Three Hands for Scorpio

  “Welcome, sister-in-spirit,” was our dame’s greeting.

  “You have cast rare cublings, sister,” returned the woman. “They have shown me that this land, though barbarous, indeed holds true wisdom to be met.”

  “There is wisdom—and unwisdom,” Mother replied. “It would seem that some kin of yours has turned the Life Mirror towards darkness.”

  “What tree, however hale, has never grown a worm-eaten branch? Still, the evil that has been done must now be righted. Zolan—”

  At the sound of his name, the man from the Dismals drew closer.

  “This one will trim that rotten limb—he is oathed to do so, sister. Take him to where the king sits in council and leave him then to his task. It is also certain that Evil has called upon Evil, for the Dark Forces in your world have been summoned and have answered. Those who now bend to the Shadows from the earliest days of your people can be faced only by ones with Talent native to this time and place. Only thus may this ill be met.”

  The woman-cat-beast accepted my mother’s consent. Once more the borrowed body and features blurred, mist thickened and swirled into nothingness, and Climber sat staring straight ahead as if he had been ensorcelled. But then, perhaps, he had.

  Twenty-four

  Tamara

  Climber kept his place before Mother. None of us spoke; the questions we longed to ask made us tense. However, only Mother could answer them, and she must do so in her own time and by her own choice.

  She looked to Climber and smiled.

  “Very good,” she said softly, just as in the past she had applauded some demonstration of the Talent performed by the three of us. Leaning forward, she smoothed his head and scratched behind his ears. His long red tongue curled out about her wrist; then he stood up and limped away. Without any comment, Zolan followed him.

  Mother now looked to her hand, on which rested the gem. Its pure gold was dimmed as if part of its alien life had drained away. She held it toward me and I took it up; in my hand, although dulled, it was warm. I stowed it quickly in the hair bag.

  “So be it,” she said softly, like one making a vow. “So shall it be.” Then she looked from me to Cilla and back again and spoke with a tone in her voice I had never heard before. “The doing of that which we must now do will be hard, bitter. Those with Talents must answer when a need arises.”

  This should have been a time of rejoicing, since we were free and reunited with those we loved. I swallowed and tasted bitterness indeed, as if I had mouthed saubun berries before they were ripe.

  She looked away across a desolate land. My eyes followed hers—why had all the vibrant life been leached out of meadow, hill, copse, in this fashion? The answer came from within me, and it was one I had to accept. Our beloved home had become a place accursed, and so it would remain unless we spent all our energy to cleanse it.

  “Well?”

  We tensed. Father stood there, hands on his hips. He raised his head a little and drew in a deep breath, striving, it would seem, to catch some scent carried by a rising wind.

  “Not so,” Mother answered. “The old wild Talents have been freed. Again shall the Shadow Hounds lead the faceless Hunter, and the Green Ones walk the forest. The Wards have been broken here in Gurlyon, and no Warden can repair those quickly or with ease; the Wild Folk acknowledge no border drawn by men, for they belong to all the land. And evil ones among our own kind—they whose hands drip blood and who find their pleasure in acts of the Dark—are also gathering. No, it is not well, but an ill time for us all, Desmond.”

  “Yet shall not the Light also raise its Talent?” he asked slowly. “For that is the way of all balance. And against those who are men ready to pledge their service to the Demon One, we can also use steel.”

  Steel, indeed—his hand swept forward so that the weak sun over us now shone on his naked sword. Within me, I sensed that my weapon, too, rested ready.

  Since we could now neither turn back from the way to Kingsburke nor detach any of the guards, thereby weakening our small force even more, Rogher had to accompany us. Duty set her jaw and, resolute as her name, took over his care.

  Through the rest of the day and night that followed, we were at her beck and call. Potions were brewed, and he swallowed them under her piercing eye. Duty was not to be gainsaid. She and Mother had uncovered his leg and, though the wrapping and the supporting splints remained in place, they used their hands for massage of a kind. As they worked, they uttered spells in the Old Speech that was heard on this island before our own people first landed on its shores.

