Like a giant spider Kathal sprang for her and only a half-instinctive swirl of the length of heavy cloth in her hands kept that dagger from her flesh. He was screaming raggedly such oaths as perhaps even most armsmen would not know. But the cloth fell over him and brought him down.
Before he could rise, she seized from a side shelf a tankard—empty but heavy enough to pull down her weakened arm. Catlin swung it awkwardly until the wallowing thing at her feet gave a gasping cry and was still.
She lurched across to the bed, and her hand closed upon the jeweled spray. It was like grasping a coal from the fire’s heat, but she held on. Backing, her eyes ever on that mound of Kathal and curtain, she reached the window and dared enough to turn around and struggle out. The jewel she had put in her bodice for safekeeping, and there also she felt its fire.
As she slipped through, there was no one to steady her to the ground. “There was only the body of Hew, still grasping the spit. Shaking herself after her tumble, she was at his side quickly. But she had seen death too many times within the past days not to be unable to detect it now.
With the spit as a staff to keep her on her feet, she went on to the open gates. Those who had been there were gone. She might indeed be in a deserted village. She was kept on her feet only by the need to do what she must do.
Catlin was not surprised when she came to the opening of the faint trace which led to Lugh’s Mound to see there the hunchbacked bard. But she had no strength to gasp out any words—only the climb before her.
In the end it was the staff-spit which drew her up one painful step at a time. Until she did at last reach the heights and see the disturbed earth where Kathal must have delved.
Only it was filled in. With a broken sigh Catlin fell to her knees, and, using the spit, and then her own bruised and torn hands, she worked doggedly to scoop away the earth. To her surprise what she uncovered first was undoubtedly a shield, the metal of it half rust-eaten away.
“Iron, cold iron, Lady, and as a taunt years ago.”
Even turning her head had become an almost impossible task, but she looked up and over her shoulder. Yes, it was the hunchback who sat there on his donkey, and, as she sighted him, he once more swept a hand over the ancient harp and notes of sorrow, such sorrow as even the last few days had not brought her, sent tears channeling down her grimy face.
She caught the shield with both hands and put all her strength to pulling. Since it must have been moved by Kathal earlier, it yielded to her now.
Light blazed forth and she was looking into what might be the end of a stone-walled chamber. There was a raised block in its middle and on that lay—she could not be sure what it was since the blaze was so bright. But unconsciously she brought her hands to the thing which had been searing her breast. When that was in the open, it twisted and turned and moved from her hold like a living thing until it joined with that other on the stone.
Then came such sound as entered into every part of her bone and flesh. What words beat in that refrain she could not tell, but strength was flowing back into her. It was almost as if she had become some other, apart from the earth she knew. She could remember with pity, but even that emotion was fading.
Catlin was on her feet, but she did not try to enter that chamber. Instead she was startled by a whinny and turned to see the harper. That was no donkey on which he was ungainly crouched, but a fine stallion of cloudy gray whose hooves shone like burnished silver.
And mounted in the saddle, his fingers lovingly caressing the strings of a silver harp, was no hunchback. This was a youth, and yet there was age in his eyes as if the years had no hold on him. Black his hair, held by a silver band, and his clothing was green, the green of first spring leaves—his cloak flung back a warm scarlet.
She knew him then for one out of the ancient tales—he was one of the People—those who had their own dwelling place which was not her world, though they might journey through that at their will.
His harping fell to a muted thread of sound. “No longer is the High Crown held from us by the menace of our old enemy,” he was speaking and yet every word was a note of song. “Lady, of your courtesy, bring hither that which is rightfully that of my Queen.”
Now Catlin did enter the chamber and her hands went out to what lay on the block. She indeed held a circlet of bright stones, pale gold and brilliant silver, formed as might be a wreath of flowers. It no longer burned, rather from it flowed such peace as filled one even as had his song.
Slowly she turned, reluctant to give to another this marvel which renewed life. But take it she did, passing the spit, then pushed aside the shield—both of the iron which legend said were deadly to what she believed him to be.
She held up to him the crown. He had swung aside his harp and brought forth what seemed a veil of mist in which he wrapped her find.
“You have held our power in truth,” he said, “for this is one key to our own place. Lady, I have watched you fight that which the great cursing brought about and fight it valiantly. Come to us in all honor for already you bear within you something of that which is our birthright.”
Catlin looked up into his eyes—green—or were they gold? They were pools which beckoned her to dive within. He had dismounted and now came to her, his hands empty and outstretched. Catlin took a deep breath. She was filled again, not by mist, but by a sheltering warmth of one coming home after a long sorrowful journey. She laid her palms on his. It was as if they were now one and always would be.
Frog Magic
Wizard Fantastic (1997) Edited by Martin H. Greenberg, Published by DAW
The puffy green-skinned body on the water-washed rock opened his large eyes. To have one’s life so quickly changed could not help but disorient one for at least a short period of time. The trick was to remember who he was and what he had been, not the he of here and now.
A fly buzzed by, and his mouth snapped open; a loop of sticky tongue gathered in that brash intruder. The frog gulped, and then he shivered. What had happened was an act of this alien body, not by conscious thought of his own. He must be on guard.
