Andre Norton - Dragon Scale Silver

By then I had made the circuit of the pillars. So— the obvious must be true. The source lay under that block on which she stood. But how to force it up or off—

I came up behind Jervon. His legs were now netted by not only the third noose but some of the flying hair she had sent against us. None rose high up his body and his sword arm was still free. It would take the two of us—I knew that now. But could he—would he —aid?

I passed my black sword up and about him. The nets shriveled into nothingness. He turned his head. His face was set, white, with some of the rigid look of those others. But his eyes were alive.

“You must help—with that stone—”

I laid the sword tip to his shoulder. He shuddered, moved stiffly.

Yet all the time I remembered that winged scarlet thing she had sent flying. Was it poised for attack somewhere over our heads, or was it a messenger to summon aid for her?

Jervon took one ponderous step and then another at my urging. He moved so slowly it was as if stone itself obeyed my wishes. I put the cup again into my belt, caught his wrist, and set the point of his sword at the jointure of stone and pavement.

An arm with misshapen talons raked inches short of his face, yet something, perhaps the loop cross, kept him safe. I went to set my sword point even with his and I cried out—hoping with all my might he could do as I ordered:

“Heave!”

Both hands I had set about the hilt of the sword. And at that moment came the scarlet flying thing, aiming for my eyes. I jerked my head, but by the favor of those powers I had long served, I did not lose my grip—

Like a brand of fire along my cheek was that stinging blow. I could hear a hissing whine. But all that mattered, all that must matter was the stone. And it was moving!

I put forth all my strength, at the same time crying again:

“Jervon, heave!”

And that stone, under the urging of our blades, arose up, though the flying thing darted about our heads and I heard Jervon cry out, saw him stagger back. But we had done it—the stone was up, poised on one edge for an instant, then crashed over and away.

She who had menaced us from the block was gone. But the red flyer darted again at my eyes in such a fury of attack that I stumbled away half-blinded. In my hand was still the sword, and I thrust with it down into whatever we might have uncovered. There was a low wail. The red thing vanished.

I stood at the edge of a small pit. There had been a casket there in the hollow but the point of the sword had pierced it, cleaving the metal as if it were no more than soft earth. From that now spread a melting so that the riven casket lost shape, became a mass, which in turn sank into the ground on which it lay. In moments nothing was left.

Now the very pavement under my feet began to crack and crumble in turn, becoming rubble. First around the edges of the pit, and then, that erosion spreading, in lapping waves, as if all the untold years that this place had had its existence settled all at once, a burden of age too heavy to support.

The waves of erosion touched the feet of the first man. He shivered, moved. Then his armor was rust red, holding bare bones, until all toppled, to crash in shards, bone and time-eaten iron together, to the riven pavement.

So it was with the rest. Dead men, losing the false semblance of life as time caught up and engulfed them, to reach to the next and the next.

“Dead!” Jervon said.

I looked around. He had lost that rigid cast of countenance, was staring about him as if he wakened from some half-stupor into full consciousness.

“Yes, dead, long dead. As is this trap now.”

I pulled my sword from the pit where it had been standing upright, its point no longer anchored in the box, but in the dark ground. But that point—it was eroded, as if it had been thrust into acid. I held but three-quarters of a weapon. I sheathed it, amazed at what power must have erupted from the box.

Elyn! Almost I had forgotten him who had brought me hither.

Swinging from that hole I looked to where my brother stood, one among the other prisoners. He moved, raised a hand uncertainly to his head, tried to take a step and tripped over the bones and armor of one of his less fortunate fellows. I sped to him, my hands ready to steady him. He was blinking, looking about as one who wakes out of a dream, to perhaps find not all of it a dream after all.

“Elyn!” I shook him gently as one shakes awake a child who had cried out of a nightmare.

He looked at me slowly.

“Elys?” But of my name he made a question, as if he did not believe I was real.

“Elys,” I assured him. And, though I still kept one hand upon his arm, I held out now the cup.

That dark tarnish was gone. And in the moonlight the silver was as bright as it had been from the night it was first wrought. He put out his hand, traced the rim with one finger.

“Dragon scale silver—”

“Yes. It told me that you were in danger—brought me here—”

With that he looked up and around. The erosion had spread. Those pillars had lost their eerie light; most of them had crumbled and fallen away. The power which had knitted it all together had fled.

“Where—where is this place?” Elyn was frowning, puzzled. And I wondered if he knew at all what had happened to him.

“This is the heart of Ingaret’s Curse. And you were caught in it—”

“Ingaret!” That single name seemed to be enough. “Brunissende—where is my lady?”

“Safe in the Keep at Coomb Frome.” But there was an odd feeling in me. It was as if Elyn had taken a step away from me—a step? No, a stride—still my hand was on him.

“I do not remember—” Some of his uncertainty returned.

“That does not matter. You are free.”

“We are all free, Lady. But are we like to remain so?”

Jervon was by me. He still held his unsheathed sword and he had the watchfulness of one who treads through enemy territory where each wayside bush may mask armed surprise.

“The power here is gone.” I was sure of that.

“But is it the only power hereabouts? I shall feel safer when we are to horse and on the back trail.”

“Who is this?” Elyn spoke to me.

I thought perhaps some of the mind daze still held by his curt question, and I made ready answer.

“This is Jervon, Marshal of Haverdale, who has ridden with me for your deliverance. It was by his sword aid that we won this battle with the Curse.”

“I give thanks,” Elyn said remotely.

I thought—he is still under the edge of the spell, his wits are slowed, so I can forgive his bareness of thanks. Yet his manner chilled me a little.

“Coomb Frome—where lies it?” At least on that question Elyn’s voice was alive and eager.

“A day’s ride away,” Jervon answered.

In that moment I could not have said anything, for it was as if the struggle with the silver woman had sustained me against any weariness, but now that that was past, and Elyn once more free, all fatigue settled upon me at once, as time had done to crack open this foul web. I staggered. Instantly there was an arm at my back, strong as any keep wall, supporting me.

“Let us ride then!” Elyn was already starting away.

“Presently.” Jervon’s word had the crack of an order. “Your lady sister has ridden through one day without rest, battled through the night, to win you free. She cannot ride now.”

Elyn glanced impatiently around, a stubborn look I knew of old on his face.

“I—” he began, and then after a moment’s pause, he nodded. “Well enough.”

If he said that grudgingly, I was far too sunk in this vast weariness to care. Nor was I really aware of how we came free of the ruins of the spiral. Or of aught, save a drowsy memory of resting on the ground, with the soft roll of a cloak beneath my head, my furred one spread over me, while a firm hand held mine and a far-off voice urged me to sleep.