Wizards’ Worlds (9 page)

Weapons—sword—steel—there was something hovering just at the fringe of memory. Then
for an instant he saw a small, sharp mind picture. Steel! That man from the Waste-side
dale who had set his sword as a barrier at the head of his sleeping roll, plunged
his dagger point deep in the soil at his feet the night they had left him on the edge
of very ancient ruins with their mounts. Between cold iron a man lay safe, he said.
Some scoffed at his superstition, others had nodded agreement. Iron—cold iron—which
certain old Powers feared.

He had a sword at his belt now, a long dagger at his hip—iron—talisman? But the struggle
of possession of his fist, his arm was so hard he feared he would never have a chance
to put the old belief to the proof.

What did they want of him, those who abode here? For he was aware that there was more
than one will bent on him. Why had they brought him? Trystan shied away from questions.
He must concentrate on his hand—his arm!

With agonizing slowness he brought his hand to his belt, forced his fingers to touch
the hilt of his sword.

That was no lord’s proud weapon with a silvered, jeweled hilt, but a serviceable blade
nicked and scratched by long use. So that the hilt itself was metal, wound with thick
wire to make a good grip which would not turn in a sweating hand. His finger tips
touched that and—his hand was free!

He tightened hold instantly, drew the blade with a practiced sweep, and held it up
between him and that riot of blending and weaving blue lights. Relief came, but it
was only minor he knew after a moment or two of swelling hope. What coiled here could
not be so easily defeated. Always that other will weighted and plucked at his hand.
The sword blade swung back and forth, he was unable to hold it steady. Soon he might
not be able to continue to hold it at all!

Trystan tried to retreat even a single step. But his feet were as if set in a bog,
entrapped against any move. He had only his failing hand and the sword, growing heavier
every second. Now he was not holding it erect as if on guard, but doubled back as
if aimed at his own body!

Out of the blue lights arose a tendril of wan phosphorescent stuff which looped into
the air and held there, its tip pointed in his direction. Another weaved up to joint
it, swell its substance. A third came, a fourth was growing—

The tip, which had been narrow as a finger, was now thickening. From that smaller
tips rounded and swelled into being. Suddenly Trystan was looking at a thing of active
evil, a grotesque copy of a human hand, four fingers, a thumb too long and thin.

When it was fully formed it began to lower toward
him. Trystan with all his strength brought up the sword, held its point as steady
as he could against that reaching hand.

Again he knew a fleeting triumph. For at the threat of the sword, the hand’s advance
was stayed. Then it moved right, left, as if to strike as a foeman’s point past his
guard. But he was able by some miracle of last reserves to counter each attack.

Hertha watched the strange duel wide-eyed. The face of her enemy was wet, great trickles
of sweat ran from his forehead to drip from his chin. His mouth was a tight snarl,
lips flattened against his teeth. Yet he held that sword and the emanation of the
Toads would not pass it.

“You!”

The word rang in her head with a cold arrogance which hurt.

“Take from him the sword!”

An order she must obey if she was to witness her triumph. Her triumph? Hertha crouched
against the rock watching that weird battle—sword point swinging with such painful
slowness, but ever just reaching the right point in time so that the blue hand did
not close. The man was moving so slowly, why could the Toads not beat him by a swift
dart past his guard? Unless their formation of the hand, their use of it was as great
an effort for them as his defense seemed to be for him.

“The sword!” That demand in her mind hurt.

Hertha did not stir. “I cannot!” Did she cry that aloud, whisper it, or only think
it? She was not sure. Nor why she could not carry through to the end that which had
brought her here—that she did not understand either.

Dark—and her hands were bound. There were men struggling. One went down with an arrow
through him. Then cries of triumph. Someone came to her through shadows. She could
see only mail—a sword—

Then she was pinned down by a heavy hand. She heard laughter, evil laughter which
scorched her, though her body
shivered as the last of her clothing was ripped away. Once more—

No! She would not remember it all! She would not! They could not make her—but they
did. Then she was back in the here and now. And she saw Trystan fighting his stumbling,
hopeless battle, knew him again for what he was.

