Andre Norton - The Warding of Witch World

There were more of those screams. Some he was sure were of the pain and terror of a horse. Vasan, surely.

The stream took a curve to the left but still pointed north. Now there were other cries—human? He could not tell, but scout craft slowed his forward plunge. He must know the nature of the danger before he burst into some battle like an untrained boy.

He took to the side of the stream bank, though this was overgrown by a tough thicket of tall-standing reeds so he had to cut his way with the sword. Most of these towered above his head now so that he could see practically nothing of what lay ahead.

“Great Ones—Old Ones—the Dark rises!”

Certainly Vasan had never voiced that! But an instant later the battle scream of a horse in dire defense broke again.

Guret threw himself forward through the last curtain of the reeds. There reared a horse, striking out with forefeet against smallish things which scuttled here and there across the ground. The willow screen had cut off some of the light but not enough to mask the fact that there was indeed a shadowy figure standing on hind feet, human in seeming, and it was striking down at the scuttling enemy with what looked to be a sword, or at least a part of one.

The Kioga had already chosen sides. He hurled himself on and, to his utter amazement, the scuttling things did not turn to attack him but rather scattered the closer he approached them.

He thrust and raised his sword. On the point of it was impaled something so alien even in this dim light that with a sharp twist of his wrist he hurled it away.

Then he expected them at last to turn on him. Vasan was proving his battle worth, bringing hooves down in a regular beat, now and then lowering his head to seize on one of the scrambling enemy and toss it away.

“By the One in Three—” Where those words had come from Guret could not tell, but they filled his mind, fell swiftly from his lips. “By the Maid, by the Lady, by the Old One who keeps the last gate of all, give us of your strength and Power.”

That shadow by the bank lurched forward a fraction. It had dropped its sword. Now it fumbled at its breast and he wondered if the crawlers had managed to inflict some wound.

“Lady—’ The voice was very low. “She who elects the death hour—be with us all.”

Guret was gripped by a force he had felt only twice before, when he had faced some sneaker out of Garth Howell and made sure the evil-born did not return. He waded into the creepers that laid about him. Somehow the very blade of his sword gave forth light now so that he could see the things—spiders, frogs, things of no known species. They were dying without uttering a sound. Then, breathing heavily, Guret stood by a pile of the strange dead and there was no more stirring across the ground.

Vasan whinnied, then snorted, tramping over his late prey to push his head against Guret’s shoulder, once more the perfect-mannered mount.

“You are wounded?” Guret pulled the horse’s forelock gently as he asked of the stranger.

“No more than a bite or two.” There was no quiver in that answer. “The urings will not be returning to His call!”

Booted root shot out and lifted one of the bodies. “I have to thank you, but that She could send one of Hers to bring me aid—after—after—’ The shadow form gasped and crumpled down. Guret went into action. He found that the body he lifted was not in war gear but rather wore a soft covering, which was both a thigh-length jerkin and breeches.

The breath which touched against his cheek was soft and came in a pattern as if the stranger wept. Vasan was already by Guret.

The horse without orders accomplished the most demanding of all its training, kneeling. Guret boosted the stranger up and was glad to see that hands came forth to tangle in Vasan’s mane. Then he vaulted up behind and headed back toward the camp.

He found those awaiting him alert. Since it was faintly dawn, he supposed that his night search had taken longer than he thought. Lero was instantly by his side.

“Shield brother—what—

Both Firdun and Kethan crowded in on the other side to free him of his burden. Only moments later they had the stranger stretched out on a bedroll. Over them still blew the perfume of the tree flowers which were again folding into their tight buds. And under that tent of trees Aylinn came on the run, her healer’s bag bumping against her shoulder.

In better light Guret was able to see his prize for the first time. The stranger was very slender and slight of figure, and the pale face turned up to them, eyes closed, was that of a boy hardly into youth. Kethan had reached for one of the limp hands and now turned it over. Cut deep into the flesh were the bloody marks of bonds. There were bruises showing darkly on his face also, and as Firdun investigated further, pulling off boots, he uttered an exclamation of anger at the show of more bond marks between scratches, and even a bite which might have come from the things the boy had fought.

They aided Aylinn to strip him. Ribs stood out as if he had been nearly starved. She busied herself with her potions, tending each wound with swift speed and all her care.

“Tis young Hardin of Hoi, Silvermantle.” Elysha stood over them now. “But he is of Garth Howell!”

For a second or two Aylinn paused and then shook her head firmly. “Not so—look and be sure.” She took up her moonflower wand, which had been slipped through the side thong of her healer’s sack.

Out the wand swung under her firm grip. The flower now topping it had not closed, as had those over them. Rather, it was brighter than the moonflowers she had always carried to center her Power.

Slowly she passed the flower above that young body, head to foot and back again. When she had finished, he stirred and his eyes opened. His first sight must have been of Aylinn, for he cowered into the covering on which they had laid him.

“Unclean.” Once more there were tears visible in his eyes. “I am no longer—”

“Look.” Aylinn commanded sharply. “Look and believe!”

“The evil one broke the true bonds.” His bandaged hand arose to half-hide his face. “He called upon one of the Great Dark Ones and I was given—

“No one can be given without his will,” Aylinn stated sternly. “Did you then surrender your will to this one of the Great Dark?”

His head turned from side to side. “No, no—not willingly. But then I was in another place and saw—and the will of that which looked upon me made me crawl at its feet.”

“You wear marks of bondage,” Aylinn said, “and those are freshly torn. Thus where you went was not willingly. Nor are you any hound of the dark to howl at his master’s bidding.” She turned to Kethan and Firdun, who stood behind her now. “Bring him—gently!”

Thus they carried him between them and he was very light of weight, until they came again before the throne and its silent occupant. He had closed his eyes as they arrived and there was a look upon him of one who had thrown away all the good life could offer.

“Lift him up!” again Aylinn ordered decisively. “Place him there.” She pointed to the lap of the veiled one. The boy let out a weak cry, tried to struggle from their hold, but together they settled him where Aylinn indicated.

Then they stepped back almost as one while the healer, her moonflower blazing on the rod, again touched the forehead of the boy.

“ Lady—mother—life-giver —this one has suffered from the evil which stands ready to assault us all. Look into his heart; know that he did not fail through any fault of his choosing. Cherish him as a newborn, cherish him as one growing—give him back his knowing of self.”

The answer came as a victory cry to reach into all their minds: