Andre Norton - The Warding of Witch World

“Where others?” He viciously shook her head from side to side and then thumped it against the ground to emphasize obedience to his will by a quick answer.

“Gone.” The word rasped in her throat. Let them put an end to me speedily , became the one plea she clung to.

He blinked at her and snarled, then mercifully loosed the hold on her hair and hunched away. Liara caught a glimpse of knife blade. There stood her weapon straight in the earth as she had left it when treacherous sleep had overcome her. Why the creature had not already taken it as spoil, she could not guess.

The female pulled at his hunched shoulder, pointing to the two who were now ravishing the backpack. He snorted and spun around.

His companion did not follow him but squatted down in his place by Liara.

She lowered her hairy face and then uttered a sound which was close to cackle. “Dog stink,” she observed. “Dog meat good.” She ran her tongue over her lips and then her jaws remained a little open, the tip of her dark tongue spattering drops down on the girl.

Liara braced herself against any sign of disgust or fear. So in this much she had been right—those of Alizon did take on some of the nature of their prized four-footed stock. But the female Gray One was busy. She found the latches of Liaras jerkin easy enough to pull apart. And without disturbing the ropes holding her captive, but by the judicious cut of a dull-bladed knife here and there, she slit cloth. She soon had the girl stripped, her rent clothing piled to one side.

Thick fingers gathered up the skin of one of Liaras breasts in a torturous pinch and the girl could not in time smother an answering cry. But she already lay open to the inspection of the majority of the pack.

She fought to close her mind to what they intended to do with her. Would she furnish them with a feast? Or would she be an object for torturous play?

The female gave her another bruising pinch and was ready to deliver a third when there came a low-throated houndlike call, and immediately all those gathered around Liara edged away.

With her head now flat on the ground and little chance to see more than the hairy forms which walled her in, the girl could not view the newcomer. But that these here owed it some form of service was plain. A moment later they all drew back to open a pathway for a much taller form, so enwrapped in a black cloak, so hooded that its features could not be distinguished, coming at a deliberate pace, seeming to lean now and then on a staff which overreached that hooded head in height.

Liara had heard in Lormt and had experienced for herself at least once, when she had fronted that head of stone, that evil had its own odor and so revealed itself for what it was to any of the Light. The Light—how much she could claim to be of that, she did not know. But this thing sickened her until she wanted to spew forth last night’s food. A Sarn Rider? Though it was rumored that the Gray Ones were not too often in the company of such.

The staff swung forward and she could not turn her head quickly enough. Its point struck her grimed forehead directly between her white brows.

She felt something like a prick and then… nothingness—nothing at all.

Destree had depended so far on Chief as a guide. She was sure they had left the shrine just in time to escape another visit from the villagers and she went strongly believing that what she did was the Lady’s will. Gruck seemed to agree to her leadership, but as he went he continually turned his head from side to side, obviously sniffing, now and then putting out a hand to touch a leaf, to point to one of those flying things which were like flowers on the wing.

With constant effort the Voice tried to mind-meet such unspoken queries with a name. Sometimes she was even shaken enough from her desire for haste to attempt to acquaint the stranger with the use of some herb he seemed to locate by instinct. They were powdered by flower petals brought by the rising wind and she knew that a storm was coming. They should find shelter, for these spring storms could turn, without warning, into raging torrents.

They found a mighty windfall, a tree which must have been a giant before some whirlwind ripped its roots free. Then Destree slipped off her pack, pulling grass and brush away from the fungi-spotted wood. Gruck needed no instructions, following her example. But it was he also who dragged up saplings he had harvested with ease and wove them into a roofing. They could not stand erect in their improvised shelter, but they had cover—and just in time.

The storm hit about sunset and they crowded together, Chief tucked between them, chewing on journey cake and looking out into a solid wall of rain.

Where go ? Gruck’s questing thought brought Destree out of a worry about a new patch on the shrine wall which might not perhaps hold against such an assault.

“Escore,” she answered aloud, and then realized that meant nothing to her companion. She strove to picture that land as she had heard of it—a strange and eerie countryside filled with the remnants of many alien peoples, of the Light but still with thick pockets of Dark lingering within it.

From there—-go home ?

Destree knew that she could promise nothing. This was no child, nor, for all his appearance, some animal less in intelligence than human. He must have the truth, for only on truth could she build trust.

“There are those there”—she shaped her thoughts slowly, keeping one hand on Chiefs soft fur as if that simple link could amplify what she would say—“who know much more than I. If there is a return for you—that they can tell.”

He had turned his head a little away; she could only see the rounded shape of it staring out into the rain. His next attempt at communication surprised her, for it no longer dealt with his gate passage.

This be rich—good land to grow. Its Alatar must love it much . She more felt than saw his hand go out and run along one of the sapling poles which supported their shelter. Yet … He hesitated so long that she thought he had closed the path of communication between them. Then he turned to look at her and she could see his eyes like luminous disks in the dark. There is no guardsman here—none to listen—none to aid—not to fight —

“Fight!” She was startled. What was this mountainous man-thing beside her used to standing guard against in his own woods?

That which takes but does not give … He appeared to be struggling for some way to explain. It was as if he could not altogether believe that she did not know what he meant.

“There is never a world without enemies,” was the best Destree could answer. “And this I must say in truth—the land toward which we travel has evils in plenty. One must be ever on guard.”

That is my calling , he returned. For guard I am, and no place where there is growing things can be totally strange to me .

She was having difficulty keeping awake and dozed off. When Destree roused in the dim morning light, Gruck was still sitting on his heels at the opening of the shelter, looking out into a world with a stare of such intensity that she believed in some way he was establishing odd ties of familiarity.

The storm had done them one favor. It had certainly delayed the chase after them and cloaked their trail. Even Foss, she hoped, could not pick up any hint of their passing.

One day was like another, except they grew to know more and more about each other. Destree watched with awe when her giant companion confronted a spotted tree cat ready to defend two kits with all the fury of her kind.

He knelt before the cat, which was already poised to spring, and, making a soft sound deep in his throat—not unlike Chiefs own purr—he laid down a woodsnark, one of the tree-boring lizards which he had spent some time cutting loose from its inroads on one of the forest giants.