“How did you do that?” The sharp croak sounded hardly more than adolescent peeping. He stared down at the speaker who clearly WAS a frog.
“As you do also,” he croaked, forgetting his resolution of moments earlier to gather in a tempting offer of larger prey, a dragonfly.
“No—I mean how did you get here?” The small frog hoisted himself up on a lower river stone and raised a forefoot to point. “You appeared, just out of the air.”
The large frog sensed more than passing curiosity—there was awe in that question. Another of those too bright youngsters who were more curious than was good for their own good. Anyway, there was no time to be wasted with this insignificant youngling. But it seemed now that the small frog had lost his proper awe. Not stricken abashed by his elder’s offended silence, he continued. “How do you do that—poof out of the air? One minute nothing—then you?”
“It is a long tale and one difficult to explain,” the big frog was badgered into replying with almost a turtle’s snappishness. “It does not matter,” now he was thinking aloud, “how I got here. The question is how do I return?”
Return—how long would it take the present frog’s personality to absorb Hyarmon, Wizard, Second Class, who had certainly been fatally careless today? Wizards removed enemies in this manner; they did not fall victim themselves to such snide tricks. In spite of his attempt at control, he mouthed another fly. Yes, this body would certainly, sooner or later, abort the persona of a man—unless he moved swiftly.
“Get back where?” persisted the younger frog.
Such a change included an element of time, but there was always a key. He need only discover the lock into which his fitted to be at once surrounded by familiar walls. He hoped he could deal with the problem—and later, with more fineness, with Witchita who was responsible for his present plight. His pop eyes now focused with some force on the younger frog.
“You know the river well, youngling?” he demanded.
“Sure. I’ve gone as far as the mill,” the creature was plainly boasting, “and as far up as to where the stink water comes out by the falls.”
Falls! Hyarmon had his checkpoint. Fortune was beginning to favor him now.
“A long way indeed.” He tried to tame his croak with a touch of pleasantry.
“Dangerous, too!” The small frog was puffing himself up. “The stink water hole can make one sick.”
Holding the frog part of him firmly under control, Hyarmon readied his body for a leap into the water. Only those four strong legs refused to obey him.
Of course. How could he have been fool enough to believe it would be that easy? It required some concentration to be able to inspect carefully the rock on which he had come into being. Frog sight might distort those lines but not enough that Hyarmon did not recognize the carvings. He hunched around to learn that he was completely netted.
The Arcs of Arbuycus. Hmmm, he might have known she would not settle for such a single step as transformation. Back again in his first position he glanced down to discover that his audience of one had expanded and was continuing to expand, as other frogs swam in to join his interrogator. The latest comer was as large if not larger than himself—and the crowd parted respectfully to let this one through.
Pop eyes centered on pop eyes. The newcomer gave a croak as loud as a shout, and the rest were instantly silent.
Hyarmon dared a probe. He encountered nothing but frog thoughts. No, this one was not to be touched by spells—but there was always the power of thought. He possessed and used that out of memory.
The large frog turned as if to take himself as far as possible from this potential rival. But Hyarmon’s thought power held. The object of his intense gaze hastily submerged, but he was not going to escape so easily.
Holding onto his catch with determination, Hyarmon now tried to turn part of his attention to the frog who had first discovered him. The frog jerked, its four legs twitching, then sprang for the same rock as Hyarmon occupied. The wet green body landed with a plop on the horn of one of the inscribed Arcs. So! It could be done—now was the time to reel in his prisoner.
Sullenly fighting against the power which was drawing him, the large frog rose into sight. For a long moment the silent battle of wills continued, and then the frog came out of the water to stretch its own body over that already laid there.
Hyarmon observed the result with care. His hind limbs stiffened then he leaped, to stand for an instant on the quivering green bodies before the water enfolded him.
Upstream the younger frog had said, so upstream it would be. Paying no attention to the rest of the company Hyarmon exerted himself and then relaxed. Yes, he could depend upon the natural instinct and the rythym of this body to serve him. He kept an eye on the nearest bank. Witchita had sprung one trap; he could well believe it was not the only one—she would not want to confront him after this trial.
The hole spoken of did stink. He was not sure of the strength of frog sense of smell, but this was bad enough. It was undoubtedly a drain and surely the door he sought.
He continued to fight his way through water which was soupy with slime. The drain slanted upward, but he could find holds for his four feet. What he feared most did not happen until he was well up the shoot when a wave of dirty water suddenly showered and battered him, but he held on with desperate determination.
Though he had never explored such inner ways within the walls of his tower Hyarmon was sure he was drawing near to his goal. A dim light flittered into the way ahead, and he resumed his efforts so that fortune favored him as the scullery maid was not at work at the sink into which he crawled. He lay exhausted and panting on the hard slate of the tub unaware of voices until a name and some words made sense.
“He didn’t never ride outside th’ gate, I tells you. Young Master Brame said that it was all fast locked. Certain th’ Noble Lord could’ve gone that way, but don’t we all know what we hear when the gate spell is loosed?”