  Bina worked to loosen the bandage on her hand as we told her of the scene with Climber. The skin was less red, and the puffiness was reduced. I used the gem to speed her body’s repair of itself. After first drawing it back and forth across the wounds, I told Bina to hold it above the limb, while all three of us pictured the torn flesh healed, the hand and its fingers useful once more.

  We saw no more this day of Zolan or of Lolart, nor did Climber come to the fire when darkness fell. We tried hard to put from mind all the ill news we had heard and to concentrate on healing. We were aware that Duty and Mother had renewed the Warding that encircled the camp.

  “See—” Bina held forth her hand, palm up, to me. I took the stone she offered before she turned her fingers over. Then I bit back an intake of breath. True, her skin bore no more streaks of the angry red that betokened poison. But the sealed pinkish seams where the wounds had been, and the ridges that had formed between her fingers where the flesh had been torn, would disfigure her hand for the rest of her days.

  She was smiling as she caressed that scarred and coarsened surface, but her eyes were heavy with tears. “By so much—or little—have we won, sisters. Let my maiming be an omen for all to come.”

  By dawn Rogher was also restored. The rough brace that had been fashioned for his leg was greatly shortened to enable him to ride. And the wound on his face, like the tears in Bina’s hand, was sealed with a newgrown scar. Unlike our sister, however, he would doubtless wear that badge of an encounter with our foe as did many armsmen: as a near mark of beauty.

  We did not move out until after nooning and then in such order as our father decided. Our own horses, together with the spare mounts usually brought along for travelers in unknown territory, were enough to provide for us all.

  None denied that I ride behind Father. His squire was left to Duty’s eagleeyed company, wherein were also Bina, Cilla, and our mother. Once more our party had gone through a Warding ceremony. In addition, the soldiers rode well weaponed, with no peace ties in use, such as were normally adopted when crossing the border into another sovereign country.

  The country still bore a faded look, but I did not think it was as empty as its wanhope appearance suggested. I kept turning my head from side to side, for the feeling that we were watched never left me. Two scouts rode ahead and two behind to assure we were not indeed followed.

  We were well beyond the end of the Dismals now, so that when we angled west we had no sight of that strange slash in the land. Zolan kept much to himself and the company of Climber. However, Father often paid no attention to his reserve but continued to ask questions, none of which dealt with the Jugged People but rather with the other inhabitants of the World Below.

  Zolan could not escape without seeming antagonistic and sooner or later would yield to Father’s curiosity with some tale of the giant creatures—insect, animal, or reptile—with which he had himself had to deal.

  I noticed that our erstwhile host no longer wore the sword we had taken from the field of massacre; nor did he bear, to outer appearance, any weapon at all. Fortunately, no move was made among the troop, as the custom was, to test a newcomer for what he might offer in offense or defense.

  Now I became aware of another change in the world about us. No leaper exploded from the surrounding brush; no hawk coasted in the air above. Indeed, save for our own company, no life showed about us. As twilight closed in, our forward scouts waited in a p
lace they had chosen for a camp.

  They reported a keep not too far ahead where people worked in newly plowed fields. Father had summoned Lolart to ask what he knew about the land. He reported that the Gurly named the keep Rossard, and stated that its lord had been friend to the folk of Frosmoor. With our troop’s First Sergeant, Gorfund, the guardsman rode on to give warning of what disaster had wasted his own home and to discover what he could about the temper of those we might encounter ahead.

  As we established our camp and the night gathered the dark about us, I grew more uneasy. Our chosen site had protection, both from armsmen at sentry and the strongest Ward that could be set. Yet I could not rid myself of an ever-strengthening conviction we had been detected and were awaited.

  Sabina

  I COULD NOT restrain myself from often rubbing my hand. Some tenderness still lingered between my fingers, and the scars I would ever wear, like Remembrance rings, though I did not need such memorial jewelry to recall what had happened. Rogher was drooping in the saddle, and two of Father’s men lowered him onto a pallet that had already been spread for his ease.

