Having made my decision, I held Gunnora’s charm toward the cloth, careful not to touch it, for the fabric was now tainted.
“Blessed Lady of the Harvests, aid me. Where lies the other piece of this my clothing, that I may protect myself?” Slowly I passed the amulet over the linen three times widdershins, for the force that had touched it had definitely been against—not for—nature.
A small glow brightened the talisman, and I felt a definite tug in my hand, to the right. Hastily I gathered my bag of simples, tidied my hair, ordered my clothing, then, keeping the amulet enclosed in my hand, went out into the camp. I also carried the black pebble, wrapped once more within the linen.
Following always that slight tug from the amulet, I Mt the camp, heading for a small stand of woods bordering on the stream to the north. As I went I tried to keep my mind calm, seeking, not allow the anger within free rein. But the question of whether I should tell Jonka of Nidu’s actions continued to plague me—as did the question of why the Shaman’s spell had failed.
Finally, after a sweaty tussle with thorns and underbrush (for the amulet’s tugging led me straight and I dared not turn aside to search out a path), I found what I sought.
An elder bush—of course. Elder by its nature lends itself to the darker spellings—exorcisms, banes, and the like. A miniature figure bobbed in the faint breeze, roughly carved, made from some woody substance. Eyeing it more closely (though still keeping a careful distance), I thought perhaps that it had once been a root. There are several such that can be used—ash, bryony—but somehow I was sure that Nidu had used no half measures in this spelling, that what I was looking at was true mandrake, extremely rare and potent… especially in spells involving fertility. The small form had been wrapped in my linen square, then pinned to the trunk of the elder by a bone needle thrust through its tiny midsection.
Sickened anew by the hate that must have motivated such wrongness, I used my belt knife to shake the bush until the poppet fell free. Then I looked about me for a rowan tree—for rowan is the most powerful source of protection against any and all magics. There was one only a few paces away.
Worrying the doll onto the remains of the chemise, careful still not to touch it, I carried the entire evil package over to the slender tree that I sought, addressing it:
“Good rowan, I beg you to use your power to rid this bespelling of its threat. I ask it in Blessed Gunnora’s Name, and by the Power of Light.”
Digging quickly with my knife, I hollowed out a hole in the soil within the shelter of the rowan’s branches, but still a goodly distance from its root, for I did not wish to endanger the tree. Then I used knifepoint to topple the bundle into the earth, afterward carefully filling in the hole, patting it down firmly.
Taking a garlic bulb from my bag of simples, I stripped away its papery outer covering, then, after separating it into its individual cloves, I pressed each small section into the packed earth firmly. With the point of my knife I drew a protective rune, whispering, “Bind evil, rest here always. Harm none,” three times.
Lastly I sprinkled a pinch of salt over the spot, then rose, shaking dirt from my skirt. As I straightened I suddenly felt that brushing at the back of my neck that betokens a watcher. I tried to reassure myself that it was only that my nerves were still strung tight as threads on a loom, and had almost succeeded when I heard a footstep. Knife in hand, I turned to face that watcher.
6
Kerovan
With each step I took toward the well, my pace slowed a bit. More and more fervently I wished instead to be astride Nekia and riding away. Guret had the right of it—I was no sorcerer. I held no claim to such Powers as would arm a man in this kind of battle. To engage any manifestation of the Shadow without such protection was but rankest folly. I feared, and that fear grew in me as I walked stiff-legged closer to that foulness. Yet I could not turn back… partly pride held me, I suppose, but also a basic stubbornness that has always kept me opposing the enemy, even in what seemed to be the face of certain defeat. Such obstinacy cannot be termed real courage, however much it may sustain a man.
At last there were no more steps to take. I stood at the well experiencing again the seduction of its lure, feeling thirst parch my mouth and throat as I heard the gurgle of cool water. My hand went to my belt pouch, where I carried that sliver of stone-metal like unto the material fashioning my wristband. Quan-iron, Landisl had called it. In the sunlight it flashed as blue as my arm talisman.
Looking upon it broke through the ensorcellment that play of water had so easily wrought.
If only I knew more! Could I invoke any Power from (his chip of blessed metal… invoke? I cleared my throat, my hand moved almost of its own will to raise the piece of quan-iron before me like a shield. My words were halting, my voice hoarse, but my plea was as sincere as any I have over voiced:
“If there be Those Who Are of the Light who can hear me, then upon them I calclass="underline" Aid me in what I would do.
Help me break the force of this Shadowed One. I ask this humbly, for without the blessing of the Light, I am nothing.”
Holding the chip of quan-iron in my right hand, I continued to stand, waiting, feeling the pain where Obred’s teeth had pierced the skin of my left thumb. Blood continued to drip from that wound slowly into the dust. Suddenly it came to me! Blood! Used to strengthen any spell,
It was the one element most often present in both good—and ill-intended magic. Slowly I clenched my left hand, holding it over the right. Three red drops struck full upon that blue shard. Color like flame blazed, as though I had poured oil or wine upon a fire.
Then, as though this fragment were a pen, with it I signed in the air… the winged globe I had witnessed Joisan’s wand trace upon the ground more than a month ago.
Once, twice… thrice did I sketch that symbol before the well—and the last time, my effort glowed to life, hanging red outlined with bright blue, as though born of pure light. I was so startled that I nearly dropped that sliver (for my belief was less than half and I had not truly expected any answer). The symbol did not fade, instead held steadily before me, still like a shield. My hooves touched the edge of the growth that nurtured those blossoms. Drawing a deep breath, I hurled my talisman through the globed symbol so it dropped into the well’s open mouth.
Earth heaved beneath my hooves, which I dug into the soil lest I be thrown down. From the mouth of the well puffed a cloud of murky, purple-black darkness. The ears of my mind alone heard a deep groaning, then a keening wail. My eyes blurred as that puff of vapor passed above my head, gagging me with its stomach-wrenching foulness.
Now the very shape of the well changed, moving like a sudden flow of turgid water into a stagnant pool. This thing… or creature… whichever it could be termed… was no more a well than I was High Dale Commander. By illusion, it assumed whatever shape would prove most enticing to prey. We thirsted, thus we had seen a well. Other bewitched travelers might have eyed fruit hanging heavy from a tree, or perhaps the entrancing shape of a beckoning woman, if the traveler was a man who had traveled leagues in loneliness.
The stone curb vanished, and in its place was something—something so alien, so inimical, that my eyes could not truly ascertain its real shape. For a second I thought I glimpsed a muzzle, or snout, teeth flashing scarlet within writhing wetness, then I was forced to shield my eyes. A brilliant blue light (the same color as the globed symbol I had sketched) poured from the spot, and that half-heard plaint shrilled. Hands over my ears, eyes squeezed tight, I crouched in the face of that final destruction—setting myself to endure for seemingly endless moments.