Zarsthor's Bane - Andre Norton, ebook, CALIBRE SFF 1970s, Temp 2
[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]Norton, Andre - Witch World - High Hallock Cycle 05 Zarsthor's Bane (v1.0) (thml).htmlScannedby Highroller.Proofed by the best ELF proofer.Made prettier by use of EBook Design Group Stylesheet.Zarsthor's Bane by Andre Norton1WAN SUNLIGHT touched the upper reaches of this unnamed western dale to whichBrixia's unguided wandering had brought her. It was far enough from the ravagedlands eastward to promise a breathing space of dubious safety—if one took care.Squatting on her heels, the girl grimaced at distant clouds to the east, a hintof worse weather to come. She drew the thin blade of her knife back and forthacross the sharpening stone, eyeing that silver of worn steel anxiously. It hadbeen sharpened so many times and, though it had been well forged and strong, itsmaking was in the past—the past she did not even try to remember nowadays. Shehad to be very careful, she knew, or that finger of metal might snap, leavingher with no tool— nor weapon—at all.Her hands were sunbrowned and scarred, the nails of her fingers broken, rimmedwith a grime which even scrubbing with sand could not banish entirely. It wasvery hard to think now that once all she had held was the spindle of a spinner,or the shuttle of a weaver, the needle of one who wrought pictures in coloredthreads upon the thick stuff meant to cover the walls of a keep. Another girlhad known that living, soft and secure, in the High Hallack before the invaderscame. Someone who had died during the time stretching behind her like acorridor, the far end of which was so faint in her mind that she had difficultyremembering.That Brixia had survived flight from that enemy besieged keep which had alwaysbeen her home made her as tough and enduring as the metal she now held. She hadlearned that time meant one day to be faced from sunrise until she could findsome shelter in the coming of dark. There were no feast days, no naming of onemonth upon another—only times of heat, and times of cold when her very bonesached and sometimes she coughed and knew the bite of the chill until she feltshe would never be warm again.There was little spare flesh on her now; she was as lean and strong as a bowcord. And near, in her own way, as deadly. That she had once gone in fine wool,with a necklet of amber, and the pale western gold in rings upon her fingers—toher that now seemed like a dream—a troublesome dream.She had walked with fear until it had become a familiar friend, and, had it beenbanished from her side, she would have felt queerly naked and lost. There hadbeen times when she had nearly shut her eyes upon the rock walls of a cave, orupon the branches of some tree arched above her, ready to lose her stubborn willto endure, to accept death which followed her like a hound on the trail of afal-deer already wounded by the hunter.Still there was within her that core of determination which was the heritage ofher House—was she not of the blood of Torgus? And all in the south dales of HighHallack had known the Song of Torgus and his victory over the Power of Llan'sStone. Torgus' House might not be great in lands or wealth, but in spirit andstrength it must be reckoned very high indeed.She raised a hand to brush back a wandering strand of her sun-bleached hair,sawn off raggedly at her neck level. Not for any skulker of the unsettled landswere the gold braided strands of a bower dweller. Now as she drew the knife backand forth across the stone she hummed the Challenge of Llan on so low a notethat none but her own ear might have picked up that thread of sound. There werenone to hear—she had scouted this place well shortly after dawn. Unless onecounted as listener the black-plumaged bird which croaked menacingly from thetop of a nearby, winter-twisted tree."So—so—" she tested the keenness of the blade on that errant strand of hairwhich kept fluttering down into her eyes. The sharpened steel sliced easilythrough the strees, leaving a puff of severed hairs between her fingers. Sheloosed her hold and the wind swept those from her. Then she knew a touch of fearagain. Better—in this country unknown to her—that she had safely buried thatportion of herself. There were old tales—that powers beyond the reckoning of herown people could seize upon hair, nails, the spittle from one's mouth and usesuch for the making of ill magic.Save that there were none here, she thought, to be feared. Evidences there were,this close to the Waste, of those who had once held this country—the Old Ones.They had left monoliths of stone, strange places which beckoned or warned thespirit.But those were but the markers of long vanished power or powers. And those whohad wrought with such were long since gone. The black bird, as