Andre Norton - Year of the Unicorn

Tube—pot—one into the other. The meat they were eating was hot and greasy; they would thirst. Tube—into pot. The small bone stirred, arose, pointed for the direction in which I would aim it. I put into that all the force I could muster.

It had no arrow swiftness. Now and then it swayed groundward and my will failed, my concentration broke. But I did it, toppled it into the melting snow water and none of the Hounds had noticed it.

Last of all—the stopper—that black stone. Out out—! Trickles of moisture from my temples, runnels of it from my armpits. Stopper—out! I kept on the battle, having no way of knowing of my success or failure.

A hand reached for the pot. I held my breath to see a small drinking horn dipped into the contents. Would that archer see what lay within—had it done its purpose? He drank thirstily from the horn, and so did the one next to him. Three—four—now Smarkle. The Captain? So far he had not.

Time—would time serve me now? I knew what the effect of that liquid was under certain controlled conditions. How it might answer this night was something else.

They had finished eating; clean picked bones cast out among the rocks. I had had my respite. Now it was coming to an end. The Captain—one other—had not drunk. And of those who had—I could see no signs they were affected. Perhaps the stopper—but it was too late to regret now—

Smarkle stood up, wiping his hands down his thighs, grinning.

“Do we go to the sport, Captain?”

Now—he was turning to the water pot! Just as I had used my will on the bone vial, so did I now fasten it upon him, urging the need for drink. And he did, deeply, before he made answer to Smarkle’s question. Beyond—the other holdout did also.

“If you wish—”

Smarkle gave an obscene crow and strode towards me while laughter and calls of encouragement came from his fellows. He reached down to drag me up against him, thrusting his face into mine, pulling at my clothing—though I struggled as best I could.

“Smarkle—!” A loud cry, but he laughed, blowing foulness into my face.

“You will have your turn, Macik. We will do it fair, turn and turn about.”

“Captain—Smarkle—” One of the archers came in a leap to tug at his fellow. “Look you—fool!”

His grasp had loosened Smarkle’s hold on me, pulled the other a little away from where I fell against a rock. Smarkle mouthed an oath and turned, but something in the other’s excitement stopped the blow he had raised his hand to strike.

“Look you!” The archer pointed to the ground. “She—she throws no shadow!”

As the rest I stared down. The fire was bright and the shadows seemed clear and dark, thrown as they were by the men. But—there was none for me. I moved, and no answering black appeared on rock or ground.

Smarkle shook off the other’s hold. “She is real enough, I had hands on her—she is real, I tell you! Try her for yourself if you do not believe that!”

But the archer he ordered to that action stepped back and shook his head.

“Captain, you know about the hags.” Smarkle appealed. “They can make a man see what is not. She is real, we can break all her magic easy enough—and have a good time doing it.”

“They can make you feel as well as see, do they wish it.” the archer replied. “Perhaps she is no woman at all, but a shape changer set here to hold us until his devil pack can come to our blooding. Shoot—prove her real or shadow. Use one of the cursed shafts—”

“If we had one left, Yacmik, do not doubt I would use it.” the Captain cut into the argument, “But we do not. Hag or shape changer she has powers. Now we shall see if they can stand against cold steel. “ He drew his sword and the others fell back as he came to me.

“Ahhhhh—” That sound began as a startled cry and ended as a sigh. He who had first drunk from the pail of snow water lurched back, clutching for support of the man beside him. Then he went down, dragging the other with him. A second man wavered, fell.

“Witch!” The Captain thrust with his sword. But the blade went between my arm and my side, scoring the flesh along my ribs, but not the fatal wound he intended, jarring its tip against the rock which backed me. He blinked at me, his face creasing in a grimace of hatred and fear, and made ready to strike again.

But smothered cries from those about the fire made him turn his head. Some of his men lay prone and still, and others strove to keep on their feet but wavered drunkenly, with manifestly little control over their bodies. The Captain put his hand to his head, brushed across his eyes as if to clear them from vision. Then he thrust at me a second time, his blade tearing a long rip in my robe, and he went to his knees, to crash forward on his face.

I pressed my hand to my side, feeling the damp of my blood, not yet daring to move for there were some still stumbling about. Two tried to reach me with drawn weapons, but in the end I alone stood among the fallen.

They were not dead, and how long the drug would hold, so diluted and used, I did not know. Before they woke I must be gone. And where was I to go? When I was sure they were all unconscious I went to the bag my will had opened and searched for that which would aid my hurt. That salved and bound, I passed among my sleeping enemies, looking for aught which might aid me in the struggle to keep life in my body.

A long hunting knife was in my belt, and I found some food—the compact rations known to the forces of Alizon, which they must have been saving, trying to live off the country when they could. Swords, bows, arrow-full quivers I gathered and threw upon the fire—which might not harm the blades but would finish the rest. Their horses I freed from the picket line and sent down the valley, flapping a blanket to frighten them.

With the knife I cut away the long skirt of my divided robe, binding what was left to my legs so that I would not be burdened in my climb. For only climbing would take me where I must go. And, even though it was now night, I must be on my way, lest the sleepers rouse to find me still within their reach.

There was no use in attempting the barrier which masked the Riders’ “gate”; not so much as a finger or toe hold could be found on its surface. So—there remained the valley walls. And the danger of such a road was marked by the debris of past slides.

Only in me one purpose had grown so great that it filled even the emptiness. The pull which drew me north had strengthened during the passing of hours, not become lesser. I was no longer a creature of flesh and blood alone. That flesh and blood was rather an envelope for something now more acute and desirous than any ordinary human might know. It was as if my ordeal in escaping from the Hounds had awakened, or shaped, yet farther that unknown which I had always possessed but been unable to bind to my service.

I began to climb. This much favoured me, I had never found it hard to walk high places. And I had heard it said many times by the hunters from the mountains who came to trade their fur take in the Dale towns, that one must never look down or back. Though it seemed to me now that my advance was the journey of an ant compared to the stride of a tall man, as I looked ahead to what still lay before me. Also, I had no lessoning in this, and was ever fearful of a wrong move plunging me down, while I never knew at what moment those I had left might rouse and take to the hunt.

Up and up, moments lengthened until they weighed upon me as full hours. Twice I clung in stark terror as rocks did crash, missing me by very little. At last I came upon a fault in the rock which had better holds within it. So, venturing inside that break, I went on and on until, at last, I pulled out upon a bare and open space which must mark the top of the cliff. There I tumbled forward into a pocket of snow, my body weak and trembling, no longer able to obey my will.