“The sword—take from him the sword!”

Hertha lurched to her feet. The sword—she must get the sword. Then he, too, would
learn what it meant to be helpless and shamed and—and what? Dead? Did the Toads intend
to kill him?

“Will you kill him?” she asked them. She had never foreseen the reckoning to be like
this.

“The sword!”

They did not answer, merely spurred her to their will. Death? No, she was certain
they did not mean his death, at least not death such as her kind knew it. And—but—

“The sword!”

In her mind that order was a painful lash, meant to send her unthinking to their service.
But it acted otherwise, alerting her to a new sense of peril. She had evoked that
which had no common meeting with her kind. Now she realized she had loosed that which
not even the most powerful man or woman she knew might meddle with. Trystan could
deserve the worst she was able to pull upon him. But that must be the worst by men’s
standards—not this!

Her left hand went to the bag of Gunnora’s herbs where it rested between her swelling
breasts. Her right groped on the ground, closed about a stone. Since she touched the
herb bag that voice was no longer a pain in her head. It faded like a far-off calling.
She readied the stone—

Trystan watched that swinging hand. His sword arm ached up into his shoulder. He was
sure every moment he would lose control. Hertha bent, tore at the lacing of her bodice
so that the herb bag swung free. Fiercely she rubbed
it back and forth on the stone. What so pitiful an effort might do—

She threw it through the murky air, struck against that blue hand. It changed direction,
made a dart past Trystan. Knowing that this might be his one chance, Trystan brought
down the sword with all the force he could muster on the tentacle which supported
the hand.

The blade passed through as if what he saw had no substance, had been woven of his
own fears. There was a burst of pallid light. Then the lumpish hand and that which
supported it were gone.

In the same moment he discovered he could move, and staggered back. And a hand fell
upon his arm, jerking him in the same direction. He flailed out wildly at what could
only be an enemy’s hold, broke it. There was a cry and he turned his head.

A dark huddle lay at the foot of the stone door frame. Trystan advanced the sword
point, ready, as strength flowed once more into him, to meet this new attack. The
bundle moved a white hand clutched at the pillar, pulled.

His bemused mind cleared. This was a woman! Not only that, but what had passed him
through the air had not been flung at him, but at the hand. She had been a friend
and not an enemy in that moment.

But now from behind he heard a new sound, like the hiss of a disturbed serpent. Or
there might be more than one snake voicing hate. He gained the side of the woman,
with the rock at his back, looked once more at the center space.

That tentacle which had vanished at the sword stroke might be gone, but there were
others rising. And this time the tentacles did not unite to form hands, but rather
each produced something like unto a serpent head. And they arose in such numbers that
no one man could stand to front them all—though he must try.

Once more he felt a light weight upon his shoulder, he
glanced to the side. The woman was standing, one hand tight to her breast, the other
resting on his upper arm now. Her hood overshadowed her face so he could not see it.
But he could hear the murmur of her voice even through the hissing of the pseudo-serpents.
Though he could not understand the words, there was a rhythmic flow as if she chanted
a battle song for his encouragement.

One of the serpent lengths swung at them, he used the sword. At its touch the thing
vanished. But one out of a dozen, what was that? Again his arm grew heavy, he found
movement difficult.

Trystan tried to shake off the woman’s hold, not daring to take a hand from his sword
to repell her.

“Loose me!” he demanded, twisting his body.

She did not obey, nor answer. He heard only that murmur of sound. There was a pleading
note in it, a frantic pleading; he could feel her urgency, as if she begged of someone
aid for them both.

Then from where her fingers dug into his shoulder muscles there spread downward along
his arm, across his back and chest a warmth, a loosing—not of her hold, but of the
bonds laid on him here. And within the center space the snake heads darted with greater
vigor. Now and then two met in midair, and when they did they instantly united, becoming
larger.