if to deny that,cried again its harsh call."Ha, black one," the girl broke off her hum to glance at the bird. "Be not sobold. Would you take sword against Uta?" Sitting back on her heels, she pursedher lips to give a low but carrying whistle.The bird squawked fiercely as if it well knew whom she so summoned. Then itarose to swoop down slope, skimming only a little above the ground.From the tussocks of green grass (there were no more sheep on these hills tonibble it ground short) there arose a furred head. Lips drawn back, the catspat, eyes slitted in annoyance as the bird sheered off and was gone with a lastcroak of threat.With the vast dignity of her kind the cat trotted on up to Brixia. The girlraised a palm in greeting. They had been trail comrades and bed mates now for along time and she was inwardly flattered that Uta had chosen to company her soduring her aimless wanderings."Was the hunting good?" she asked the cat who had now seated herself an arm'sdistance away to give close attention to the tongue washing of a back leg. "Ordid the rats move on when there were no more people in that ruin to bring infood for them to steal?" Talking with Uta gave her her only chance to use hervoice during this wary solitary wandering.Settling back, Brixia surveyed the buildings below. Judging by the remains thishad once been a well cultivated dale. The fortified manor with its adjacentdefense tower—though now roofless, bearing signs of fire on its crumblingwalls—must once have been snug enough. She could count twenty fieldmen'scottages (mostly from the outlines of their walls alone for that was all whichremained to be seen) plus a larger heap of tumbled stone which might have beenan inn. A road made a ribbon along which those cottages had been strung. It hadrun, Brixia guessed, straight to the nearest river port. Any traders coming intothese upper dales must have followed that way. In addition those strange andonly partly tolerated people who roamed the Waste, prospecting in the places ofthe Old Ones, would have found this a convenient market place for theirdiscoveries.She did not know what name those who had lived here had given their settlement.Nor could she more than guess what had happened to turn it into the wasteland.The invaders who had ravaged all High Hallack during the war could not havereached so inland a place. But the war itself had spawned evil which was neitherinvader nor Dale, but born of both.During that time when the Dalesman's levies had been called elsewhere,two-legged wolves—the outlaws of the Waste—pillaged and destroyed at will.Brixia did not doubt that when she went poking below she would find disturbingevidence of how this settlement had died. It had been looted—perhaps even theruins combed more than once. She was not the only sulker in the wasteways. Stillshe could always hope that there remained something usable—if it were only abattered mug.Brixia wiped her hands across her thighs, noting with a small frown that thestuff of her breeches was so thin over one knee that flesh showed palelythrough. Long since she had put aside skirted robe for the greater ease of aforest runner's wear. She kept her knife in her hand as she reached out for herother weapon, the stout hunting spear. Its point had been newly sharpened also,and she knew well how to use it.Her pack she would leave here hidden in the brush. There was no need to lingerlong in the ruins, in fact perhaps she was wasting time to even explore. But Utawould have given her warning if anything larger than a rat or a meadow-leaperlaired there, and she could always hope for a find. Her spear had come out ofanother just such blasted keep.Though the dale, as far as she could see, seemed deserted, Brixia still movedwith caution. There might be unpleasant surprises in any unknown territory. Herlife for the past three years taught her the very slim edge which lay betweenlife and death.She closed her mind firmly on the past. It was weakening for the spirit to tryand remember how it was once. To live for this day only was what kept one saneand alert. That she did live and had reached this place unharmed was, shethought, a matter for self congratulation. The fact that once she had known sucha keep as home, worn soft wool, fancifully woven and dyed, over her now muscularand famine thinned body, no longer mattered. Even the clothes she now had werelooted—Those breeches, worn so thin, were of coarse and harsh material, her jerkin wasof leaper skin, cured crudely, then laced together by her own hands, the shirtunder she had found in the pack of a dead Dalesman, she having come upon thesite of an outlaw ambush. The Dalesman had taken his enemies with him. She worethe shirt as she made herself believe as a gift of a brave ... [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]