Andre Norton - The Warding of Witch World

Keris fell into the familiar rhythm he had known ever since he had first ridden forth with Kyllan. He had left sword in scabbard. In his hand the fire lash of the Valley guard cut down into the pack and the screaming of those he seared ended as their own fellows turned upon them. For that was the nature of the foul beasts: Often they could be turned from their attack in order to satisfy their ravenous hunger on the bodies of their own kind.

Keris cut a path through the pack before they seemed truly aware of what enemy harassed them. Then Jasta wheeled and back they went, the flame lash sending sparks of light to catch in the fur of those it did not actually touch.

He was no longer alone in the battle, but was aware of war-trained Torgians stamping and rearing—though the steel used by their riders was far less efficient than the weapon from the Valley.

Keris was aware of a falcon in dive, turned to one side, and quickly reversed the swing of his whip to kill the rasti attacking from his left. The smell of scorched flesh and blood was like a mist rising among them.

He saw suddenly a block of the creatures heading for the horses of the litter. Those huge animals went wild, screaming and rearing. The litter came free at one pole, throwing into the dust of the road the child while the woman hurled herself after to protect the little one with her own body.

Now he must use care. The plunging of the litter beasts continued, along with their screaming, as brown bodies leaped out of the dust to sink teeth into their flesh. Hampered as they were by the remains of the litter, they had little chance of defending themselves.

But it was the woman and child which mattered. Jasta needed no word from him. The Renthan took a great leap and landed directly on the first of those razor-toothed creatures. Keris was instantly out of the saddle, before the woman. He shortened the lash, burning his fingers in the process. But now he could stand and beat down the rasti, while the woman had curled herself into a kind of ball, the child unseen in her clutching arms.

They came—three times—and their attacks were such that he could somehow believe the woman and the child were their primary prey. But it was also plain to him that this horde had never before faced the fire lash and they had no defense against its measured swing.

Then… he stood faced by a mound of dead beasts. None of those stirred.

*They are dead,* Jasta reported. There was a long streak of blood down one leg of the Renthan and he lowered his horned head to lick at the wound. Save for the pain in his hands where he had shortened the lash in midst of battle, Keris was untouched. But having relooped the lash, he went down on his knees beside the woman, laying a hand gently on her shoulder.

She quivered and cried out, a small, whimpering sound.

“They are all dead, Lady. But did any reach you? Such wounds must be quickly treated.”

Her elaborate headdress slid into the dust as she at last raised her head. Then Keris was elbowed aside by one of the other women as they gathered about her. From what he could see, neither she nor the child had been touched.

“You, youngling.” Keris swung around with a snarl and found himself looking up into the face of Luscan. The Falconer’s mount ran blood in several places and he himself showed a growing spot of crimson on one leg. “You are no fledgling of any flight I have heard of—nor do you fight as any I have seen. Who and what are you?” This harsh demand on the part of the older Falconer sparked Keris’s anger.

“I am no birdman.” He used the common word for Falconer and did it deliberately. “I am Keris Tregarth out of the Green Valley—but doubtless you have never heard of either my house or my home.”

“Tregarth—he was at the taking of Gorm,” Luscan said slowly.

“But you are a youth and he was a seasoned fighting man of perhaps three times your years.”

“He is my grandfather,” Keris replied shortly.

“Yes, your people keep records of their get.” The older Falconer nodded. “Also I am not as ignorant as you think, fledgling, for I have heard of the Green Valley and those that kept alive the Light through all the Darkness. What other power have you beside that fire which answers to your will?”

Keris shrugged. “What I have been taught, I know.” It was no business of this man that he did not carry the talent which should have been his birthright.

“And to some purpose.” Luscan nodded. “It was fortune’s favor that your shield man stopped us here. Had we ridden into that…” He looked at the mound of rasti bodies.

The train were beginning to sort themselves out into some kind of order again, though they did so after sending scouts, who not only viewed the distance for any movement but also used spears to stir the verge grass—though Keris believed that another attack was not imminent.

That rasti and Gray Ones roamed these southern lands was not good hearing. It had always been thought that both species never ventured far out of Escore. And he had no desire to be trailed by another such pack as this one.

The woman sent for him before he prepared to ride—for this news must be taken quickly to those they had left behind.

She was very pale and when she tried to speak, the words came one by one.

“They—tell—me—you—are of a great house of the north.” Now she was growing more eloquent. “That I can believe. Also that you mean us no harm. If any stop you this side of the river, show them this.” She jerked impatiently at a coinlike pendant hanging on a bedraggled ribbon around her throat. “Blood debt is owed. I, of the House of Righon, do swear to that.”

The old formal words used in ceremony came back to him as if from another life, and he thanked her.

Meanwhile Krispin was gathering from the now-free speech of the guards much information about the countryside and which lords might welcome and which might hunt them down merely because they rode out of the north.

With the smell of blood still in his nose, Keris started back to the river camp. They might not be bringing meat this time, but he knew that the information would be very welcome to the party.

The two women in the small room faced each other. Both were well wrapped in shawls, as the chill given off by the walls could be piercing if one lingered for any length of time.

Lady Mereth strove to settle herself more comfortably on the cushioned seat of her wheeled chair. Her writing slate was in her lap, but she only fingered her chalk, did not put it to use.

The gray-robed woman opposite her displayed features sharp nearly as a hawk’s. On her breast rested a dull jewel, but her hands were busy with something else, a ball of pearllike glimmer with glints of color showing for an instant now and then. Gull, leader of the witches in Lormt, stared down at this as if, though it lay within her grasp, she feared its touch. Finally she spoke, her voice a monotone. She might have been trying to stifle in part what she must say:

“Five reports of evil moving—and all from the south borders. Yet our gate hunters surely have not awakened all this. Something else draws our ancient foes.”

Lady Mereth’s chalk squeaked. “Draws?”

She saw Gull tense, and the witch did not answer directly. “Sarn Riders, Gray Ones… rasti, even, which are usually herded only by their appetites. And certain others, ones who have never actively risen against the patrols of Light, yet did not welcome ever our coming into their territories. Now they sweep south. Are they drawn, you ask? I needs must say yes. Last night Mouse reached us with a tale of a rasti attack near the border of Var—clear across Karsten, even as they met with Gray Ones just a little earlier.