  As the squire subsided on a camp-bed, his gaze touched me.

  “May the Winds of Callon be ever at your back, Lady Sabina.” He raised a hand to the scar that tautened the flesh of his cheek.

  “And at yours, Rogher,” I returned. “We shall need any aid we can find in days to come.” Callon’s winds—the breath of flowers, of full and generous life, of promise—yes, we might well beseech the Powers whose gift they were to breathe them on us all.

  His blessing gave my thoughts another angle. Callon was our peace, our future home—or so those of the Shrine had vowed—and their teaching was never questioned. Together with Tam and Cilla, I had been First Named within those walls.

  Callon was the dwelling-place of the Messengers of Light. It was also, however, a guardhouse of sorts, for warnings could be sensed or dreamed there. Dreams … Quickly and resolutely I pushed the thought of night-visions from me. I had heard and pondered Tam’s account of how she had found me on another plane of being; by her description of the horrors that flourished there, it must have been a lower one. But of that sending-forth of my spirit I could remember nothing.

  To have a portion of memory sliced away—I shivered. Those of the Talent feared any attack that could lessen their inner powers. Was I the less now that the poison of the enemy had ravaged me?

  I moved a little away from Rogher and the fire, which was, as always, the center of the camp. Our scouts had selected a place shielded by several monolithic rocks: standing stones. Such structures were also known in Alsonia. Most were thought to have designated the meeting places of the Early Ones. Our mother and Duty had tested those that surrounded us before we settled in, to report them clean of sorcery.

  My back was against one of the rough pillars. My Talent raised me no warning of any trouble here but, to be doubly sure, I fumbled in the pocket-pouch on my belt to bring forth a much-folded square of cloth. From it arose the scent of mingled herbs—a defense of Duty’s fashioning, and a mighty one. With this barrier laid across my face and beneath my nose, I need fear no assault though dreams.

  Now I tucked it, half folded again, into the front of my riding coat. Leaning my head back against the supporting stone, I closed my eyes. Though I was usually ready to perform camp tasks, this evening I felt no urge to render service in that way.

  I cannot truly remember when I became aware of the new sound. My head had turned so that my ear pressed almost painfully against the rough surface. Very faint, very far—was it indeed a sound or rhythm, that of a drum whose beat matched the throb of my heart. Though I did not move my head, I searched about me for a stone, my hands catching in winter-killed grass and uncovering new growth underneath. Grass—earth—neither was of any use for my present purpose.

  With our new clothing had come the always-familiar bosom knives. I drew mine now. Setting the hilt close to the monolith, I tapped the stone with as little sound as I could manage, using the same rhythm. If it were only a fleeting return of some happening in the far past—the scholars in Alsonia had used such a method to draw upon history—then I would have no reply. But if it were a summons—

  The Wild Talents had been aroused from a long sleep. Was I now engaged in gaining the attention of a much older Power forgotten by humans? Alarmed at my action, I discovered I had to use actual force to separate the hilt and the hand that held it from the stone. Cilla came up to me just as I sundered that hold.

  Swiftly she dropped to her knees to catch my hand with both of hers. Then she leaned forward and set her ear also to the stone. I was certain that that faint thudding was growing in strength. It no longer followed my heartbeat but was slower, heavier.

  “Mother—Duty—”

  I knew what she meant—we must warn the others. Yet when I tried to pull myself away from the pillar I had thought a mere backrest for a tired traveler, strove to get to my feet, I found I was no longer free. Near panicked, I tried to call out—and discovered that I could not raise a sound. Ensorcellment! It had caught me, fool that I was.

  Drucilla

  BY A SUDDEN flare of the firelight I could mark Bina’s struggle. Now I pulled away from her stone, fearing that I, too, might be entrapped. Mercifully, I was free. However, when I had released my sister’s hand, she once more returned to pounding the pillar of rock and, though her body writhed and she even bent far over enough to set teeth to her wrist, she could not escape.

