tools to suit the work which must be done. Also, I do not think the shaman chose this Odanki; I believe he was summoned by something greater than she. And by this”—she patted her once more dead gray pendant—“that was certainly proven.

“Now”—she looked to Mangus—“this map you and your know-able captains have put together—where will it lead us?”

“In truth, Lady, across the world as we know it. Look you.”

They all crowded around the table from which he had lifted his drinking horn and looked down at the maze of lines, some drawn in sturdy black and some in less steady red.

“See—this tar up coast…” he was running a thick forefinger along one of the black lines, “you can go without too much danger—though the icebergs are much larger in number this season. Here”—he stabbed down—“you will swing westward, clear to Arvon’s land, though I do not think any of them have ever ventured to explore it.

“This is Dargh. Of that you keep clear. It is surely of the Dark and they say that men there eat their own kind in times when the waller fish do not run well. Beyond Dargh, on the continent itself, there is a Sulcar trading post. We call it End of the World—I cannot twist my tongue to give you its native name.”

“There are natives there?” Simond asked.

“Yes, their land is free in places from the ever-steady ice because of hot springs. There is even feed for their load beasts. Horses, mind you”—he held out a hand about four feet from the floor—“no larger. And yet there are grodeer nearly as tall as this house and they say other strange beasts. I have seen great tusks of ivory once in a while which have come from End of the World and men tell strange tales of furred walking mountains. But then why should we laugh at such tales? For the farther a man travels, the more marvels he chances to see.

“You will learn what you can there. These Latts speak of ice palaces on this side of the ocean. Perhaps such lie farther north there also, for our legends speak of such.”

“These red lines…” Simond pointed to the closest on the map, “what do they signify?”

“Tracks of ships which have never returned,” Mangus answered shortly. “These northern seas hold as many traps as a land where the Dark abides. Yet the legends tie in with some of these voyages and so we record them.”

He rolled the map up as if he did not want to think of some of those records, and handed the roll to Simond.

“Stymir still has provisions to load. Give this to him as I promised. He has made two trips north and knows well some of the dangers. In fact he fought off a raid of the Dargh man-eaters three seasons ago. And he added two new islands to our records—one of which had some strangeness about it that he would never talk about.”

“A place of the Dark?” Trusla was only too aware of strange places and usually there was good reason for keeping away from them.

“Perhaps.”

A workman was waiting impatiently at the open door and they guessed that Mangus had taken time from pressing duties for this meeting. Frost said that she wished to consult with the Sulcar wise-woman again, so once more Trusla and Simond were left to return alone to that newly constructed warehouse-to-be where the passengers and the crew of the Wave Cleaver were temporarily housed.

“Ice palaces,” Trusla spoke. “Real palaces?”

“More likely just the edges of great glaciers,” Simond returned. “Such at a distance might well seem to be as great as Es and perhaps wind-carved into towers and walls.”

“These Latts…” she began again, Simond seeming very far away suddenly, as if he were caught up in some tight weaving of thoughts. “They have beautiful furs. And their shaman—she is not as strange and apart as some of the wisewomen even in the south.”

“We shall certainly learn more,” Simond agreed. “They will have us to Lormt when we return and shake out of us every bit of memory our minds hold—all to add to their store.” He laughed. “Perhaps before we come to the end of this venture we shall be able to even astound Morfew himself.”

This venture , Trusla thought. Yet the Latts said that some master thing of the Dark had driven them from their homelands. What kind of monster must they face, perhaps among those ice palaces?

The constant sounds of activity had died away with the coming of sundown. But the growing town was still alive when Trusla went to the impromptu market down on the wharf. Another ship had made port at nooning and samples of its cargo were already being placed to catch the eye—and gather a crowd.

This had been a risky project on the part of the captain, for he had not carried building materials or needful supplies, but rather what those in the bare-wall town might consider at this point to be luxuries. There were fabrics which could make curtains and wall hangings, dishes both for display and daily use, even such things as spices and those dried flower petals which would fight the heavy scent of woodsmoke in the rooms.

To Trusla’s surprise there were buyers enough gathering to bargain with those the captain had designated to be merchants for the day. And she saw change hands lengths of ivory tusks, and bundles of furs at a brisk pace, the buyer going away with this ornamentation for houses perhaps still roofless.

It was when she was shouldered aside by one of the brawny women who wore a heavy hammer in her belt that Trusla stopped short, refusing to move again in spite of another shove.