Part 3 (2/2)
One of his thumbs slipped into a crack; he looked more closely. Yes, there was a crack visible; he must have missed noticing it in the moonlight, if it had actually been there all along. What was under his thumb felt very much like mortar. He ran his hand sideways; the crack was dead straight and perfectly horizontal. He reached over further, where there appeared to be nothing but open air.
His hand struck something; he felt it carefully.
It was gla.s.s. It was a small square pane of gla.s.s held in lead, and beside it was another, and another. He blinked.
He was standing before a small house built of cut stone, his hand touching a cas.e.m.e.nt window; other houses stood to either side. Behind him Koros growled uneasily.
He whirled. He stood near the middle of a village, just as he had seen it. What had appeared to be a turn in the highway was indeed a crossroads. That meant that he had been diverted from his route; he had turned north instead of continuing westward.
He growled in annoyance. He did not like this. He did not like magic. He did not like the necessary conclusion that there was somebody with unknown preternatural abilities actively trying to deceive him. His hand fell to his sword hilt as he looked about, and he mentally commended himself upon travelling well-armed since leaving Skelleth-armor was uncomfortable, but prudent.
The village was still and silent; the only sound was his own footsteps. The houses were all shuttered and dark-except for one. At the crossroads stood a building rather larger than the average cottage, with a signboard hung above its door; whatever message the sign might bear was invisible in the darkness, but the place was probably an inn or public house, and light showed through its curtained windows.
His magical antagonist might be working at some distance, or might be hidden in darkness somewhere-but it seemed more likely he or she was in that single illuminated room.
What, then, was he to do about it?
He had two choices; he could ignore the incident and be on his way, or he could confront whoever lurked behind those curtains. If he ignored it he would be leaving a potential danger behind him, able to attack from the rear, and sitting on his route home. That would not do.
He reminded Koros to stay where it was, loosened his sword in its scabbard, and marched to the inn. The door stood slightly ajar; he kicked it open and stood aside, lest an ambush be prepared for him. Nothing happened; he stepped forward again and looked within. A sudden wave of vertigo swept over him; he blinked, and looked through the door.
He was looking into his own home in Ordunin, the rambling stone and wood house that he had built with his own hands. For a moment he froze in astonishment, but the incongruity suddenly seemed unimportant. He was home!
He stepped inside and looked about. Through the large window to his right he saw the wide plank terrace and the spectacular view of the bay beyond; sunlight sparkled from the waves and poured warmly into the room. He listened, and could hear the ocean's roar very faintly; nearer at hand a bird sang somewhere.
He noticed that he still wore his helmet and breastplate, his sword on his belt and axe on his back; such precautions were surely unnecessary here in his own domain! He reached up to remove the helmet, but paused; how had he come home? He had no memory of the journey, and he had not intended to come here; returning home meant that he would have to speak to the Council, in accordance with his oath to the Baron. Something was peculiar about this, and until he recollected what it was, it would do no harm to keep his armor and weapons on. He was not particularly uncomfortable-though a trifle overwarm-and he could bear to take such a simple precaution.
There was a sound somewhere further inside the house; that would be one of his family, of course. It would be a pleasure to see them all once again. He wondered what the date was; he seemed to have forgotten, yet he always kept track of such things, to know when to expect his wives to be in heat. He would have to ask. He called out, ”Ho! Who goes?”
A door opened and an overwoman entered; Kyrith, his favorite wife. Her scent reached him, and warmth spread through him; she would be ready any time.
By human standards she was far from beautiful; she was as tall and flat-chested as any overman, and her face as inhuman; to Garth, she was a fine, handsome creature. Her golden eyes were warm and inviting; her black hair was long, for an overwoman, and Garth reached out to run his fingers through it. Her scent was entrancing.
She smiled, and caught his fingers; he smiled back.
He felt his body reacting to her odor; that smell was the only s.e.xual stimulus that affected an overman, and it was irresistible. He reached out both arms for her; she smiled, and poked at his breastplate.
”Shouldn't you remove your armor?” she asked.
He growled playfully, reached up to remove his helmet, and stopped. Something was wrong. Something was very, very wrong.
Kyrith was mute. The real Kyrith was mute, at any rate; she had fallen years ago while skiing, a fall that sent slivers of ice through her throat. She had lived, with only a slight scar, but her voice was gone forever. This was not her: The whole thing was an illusion.
He thrust the false Kyrith away and drew his sword; the illusionist had made a fatal error in giving Kyrith a voice, but there was no doubt that his or her magic was effective. Not only had the image of his home been perfect, but the sounds and smells, and his memory had been befuddled as well. Garth dared not take any further chances.
”Show yourself, magician, or I will lay about with this blade until I find you!”
His home vanished, and he was in a small village tavern; a fire burned low on the hearth, and a chandelier held a dozen stubby candles, casting their wan light across a dozen empty tables and five human beings.
One was an old woman who lay sprawled on the floor where he had flung the false Kyrith; she wore a hood and cloak of pale blue that spread about her in disarray, revealing her bony blue-veined legs and wrinkled face. Her hair was long and silvery-white. She made no move to rise, but lay where she was, watching Garth with terror in her expression.
The other four sat cl.u.s.tered about a table. There was a young woman in brown leather helmet and tunic and black skirt, a bow leaning against the back of her chair and a quiver of white-fletched arrows slung on her shoulder. Beside her sat a man of indeterminate age, his face hidden beneath a gray hood, his gray cloak hiding all but his hands-muscular hands, one of which clutched the handle of a pewter mug.
The remaining pair wore pale blue robes that matched that of the woman on the floor, and both were likewise old; one was a man with steel-gray hair and gray-streaked black beard, the other was another white-haired woman, shorter and thinner than her fallen comrade.
There was a moment of silent consideration, and then Garth demanded, ”Why have you beset me?”
There was an uneasy silence; no one answered him.
”Is this the way you treat all travelers? Or is it because I am an overman? Because I wear armor? What do you want of me?”
The old woman at the table said, in a high and broken voice, ”We meant you no harm.”
”Then what did you mean? You have twice attacked me with your illusions; why?”
”We did not attack you; we sought only to have you pa.s.s through our village without seeing it.”
”You diverted me from my path; I am not bound northward.”
”We did not know that; we thought you must be, for it is to the north that overmen are said to dwell.”
Garth considered that for a few seconds; it did have a logical ring to it. ”You attempted to deceive me when I entered this tavern.”
”We sought only to remove your weapons, so that we could deal with you more easily.”
That accorded with the facts. Garth relaxed slightly. This handful of humans was no threat to him, save for their magic, and he seemed to have beaten that; only one even bore arms, and that one a mere girl.
”Which of you conjured those illusions?”
The man in the gray hood, silent heretofore, spoke up. ”It is a joint effort; no one of us is essential.”
Garth considered this, and chose to doubt it; such a claim was good tactics, and more likely tactics than truth. ”Who are you all, then?”
”I am the Seer of Weideth, and these three are the village elders.” He indicated the other man and the two old women.
”Who is she?” He pointed at the girl with his sword.
”She is just the one who saw you coming in time to warn us. She is no one of importance.”
”You call yourself a seer?”
”Yes.”
”Can you read the future, then?” Garth had heard of such talents, and had in fact dealt with an oracle, the Wise Women of Ordunin, who seemed to know something of events yet to come; he could see many uses for such an ability.
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