  I must get help—put out a Send to Mother, Duty—but when I strove to fit words together, I discovered that, like Bina’s hand, my inner voice would not obey me. I felt a rush of fear. What had caught us? The thing was within the circle of our own Ward. It had not stormed that barrier; instead, we had caged it with us.

  A dark figure loomed over us—Zolan! Desperately, I framed a mute message for help.

  The man from the Dismals pulled me away from Bina, yet he did not reach for her but rather knelt and set both palms flat against the pillar.

  He was making a sound so low I had to struggle to hear it—humming, or a singsonging of strange words that were meaningless to me. The knife fell from my sister’s hand. Her mouth twisted in pain as she grasped her scarred fingers and drew them protectingly close to her breast.

  Slowly Zolan drew his hands, held apart, down the stone wall; he appeared to be outlining something there. Mother came up, stood watching for a moment or so, and then shook her head vigorously as Duty joined her. I had lost all touch with the camp at large. Only the five of us and the stone existed in this night-dark world.

  The lines Zolan had drawn on the stone were as sharply clear as if he had sketched them on a white surface with a stick of charcoal. Now we could see, short, bulky, and still shadowy, a Thing standing on two feet and possessing two hands. Zolan drew back, no longer touching the rocky surface, but the creature pictured on it continued to gather more substance, become clearer.

  This being I knew. The man from the Dismals might have copied, from one of the crumbling skin-leaves of the oldest records of the Scorpys, such a human body. The head was out of proportion to the rest of the figure, much larger than was natural—if it could be said that anything was natural about this mockery of man. Huge eyes stared blankly from under great furry brushes of brows, which were kept apart by a jutting nose crooking forward. The mouth was all but hidden beneath this hook, while the chin possessed an unnaturally square line. Above sprouted a thatch of head covering, so coarse it stood up in spikes.

  It was a Frush: underground dweller, sly deceiver, toller of the benighted venturing into its territory. Wise folk of the old days strove to strike a bargain with a Frush, if it appeared near any cot, lest gardens be stripped of growth, cows dried of milk, or horses and ponies ridden to exhaustion during the night. More than a hundred tales of Frushes existed in those ancient chronicles, most dealing with how they harassed, and bested, mankind. They were allied to neither the Light nor the Dark, and would serve
no Power by their own will.

  The creature had real eyes now, and those orbs glinted as they surveyed Zolan. Thick lips, nearly scraping its nose-tip, parted, and it growled.

  Zolan’s hum had not stopped but had grown louder and now became words.

  “Varsh, Larsh, Ceder, Sim,

  Landor, Trie, Magar, Rin.

  Snople, Yaple, Vinder, Dot,

  Ragour, Papah, Anlee, Mot!”

  It was nonsense—a child’s counting-out rhyme. Still, it appeared to have a meaning for the Frush. It hunched and looked as if it were going to break from the stone, to throw itself at Zolan. Yet it did not burst free.

  Zolan groped in the grass, never taking his eyes from the creature. Keeping it chained, perhaps by that steady stare, he held up Bina’s knife in both hands. A quick move of the knife brought up a glowing bubble of blood on a free finger.

  Though the Frush twisted and tried to duck, Zolan was able to flip the drop with the point of the dagger directly at it. I saw the red spatter appear between the Frush’s eyes. Its mouth opened as if it bellowed, though no sound reached us.

  Without turning his head, Zolan spoke to Mother.

  “Lady Sorceress, what geas would you have me set on this one?”

  She answered promptly. “To watch and wait, to serve as eyes in light and dark.”

  “So be it.” Zolan lifted the dagger and lightly touched the semblance of those pouting lips in the stone. “What is your name, Frush?”

  The thing struggled, and the eyes glared. Then the lips shaped one word, which, though it sounded very faint and far away, we yet heard.

  “Titoo.”

  “Titoo, I hold you by your name. You will watch and wait, serve us with your eyes, until the hour when I give you back that name.”

  Again the Frush howled, but this time we heard it, and it was deafening. So loud was the roar of rage that the very stone appeared to tremble, as into the ground supporting it, the Frush melted and was gone.