Andre Norton - The Warding of Witch World

The four men insisted on dividing up watches while the women stretched out to sleep. Inquit took again one of her long quills and drew a warding circle about their whole group, and they placed Audha between Frost and the shaman, Kankil as usual curled up beside the girl.

Trusla was crouched on the deck of a ship, the wind slapping at the sail over her head. There were screams and cries filling the air and she realized that she was on the very edge of a battle.

Sulcars, their faces convulsed with rage, were fighting Sulcars. Then there rang a shout—words she did not understand, though which had meaning for the men before her. Their individual engagements broke off and they formed an irregular circle around two of their number.

She knew those faces. Her memory moved sluggishly at her bidding. The smaller man? His name—Joul. Who was Joul?

There was shouting again from the watching men. Some apparently were cheering on Joul. The others’ cries held jeering notes, and the tall man they drew in to back—that was… Captain Stymir!

One could feel hate in the air, as heavy and blistering as the wind. The men circled slowly, eyes fast on each other, deadly purpose in every line of their tense bodies.

“Kill—kill—this is your deadly enemy who has been delivered into your hands. Kill, if you wish to bear the name of ‘man.’”

Trusla whimpered, her hands to her head. That order had not come out of the air as any honest sound, but seemed to vibrate within her. She knew little of swordplay—only what she had learned watching Simond and his squad at exercises. The Tor men knew no niceties of dueling. And to Trusla these two were most ill-matched, Stymir towering over Joul. Yet, such was the precision with which the smaller man moved, she could not believe that any combat would be one-sided.

Joul hunkered low and gave a hop forward not unlike that of a fen frog, his double-bladed axe swinging up and back, barely missing Stymir’s legs—While only a scrambling scuttle kept the captain’s sword from striking home.

The cries from the watching men grew louder. Still louder yet was that screamed order which must strike within their heads also, for Trusla saw both duelists retreat a pace, as if momentarily bereft of self-control.

“Kill—this be your enemy—kill!”

It was no one of the watchers who was shouting that. The girl arose from her crouch. She might still be somewhat in a mind-maze from what she saw, but the truth was beginning to break within her now. What she witnessed was not the full truth.

At that moment of recognition suggesting they were again within the Power hold of another, she saw a shadowy figure rise behind Joul, stepping through the line of watching, shouting sailors as if they were but sea mist. Arms wrapped around the small man’s shoulders and he was jerked backward, falling with his captor to the decking.

However, there had been one also who had moved upon Stymir at the same time, as tall, as broad-shouldered and threatening as the captain was at that moment. There was a flash of hand and Stymir’s sword clattered down. He cried out and caught his wrist. Now there were arms around about him also and he was captive, fighting fiercely for freedom. That struggle grew less—even as had the movements where Joul had gone down.

Yet none of the watching sailors seemed to see what was going on. They still watched the center of their irregular circle and their voices rang as if they cheered on a deadly engagement.

Just as the doorway into Tor Marsh had vanished, so did the ship, the sailors. There was only left in the very dim light Simond kneeling on Joul, the older man’s arms outspread and pinned now to the rock of the passageway—while Odanki, in spite of favoring his leg, held the captain in a hug like that of a wasbear which had closed for the final crushing of some prey.

For a moment all Trusla could hear was the heavy breathing of the men, though their struggles had come to an end. Now there was more light as Frost came to stand between them. The Estcarpain girl saw the wicked masks of rage fade from the faces of the two Sulcars. In their place appeared bewilderment with an overshadowing of shame.

“What—what did we do?” There was such uncertainty in the captain’s voice. It sounded close to the high note uttered by a boy on the edge of some great fear. “Joul—kin-friend—blood brother. I—I was fighting again Rajar, the ship slayer.”

“And I”—Joul had been released by Simond and was sitting up—“was on the Pearl Queen off Kaynur when we were raided by the demon craft—their captain being my meat.”

“You are Sulcar, and in your past,” Frost said quietly, “there lies much violence and death. The one who matches talents with us sent you back in time—

“Thinking we would kill each other,” broke in the Captain, “and so save her the trouble.”

“Undoubtedly one of her thoughts,” agreed Frost. “She does not understand that in this we all stand together. Simond, Odanki, she could not bring into your past.” She looked now to the two who had loosed their captives and were stepping back. “No. But each of you are also men of war. Simond has ridden with the forces of Estcarp and Escore against worse dangers than shadows, and you, Odanki, have known the terrors of the wilderness. Each man holds in his past some time when death brushed him by as one of the shaman’s feathers can brush. We were warded well, but not against our own memories and emotions.”

“Therefore,” Simond said stolidly as one accepting a task he could not relish or dare refuse, “we must be watched also until we can win to the end and see her face-to-face.”

He looked now straight at Trusla. “My lady, it is against all which lies within my heart, but this I desire you now to promise. That if I come close to you, you will be on your guard, that you will stay with Inquit or Lady Frost—no matter how much I may urge you not to do so.”

“No!” She would have gone to him then, but he stepped back, raising his hand to ward her off.

“Yes!” There was the same ring of iron in his voice which she had heard Koris and Simon Tregarth use upon occasion, and inwardly, much as she wished to refuse, she knew he was right.

“He speaks straight-tongued.” Odanki centered his attention on the shaman. “Greatly was I honored that you chose me above all others to be your champion, Dreamer and Voice of Arska. Yet if this evil one could bring you down by my hand, then only the Outer Dark will be mine.”

Frost turned her jewel around in her hands. “There is this—all of us have fought the Dark in one manner or another. Yet this one is truly not of the Dark as we envision it in our world. Think on what she said: that a gate was opened for the Sulcar escape—not by one of their blood with great talent, but by a stranger. Can we not then believe that one of the adepts who played their gate games in the past was responsible for both the flight of the Sulcar ships and accidentally for the capture of her own vessel?

“She spoke of wars and evils—the Dark adepts took delight in such meddling. It might well be that one such was careless enough to begin what could not be finished on that other world. If so, that the Sulcars were saved was perhaps the only victory.”

“You would speak for her?” the captain asked.

“I would that we speak with her. And until that time we must be on guard. She has not entirely released Audha—perhaps she cannot. Thus we still have a tie which will sooner or later bring us face-to-face. Only when talent stands against talent can we convince her that this world is not hers to play with.”

“You would return her to her own?” Trusla asked softly.

“If such can be done before the gate is sealed, and that is her own wish—why not? The darkness she awoke here is that which is centered in her alone, and perhaps in her own world it is not born of evil but of rear and despair. Therefore let us hunt this to the end.”