“Well, he ain’t here, an’ that one queens it in th’ Great Hall as if she sits on the High Seat by rights. Gives orders right an’ left this mornin’. I seed her put somethin’ in th’ drink she gave to Master Brame an’ the guard sergeant. Now they trails behind her like they was pups and she their dam. I tell you that this here is no place to be, with that madam ruling it.”
The voices were fading as the speakers moved away. But Hyarmon had heard enough. So Witchita was playing with potions now? His determination to deal with her was more than part anger. Such herbs could be used too often or in too great quantities.
It took him several desperate leaps to clear the high wall of the sink. Hyarmon could now hear movement and talking in the kitchen beyond the scullery. So he sought passage from shadow to shadow, his sleek, damp hide gathering a fur of lint and dust.
Hyarmon was near winded when he finally won to the top of the stairs and dragged himself into the Great Hall. The gleam of witch lights was plain, marking this a night hour. He searched by thought for guards—luckily in this his human persona was still serving him.
The hall was oddly quiet; no coming and going of spell-constructed serving goblins. In fact there was no table in evidence, but the High Seat stood there and toward that he made his way in weak hope.
There was no use in trying to reach his laboratory. The very devices he himself had set up for security would betray him now that he wore this alien guise. But determination won over fatigue, and he made it not only up the step of the dais but, in one last exhausting leap, to the High Seat, where he subsided, puffing.
Witchita might have changed his proper outward body, but once he was here the numbing caused by his strange form wore off and he grew fiercely alert. Wizards had tools, yes. But behind those there was always a mind which controlled such and Hyarmon now drew upon the powers of his.
After a short rest, his mind began to work furiously. He lifted one foot and then another alternately to scrape from his moist skin all he could of the debris he had gathered during his journey, wadding it down on one of the wide chair arms.
“Now!”
Hyarmon could not make the proper passes cleanly and accurately while he was in this body, but he could visualize, and that was useful now. The soggy mound arose sluggishly, thinning out into a dank mist. Two of the energy globes swooped, answering his unspoken orders, while the rest fanned out as if driven to some task.
The doubled lights swirled around Hyarmon. He could feel no change in his body—no—what he wove now was an envelope.
To all purposes a man sat in the High Chair—materialized out of that dream visitor Witchita doted on. The figure solidified into seemingly complete life and Hyarmon dispatched one globe to summon. He must concentrate on holding this shadow self together long enough to serve his plan. If Witchita were entirely alert, she might have sensed the spell in formation. She had triumphed before on her own. Perhaps she was just vain enough to believe as she was now so bedazzled by dreaming that she did not sense danger—for her.
There was the sound of a protesting hinge, and the door opened. One of the globes appeared to light the one who entered. So—it was night. He had chosen the proper time for, as she swept forward, he could see her lithesome body more revealed than concealed by a spider silk night shift, though she had bundled a shawl about her shoulders.
Hyarmon might have smacked his lips at the appearance of a very large and succulent fly. Dream drawn she was! She had in a way ensorcelled herself and needed only a slight touch from him to seek certain pleasures.
The young man, pale of countenance but handsome of feature, did not rise from the High Seat but held out both hands in welcome, his eyes alive with passionate promise.
“Cevin!” she breathed, and her own arms came up to welcome his promised embrace. Hyarmon poised beneath the shadow he had built.
She was bending forward, having already taken the dais step, apparently not finding it st
range that her phantom lover did not rise to greet her.
Still bemused as one caught in the web of sleep she leaned forward, her lips slightly parted to welcome his kiss. Lips indeed met lips but not as Witchita had expected. Her eyes widened, and she stared in terrified horror at what she had so spontaneously kissed. Yet even as her dream snapped into nothingness so did the one she had come to meet change again. The frog had vanished as had the lover. Hyarmon sat firmly on the High Seat of the Great Hall.
“You—!” She cowered, as well she might. Not only cowered, but her body was twitching wildly. The silken shift puddled as a frog, half hidden within its folds, stared at Hyarmon.
He surveyed her critically. Then, to make sure the transformation was complete, he made a quick pounce and lifted the wildly kicking frog to the level of his eyes.
“You undoubtedly make a beautiful frog, Witchita,” he observed. “But I fear you shall never know the freedom of the river in which to plan a revenge.”
He snapped his fingers and his wand materialized. Apparently she had foolishly neglected to break it. Still holding the frantically squirming frog in one hand, Hyarmon sketched out an oblong line on the floor. With the proper words he created a crystal aquarium. Into this he dropped the frog, who was struggling to bite with toothless jaws.
“Water—” Another pass of the wand and the aquarium was filled. “A rock for a High Seat, dear Witchita,” he ordered, “and, of course, I shall see that each day you shall have the best flies to be found.”
The frog had climbed to the top of the rock and now was making an attempt to leap out. However, there seemed to have also come into existence an invisible cover which kept her prisoner.
Hyarmon chuckled. “Remember your history, my dear. Frogs, kisses, and beautiful young women have met before. You thought to match lips with your desired one, but there is a different ending to this tale.”