These darted forth, striking at the two by the gate, while Trystan cut and parried:
And they moved with greater speed so he was hard put to keep them off. They showed
no poison fangs, nor did they even seem to have teeth within their open jaws. Yet
he sensed that if those mouths closed upon him or the woman they would be utterly
done.

He half turned to beat off one which had come at him from an angle. His foot slipped
and he went to one knee, the sword half out of his grasp. As he grabbed it tighter
he heard a cry. Still crouched he slewed around.

The serpent head at which he had struck had only been a ruse. For his lunge at it
had carried him away from the woman. Two other heads had captured her. To his horror
he saw that one had fastened across her head, engulfing most of it on contact. The
other had snapped its length of body about her waist. Gagged by the one on her head
she was quiet, nor did she struggle as the pallid lengths pulled her back to the snakes’
lair. Two more reached out to fasten upon her, no longer heeding Trystan, intent on
their capture.

He cried out hoarsely, was on his feet again striking savagely at those dragging her.
Then he was startled by a voice which seemed to speak within his head.

“Draw back, son of men, lest we remember our broken bargain. This is no longer your
affair.”

“Loose her!” Trystan cut at the tentacle about her waist. It burst into light, but
another was already taking its place.

“She delivered you to us, would you save her?”

“Loose her!” He did not stop to weigh the right or wrong of what had been said, he
only knew that he would not see the woman drawn to that which waited—that he could
not do and remain a man. He thrust again.

The serpent coils were moving faster, drawing back into the hexagon. Trystan could
not even be sure she still lived, not with that dreadful thing upon her head. She
hung limp, not fighting.

“She is ours! Go you—lest we take more for feasting.”

Trystan wasted no breath in argument, he leaped to the left, mounting the curb of
the hexagon. There he slashed into the coils which pulled at the woman. His arms were
weak, he could hardly raise the sword, even two-handed, and bring it down. Yet still
he fought stubbornly to cut her free. And little by little he thought that he was
winning.

Now he noted that as the coils tightened about her they did not touch her hand where
it still rested clasping
something between her breasts. So he strove the more to cut the coils below, severing
the last as her head and shoulders were pulled over the edge of the curb.

Then it seemed that, tug though they would, the tentacles could not drag her wholly
in. As they fought to do so Trystan had his last small grant of time. He now hewed
those which imprisoned her head and shoulders. Others were rising for new holds. But,
as she so lay, to do their will they must reach across her breast to take hold, and
that they apparently could not do.

Wearily he raised the blade and brought it down again, each time sure he could not
do so again. But at last there was a moment when she was free of them all. He flung
out his left hand, clasped hers where it lay between her breasts, heaved her back
and away.

There was a sharp hissing from the serpent things. They writhed and twisted. But more
and more they sank to the ground, rolled there feebly. He got the woman on his shoulder,
tottered back, still facing the enemy, readied as best he could be for another attack.

I
T
would seem that the enemy was spent, at least the snakes did not strike outward again.
Watching them warily, Trystan retreated, dared to stop and rest with the woman. He
leaned above her to touch her cheek. To his fingers the flesh was cold, faintly clammy.
Dead? Had the air been choked from her?

He burrowed beneath the edges of her hood, sought the pulse in her throat. He could
find none, so he tried to lay his hand directly above her heart. In doing so he had
to break her grip on what lay between her breasts. When he touched a small bag there
a throbbing, a warmth spread up his hand, and he jerked hastily away before he realized
this was not a danger but a source of energy and life.

Her heart still beat. Best get her well away while those things in the hexagon were
quiescent. For he feared their defeat was only momentary.

Trystan dared to sheath his sword, leaving both arms free to carry the woman. For
all the bulk of her cloak and clothing she was slender, less than the weight he expected.

Now his retreat was that of a coastal sea crab, keeping part attention on the stew
pot of blue light at his back, part on the footing ahead. And he drew a full breath
again only when he had put two rings of the standing stones between him and the evil
they guarded.